Shadow

“A shadow does not belong to the figure that casts it.”
I painted your shadow with rainbow acrylics.

I used my fingers to swirl and dazzle and putty it‘s cracked exterior.

I wrote our future stories all over it with bold sharpie fantasies and broken desperate promises.

I stretched it this way and that trying to find some kind of fit for either of us.

I creased and trimmed and tattered and folded over the best loved corners.

I pinned you to the ceiling above my bed, folded you neatly into my breast pocket, swallowed you whole and hid under the security screen of you in every relationship I’ve had since the day your shadow crossed mine.

I suppose that’s why you wouldn’t let me sew it back on you, abused as it was. Or is it more that you don't want to give your shadow up, don't want to flesh it out. It doesn't matter. What I have isn't yours. and you can't have it without me.

Pub Shot: That Chick From Frasier

“Hey it’s You!” his eyes were glossy with beer and he was smiling the same goofy smile he’d had the first time I met him at the Pub. The smile looked open and slightly ready to be kicked in, the way an overly friendly dogs does.

I remembered he was currently remodeling a house out here in Corbett. And I remembered that he has two boys he doesn’t get to see as much as he’d like since his divorce with his high school sweetheart. And I remembered that he has trouble installing car seats in his truck. And I remembered that we competed to build card houses out of beer coasters and I won with a card castle sturdy enough to be mobile. I could NOT for the life of me remember his name. “It is me! And it’s you! How are you?”

“Is your name…… Savannah?” he asked looking my face over for signs of accuracy or sobriety.

“Noooo… but don’t feel too bad. I don’t remember your name either. So what is it?”

“Scott.” he had a western shirt on. The kind with the pearly snaps I always want to rip open like super man. It stuns me they don’t put those snaps on lady shirts.

“Scooooottt. Of course. I like your snaps Scott.” I felt not even a flicker of recognition. “You get a lot of folks ripping your shirt open with shiny snaps like that?” I put my hand lightly on his chest.

“How did you know they were snaps?” and then I remembered that his bulb isn’t all that bright but he’d likely make some darling very happy one day if he gave up beer and strippers.

 “My name’s Dew(ed).” I reminded him, sort of wishing I wasn’t at the Pub and could make a name up.

“That’s RIGHT! Like the chick from Frasier!”

“NO! We had this argument last time! Her name starts with an M but it’s not Dew(ed). I can’t remember it but it’s not Dew(ed)! It’s meryl. Or something like merisomething. I can’t believe you didn’t look it up! You swore you would look it up!”

“Do you want to play darts?”

“I’ve been dying to play darts.” I was true. I kinda did want to get up and move around a bit. “But I have a couple tables of friends over there waiting for me.”

“Well, bring one of your friends over to play with you.”

“Alright. I guess I could ask.”

“Do it.”

“I said I would. Dude.”

“okay.”

“Okay.” I wandered back around the pool table to stuff my coat in the booth. “Okay. Who wants to play darts with those guys over there? ‘Cause I’m not blowing either of them.”

I Should Run

“Somehow the conversation came to girls fighting down at work.” Once again The Man and I  were hanging in the kitchen making casual conversation.

“Right. Somehow the guys on a construction site started discussing chick fights”  What next? Would they start discussing their last blow job? *nodding*

“Exactly. So they were all talking about how tough their girlfriends were and I just said my girlfriend is a sweetheart cause… well…. You wouldn’t win in a fight.” I spun around at this, hands on hips and scowling.

“How could you say that!!??”

“Cause it’s true. What if a big girl jumps you? What are you going to do? You’re going to run. That’s all you could do. You should run, honey.” he's just looking out for my best interests you know.

“I SHOULD RUN?”

“You don’t understand. These girls are carrying my weight around all the time. Can you imagine carrying me around all day? You couldn’t. You just couldn’t. They’re just bound to be stronger. And……. you’re a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy! Besides. What would you prefer? You want me to be a dick? You want to live with a big dick? I gotta warn ya... it is not what you think it will be six years in.” He hugged me to hide his grinning and muffled chuckles and tried to redirect the conversation.

