My record of late? Posting two days in a row. The record for longest* (and awesomest) Rube Goldberg Device ever? Right here:
*I don't have any evidence that this is the longest Rube Golberg device in the world, but it is the longest Rube Goldberg device video I've posted to my blog and this is my blog and I deem it the longest ever in the world, dammnit. I said, "Don't question my authoritah!" (I just leaned how to spell authoritah by looking it up yesterday, so you can expect to see it often.) Just watch it. You're welcome.
I don't want to feel bad for going and changing on you, but you are on the verge of calling me neglectful and that I won't have. I made you. I can delete you, but even scarier still is the fact that I can drag out an infinitude of simple variations on the same post time and time again. And, you know I will, because I have been doing it when you didn't even realize it.
Gimme some Hooters chicks who think they're punk rock. Gimme some Heathers with cursive writing on their asses. Gimme your tired old ass with 3 hours of sleep (stupid), and let me deep fry it with powdered sugar, and call it delicious. Delicious!
I am only 5000 words into the NanoWriMo thing and I can easily see why I write a couple chapters and then start over. It's shit. I'll keep going, hoping to catch up and move ahead this weekend, but it's bullshit. I started feebly and slid down a slippery slope into mediocrity about 10 words in. Short pieces of fiction maybe. Long, involved dynamics amongst non- mutes is painful. All I know how to write is this diarrhetic pseudo-pensivity which is merely complaining in sheep's fur.
The week in review:Monday- clean clean porn clean class kids water paycheck give it away cook clean; Tuesday- write walk kids group cry coffeeshop talk; Wednesday- return laptop in mad dash office hours class kids homework; Thursday- return another laptop in mad dash give away all our money grocery store read to children garden garden garden home dinner coffeeshop tutor homework period (for those keeping track) ; Friday- sleep write grant stuff errand pay more money class Snaggletooth's presentation water plants home children go I stay cry register friend movie talk cake ice cream cat scratch (no fever) up way too late; Saturday- shower fog work grits fall asleep drive write work get this one mixed up it's now. Note: There was no kissing. This week it's break up.
I gave the semi-silent ultimatum which was heeded, even though I discourage heeding ultimatums unless cinnamon rolls are involved, but there was insistence on mutuality that was later retracted. Disappointment ensues, and so shall my moving into my own place in January, she says today, but each time she is less and less willing to be unappreciated, though she is still annoyed at the third person references to herself. Hey, I mean you!
Who knew that the trifecta of self-sustaining 50 hits a day word blog things are "Look up my Corduroy skirt?" I bet you knew and never told me.
Just had to complain Or it wouldn't be a day Like any other Best day ever: fucking sleeping fucking cleaning was fun that time lay and eat and walk and skip beats, but not beets with bulls eyes.
You mash me up And swallow me whole; I'm salty, sour, dour. Formerly pickled Recently filtered Only necessary Due to tragic the lack Of adequate Rocky Mountain springage.
A complaint a day keeps the Novel away; Keep up keep up, slut. Wrap your mouth around my nut Suck and slide, Then hide. Hit the snoozer; Ditch the boozer.
What books am I reading, you ask? Actually, nobody asks me that, but my son has to report which books he reads all the time, and incidentally, our list is identical.
Yesterday was If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. I'll spare them the embarrassing link, but suffice it to say, the author's books are the best among the best.
Certain words have entered mainstream lexicon undeservedly. Republican rhetoric alone offers many richenesses:
also too, thousand points of light, evildoers, I can see _______ from my house, straight talk express, you betcha, Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran
You know who said them, maybe even when and where.
Even unintentionally apolitical ones, ones that beg the question, "Is our children (like such as, US Americans and the Iraq) learning?" are gems. Sometimes you have to string these words together for longer durations to get the desired dumbing effect:
"We’ve got to pause and ask ourselves: How much clean air do we need ?" –Lee Iacocca "It is wonderful to be here in the great state of Chicago" –Dan Quayle, former U.S. Vice-President "More and more of our imports are coming from overseas." –George W. Bush
Of course, some are to be lauded and emulated:
"I haven't committed a crime. What I did was fail to comply with the law." –Mayor David Dinkins "I believe marriage is meant to be a sacred institution between two unwilling teenagers." ―Tina Fey (impersonating Sarah Palin in the VP debate.)
