Prompts, vol. 1

Some years ago, from somewhere in the shit-stained, porn-addled waste of carbon that is the internet, I dug up a list of writing prompts. I shoved it into a folder and forgot about it, as one does.

I ran into it the other day. I figure I'll use it for writing exercise. Elise the therapist says I should write something, so these writing prompts are what I'll use to that end. That's the nice way of repeating what Elise the therapist said. What she really said is, "Bitching to me about being 'the writer who doesn't write' is getting old, and it isn't clever or funny, and it doesn't make you smart or unique. Just write something, you stupid bastard." You might think I'm paraphrasing or embellishing. Elise the therapist knows the truth.

Prompt 1: What is your favourite way to spend a lazy day?

First thought, right out of the box: I don't use superfluous letter U's in the spelling of English words. I copied the prompt precisely as it appears in my dug-up list, attempting to do right by whomever drafted it originally. So all you unAmericans reading this can quit with the snout-up snob celebration. I'm not one of you.

Second thought, which succeeded the first one by only milliseconds: I'm fucking lazy. For me, every day is a lazy day.

That answer isn't in the spirit of the question, though, and it isn't going to satisfy Elise the therapist or my own crippled drive to write things.

sigh

If I want to be lazier than lazy, then I'm at the beach. I came up in a nasty, abusive family who beat my body with fists and boots and bats and belts (ungh...the sex of that nightclub rhythm) and beat my mind with sociopathic venom. Not buzzword "is my soccer coach a narcissist?" mommy-blog horseshit, but the real shit. Like, stole my child. That type of shit.

Wait...what?

The beach has always provided my only true fuckin' moment of peace, and it's the closest I get to a spiritual experience. All my life, the ocean has listened to me, sung to me, fed me, consoled me, held me while I swam and fucked and pissed and stared and sung back and cried, humbled and overwhelmed me, and washed me clean. I have seawater in my veins.

I am the ocean, Randers.