I don’t have writers block I have runners block. June was a bad month training wise.
I had a little incident the other day involving an angry black rattle snake and now I have a rattler phobia.
Every noise, every tree branch, every flight of quail in the bushes makes my breath catch in my throat and my heart pound.
That snake literally scared the shit out of me. After the sighting, I went home and crapped my brains out.
Stress or a high fiber diet?
All I know is my stomach hadn’t looked that flat in years!
Thanks Mr Rattle Snake; you asshole.
Thank you Arrowbear, for giving me something to write about on this hot August night.
I live in the mountains.
I live in the rural mountains of Southern California, thirty minutes from the nearest Starbucks. I live thirty minutes from a movie theater or a comedy club, or hell even a strip club.
Some people say I live in BFE.
I say I live in Paradise.
What do we do for entertainment on a summers night?
I sit on my porch, eat home made pizza straight off the BBQ and watch the local CHP giving my neighbor a DUI test.
Seriously, can you have this kind of fun in the city? I could be shopping for Louis Vuitton purses at Beverly Center in Los Angles. I could be watching a Chargers game at Petco Park in San Diego. I could be watching the sunset, the Ferris wheels and the crowds at Disneyland or over the ocean as the sun crashes into the surf beyond Santa Monica pier
Instead I am sitting on my porch, where my cat just took a nose dive into my Petunias in an effort to get to the leftover ranch dressing: HE IS DESPERATE! And yes, he has had a Petunia stuck to his tail for two hours now.
“Who is Mommy’s pretty pretty princess?” I keep asking Zion, my flower child. At least he smells better since he is literally, dripping in flowers at the moment.
My drunk neighbor is trying to touch his fingers to his bright red nose, the reds and blues of the CHPs ride throwing flashing lights all up and down my neighborhood as I finish up my pizza crusts. My pretty princess- hippie-child-cat is just starring at our left overs and wondering why he fought so hard to get at a dinner that he hates.
And that is when a twelve year old girl drove by in a huge lifted pick up truck.
Welcome to the mountains.
Good night.
