“Don’t be a fucknut” has become a regular saying in my house. It’s almost always directed at Mavis, because, lordy, can that dog be a fucknut. Knocking over the water bowl, eating out of the litter box, wrapping her tether so she has four inches to gallop, gagging on the leash, chasing the cats, barking at anyone who happens to walk within a thousand feet of the house. And all this before she’s been up six minutes for the day.
While I’d like my puppy to outgrow this stage, for my characters, it’s just what I want. Please, I think, be a fucknut. Call your ex-wife, forget to pick up your kids, attend your high school reunion, mouth off to your boss, say inappropriate things at parties, hit on the parking attendant, carry a knife through security, ride a horse to impress someone, fake a pregnancy, fake a death, start singing at a meeting, and above all, confront what you don’t want to confront.
The bigger the fucknutery, the better, because then it’s that much easier for the story to move along.