I'm going to write that mutha of a play.
I've never had more spare time, so too busy is no longer an excuse. The block of the moment is separating good, story-worthy memories of my mom from boring, or even fictitious memories of my mom... Allow me to explain:
Sometimes, I'm not entirely sure if I'm embellishing the truth or telling what really happened. So, every once and a while, I tell a story about somebody or something and somebody will point out a flaw in the story to prove I've at least remembered it wrong, or I'm completely lying.
CURSE YOU, CREATIVE BRAIN of a LEFT HANDER!! A POX ON YOUR SYNAPSES!
Anywhoo, a play.
And you'll all come and see it, because you either like me, and want to see me succeed, or you hate me, and watching me fail serves to inflate your own battered ego.
Lightly battered though, like a good piece of fish.
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