I've always wanted to introduce a lifestyle aspect to The Mayden, but every time I sit myself down to type about my life like how I would normally talk to a person, I just can't seem to get the words out. Funny, seeing as how I basically chat shit on every other Instagram post I caption and tweets I tweet.
I've re-written this post about 5 times the way I think would appeal to people and each time I read it through, I want to smack myself on the head. I've got to surrender: I cannot write lifestyle posts the way everybody else writes them. (A nice way of saying I suck at being the girl-next-door.)
So abandon ship it is and here's my take on lifestyle, monthly round up posts.
In typical The Mayden fashion, I've dramatised, romanticised and metaphorised my September in rhymes, alliterations and pretentious lexis for your reading pleasure. (I hope.)
Her name was September, slender, sardonic, subaltern. A cig in her hand, spidery fingers in command, she sashays, hips swaying like a pendulum to the steady beat of -- bam, bam -- spatiotemporally scorching situations.
Bam -- a flu, a cough, sore throat like rust, bedridden, germ-bidden, fatigue-driven cuss. I lay under blankets for a week and a half and September swaggers by, a sadistic smirk lingering to vie.
Bam -- I cry, howling at the sky, a sly grin my ally, screaming a loud goodbye to the silence of fangirling isolation. They're back -- the murders, the spies, and the lies -- they're back in full force as September saunters by.
I sit in anticipation, a yell bubbling like poison, blood rushing to my head as I watch with too much passion; Annalise Keating and her scheme, Kate Beckett and her dream, O'Brien and the team. Oh, and Chanel and the screams.
Bam -- it's a grave, with happiness engraved, etched to the stone like burnt and branded stamps. September hides nearby, a glass of champagne in hand, ready to down and drown, no slow downs -- maybe a breakdown.
Bam -- it's crinkled paper, it's words, it's life. They're strung like mesh, like strings of knit and necklace. The master of deduction met September behind curtains, a monotonous intelligence and a sinister undertaker -- peas in a pod? Maybe, but Holmes lit up the room in Conan Doyle genius, and September bows down, welcoming words that flow like divine creation.
Bam -- then September dies as exhaustion flutters by. I yearn for the hours -- the precious, little hours -- that come 'round every midnight, three hours at a time.
What do you make of my first 'lifestyle' post? Too tedious? Too cryptic? Should I just stop? I know I'm not everyone's cuppa tea (or coffee), but I honestly love feedback and constructive criticism, so bombard me with them!
How was your September?