hunh.

My procrastination tendencies were just horrifically enabled. Something must be wrong with the world. It must have tilted, off-balance, resulting in a production of some strange gravity where my slackery is what holds me upright rather than what drags me hideously down.

Anyways: the second McSweeney prompt: Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there, too.

There was a mountain of shit piled on Hogsback's shore. It dwarfed the surrounding centuries old jackpines; it loomed threateningly over the few cars parked slightly up hill. "Dear Lord," one camper said to another. "It's majestic, after a fashion," was the reply.

Each watched as a flock of small birds, singing back and forth to one another, alighted atop the shitpile and promptly sank up to the breastfeathers in it.

I kind of take things literally some of the time. In other news: I am out of milk, which means I must drink my coffee black and abstain from cereal unless I wish to have a very dry throat. This makes me vexed. Verily, it is so.