bogeyandruby

My husband and I tried this exercise where each of us would contribute a line in an effort to write a story. We did it twice and ended both stories when it was obvious they had died a natural death. 🙄

Story #1

I don’t know why the number 12 just popped into my mind.

A baker’s dozen, the dirty dozen, I’ve done this a dozen times?

A baker’s dozen is actually 13.

I was 11 when puberty hit. By 13, I had a mustache and breasts.

I hate teenagers but I kind of like breasts, though not on teenagers.

It’s hard to run a marathon when you’re big-chested.

It’s hard to stand up with a big head, bobble head.

If you had both, you could rest your big head on your big chest.

Tit for tête.

Ooh, my aching back. I am shrinking by the minute.

I could put you on the rack.

With the baker’s dozen?

The spice rack.

I’m losing all my straight lines and edges.

There are no straight lines in nature.

I’m like a box of cereal then.

Breakfast of champions.

Going for a run. See ya later.

Story #2

I cannot sit back on my heels anymore.

Does that mean you have to be on your toes?

I tried that once and my stiletto broke going down a flight of stairs.

I had a stiletto that I used as a letter opener at boarding school. It was stolen.

Nobody writes letters anymore. Just texting, lol this, lol that.

They should probably look up; there’s a stolen stiletto out there.

Maybe the person who stole it needed to open a letter.

I don’t think so, reprobates don’t read.

They still need to feel loved. We all do.

Not if they got stabbed first.

It’s lonely at the top.

Kind of lonely at the bottom too.

Thank goodness my heels touch the ground when I’m standing.

When i met you, my feet didn’t touch the ground for weeks.

Sounds like you were recumbent.

Nope, walking on air.

Not sunshine?

Kinda fun. Try it!