“You know what I would do. I would punch them in the neck.” he said into my neck “Knock the wind out of them really smash the esophagus. And then kick ‘em in the crotch. There’s things you could do with big girls.” He just kept adding big girl fighting tips even as my jaw dropped lower and lower. I decided not to ask him how he knew so much about fighting girls, I would prefer to assume he was just translating his knowledge of fighting boys. Oh who am I kidding. I don't need to understand him. I just do the laundry.... which isn't all that stimulating... which is why I don't mind stirring the pot a little now and then.

“I can’t believe you think I’m a pussy. And that you’re cool with that.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To make sure you never get in a fight. I would never let anyone fight you.” That's right. He needs me to be a pussy.

“You’d kick a girl’s ass for me?”

“Whatever it takes. You sure can’t be fighting. You would get your ass kicked. How many fights have you even been in?”

“Who cares! What does that matter?”

“It matters a lot. You learn stuff.”

“What about you never learning how to never have to fight? What about that? Maybe the best fighter never has to fight at all.” he shook his head but I pressed on. “How else do you explain how I kick yer ass every day without even flexing?”

“Them’s fighting words!”

***** the rest of this blog entry has been edited for explicit material to find out what happened visit The Man on a job site. Wear your hard hat.*****

To Onion or Not to Onion

“I’m about to put this onion on my sandwich.” he warned, laughing.

“Alright. And then what? Some ham? Are you going to put HAM on the sandwich next?” I wasn’t sure what the game was but I like to win anyway.

“I’m just saying. If you want to try and kiss me anytime soon you should know I’m putting onion on.”

“Oh. So it’s last call for tongue kissing.” I continued mixing the second batch of cookie dough. “Good to know.”

“I don’t want any complaints later if you’re going to be kissing me” he hinted again.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you want me to stop you from putting that onion on that sandwich.”

“Not at all. The onion makes the sandwich delicious.” He dangled the onion slice between two fingers. “But if you insist… I will not put the onion on the sandwich.” I swear singles without kids are seriously missing out on proposition styles.

“Please. I insist you eat the onion. I want you to enjoy your sandwich.”

“So you’re going to kiss me anyway?” he looked hopeful.

“OOOOOOOh! I see. So you want to have your onion and have me too.” I shook my head at him teasing with my eyes. “For shame.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” he finished building his sandwich and before he could lift it I crossed the kitchen and kissed him.

I made the moon rise and the sun set. I summoned wolves to howl and rippled the nearest lakes.  Just about when he might have carried me off to a more private place to allow his ham to sweat and the cheese to congeal and the bread to stiffen…leaving only the onion intact......

“What are you DOING!?!” Daughter asked, astonished and mortified at us.

Her sandwich did not contain onions.

Little Man stood up on his chair and announced, “there’s chocolate on my fingers and it’s LICIOUS like mommy!” before licking his fingers enthusiastically.

He does take his sandwich with onions when there are no cookies available.

I patted The Man on his shoulder and went back to the cookie making process. “Enjoy your onion, it‘s all that's left for us married types anyway; the freedom to eat onions.”

Potpouri

Something tips and slides at two weeks. Some deep dark place begins to open. I imagine a stink coming off of me, a flashing scarlet beam advertising my precarious perch. This girl has dark places begging to be reached for! This girl might go for any bullshit you sling at her right now. Buy this girl a drink! The twist and turn of fuck sounds like bass guitar strings if you wrapped two or three together and pulled your fingernail up and down them before gently plucking.

Is anyone else picturing all of us with those flashlight helmets spelunking with string instruments and hopeful loins?

