Hello everyone, Ima Nutcase here, intrepid reporter for
The Daily Ramble. Usually I cover the human interest stories, with the odd bit of insanity thrown in here and there, but today I have some sad news for my regular readers.
You will probably remember several of my more popular interviews with Tara Smith (23), a young author-in-waiting who was embarking on the daunting journey of writing and publishing a novel. The youthful Cardiffian had written a chick lit novel set in her home city of Cardiff, and after more than a year of procrastinating, had been on the brink of finally polishing her final draft.
You will no doubt remember her trials and tribulations as she initially began writing about her modern day Cinderella and her talking pussy (cat). There were endless computer problems, boken keboas, lack of time issues, lack of inspiration issues, and, perhaps the most drastic problem of all,overcoming her procrastination urges. We will, perhaps, forget about the time when her despair drove her to drink several large bottles of vodka. Or if not forget, then smile with remembered fondness.
Of course, she eventually overcame her obstacles and finished her first draft. All of Cardiff rejoiced as a daughter of the city took her first steps to Authorsville. You will remember that there was a long period of idleness just after this, when our youthful author did not even
look at her flawed manuscript. It was, in fact, another 16 months before Tara Smith (still 23, of course) decided she could not put it off any longer. It was when the eternally 23 year old finally pulled her butt into gear and started polishing her mass of typos and spelling errors, that tragedy struck. Yes, our favoured (young) daughter of Cardiff has passed on, forever sleeping in her 23 year old body.
But how did she die? Ah, my faithful readers, that is perhaps the most tragic part of this woeful report.
Our perky author-to-be was sat down happily tapping away at her working keboa, when she heard a strange voice. This hitherto unknown voice was apparently giving her pointers on how to edit her novel, and, to put it bluntly, was being quite helpful. At first the doomed young woman thought it was her Inner Voice - Ms Smith had always put great stock into these types of things you understand - but then she was struck by rather an absurd idea. The voice sounded suspiciously like how she'd imagined her talking pussy would sound from her novel. In fact, the original Muse behind her Muse (said pussy's name) was her very own feline friend, the beautiful Belle, and Belle appeared to be moving her mouth in time with the unknown voice.
Ms Smith (23, in case you forgot), was struck dumb (itself a most unusual feat) as she prepared to accept the strange fact that her cat had begun to talk to her. In her haste to prove the seemingly impossible, Ms Smith decided to put her laptop to one side, pick up her pussy (who was still moving her mouth in a most alarming fashion), and begin a conversation.
And this is where tragedy struck our ill-fated friend. On rising from her chair, Ms Smith performed one of her famous Tara-Trips (though this time she at least managed to keep her boobage firmly within her jumper). She in fact tripped over her cat, skidded across her shiny laminate flooring, hit her head on the side of her solid pine coffee table, which, upon collision, began to wobble and thus spill the half cup of coffee that was perched on the edge.
All this, and perhaps our young author might still have survived. Unfortunately, the up-ended cup of coffee landed on poor Belle, who immediately shook the offending liquid from her beautiful silver-tabbied fur. Again, Ms Smith was still breathing, but with the typical unfortunate timing of these tragic accidents, a stroke of lightening managed to hit the aerial outside the house, shooting its electrical current straight through to the TV which was situated right next to the coffee table, and also, alas, next to the poor dripping pussy.
Poor Belle shook and quivered as she was struck by the current, the force of which hurtled the poor feline through the air, landing with unerring accuracy upon Ms Smith's face. Both cat and owner perished. Yes, dear readers, it is sad to report it, but it is true. One of the most promising young authors to come out of Cardiff since... well, since last year at the very least... has died, killed by the Muse who originally inspired her.
And so today, we remember Tara Smith (23). Wife, mother, writer of occasional blogs, and author of one unpublished novel. We remember her annoying habit of putting things off until the last minute; we remember her fondness for vodka, her overuse of innuendo, and her unfortunate habit of tripping over fresh air.
Mostly we will remember her for the way she died; smothered to death by a dripping and shaking pussy.
*shifty*
*Just in case anyone was worried, Tara Smith (23, oh alright 34 *grumbles*), is in fact alive and well. Which should be obvious as she is (or rather, I am) typing this post. This post being, by the way, my effort for The Watery Tart's Delusional Doom Blogfest.
