Things are clearly getting out of hand.
Or should I say out of foot?
Let me explain.
I spent approximately 20 minutes last night researching the best and/or most expensive men’s shoes in the world.
Had I stumbled into a windfall of cash and lost my mind?… No, at least not the windfall part. The mind issue we’ll leave for another discussion.
Had inspiration hit my writerly nodes? Had a great character just pleading to be born onto paper suddenly appeared amongst the gales of a freakish storm?… Um, not quite.
The answer?… Stupid, silly, OCD, please-please-let-me-write-something old me worked on her weekly travel blog. As per custom, it seems, another random character was introduced to introduce the week’s writing nook.
That’s all fine and dandy, a little bit weird I’ll give you, but within acceptable bounds. However, when this forever-nameless gent begs for a description down to his freaking feet, alarm bells ring… Or at least they should. Me? I’m hearing nothing but his burly brogue chuckling around the occasional hitch in his lungs brandishing the surly fellow a lifelong smoker. (Of cigars, I believe. Give me another half-hour and I’ll give you the brand.)
See my problem?
Good. You keep an eye on it while I dive into the history of coronas.
Post Note: Please spare a few thoughts and prayers to the Southeast today as strong tornadoes are possible this afternoon and overnight. Selfishly, I’d like to spend the day wrapping presents instead of cowering in my father’s walk-in closet.