I fell down the stairs today. It wasn’t as exciting as that sounds. There were no somersaults or broken bones. Just me hippity-hopping down the stairs at about ninety miles an hour followed by my foot hitting the hump of a stair and sliding out from under me. Body up, body down, down, down, down until I was lying at the bottom of the stairs. I finally have a mother-fucking bruise. It’s not easy to get one with my skin type. You have to REALLY inspire my skin to bring blood to the surface. It knows better than to rush to just any point of pressure. I also have a rug burn. And my rib cage feels rickety like an old wood bird cage. Fuck I AM still alive! I know ‘cause I can feel every shallow breath I take! I mean. Sometimes you can’t tell anymore. I’m a little worried about how alive I’m going to feel in the morning but we’ll deal with that when we get to it.

Earlier this morning The Man and I were discussing the fact that when someone suggests a warm washcloth or soak it doesn’t do a goddamn thing they’re just at a loss and tell you that get you to go away.  After he came to peel me off the floor (stomping on my left hand in the process ..) he offered to heat an entire wet towel for me. That bastard is funny as fuck, isn’t he?

His sister and I have been calling him Captain Man. Out here in Corbett we had quite the windstorm and she stayed the night last Saturday. When we got up in the morning The Man was no where to be found. His car was there but he was missing. Right around when I was getting ready to call his phone and be one of THOSE g/fs a pickup pulls up and drops him off. It’s his new best friend some old man who picked him up. He had decided to go walking toward the river to help clear the roads and see what was going on. During the wind storm. For fun. Long before eight am.

I haven’t had the writing bug. Some of you have been asking after me and I appreciate being missed. Don’t worry. My muse never stays away for too long.  I don’t know. Nothing much is happening around here but that’s not really it. This is just how it goes. Ebb and flow and whatnot. Go ahead and make some suggestions in the comments so I have something to ignore and rebel against. ;)

Missing You

In the last year or so I’ve considered what it might feel like to be a non-smoker. Before that I didn’t bother to think that far past the withdrawals I would experience immediately. Because you just sort of assume that eventually the physical addiction will pass and you’ll be oh so pleased to be smoke free. Under that in the place we don’t like to confront our thoughts we know better. I will never not want a cigarette. I might one day want other things MORE. (health and whatnot) But I will never NOT ever want a cigarette. I guess I have to learn how to live with that. Not getting what I want. I’ll confess it’s a novelty.

This has nothing to do with much of anything.

I’d like you to send me a chip. The kind they give at meetings where no one reveals their name. I would make my own stupid chip but I can’t remember the exact days. You’re so good at that. That slow taper before the sharp edge. The way some people say “I’m going to cut down before I quit” As if you can ever turn off that need once you’ve taught yourself to need it.



 Just…

I miss you.

That is all.

You don’t deserve that.
But it remains yours.
I know you want that bit.
I know you marvel and wonder if
it can be true in the quiet
between sleep and dream.

You have that always.

My missing.

It is yours.

Dominant Genes

“His hat doesn’t stay on. His head is huge.”

“He gets that from you.” He looked like he believed it when he said it, too.  I stared at him in disbelief.

“Have you SEEN your head? My head is big too but YOURS has a certain shape.” I laughed “and anyway what are you talking about. He’s a miniature YOU. I have no idea how it is none of my kids looks like ME”

He raised and wriggled a brow… I mean his brow… “So… are you saying maybe my genes are DOMINANT?” I giggled at him as he moved in closer.

“If it makes you feel tough sure we can say that.”

“maybe if you’d had babies with FLOWER BOY” he does a little wriggle that sends his hips back and forth and then it crawls up his back with the words right there “then maybe your genes would have had a chance.”

“FLOWER BOY?” I laughed loudly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh you know. The One you gave up for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. Artsy or wordy and probably he would read books and talk and woooo you.” I snorted disbelievingly.

“My genes let your genes have the outside. That’s all. I’m in there.” then I mused  “Could be he’s my flower boy. Except the only butterflies I get with him is when I catch him scaling the book shelf.” We watched Little Man clomp by in four inch black Mary Jane heels and  large lime green knitted stocking cap with a ball on top. His diapered bottom made adorable swishing sounds just above his dimpled thighs and he shot me some googly flirt eyes as he turned the corner and shuffled into the kitchen to see what big sis would say about his outfit.

