Because, apparently, Catisha feels the need to tattle on me...as to the reasons that I am a gay man. We have always speculated, but during the course of the evening (as I progressively became more and more drunk), she compiled a list as to why I am officially a gay man. Not a gay, perse.... but a gay MAN... Catisha said so
Two more things I would like to add...I just made this html link work and it thrilled me to NO END, *and* as Catisha refused to say, I am NOT a gay man because I cannot penetrate anything without the use of superficial aids. Her catholic soul would not allow that. My gay soul would.
OK...with that posted, I now respond to Seriously Flippant's tag. :)
The Rules:
1.) List three reasons why I blog
2.) List the rules (I'm so fast at this!!)
3.) Tag three other bloggers
!) I blog because it's fun. I like sharing my stories. I like the idea of pseudo anonymity. These two reasons MAKE blogging fun. I feel like only those that I really really want to read my blog will. And anyone else that I don't care about won't. This provides a certain amount of gleefulness at poking fun at those who will never read my blog and a GREAT amount of joy in sharing my ridiculous life with those who know me best.
2) I blog because I need to. Not because it's a necessity like my dear Hobbit friend. I blog because I need to get things out of me, sometimes. I have a tendency to bottle things up and I don't say things (so often) until it is too late. Blogging affords me the luxury of being open and relatively honest with myself with little danger of judgment from myself or anyone else.
3) I blog because I get a certain amount of wicked joy from it. I like bitching about people in the kindest, funniest way possible. I love everyone I hang around with...if I didn't like you, I wouldn't hang around with you. However, YOU do stupid things. I do, too...but, I'd rather blog about how YOU were stupid, than how *I* was stupid. Comprende? :)
I tag again: Catisha.
Were she to be reading my blog, I would tag AZ, because I'd be fascinated by her comments...as it is, I'm a stalker right now and will make my commenting move at some point. :) bwahaha.
God, I need to sober up.
17.2.08
10.2.08
My stupid mouth
John Mayer...whatever. It's all about me right now. I had jaw surgery back in the day, when I was 16. For reasons I won't go into, it was needed. It was entirely necessary and covered by insurance and completely non-cosmetic. When I went in for my first consultation, the oral maxillofacial surgeon (really, I like throwing that in there because it makes me feel smart. And it's fun to say.) went over all the things that could possibly (but probably wouldn't) go wrong. Things like paralysis, nerve damage and death. For a teenage girl, the worst of all of these options was muscle paralysis. There was nothing I could think of that could be remotely worse than having half of my mouth hang low and refuse to function. Slightly above paralysis was death. This was an option I could handle, as long as my face looked normal. I really didn't have a problem with the idea of my nerves being damaged, especially because the doctor explained that it would probably resolve itself within 6 months and if any part of my face remained numb, it would be a very small portion. Deal, I thought. No problem.
I went through the surgery and neither died nor had muscle paralysis. My entire lower jaw was numb for the first two weeks. Gradually, feeling began to seep back in. First from the left side and then from the right. The nerve endings sprang back to life, moving toward the center, when all of a sudden...my right side stopped going forth and prospering, while my left side raced to the center goal. What ended up becoming readily apparent was that my lower jaw was going to be missing about a quarter of all of its feeling. Well, not all feeling. (Un?)Fortunately, the nerve was never severed completely (or never grew back completely...never figured out which), so my chin (from center to the right edge of my lower lip) remains all tingly...like the foot that has fallen asleep and is trying to wake up. It still tingles to this day. I don't notice it much, anymore, after nearly a decade, but it's there. I have also regained (about 3 years after the incident) feeling of a narrow strip above my chin, but below my lip and the very top portion of my lip.
What does this have to do with anything at present, you ask? For some reason, when I a) get drunk, b) get tired, or c) get cold, ALL feeling ceases and this somehow affects the motor skills of my mouth. ONLY THE RIGHT SIDE. So, in addition to being unable to feel when water, coffee, ice cream, soup or the like is dribbling down my face on a *normal* day, when any of the three above occur, I am unable to feel my own saliva, as well. Tonight, it is cold in our house. I am exhausted and endeavoring to keep myself awake so that I don't wake up at 5 a.m. I reached up about 20 minutes ago to brush back the hair from my face and noticed a damp spot on my shirt. I was drooling. Like a toddler or a pubescent boy who has just discovered what it is that makes daddy so excited about a movie with Angelina Jolie. I am annoyed because this *should* be a function of my face that I *should* be able to control. What if I am in the throes of passion and I leak mouth fluid on my lover...not in a good way...? I'm just annoyed at my stupid mouth and I vow to either control or take vengeance on it, one day. My mouth *will* be my bitch. Pwnd.
