Bella Mamma

my mom is so cute, she called to get me to send her a bunch of pictures to her via email cause she's in Colorado for a couple more weeks (and back again and again)

So far:
I've got 8 pages finished on my book/story thing
made it under my budget for food again (yay!)
Florence meeting is in a week
headache is gone

So far my book has two other characters and some events
I'm posting from the second page which pretty much takes place right after the last clip I posted
here's another clip:


"Whatever it was that I dreamt that night it wasn’t much different than what I dream most nights. It feels like, when I wake up, all that I can remember is like stock footage. Like the Holocaust or any propaganda from World War Two. I used to be able to write them down really quickly in the morning and then look at them later that day and think about what they meant. I don’t do that anymore. Whether it’s because I can’t remember them that vividly or I just don’t keep a pen and pad near my bed. But what I dreamt that night felt like I did when I was younger. The action was always epic in a big-budget movie kind of way. The sounds and even the smells of the dream linger a bit right as I wake up. But I’m always glad that they weren’t real. Ever since I got my first real job they’d always have something to do with that particular job. I was either late or didn’t do something right or did do something that may or may not affect my job. I hate jobs, all of them. The one I have now takes up most of my day, which at first I enjoyed, seeing that I didn’t have much else to do. But now I feel like the projects I want to finish never go anywhere because I get too caught up in work. I suppose that’s just how life is, so I put up with it.

The next day I rode the bus into the city to look for another job. Because money gets in the way it’s always hard to find something interesting and different than what I have now that will pay the same, or more. The bus smelt like it always did. There’s always that smell like someone rushed on with no shoes and had lit cigarettes between each toe. I always see regulars who never seem to ride on the same day or at the same hour. There’s never a seat without scratches or dents. It’s as if someone was clawing at the back of their seat to escape some demon or rapist trying to jump at them from the next seat. I sat in the back, as usual, not to be different or make some kind of sick statement; it was more like I could survey each person who came on. I would give each person a name and a destination to keep myself busy. But today I just sat and thought about what happened to that pack I had thrown off the bridge. Maybe a hobo found it and it’s keeping him warm."

PS: I think I might be putting my cat to sleep by the end of the week.
he's got chronic kitteh kidney failure
he's the white and brown one standing to the right.