I’m dying.

I have consumption. I think. I’m advertising this because I secretly hope that somewhere, somehow, Ewan McGregor is suddenly struck by a pang of longing for the greatest love he’s never known. But ’tis not meant to be, dear Ewan.

I have a death rattle. It’s like a cross between a baby rattlesnake and a smoker’s cough. And my voice is a cross between Peter Brady in that one episode and mere squeaks of whispers. Also a smoker. As you can probably imagine, it brings the boys to my yard faster than any milkshake.

Also I’m very tired. And stressed at work. And annoyed because ALL I WANT TO DO IS WRITE AND I CAN’T BECAUSE OF “ADULTHOOD” AND “RESPONSIBILITIES.”

But, I am also very blessed and I am going to enjoy sounding like my pack-a-day 8th grade Algebra teacher and I going to embrace the tragic romance of Consmption. I am also going to embrace Nyquil.

Smoldering Temptress Enough for You?

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