I went through the surgery and neither died nor had muscle paralysis. My entire lower jaw was numb for the first two weeks. Gradually, feeling began to seep back in. First from the left side and then from the right. The nerve endings sprang back to life, moving toward the center, when all of a sudden...my right side stopped going forth and prospering, while my left side raced to the center goal. What ended up becoming readily apparent was that my lower jaw was going to be missing about a quarter of all of its feeling. Well, not all feeling. (Un?)Fortunately, the nerve was never severed completely (or never grew back completely...never figured out which), so my chin (from center to the right edge of my lower lip) remains all tingly...like the foot that has fallen asleep and is trying to wake up. It still tingles to this day. I don't notice it much, anymore, after nearly a decade, but it's there. I have also regained (about 3 years after the incident) feeling of a narrow strip above my chin, but below my lip and the very top portion of my lip.
What does this have to do with anything at present, you ask? For some reason, when I a) get drunk, b) get tired, or c) get cold, ALL feeling ceases and this somehow affects the motor skills of my mouth. ONLY THE RIGHT SIDE. So, in addition to being unable to feel when water, coffee, ice cream, soup or the like is dribbling down my face on a *normal* day, when any of the three above occur, I am unable to feel my own saliva, as well. Tonight, it is cold in our house. I am exhausted and endeavoring to keep myself awake so that I don't wake up at 5 a.m. I reached up about 20 minutes ago to brush back the hair from my face and noticed a damp spot on my shirt. I was drooling. Like a toddler or a pubescent boy who has just discovered what it is that makes daddy so excited about a movie with Angelina Jolie. I am annoyed because this *should* be a function of my face that I *should* be able to control. What if I am in the throes of passion and I leak mouth fluid on my lover...not in a good way...? I'm just annoyed at my stupid mouth and I vow to either control or take vengeance on it, one day. My mouth *will* be my bitch. Pwnd.
9.2.08
Call me.
Actually...don't. Remember the trumpet player from the blues joint? He actually called. Last night...or the night before...I don't know. I just checked my voice mail and he'd called to see how my audition went (the one I had on Sunday, wherein I looked like the worst version of Rocky Balboa). I haven't called back. I have to go.
Do you want to know a secret?
You'd better promise not to tell. Because, I'm a little tipsy and I'm treating this blog like Vegas. What happens here stays here. Except, I realize that's not true. I'm posting on the internet, for crying out loud. What happens here can be immediately linked to thousands of millions of people. NEVERTHELESS, I am going to use this blog to spill my guts. SO, I think we'll start with my trashy side. You already know I'm a drunkard (as evidenced by the last post...and the fact that tonight, I've polished off a bottle of wine by myself), but did you know I'm a little trashy. In the vein of Frodo (my ubiquitous hobbit--dubbed by his own dear selfs), I'll share a bit of the one recent, slightly trashy, sexual exploit I some how managed to have over break.
Over break, I drove to Tejas to do the obligatory family thing and catch up with friends who are still around. I have been saying for months that I'm in desperate need of some action (ANY action), and Impatience took me up on this. She heard my cry and answered in the form of one of her friends and a delightful post-New Year's party. Her exact words were, "You remember L? He's coming. He's always horny and up for anything." Although I always doubt the veracity of a man's interest, I thought I'd give it a shot. After all, we had a history. * So, during my first smoke break of the evening (I only smoke twice a year...during breaks. It's allowed), the fact that, as a singer, I shouldn't be interested in smoking, came up. I mumbled something about an oral fixation (shocker, I know. I have one. Who woulda thunk?) and he grinned and said we should do something about it. I smiled and said that I agreed. He said, "Great. So, we're making out later?" I said, "We sure are." There was a brief pause where he exhaled and laughed. "Awesome.", he said. "No. Really.", I countered. "We really are." "Really?" "REALLY." Fast forward through some blasé flirting to us spooning on Impatience's bed, with Impatience on the end of the spooning chain. I started playing with his hair and his hand started roaming out of Impatience's sight line. She excused herself to use the restroom and he rolled over slightly and huskily stammered, "Dear GOD, that thing you're doing with my hair is incredible. We're fooling around. As soon as she comes back for her PJ's and goes back to the bathroom, IT. IS. ON." And it was. A little making out, some heavy petting and a polite knock on the bedroom door from Impatience, herself, left me severely dissatisfied and annoyed with Impatience's cock blocking skills. Fortunately for me, after she furiously muttered, "Don't you DARE do it on my bed.", L decided it was time to check out the walk-in closet. Keep in mind please, that this is Texas. A walk in closet can be the size of some small bedrooms in Illinois. And this one was. It was roomy and dark and just off the bathroom (the only place in Impatience's home where people were not gathered for long periods of time). He made some lame excuse about "checking out whether or not [the air mattress he brought with him] 'll fit in there." However, this excuse (while thinly veiled), did what it needed to do. It got us in a "private room", in the dark, with something other than the floor or a hard bathroom floor to fool around on. I'll spare you, dear reader, the intimate details, but suffice to say we went to town. On an air mattress. With no sheets. In a closet. Trashy.