He changed the subject. “You can’t see yourself as well as you think you can. I wish you could see what I see.”  His words at the end hurried up to get out of him and he ended shaking his head, frustrated he couldn’t find the words he wanted. My breath came out in a rush and I stared at him a long time.

“Dominant indeed. I hope you intend to back that shit up.”

“Oh I’ll do that and more.”

“Oh REALLY! Well, What are you waiting for?”

“You. I’m waiting for you.”

“Lordy lordy I must’ve been a saint in a past life to have wrangled you.”

January

I hate January.

You probably don’t know that everyone dies in January.

But they do.

Without hesitation.

Not all of them get a marker.




My heart’s become a dirty pervert. It wanders my psyche naked in a trench coat flashing and streaking by when I least want it. It should be noted it resembles you now. Has taken your most devilish grin and distorted it. I think you’d approve of it’s use of eyebrow but shake your head at the flashing. Any pervert knows it just looks ridiculous all limp and without purpose.  Yeah. That’s a challenge.





I keep having these grand moments of realization. Everything gets extremely clear and I understand all of it. And then I want to tell you. And I know I’m just as screwed as ever. I’ve been here before though. There were great times on the other side of this hump.




I really feel something coming on. This move really fucked with my head. Have felt displaced so long. Yes I’m saying it was the move. Shut-up I’m already fucked enough don’t tell me different.

It’s this house on the edge of never. It’s this AGE on the edge of fucking never. There’s nothing to do but stand here and be afraid

or jump.

There’s that other January thing. But I would never. NEVER.

There’s a smell in my babies necks that makes more sense than anything has in my whole life. With my nose buried in the satin smooth stink of them I know why I am. Why is so much harder to find than who you know.  It’s chemical and timeless and it anchors me. 

The Wind In Corbett

We were having lunch in the nook. That’s because I started another quilt and took over the dining room table again. The Man just averts his eyes to my projects at this point. We were having pizza pockets (evil in a pouch) and pasta. I’ve avoided the grocery store for over a week now. *arm pumps* It won’t be easy holding out much longer and The Man plans to work through another weekend mostly to avoid Winco. Or that’s the way it plays in my head anyway.  It could be that it’s not as easy to keep me kept as I might like to think. Mostly you could just hear the loud chomping of children consuming food, my thoughts regarding the contents of the cupboards slip and slide around us silently. Then Daughter says “The little kids didn’t know how windy it was and most of them fell down as soon as they got off the bus.”

I immediately visualize the younger brother from A Christmas Story, bundled to the point that he can’t get up when he falls down. I saw the kindergarteners rolling off the bus like snow balls with mittens and boots poking out. Laughter was unavoidable. “They fell DOWN?” I asked, hoping for further amusing details.

“Yeah, they stepped off that last step and just fell over.”

“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhaahhaahahahah!” I cleared my throat and struggled to rearrange my face into the proper patterns of concern for the children’s well being. “Oh dear, those poor kids.”

“Yeah.” She snickered. “The bus driver just said ‘are you okay?’ and they all said that they were.”  I nodded and shrugged, agreeing that there wasn’t much else that could be done.


*******************************************************************

The biggest problem with the wind is your car doors. The moment you release the latch the doors pretty much blow off. Unless you’re facing the other direction in which case you’re pushing with everything you have to get out of the car. Add to that a twenty something pound toddler in one arm and a 3rd grade Grassland Diorama Project in the other and there’s serious trouble getting everyone IN the car.

Little Man buries his face in my neck yelling “I need a HAAAAAAT mama!” everywhere we go. He had a hat. I let him pick it out. It’s this hideous red spider man monstrosity. Unfortunately for him, he has a GINORMOUS head just like The Man and I and the hat only stays on his head for a couple minutes before slowly sliding up his forehead and then POPPING off his pinhead skull and disappearing so I don’t bring it along anymore.

Yesterday when we made it safely back in our house, Little Man was gasping to get his breath back. He hadn’t tucked his face in this time. “It WINNY outside! Blowing my face off!”


