#neslo

looks cute!

baking is so much harder than regular cooking though! it is totally a science that requires much more practice than you’d think. Lol at the number of times I have made terrible, terrible cookies. So many times

they are way easier to replace than you think! at least as easy as picking out a new hair dryer (although i probably make that way more complicated than it should be)

Texas. 2014. A reasonably warm spring afternoon is finally starting to wind down. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the Superiority Complex State, there's a small town where the tiny stone wall that welcomes you in is overshadowed by the massive blue walls of an IKEA. Somewhere in that small town, a young man sits slumped over his desk, his forehead resting a little less than gently on his left wrist. His fingertips rest lightly on the plastic keys of his laptop, vacant, unmoving. He gave up staring at the screen a long time ago. Why should he? It's not doing him any good to stare at it.

After a few long minutes, he lets out a heavy sigh and lifts his head again. He looks down at his fingers, up at the screen, down at his fingers again and then back up at the screen. With a soft grunt, he shakes his head and channels the excess energy from his body into his fingers, forcing them to move.

"Hello," his fingers say. "I don't believe my name's all that important in this situation, so I'm not even going to bother giving it out. If you have to refer to me, just call me--" And just like that he stops. He sighs again and glances around his disorganized bedroom. The various posters that still litter the walls catch his eye for a moment, but they do nothing to help him decide on an alias. After a few moments, as his eyes return to the screen, his eyes fall upon the icons on his taskbar. They don't indicate much, aside from the programs they were obviously meant to represent... but he takes a moment to look at each of them. He takes a few moments to shift them around, and after a few moments, he nods in satisfaction. "Neslo," his fingers continue.

"I consider myself something of a writer," his fingers say. "And I want to see if that view of myself can hold up under scrutiny. So I've decided to let you all test me. In the unlikely event that anyone should find this blog, I'd like you to submit a writing prompt for me. I'll toss it around in my head for a while, and then regurgitate whatever I've come up with onto this blog for you all to take in. You can be as creative as you like. I certainly will be." His fingers grind to a halt as he cranks out this sentence. His brow furrows, and his eyes tilt up towards the ceiling. Eventually, he looks back down again, pulls his chair closer to his desk and continues. "Just... try to keep your suggestions safe for work, and we should be fine."

"So, then, that ought to sum everything up. Submit away. I'll be waiting."