Fast forward about one relatively unsatisfying (on my part) hour later....I left to take out my contacts. He said, "But, you'll be back, right?" I assured him I would, but upon my return nearly 15 minutes later, he was asleep. I didn't want to a) wake him or b) spend the night in the closet. SO, I did exactly what any woman in her right mind would do and I left him alone to go sleep in Impatience's bed. The next morning, I had to remove "personal affects" from the closet, which I almost did without waking him. As soon as he awoke, though, he started trying to be chatty and keep up a conversation. At which point, I said, "No. REALLY, L. I have to go. I should have been on the road nearly 20 minutes ago. Had fun. Thanks and I'll see you...when I see you?" I finally had to just leave, but not before paying Impatience. I owed her $15 for the party, but gave $20, because I had a good time. :) So, in reviewing the "Nora does it like a man" theory... 1) She says what she wants and goes for it. And sometimes, succeeds. 2) She doesn't really care where she does it as long as she can rock out with reckless abandon. 3) She is willing to pay for a good time. 4) She doesn't want to cuddle, talk, or spend the night. And if she does spend the night, she doesn't want to talk in the morning, either.
Relationships are different (I think?...haven't been in a "real" one in about 6 years. Wow. That's much more pathetic writing it out than it is just saying it). But, this was good times...no phone calls, no talks about feelings or when we'll see each other again.
Edit: ...and I just woke up. I wrote this at about 2 a.m. last night, when I thought it was a really good idea to share the intimate details of my personal life with the internet. In the interest of Karma, I'll keep it up and actually post it. But, I think this post is a lot less brilliant in the face of sobriety.
*More embarassing story for later days.
Over break, I drove to Tejas to do the obligatory family thing and catch up with friends who are still around. I have been saying for months that I'm in desperate need of some action (ANY action), and Impatience took me up on this. She heard my cry and answered in the form of one of her friends and a delightful post-New Year's party. Her exact words were, "You remember L? He's coming. He's always horny and up for anything." Although I always doubt the veracity of a man's interest, I thought I'd give it a shot. After all, we had a history. * So, during my first smoke break of the evening (I only smoke twice a year...during breaks. It's allowed), the fact that, as a singer, I shouldn't be interested in smoking, came up. I mumbled something about an oral fixation (shocker, I know. I have one. Who woulda thunk?) and he grinned and said we should do something about it. I smiled and said that I agreed. He said, "Great. So, we're making out later?" I said, "We sure are." There was a brief pause where he exhaled and laughed. "Awesome.", he said. "No. Really.", I countered. "We really are." "Really?" "REALLY." Fast forward through some blasé flirting to us spooning on Impatience's bed, with Impatience on the end of the spooning chain. I started playing with his hair and his hand started roaming out of Impatience's sight line. She excused herself to use the restroom and he rolled over slightly and huskily stammered, "Dear GOD, that thing you're doing with my hair is incredible. We're fooling around. As soon as she comes back for her PJ's and goes back to the bathroom, IT. IS. ON." And it was. A little making out, some heavy petting and a polite knock on the bedroom door from Impatience, herself, left me severely dissatisfied and annoyed with Impatience's cock blocking skills. Fortunately for me, after she furiously muttered, "Don't you DARE do it on my bed.", L decided it was time to check out the walk-in closet. Keep in mind please, that this is Texas. A walk in closet can be the size of some small bedrooms in Illinois. And this one was. It was roomy and dark and just off the bathroom (the only place in Impatience's home where people were not gathered for long periods of time). He made some lame excuse about "checking out whether or not [the air mattress he brought with him] 'll fit in there." However, this excuse (while thinly veiled), did what it needed to do. It got us in a "private room", in the dark, with something other than the floor or a hard bathroom floor to fool around on. I'll spare you, dear reader, the intimate details, but suffice to say we went to town. On an air mattress. With no sheets. In a closet. Trashy.
