crush feathered

I’m in one of those moods where I want to sit down and write all day long. Some blog. Most novel. I miss getting to write on the novel. Here’s to summer.
Despite the desire to blog, I don’t have a specific direction, and with the mood I’m in, I’d end up saying things that are rather ridiculous. Yeah, maybe even more than normal. So, keep it short. (Short is good.)
I am ridiculously excited about this weekend, and can’t seem to stop myself from counting chickens. I didn’t realize I could still count chickens, or that I even wanted to. Oh well. I am going to enjoy counting the chickens and ignore the guilt for doing so that is based on a preposterous devotion and annoying logic.
It could end up where I realize the egg was meant for another within three minutes and I am stuck with the wrong brand of egg. Of course, it might be glaringly obvious the egg will be the perfect chicken.

I drive myself crazy with the over thinking and irrational emotions—as well as by the fact I can have an entire conversation where I equate my life with poultry.