Devil Don't Care

Yeah, I know I'm utilizing bad grammar, and I know that this isn't chapter four . . . That's coming. I'm just tuning the engine a bit more before I begin again in earnest. I think I have some garbage to throw off before getting to the good (Okay, mediocre at best) bits.
Anyway, this is it. This is what I do. I just write . . . WRITE and write and write, and stuff comes out. I don't always know what, and it isn't always pretty, but generally I'll at least try to work with even the worst of it. I'll dress it up in Sunday Best and parade it around for a while to see if it breaks china or chews with its mouth open . . . Or, minds its manners and proves to be at least quasi-useful. Hey, thoughts are thoughts, and if one is kind enough to enter the no man's land of my mind, who am I to kick it out of bed for eating crackers?
Anyway, do you want to hear something funny? The other night, I found myself running up Woodward in search of lotto tickets . . . Literally running, because I was running late. It was about five 'till ll, and the lotto thingy closes at 11PM. In spite of my efforts, I ended up going to the wrong place first, I didn't make it in time, and no one who is of any interest to me won the lotto that day (Come to think of it, I don't think that anyone won that particular lotto that day. I wouldn't know for certain. I'm no expert. I'm just the . . . sprinter.). However, I remember thinking that if I had someone running down Woodward for me at nearly ll o'clock at night, I would think that I HAD won the lotto, and a really good one at that. Granted, there's no monetary compensation included in such a thing, but as they say, money can't buy me . . . You know, stuff that money can't buy me. So . . . Yeah. I would think that I was pretty damned lucky, but that's just me.
And, of course, if you know me at all, you know that that wasn't exactly a hard sell, getting me to take a sprint down Woodward. Hell, if I thought that it would improve the quality of someone's day, I would probably do it right now . . . At 6:21 in the morning, wearing my Love and Rockets t-shirt and Tigger shorts. Why not? I'm a huge fan of extremely proactive likeyness. Catholics refer to "Outward Signs of Inner Grace." Maybe this is kind of along the same line, but, you know, more stupid. It's like Jane Austen meets Jack Ass.
And, I come by the whole thing quite honestly. My grandfather used to eat lightbulbs. Okay, that's a lie. My grandfather STILL eats lightbulbs. He also ran down a fairly large tree with his pickup truck once just to impress me. Yes, he may be a little crazy, but he also loves us grandkids like crazy, and he'll eat lightbulbs to prove as much. It's a wonder that anyone in my family survived his/her first crush . . . Let alone the second, third, or 100th. We somehow manage, though. Heaven knows, I'm the proof in the pudding. I'm still here . . . Not only that, but I'm actually ridiculously unscathed. Funny.
I'll probably be eating lightbulbs for Hannah's kid(s) one of these days.
So, yeah . . . If you're one of the rare few who've managed to not become comfortably numb in a world that rabidly encourages such a mental state, go ahead and love/like like you mean it. Go crazy. You'll live.

Love,
Amy