************************************************************************

SO what they say about the wind in Corbett is true. But it’s only true in the same way that people talk about the rain all the time in the northwest. That is.. Yes it rains here. And yes it’s windy here.  But… mostly I’d like people to get the fuck over the weather already.

Blowing Wishes

Winter is long on contemplation and short on spark.

Sure the fresh white blanket of snow times are wonderful but most of it is just hibernation without the time for sleep.

I’ve been longing for air on my skin, longing for the freedom of heat and sun and tan. Wishing for the flash of the lines on the pavement as my tires speed over them and air blows in through the windows whipping my hair into a fresh Muppet style.  Makes me think of the light feeling in my head when I blow the seeds off an August dandelion. Sucking myself and my wish in so hard and then letting the air puff out, sending it off into oblivion.

Funny the things we wish on. A dying star, a cake about to be devoured, the seeds of a flower we’ll never see bloom. And if it did we’d probably pluck it with our weederator.

It might be time to set my headless stems down. What with it being January.

I suppose resolutions are the wishes we plant in our own yard. The seeds we have to care for, weed around and tend to see them bloom. Right there, the split between goal and wish becomes apparent. It’s inherent that a wish should come easy and that what we love about it. I don’t know about anyone else but I sure as fuck haven’t ever walked out in my yard and discovered something amazing growing that I didn’t plant. Well there was that weird tiny headed sunflower once but that was one of those freak accidents involving my crazy bird feeding neighbor and some bird shit.

It should be noted here that I already lost count of my orgasms, the one resolution I made this year was simply to count them. Let's say it's because they're too abundant.

Get Your Own Dew

I don’t like sharing a glass with people. I’m not freaked out about germs or anything, I’d probably French you no problem (total lie don’t fucking touch me)  it’s just that I don’t want you drinking out of my fucking glass. This really only applies to my dew glass.  Early on, in the first house with The Man this drama started. I began buying Mt. Dew in 2 liter bottles and drinking it out of a glass. But I’d come back to my mug and find it less full than before. It started making me crazy. I couldn’t figure out what the hell was happening. I’d pour a mug of dew, take a drink and come back later and it would have one sip left. It was dumbfounding.

Until one day I busted him.

I came around the corner into our TINY kitchen and he was setting the mug down.

“ITS YOU!!! YOU ALL ALONG!”

“Just having some dew.”

“I KNEW IT WASN’T ME! You’re so fucking busted! Leave my dew alone!”

We started having this squabble over and over and over.  I could not understand why he would drink out of my glass. There was no shortage of mugs. (This was during my buy a mug every time I leave the house phase. I don’t know, I was fascinated with mugs and their shapes and colors and handled perfection.) Then at the grocery store when I would stock up on the delicious nectar he would talk about how crazy it was how much dew I drink. EVEN THOUGH HE’S DOWNING 80 PERCENT OF EVERY FUCKING MUG!

And oh how he continues to deny it to this goddamn day. You would not believe the way he can argue and deny the truth … I catch him RED HANDED and he still denies it.  I find the entire thing varying degrees of annoying and actual butt punching rage depending on my mood and the shape the glass or mug is left in when he’s done.

That’s because one of the ways I catch him is that he leaves a lip print. Not a lady lipstick print. (btw ladies that’s fucking nasty I have no idea how you wear that shit) No, his lip prints are bits of food or something horrible. The worst is when I don’t know until MY LIP makes contact and I end up rolling on the floor gagging and rolling in tears.

He’s more careful now. But I know he still does it. And now ON TOP of the fact that I don’t understand why he can’t reach in the cupboard and pour his own glass of dew it angers me on the second level of knowing he knows how much it bothers me and yet he continues to do it as long as he thinks I’m not watching. I mean even you people probably have some idea of how weak my grasp on my own sanity is. Why must he fuck with my head like this?

I thought of this today because he’s started a new thing. He gets his own glass but he chooses one that is identical to mine and he spends the day switching them around on me.