Fast forward about one relatively unsatisfying (on my part) hour later....I left to take out my contacts. He said, "But, you'll be back, right?" I assured him I would, but upon my return nearly 15 minutes later, he was asleep. I didn't want to a) wake him or b) spend the night in the closet. SO, I did exactly what any woman in her right mind would do and I left him alone to go sleep in Impatience's bed. The next morning, I had to remove "personal affects" from the closet, which I almost did without waking him. As soon as he awoke, though, he started trying to be chatty and keep up a conversation. At which point, I said, "No. REALLY, L. I have to go. I should have been on the road nearly 20 minutes ago. Had fun. Thanks and I'll see you...when I see you?" I finally had to just leave, but not before paying Impatience. I owed her $15 for the party, but gave $20, because I had a good time. :) So, in reviewing the "Nora does it like a man" theory... 1) She says what she wants and goes for it. And sometimes, succeeds. 2) She doesn't really care where she does it as long as she can rock out with reckless abandon. 3) She is willing to pay for a good time. 4) She doesn't want to cuddle, talk, or spend the night. And if she does spend the night, she doesn't want to talk in the morning, either.
Relationships are different (I think?...haven't been in a "real" one in about 6 years. Wow. That's much more pathetic writing it out than it is just saying it). But, this was good times...no phone calls, no talks about feelings or when we'll see each other again.
Edit: ...and I just woke up. I wrote this at about 2 a.m. last night, when I thought it was a really good idea to share the intimate details of my personal life with the internet. In the interest of Karma, I'll keep it up and actually post it. But, I think this post is a lot less brilliant in the face of sobriety.
*More embarassing story for later days.
7.2.08
Look at me, and tell me who I am...
During our latest bout of "roommate fun", we decided that it would be a good idea to impersonate one another and show how we think the other half lives. This grand event was sponsored by Fat Tire and St. James Winery.
Fifi did a marvelous rendition of Katisha's cacophony...I mean...symphony of cupboard doors slamming each morning. Always done before 8 a.m...sometimes earlier, if we're lucky. Fifi stomped around and made loud "Slam! Slam! Slam! SLAM!!!" sounds and pretended to throw dishes around. All true. All funny.
I turned up my iPod and ran around the corner (out of sight) to imitate Buffy's Protestant orgasms, as we call them. She saves these for visits from the boyfriend and tells us we don't need our iPods that night to cover any un-Christian noises from her room. This is a bald faced lie. She will drink and start to forget that Jesus is her boyfriend. She then gets horny and gets it on with a real man (at this juncture in her life, the real man is her boyfriend). This leads to a loud, almost painful, possibly pleasurable (but not sure if it's entirely permissible!) orgasm. This was what I mimicked. Quite well, I might add.
Fifi asked "What do I do?", which was the only impetus needed for Buffy to race out of the room, and for Katisha and I to start up a false conversation. Our bemused overseas guest watched as Buffy stomped down the hall (making the sound of our weighs-98-pounds-but-sounds-like-she-weighs-350-pounds roommate coming to visit in the living room!), burst into the room, ignoring the current conversation, and cried, " 'Allo!! I'm Frrrrench!!!" Buffy then stomped back out, completing one of the most accurate descriptions of the night. We love our Fifi, but as she is partially deaf and very French, she has little use for whatever the "f*cking Americans" are doing at the time and she manages to impart her words of wisdom (wanted or no) into the conversation (usually dealing with something "disGUSting" that she dealt with that day) before running (read: stomping) off to her room.
As I was the only roommate not poked fun at yet, Buffy began to lie on the floor and snore. Katisha obliged by making alarm clock sounds as Buffy slapped her hand at the table and rolled over. Fifi was confused by this and asked what they were doing. Katisha grabbed the empty wine bottle and said, "Wait! Wait! I know. I need a bottle." Fifi deadpanned, "Oh. It's Nora." Thanks guys. Thanks.
Fifi did a marvelous rendition of Katisha's cacophony...I mean...symphony of cupboard doors slamming each morning. Always done before 8 a.m...sometimes earlier, if we're lucky. Fifi stomped around and made loud "Slam! Slam! Slam! SLAM!!!" sounds and pretended to throw dishes around. All true. All funny.
