People may have thought I died or lied about dying (which I did)
The truth is stranger than fiction. My writer decided that writing poetry was more important than continuing this story for a farking month!
But I digress (glares up at the writer) {yes, I am glaring at you, deal with it}
Now I am a frog....
Hang on. (you think this is funny?)
Now I am on a frog...
sighs (really mature)
The problem with a fairy tale is there is this unseen narrator who tells my story. He has his own life and troubles and occasionally remembers mine. He tells me he's lonely and I tell him that he has me.
He tells me sometimes it's not enough.
I cry (Hey!)
I feel bad (better) for him and we agree that we will do better in the future
Then a week goes by and I figure out that my magic book has not recorded a single thing.
(narrators!)
I am not dead, nor am I a frog or on a frog or a cat.
I am not a cat
I am (stop it, okay that was a little funny)
I am walking down the road with Ismie and she is giving me this weird look.
"How long have we been walking down this road?" she asks.
"I think we've been walking for at least a month."
"Oh."
"It's the narrator, he got distracted."
Ismie gives me a long look. Stops then looks around, we are maybe ten paces from the Parasite Inn and about 200 paces from the jailhouse.
"Well tell him to get on with it. I have my own fairytale to get back to."
"He can hear you."
"Right. He is kind of cute. I like his tee shirt." Ismie pushes a toe into the dirt and blinks up at the sky bashfully.
She's adorable. I wonder if that would work for me.
"No, not really," Ismie says then takes my arm.
"Can you see the narrator?"
"You can't?"
"Uh-" I look around. "Nope."
"But you just glared up at him a second or two ago."
"Well, I just assume he's up there somewhere mocking me like an angry god."
"This is why bad things happen to you." Ismie gives me a hug. "Besides, he's over there."
"Over where?"
"Oh, right. Not there," Ismie points at an empty field. "He's over there just beyond the fourth wall."
"Oh, Now I totally don't see that at all," I reply staring harder at the empty field.
"I guess you have to be a witch," Ismie says then looks thoughtful.
"I guess."
The two very beautiful women walk on down the road towards the jailhouse.
"See?" Ismie says "he susceptible to the charms of a witch."
"Right."
Sometimes I wonder if I am in the right Fairytale.
The truth is stranger than fiction. My writer decided that writing poetry was more important than continuing this story for a farking month!
But I digress (glares up at the writer) {yes, I am glaring at you, deal with it}
Now I am a frog....
Hang on. (you think this is funny?)
Now I am on a frog...
sighs (really mature)
The problem with a fairy tale is there is this unseen narrator who tells my story. He has his own life and troubles and occasionally remembers mine. He tells me he's lonely and I tell him that he has me.
He tells me sometimes it's not enough.
I cry (Hey!)
I feel bad (better) for him and we agree that we will do better in the future
Then a week goes by and I figure out that my magic book has not recorded a single thing.
(narrators!)
I am not dead, nor am I a frog or on a frog or a cat.
I am not a cat
I am (stop it, okay that was a little funny)
I am walking down the road with Ismie and she is giving me this weird look.
"How long have we been walking down this road?" she asks.
"I think we've been walking for at least a month."
"Oh."
"It's the narrator, he got distracted."
Ismie gives me a long look. Stops then looks around, we are maybe ten paces from the Parasite Inn and about 200 paces from the jailhouse.
"Well tell him to get on with it. I have my own fairytale to get back to."
"He can hear you."
"Right. He is kind of cute. I like his tee shirt." Ismie pushes a toe into the dirt and blinks up at the sky bashfully.
She's adorable. I wonder if that would work for me.
"No, not really," Ismie says then takes my arm.
"Can you see the narrator?"
"You can't?"
"Uh-" I look around. "Nope."
"But you just glared up at him a second or two ago."
"Well, I just assume he's up there somewhere mocking me like an angry god."
"This is why bad things happen to you." Ismie gives me a hug. "Besides, he's over there."
"Over where?"
"Oh, right. Not there," Ismie points at an empty field. "He's over there just beyond the fourth wall."
"Oh, Now I totally don't see that at all," I reply staring harder at the empty field.
"I guess you have to be a witch," Ismie says then looks thoughtful.
"I guess."
The two very beautiful women walk on down the road towards the jailhouse.
"See?" Ismie says "he susceptible to the charms of a witch."
"Right."
Sometimes I wonder if I am in the right Fairytale.
