I usually don’t do these but this was intriguing…
If you saw ME in a police car, what would you think I’d been arrested for?
Answer me *comment* , then if you want, post to your own journal and see how many crimes you get accused of.
Courtesy of Sue
It’s not an easy thing. There are so damn many ideas floating around in this head of mine, inspirations, snippits of poems and alliterations - and they all run out of my ears like so much water. I could have written a novel alone on the ideas that came to me in the middle of the night, only to be forgotten when the screams of Daddy, Mommy pierce the air. It’s love, not duty that has me abandon the idea of having a bedside notebook full of ideas - I couldn’t spend enough time writing them down before I’d run to my daughter’s side.
Pens seem to attract kids most of all, or at least my kid. Sure, she knows what to do with the pen (scribble, write her name, decorate her fingers with stains) and she wants to know why I’m keeping this fun toy from her. Open your Moleskine, poise your pen over the cream paper and… “Mom, can I write? Mom, mommy, mom? (Bang bongo drum that seemed like a good, cultural toy when you purchased it). Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, give me that pen…”
Funnily enough, she’s giving me full access to this piece of writing, this complaint. But if she smelled creativity on the air, well, it would be all over, buster.
Though I haven’t really written much to show for it. I’ve lost a grandparent to lung cancer. I’ve started to make more friends. I read my poetry at a reading, without throwing up or getting laughed at. I have compiled enough poetry to enter a contest.
I have also been reading, voraciously. But nothing intellectual, ’cause I have enough of that with textbooks and whatnot.
So now I feel like my big steps are to work towards curing my phobia of phone calls, and perhaps writing some more poetry that I don’t think sucks. Is that right? Eh, just ’cause I’m a writer doesn’t mean I have to use correct grammar all the time, does it?
Ok, I’m a sucker for anything that will tell me what I am (an INFJ if you’re looking at Myers-Briggs) and it seems to change all the time. I thought your personality was kind of set - but I guess if your moods are as changeable as mine, these results can hardly be taken as truth.
I’m a strange mix, with a love of quizzes. How many IQ tests have I taken? I can’t even hazard a guess. I’m sticking with my highest, official, school IQ - 146. Anything less, well, I must have been having a bad day.
I love doing my astrology thing too - heck, anything that will tell me more about who I am. Except the Enneagram. That stuff’s crap.
“Aww, he’s soooo cute!” Julia said, snuggling up to the pink stuffed dog in the front of Victoria’s Secret. We smiled, let her hug the thing, and Stephen obliged her by taking a picture with his cell phone.
“I wanna have his babies.” Blank look. A beg for repeat - “I wanna have his babies.” Julia said strongly.
Stephen - “You mean… you want a baby version of him?”
Julia - “Yes, I want a little virgin.”
Me - trying not to wet my pants so that I need to buy new ones. At least I was in the right store.