(You ARE my heaven, Liam.)
In the midst of crippling (but not the suicidal/self-harm type so, win?) depression & various familial whatnot, I found my instrument again. Maybe not the Gibson Les Paul (lefty, obvs) of my dreams, but the little novelty ukulele I can plink a passable "Imperial March" on. Instead of the pressure of having to write Harry Potter every time I sit down, I'm just playing around, setting the timer, and seeing what springs forth. I never come into these with a specific idea. Or any idea. I set the timer and as soon as I hit start, I start writing whatever pops into my head. It's like sketching the tree stump in the front yard or noodling with your clarinet from high school. Nothing big, nothing scary; just a careful, consequence-free stretching of the artistic muscle (can you not?).
Headin' for Heaven.
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Her head was killing her.
Had been all morning, for no discernible reason. She wasn't prone to headaches. Sure, everyone got them from time to time because reasons, mostly, but this didn't feel like an ordinary, everyday headache.
There were a couple things she could point to as the cause of this headache, but she had to admit, the large, green, scaly face retching from the right side of her face could be the one.
She hadn't noticed the new face until she was halfway to work. While she only then noticed it, she realized, looking back, it had probably been there all morning. For example, she now understood why, when trying to put her right earring in, she kept feeling a biting sensation. She pulled her hand back after each of the three attempts to find chunks of flesh removed, enabling her to see the tendons and bones usually hidden from view.
Hand bandaged and sans earrings (she hadn't worn just the one since college when she was dabbling and didn't think the one earring look even was a look anymore), she had headed to work.
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