LAWD HELP ME!!!!

And so I post this looking for suggestions. Please don’t waste my time with healthy adult suggestions. I have that covered. What I need are subtle never get caught pranks related to this theme. Those of you who have been around awhile know I CANNOT GET CAUGHT or I will wake up with a dead animal or something else horrific enough to truly get me hospitalized.

Roles and Holes

Dear Man,

Thanks so much for the thoughtful note you left the other morning. I would have responded sooner but I've been swamped with extracurricular activities. Take today for example; I hardly had time to get three children dressed and ready for the ride to school before I had to turn around and come back home so I could shower…. With the toddler. You'll understand why my legs are not shaved.  Then Toddler and I had to go BACK to the school so I could participate in arts and crafts with the entire grade school and your son who has zero fear of leaving me behind, swabbing up his gingerbread frosting mess as he ran three halls down to wash his hands. Don't worry. I followed the swearing to find him. Two hours of that didn't hurt his energy levels one bit either. We still had time to roll in puddles outside, do two loads of laundry, a load of dishes and wipe all the counters down! But then, alas I had to make lunch, clean that up and then get him to sleep. By the time nap time was done he was ready for more puddle rolling, I did another load of laundry and we soon welcomed the girls home off the school bus.  Then it was snack/homework/dinner prep time. It's so lucky you managed to pull in the driveway just as it was being served, what a relief as I was sure you were about to miss it. Now I'm just grabbing a couple moments to respond to your to do list before the bedtime shenanigans ensue. I feel it's best to respond with my own to do list for YOU. I'm sure this will be familiar as you remind your crews at work of it all the time.

1. Know your role.

2. Shut your hole.

I'm sure you only meant to be helpful and I don't mean to belittle your input however I was running this show long before you showed up and doing it just fine.

Thanks!

Dew

Naked Butt Punches

I woke up extremely tired this morning. I had freaky vivid lucid dreams all night and even Little Man was clutching and clawing his eyes, moaning when we finally succumbed to the call of the alarm and got out of bed.  First stop is the refrigerator after shoving frozen waffles in the toaster.  As I stand there sipping my dew out of my favorite mug I notice The Man has left me a note.

A love letter perhaps? (What?… there's a first time for everything!)

A quick scan, standing there waiting for the eggo to  leggo revealed the missives true identity. It was a to do list. That's right. The motherfucker took some time out of his oh so busy morning hours to sit down and write up some suggestions on how to fill my time. He informed me that we needed groceries and reminded me to go to the post office since there's a package there for me apparently. (the mailman left me a slip saying so in the mailbox)

*shaking head* This asshole really doesn't know the first thing about me, does he. So I rode through pissed off and got to chuckling disbelief pretty quickly and put it out of my mind until five or so when he got home from work.

He was sitting on a chair taking his boots off and I was making dinner. There was a long time where we were staring at one another waiting to see who would move first. I'm talking like half an hour. We're pros. "So. Are they going to re-deliver the package?"

"I didn't call them."

"Did The Girls ride the bus to school?"

"No. I dropped them off as usual."

"The post office is RIGHT NEXT to the school!" He was incredulous.

"Yeah. I know. But I didn't have time to brush my teeth let alone get dressed so I didn't feel like going to the post office." I was grinning. It's not that I think I'm funny. I think he's funny for thinking I'm funny.

"There's no food in the house. Is that a healthy dinner you're making?" I know. He's unfuckingbelievable when he tries to get a rise out of me. I ignored the obvious fighting words.

"I got you some milk!!" I gestured to the fridge holding his precious titjuice.

"Yeah. So why didn't you go to the post office then?"

"It's in the OTHER direction!"  We dropped it. We were not fighting at all. It was casual conversation with a lot of tension and laughing. Neither of us had opened the can labeled "to do list" yet. I made a "healthy" dinner and he took a shower. By the time he got out I had the soup simmering and the biscuits cooking in the oven so I chased his naked self into our bedroom, saying "I think you need naked butt punching!"