I turned up my iPod and ran around the corner (out of sight) to imitate Buffy's Protestant orgasms, as we call them. She saves these for visits from the boyfriend and tells us we don't need our iPods that night to cover any un-Christian noises from her room. This is a bald faced lie. She will drink and start to forget that Jesus is her boyfriend. She then gets horny and gets it on with a real man (at this juncture in her life, the real man is her boyfriend). This leads to a loud, almost painful, possibly pleasurable (but not sure if it's entirely permissible!) orgasm. This was what I mimicked. Quite well, I might add.
Fifi asked "What do I do?", which was the only impetus needed for Buffy to race out of the room, and for Katisha and I to start up a false conversation. Our bemused overseas guest watched as Buffy stomped down the hall (making the sound of our weighs-98-pounds-but-sounds-like-she-weighs-350-pounds roommate coming to visit in the living room!), burst into the room, ignoring the current conversation, and cried, " 'Allo!! I'm Frrrrench!!!" Buffy then stomped back out, completing one of the most accurate descriptions of the night. We love our Fifi, but as she is partially deaf and very French, she has little use for whatever the "f*cking Americans" are doing at the time and she manages to impart her words of wisdom (wanted or no) into the conversation (usually dealing with something "disGUSting" that she dealt with that day) before running (read: stomping) off to her room.
As I was the only roommate not poked fun at yet, Buffy began to lie on the floor and snore. Katisha obliged by making alarm clock sounds as Buffy slapped her hand at the table and rolled over. Fifi was confused by this and asked what they were doing. Katisha grabbed the empty wine bottle and said, "Wait! Wait! I know. I need a bottle." Fifi deadpanned, "Oh. It's Nora." Thanks guys. Thanks.
6.2.08
I am the girl of 100 lists.
Or maybe just one. Since this blog should be used to help me grow as a person, I think I'll start a list of life lessons that should be remembered for posterity...or in case I forget number one...which. should. never. happen. again.
1. Never drink half a bottle of tequila, two shots of champagne, and a cup of cranberry juice and vodka in under an hour on an empty stomach. But, mostly no tequila.*
2. Never wax your own eyebrows.
3. Always check your hotel reservations in a small town in Italy. Because, otherwise, you may throw yourself on the mercy of bartenders and kids from Amsterdam.*
4. Always lock the closet door.*
5. Never get emotionally involved.
6. If you think you're becoming emotionally involved, refer back to number 1 and adhere to that rule. Staunchly.
7. Never give your kids the facts of life from "Grey's Anatomy." The book, not the show. Too many diagrams and Latin terms...they'll end up watching porn anyway to get the gist of how things go.*
8. Always listen to the rain.
9. Never fry bacon in anything less than a long sleeved shirt.
10. Never pass up an opportunity to flirt. With anyone.
Ten is a good number to start with. I think I'll leave it be for now and add as I go along. :)
*denotes wonderful story telling opportunity that will probably crop up at a later time.
1. Never drink half a bottle of tequila, two shots of champagne, and a cup of cranberry juice and vodka in under an hour on an empty stomach. But, mostly no tequila.*
2. Never wax your own eyebrows.
3. Always check your hotel reservations in a small town in Italy. Because, otherwise, you may throw yourself on the mercy of bartenders and kids from Amsterdam.*
4. Always lock the closet door.*
5. Never get emotionally involved.
6. If you think you're becoming emotionally involved, refer back to number 1 and adhere to that rule. Staunchly.
7. Never give your kids the facts of life from "Grey's Anatomy." The book, not the show. Too many diagrams and Latin terms...they'll end up watching porn anyway to get the gist of how things go.*
8. Always listen to the rain.
9. Never fry bacon in anything less than a long sleeved shirt.
10. Never pass up an opportunity to flirt. With anyone.
Ten is a good number to start with. I think I'll leave it be for now and add as I go along. :)
*denotes wonderful story telling opportunity that will probably crop up at a later time.
I can see clearly now.
Not necessarily because the rain is gone, but because my eye is no longer puffed out like I was on the losing side of a bar fight.
Lessons learned from this weekend:
1. I believe I am allergic to the wax in Sally Hanson's home wax package.
2. When waxing one's eyebrows, pull the skin VERY taut before pulling off the wax.
3. If one neglects to pull the skin taut *and* is allergic to said wax, one's eye may swell to the point of opening to a mere slit and raising the eyebrow so high, it looks as if one is permanently questioning the universe
4. One can, with a decent headshot, confidently audition for an opera company with puffed out eyes, since one can say, "Sorry. *That's* what I really look like."
