The writer's block continues apace.
Srsly. I got nothin.
Well, wait. I got a few things. What I ain't gots is the words, and the commas, and the sentences and stuff to string them together.
Gone. All gone. Flushed out to sea by the pissing rain.
At times like this I see no reason not to take gratuitous advantage of the fact that I've got three bottomless wells of aberrant buffoonery right here under my very nose. Veritable fountains of childish nonsense that I can tap, and deliver to you in its purest state.
For example, Boy's thoughts on love: "Our hearts make love just like they pump blood. And if someone breaks up with us, our hearts break and the love leeks out. That means they bleed. That's why love hurts." Me thinks Boy needs to lay off the Hannah Montana, but that's not my point. My point is, clearly he stole all my deep thoughts for the month.
She stole all my poetic grace:
And speaking of that nice dance instructor, when Missy saw her for the first time she gasped in delight, put her hand to her heart, and avowed, "That black lady is so pretty! I 'sink I need to cry about that."
I give up folks. The kids are doing all the writing from here on out.