"You better shut that door behind you if you're coming in here, woman!" He said as I pounced him, stealing the towel right off him. He started yanking a shirt on and I paused in our hilarious struggle saying "Should I add that to my little "to-do list"? Huh?"

He lifted me and propelled us backwards to shut the door, slamming me on the cushy bed.  Much chaotic monkey wrestling ensued as I tried to give him naked butt punches and he tried to get dressed to avoid them.

Alas. He is much stronger than me.

Still. I'll do that shit when I'm good and ready. And he'll get naked butt punches in his sleep.

Saturday Confessions

I really can do anything. Oh I know all our parents said that. Did YOU believe yours? I picture a pet owner standing over the cage cooing at their birds about their pretty wings. And the pet owner lives in a zoo. Like a monkey in a cage with a bird in a cage. I hadn't even considered the claws and beak of it until this last year. It's only self-defense if you squint your eyes and can conceive a world with me in the center but I don't care. It's mine and I won't give it back or sully it with excuses or guilt or apology. I'm the sun. Mommy said so. Right up until sis came along.


I'm tired of people's feigned disinterest in television. If Tom added "bodily functions" to the general interests section, people would write: "My shit don't stink!".  Give me a break. Yes most of television is crap. OF COURSE it is. Most of music is crap. Most movies are crap. Most books are even crap. You don't see people swearing they never like ALL crap under those sections. And it always turns out they have exceptions. "Oh well sure I watch that… and that… hey did you see that commercial where.. What do you mean you don't have cable…"


I think about how you never really quit smoking. I think all kinds of things about you. You likely can't imagine. But, that…That's truly bad. That I acknowledge I might be that bad for you and still hope it means you can't give me up. Not for ever. Not without missing me at least.  Not without cravings. Can we all take a moment to cheer for life-lived-cancers? No? .


I like music with clapping. And tambourines. And stomping. And chanting. Okay, "like it" might be a gross understatement. It stirs me. *hysterical laughter* I know. I crack my ass up too. … so down home of me. I can't help it. My cave woman is burning hot just under my skin and she likes to get down. She can also be moved to weeping by lots of voices singing at once. Any song as long as the singers mean it. Makes me miss church. I'm in awe of all that belief.


You should know every day I don't lay at your feet is an illusion. I just rolled over here to get out of your way. I would never dream of blocking you from making the right choice. But if it gets where you'd rather be wrong…and need me to say come after me… this is me saying it.


Growing up the first time is learning to consider everyone else.  Growing up the next time is re-remembering to consider yourself. If I'm not careful I'm going to get so deep in my second growing up that I have to start over at the beginning and never get to find out what comes next. It might be better than realizing this is it.


A reader/blogger/space friend of mine (hi Mary!) made a new years resolution to count her orgasms. I suggested we do so under our general interests on our profiles. Apparently we're shooting for  at least 200 oh!s in 2009. You know,  for longer happier healthier lives. (Not because we're dirty dirty perverts with insatiable need for that crack in the universe that opens up for those mere seconds. It should be noted all the oh!s count. And not all of them open that crack, now do they?) Partnered Oh!s are better for you but we're counting solo ohs too. This is to keep me from sobbing in her comments as her count rises ever higher than mine. You can do it too. We're not JUST ocd though. I feel it getting competitive already… which is why I'm mentioning it to all of you. *looks around at the headless crowd before her* I have a feeling you might do it too.  *thinks this might be even better than goodreads was before I forgot my password and lost my care for it*  Honor system people. You're only cheating yourself.

69

Gawds will you look at him?  All six. What the fuck is he doing so six all the damn time. Upside down. Three and three. His leg in the air and his round on the ground. I can't stand it. I don't get it.

Be nine with me. You're missing three. Just another three and you might get me.
Go on and try. Let's roll….

fuckity!

I lost three. Dammit six ….stole my three!

Now you're nine. ooooh! Look at that!

I love nine. Come here nine. I must know your extra three. I shall make it mine.

FUCK!