Miss Kyrte has felt awfully squeaky all day. When she woke up this morning, her joints felt rusty. They squeaked. Her nostrils itched in a suspiciously pins and needlesy way, as if she’d been a flame breathing dragonnete in her dream the night before.
Her toes felt cramped so she stretched them.
Her heartbeat was erratic so she lay back and watched leverage.
She thought hard and long about the way she’d mispronounced the word leverage all day yesterday and cringed with greeny green shame.
She decided that she wasn’t going to miss her best friend and that his departure was a good thing in disguise because inconvenient little confusions, the bastards, had started creeping into her mind and that was unacceptable, inexcusable and extremely disgusting banaye.
She started a secret blog about a secret thing and then deleted it.
She tried to write
She read a beautifully written sermon about slothfulness.
She finally convinced her jumpy mind that the word ‘written’ has got two t’s. Two of them. Not one. She forgave herself for always having to think about this whenever she wrote.
She came to the realization that her grammar was slipping and that tenses gave her more trouble than they did when she was 18.
Gosh she was smart at 18.
She chal out, said peace yo and fell into her work, belly first.