Here sits Val, uninspired, fresh off the edits of her most recent, probably last, and hopefully not cut future story publication. Did you follow that? Surely one so succinct as Val will not have any problem getting her next story in print and out to the masses.
It's a tale of ne'er-do-wellism, ripped from the annals (heh, heh, you know what THAT sounds like) of grammar school disciplinary files. Yes, it's the story of a recalcitrant Pony, a true system-bucking bronc, the year before the Pony Whisperer became his teacher.
I must say, reading that epic story again brought a slight curvature to the corners of my mouth. At least I can amuse myself. Meanwhile, here I sit, all keyboarded up, with no thing to write. Becalmed on a glassy sea of humdrumity.
One of these days, I might even amuse my shrinking readership again. Better call up Mom and go for a ride. Or ask what's in her mailbox. Or sneak out there at night and hose down her driveway so she can't get her 4WD lemon out of the garage. Or check on her slaw status. Hick needs to get off his duffus and do something outrageous or endearing or mechanically incorrect. The Pony cannot be expected to shoulder the entire burden of Val's sharp-fingered commentary.
I am not going to tell him how the "horse latitudes" got their name.