Ok, so I’ve had a semi-major breakthrough. Now I must share it with people who may not have thought of it yet. (After all — it only took me 2 years!)
You know how when you’re in your notifications on Twitter, and you click on one of the heads to take you to the person who retweeted you? You retweet them, but then you go back to your notifications, and you’re back at the top again — not at the place where you left off. This is really annoying when you have a lot of notifications.
And yet — I tried something different today. I kept the notifications open in one tab, then opened Twitter in another tab, and simply used the search bar at the top of the page to quickly locate my retweeters. If it’s someone you follow, and mostly that’s who retweets you, it’s especially easy, because you only have to hit a few keys before their name pops up. It more than halved my retweet time, and for the first time in a long time, I was able to retweet everyone!
This may be what I call the “old lady” solution — so if anyone has a better tip on how they retweet, feel free to share!
Just a little note to inform the writers in the community that I am launching a book editing/design service. For more info on the particular services I offer, please click here.
In a word, if you’re looking for reasonably-priced yet reliable manuscript editing, book cover design, or ghostwriting, that is definitely something I can help you with. If you’re interested in a second set of eyes to help you get your new book into perfect condition for your customers, please let me know.
And familiar ones
Novelty mixed with ancient history
More novelty, though
New sensations making me
As I try to fit my own pieces together
As I try to figure out
How your pieces could fit with mine
How I could make my pieces work better
Yo quiero estar contigo, vivir contigo
Bailar contigo, tener contigo
Seven dollars a month
Eight dollars a month
So many dollar signs shining in my eyes
Reminding me that
I am not who I wish I was
I am not what you deserve
I am well-dressed, my makeup is intact
But I am tired
Con tu física y tu química también tu anatomía
La cerveza y el tequila y tu boca con la mía
Ya no puedo más
I wonder what the moon looks like tonight
I wonder if you can see it now
I wonder if I am wondering for nothing
I wonder if I have lost my mind
Possibly in a good way
Una noche loca
Ay besar tu boca
(Italicized portions quoted from the Portuguese version of “Bailando” by Enrique Iglesias. Not my own work.)
My heart is ticking.
There’s a clock on the dashboard
Right next to the odometer
Telling me how much time I have left.
It’s ticking down pretty low
But there’s no one round to wind me.
Yeah, I’m like a wind-up clock
Waiting for Cinderella to turn my gears.
She hasn’t come yet.
She might not come at all.
Do you have an extra beer?
Ann Hicks was a little old woman who sold gingerbread and apples in Hyde Park in 19th-century London. She was apparently a very convincing writer, because a letter to a certain government official secured her permission to set up a little store-house for her goods.
So she set up a house — but not just a storage shed. An actual house, which she immediately thereafter commenced to inhabit.
“Before anyone had quite realized what was taking place, Ann Hicks was living in Hyde Park in a comfortable brick-built house with a decent-sized private garden surrounded by stout fencing” (Arthur Bush, Portrait of London).
But Ann Hicks’s house presented a problem for the builders of Queen Victoria’s Crystal Palace. You know, the iconic structure of iron and glass which was afterwards relocated to South London?
Ann held them off for a while, and it wasn’t until the intervention of Parliament and the Duke of Wellington that she was finally removed. She was, however, compensated with a small allowance.
I think I’m going to build a hut in the park up the street, get them to kick me out, and then see if I can get a “small allowance” out of it. Nice going, Ann.
“The day is gone, and dark has come
The beasts are running wild.
But the air is sweet, and I shall rest my feet
On earth exceeding mild.
The sun is gone, and night is here
To mark the path of death.
But life is long, and I shall sing this song
With the last of my living breath.”
Adjustable thoughts hanging on
Purple stars dipped in moonshine.
Inaudible whispers dripping from
Her red lips soaked in sugar and dew.
Drift through her rose-petal mouth.
The clock outside my window
Is painted in crimson across the black sky
And it’s ticking ominously.