Today on Blogging with Blair I’m supposed to talk about Rachelle and her writing career. I do, after all, spend the most time with her (against my will, it’s no secret I prefer Daniel) so I should have the most insight. And I do, so I will share with you because the world should know.

When she tells other people she’s writing, I feel bad for them because from where I’m laying (which I have mastered, doesn’t matter where. The bed, the couch, the kitchen counter, in the middle of the wood floor that looks uncomfortable by all accounts but is quite appealing) writing is the last thing she’s doing.

What she’s actually doing is:

  • Sleeping in until 10am (that one I actually condone)
  • Walking around in an endless supply of black tights and oversized t-shirts while talking to herself about never getting to dress up anymore
  • Drinking enough coffee to give her the energy of a frantic puppy (actually I could have just said puppy, because they’re all frantic)
  • Taking a bathroom break every ten minutes and before going back into her office deciding to check and make sure nothing in the fridge has changed
  • Breaking out into random Disney-dance-offs with herself
  • Deciding that every floorboard in the house needs to be cleaned right in the middle of her “writing time” (because it can’t wait till later… of course)
  • Blasting pop music through all the speakers in the house and singing at the top of her lungs (if you live next door to us and are home sick from work… I’m sorry)
  • Promising herself she’ll only watch one more Buffy rerun, but then she’s still sitting in front of the TV three episodes later
  • Complaining about how Facebook and Buzzfeed just ate three hours of her life
  • Texting everyone she knows to see if anyone is free for lunch (because human relationships are so “important”)
  • Beating her head against any hard surface because the novel is just so hard to write (I’m not a doctor, but I’m not sure banging her skull like that is good for her profession)
  • And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, the worst is when she claims the two of us don’t spend enough time together and decides we should cuddle… please stop picking me up when I am clearly ready to bolt, this means I don’t want you to touch me (I feel like that is really clear, but still with the grabbing!)

Eventually, by some human miracle, a novel gets written, and she gets paid! I guess in the long run, her getting paid is good for me since she buys all my food, and I really do like my food. 

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