The Not-So-Interesting Life of Me (Right Now)

My life is so boring. Sigh.

So, Dear Josaline, is going well. First chapter is up on Hexbound (CLICK HERE) so check it out. Um, the play I'm in is on in less than two weeks and I'm freaking out. We are so not ready. I can't even.

I've been dealing with some interesting things lately--first-time experiences and whatnot. I have to say . . . it's nice. Really nice. A warm kind of nice.

Gosh, this post is not about writing and is really boring. To make up for lack of post, I'll gave you a snippet of chapter two:

The funeral was probably the exact same as any other funeral. A coffin. A person in it. A hole. Then the coffin gets put down the hole and it’s covered with dirt.

            “Josaline will be missed by all her friends. I know that I feel a bit lost without her,” some man in a grey suit said. Did he even know her?

            “Josaline was my best friend,” a woman with frizzy blonde hair said, her rectangular glasses sliding down her nose.

            Josaline was nothing of the such, I wanted to say. Josaline didn’t care about you; she probably barely ever spoke to you. I bet someone paid you to speak, or you feel bad for her orphan son.

            “Robert, do you want to say anything to your mother before we end the service?” Karen asked from beside me. She organised the funeral. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t really care.

            “What would I have to say about our dear Josaline?” I said. I didn’t intend to come out like that—like an attack—but it did.

            Karen sighed. Over the past three days she’d realized I’m quite hostile. She didn’t like it one bit.

            “Look, Robert, it’s going to be your last chance to say a proper goodbye. Just do it.” Karen’s hand was on my back, pushing me up towards the coffin. I turned around and found myself staring eye-to-eye with twenty-or-so people. Josaline definitely did not know all of them.

            I hated staring at them.

            I closed my eyes.

            “Josaline was my mother. And she was . . .” I didn’t know what to say, so I turned around. I opened my eyes and looked down at the coffin. Josaline lay inside there. They had put some make-up on her and had covered her neck with a nice light-blue scarf. The one she’d worn to the opening of the art gallery I’d had a piece of work in.

            “Josaline liked art,” I said, directing it more to myself than everyone else. They all laughed for some reason. “I’ll miss her scarf.”

So . . . yeah. Bye!