I'm sitting on my purple leather couch, which was given to me by my parents, and was part of the cause of my first car wreck. My lady, Michelle, is standing outside in the snow and ice, wearing my teal flip-flops and feeding birds on the patio. She only started feeding the birds this week. I believe it's out of boredom, but she says that it's because she wants to help the poor little critters. The recent icy, then snowy, then snowy icy weather made driving impractical and dangerous. Everywhere I go, I overhear people talking to each other about their experiences with the icy roads, as if they were hardened drivers, crystalized by the terror of the North Texas snow.
Right now, one of Michelle's cats is staring at a mockingbird through a plate glass door. The bird's chest is puffed out, defiant, cautious. The bird hops down to where Michelle had placed the stale crushed snickerdoodles five minutes ago. I'm trying to write something, just anything to create journal entries for my fiction class. I pretty much hate most of what I'm writing these days. I feel like I have no purpose or direction as a writer. I've been abandoned by words.