porkyandthemob

I sit down at my desk in my bedroom. I hear the baby in the other room squealing with delight as she plays with her mother. My bare feet touch the purple carpet. I think I can feel the purple on my toes. I grab my pen and start to write. Already after a few lines my hand starts to hurt. I think I have, um, what is it called again? Rheumatism. Is that the word? In any case my hand is sore. It hurts. I blame typing at work, school, and cracking my knuckles since I was in junior high school.

The pen makes a slight scratching noise as it hits the paper. It reminds me of quills they used in colonial times. I can see one right now in my mind, in the hand of Benjamin Franklin or Thomas Jefferson. Perhaps I should get one; perhaps it will make me a better writer! “Ha!” I laugh out loud. My hand writing sucks, it’s a wonder I am able to translate these scribbles when I type it up. Oh, there she goes again. My little girl is a squealer.