Most of you can probably tell by the way I've been writing this week that my right foot hurts. I'm trying to compensate by leaning to the left. It seems like the democratic thing to do. My doctor says it's an inflammation of the tendon. "This can often be caused by excessive physical activity," he said. "I think we should explore others causes," I told him.
To switch things up, therefore, and in light of my limp, I've decided to type this post with my hands and leave my feet firmly on the ground.
Hey, guess what? It snowed here yesterday. Seriously. I know, right? This is Texas. I think this snow got lost on the way to Canada or something. I blame global warming, which you may consider ridiculous, but that's because I haven't told you about the drowned polar bear I found in my bathtub. Who's ridiculous now? That's what I thought.
I know that many of you wish I'd get this blog back to it's original format: all romance all the time. I don't know. I just haven't been in the mood to write romance novels lately. There are only so many words to describe abs and lingerie, you know? I've been there. I've done that. I don't think I ever want to write another description of a pair of underwear hitting the floor as long as I live. These days I can't write about a man and woman staring into each other's eyes without one of them suddenly poking the other one in the eye with a baby carrot or something. I'm just so over the whole romance genre, you know? I'm sorry. I know that some of you thought I'd be the next [INSERT NAME OF ROMANCE NOVEL "AUTHOR" HERE]. I can't be who you want me to be, though. I gotta be me.
I think I'm going to turn my Scion into a monster truck and get into that whole scene. What do you think?
Hello, friends. What genre is your life? Mine's a manifesto.
Later. Love.