Today is the first day I've left the house without shame. Although, I did wear a hat to cover my devil's horns (Know how they tell you to never remove hair from above the brow, but we do anyway? They're not joking about waxing. I look like the missing link between human and faun). These are all life lessons I (apparently) needed to know. So, I humbly thank the universe and resume plucking.
Before all this happened, though, T and M came to town and I toured them around the muddy slush that is Lakeview. I took them to a local blues joint and proceeded to get hit on by a wiry trumpet player that was old enough to be my father. Hitting on, I can handle...but, this man took it too far and I don't think I can ever go back.
"Don": You should come up on stage later.
Nora: I don't think so. Not really dressed for it.
D: C'mon. You look great!
N: *snorts* Riiiiight. With my Lesbo-rific boots? I don't think so. Now, if I had heels...
D: Mmmm...you have really high heels?
N: *enjoying it* The highest.
D: You know...*leans over to whisper*...I've always wanted a beautiful woman to walk on my back wearing high heels.
*leans back, looks significantly, and waits*
N:...
N:...
I mean, honestly...other than making a catty comment about puncture wounds, how else could I respond? We exchanged numbers, because it only seemed polite. He'd spent the entirety of his break trying to get my number...he needed a little something for his efforts, since I was neither going to let him buy me a drink, nor was I going to give him spiked heel acupuncture. All that to say...I don't think I can go back...I fear he'll look for me and I fear that if I wear heels, I'll break that little man. So, I think I'll start looking for new blues joints. And not wax my eyebrows. Ever. Again.
Lessons learned from this weekend:
1. I believe I am allergic to the wax in Sally Hanson's home wax package.
2. When waxing one's eyebrows, pull the skin VERY taut before pulling off the wax.
3. If one neglects to pull the skin taut *and* is allergic to said wax, one's eye may swell to the point of opening to a mere slit and raising the eyebrow so high, it looks as if one is permanently questioning the universe
4. One can, with a decent headshot, confidently audition for an opera company with puffed out eyes, since one can say, "Sorry. *That's* what I really look like."
Today is the first day I've left the house without shame. Although, I did wear a hat to cover my devil's horns (Know how they tell you to never remove hair from above the brow, but we do anyway? They're not joking about waxing. I look like the missing link between human and faun). These are all life lessons I (apparently) needed to know. So, I humbly thank the universe and resume plucking.
Before all this happened, though, T and M came to town and I toured them around the muddy slush that is Lakeview. I took them to a local blues joint and proceeded to get hit on by a wiry trumpet player that was old enough to be my father. Hitting on, I can handle...but, this man took it too far and I don't think I can ever go back.
"Don": You should come up on stage later.
Nora: I don't think so. Not really dressed for it.
D: C'mon. You look great!
N: *snorts* Riiiiight. With my Lesbo-rific boots? I don't think so. Now, if I had heels...
D: Mmmm...you have really high heels?
N: *enjoying it* The highest.
D: You know...*leans over to whisper*...I've always wanted a beautiful woman to walk on my back wearing high heels.
*leans back, looks significantly, and waits*
N:...
N:...
I mean, honestly...other than making a catty comment about puncture wounds, how else could I respond? We exchanged numbers, because it only seemed polite. He'd spent the entirety of his break trying to get my number...he needed a little something for his efforts, since I was neither going to let him buy me a drink, nor was I going to give him spiked heel acupuncture. All that to say...I don't think I can go back...I fear he'll look for me and I fear that if I wear heels, I'll break that little man. So, I think I'll start looking for new blues joints. And not wax my eyebrows. Ever. Again.
2.2.08
If you think that a kiss is all in the lips...
I did have it all wrong, I think. It's all about the heart of the matter. My last blog was so whiny and so bitchy, I had to leave it behind. It's about time I start getting to the heart of the matter (jn every situation), even if I don't particularly care to. This doesn't mean that I won't be particularly bitchy, but I'm going to try to move beyond the whining and get at what's really bugging me before I start sounding like a weepy emo kid who blogs about how even Edgar Allen Poe had it better. So, I christen thee, new blog. May you be more pleasant than your predecessor and may you provide me (and all who visit) with a more permanent sense of serendipity and destiny. Peace.
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