And then, there is the master of all masters...
"I invented the internet(s)." –Al Gore (Oscar and Nobel Peace Prize winner.)
While If You Give a Moose a Muffin and If You Give a Pig a Pancake have not enjoyed the same sub-culture frenzy, there is not doubt Ms. Numeroff has given us seven simple words that carry with them meaning apropos to one of life's quirkiest clusterfucks.
While we're on the subject of clusterfucks, did you ever think, "Freida, you should really be sharing all your knowledge with young people?" Well, my young Snaggletooth Grasshopper is the benefactor of such wealths. Why do I write? Because I can't act, I can't improvise, and I can't hardly (not, at times) communicate in verbal words things. Though children's books are along the lines of my attention span (if you exclude the fancy drawings), I just don't think I can hack it. The nighttime joke is, "If you ask Mommy to tell you a story....""You get the sound of one hand clapping in the woods with no one around," is the answer to this non-question.
Whoa, what a build up to tell you the rated-T version of my rated-PG version of If You Give Mouse a Cookie Snaggletooth got before school this morning:
If you give a mouse a cookie..., He's gonna want another one. And, if the mouse wants another cookie..., He's gonna have to make it himself. If the mouse is gonna have to make his own (damn) cookie..., He's gonna have to do the dishes. If he's gonna have to do the (damn) dishes..., He's probably gonna want to have the water turned back on. If he's gonna get the (damn) water turned back on..., He's probably gonna need some money. If he's gonna need to get some (damn) money..., He's probably gonna need to sell some drugs. If he's gonna need to sell some drugs..., He's probably gonna want a quarter for the payphone. If he's gonna want a quarter for the (damn) payphone....
It goes on and on from quarters to jobs to beer to showering to a home to freeloaders, and then somehow wraps back around to the trouble with giving away free cookies in the first place.
I've got spin-offs involving health care motifs, environmentalism, and dating on hand for birthday parties and bat mitzvahs!
All's I need at this point is a children's book illustrator.
*(Re the whole post: I just mostly mooched this shit.)
I know this is going to come as a shock to you both, but sometimes, just sometimes, I piss people off. I know. I know. It's hard to believe. I can scarcely believe it myself sometimes, but there it is. Out. On the table. Pick it up and smell it. Eww, I'm sorry. Don't do that, but do feel it up..., please. Aww. Yep.
I did one tiny thing, not because I planned it, but because it just happened, this week. I bought one of these here moleskine planners. I'm in school supply fetish heaven, and organized to boot. My old planner ran out and I was carrying all these tiny details around in my head, but not with much interest in doing so, and a thing here and there fell through my crack. The point? Besides the daily blocked areas, there is a notebook sheet beside each. I'm lovin' making the lists, etc., but since the darned thing started in June, yesterday I actually wrote a journal entry back on that day. This is important.
My favorite way to write poetry is to focus in on a strong emotion when I am having it, and then listen to music, or whatever. (This especially works when I am driving or walking around in public somewhere.) What I then do is just try and notice words that interest me. Yesterday those words were "chemical, sappy (sweet sticky drag), solitary, never stellar, clenched (jaw and cunt), the hue, and rue." Then, I proceed to make a poem.
Our Biochemical Romance
Like a syrupy, red drug, A sappy, sweet, sticky drag on my soul, Your flavor lingers, taints and tints. Though we were never stellar, Rather raw and earthy, organic, Our highs were easy to obtain.
Lest this seem objectionable, A clenched jaw and cunt can say two things: "Ours was a hue I both miss and rue." An utter ambivalence hardly not felt, I'd put aside just long enough to be discarded, like a placenta, Six months pregnant... "for painting."
Our child and I were made imaginary enemies of the arts. Now finding myself again blissfully irresolute, or, perhaps, Precisely because I am, the growing backlash, coming unleashed, Is revealing our time as relevant to this. Despite the fatigue caused by the persistence of my doubts, Jumps and leaps cry to be made even as I crawl and rest and try to hide.
Though I will leave you and my mission not (complain and complain some more), six sentences (which may well elect me president of my tiny Epsilon neighborhood) led to six-worded memoirs, led to writing an actual true story (that could be made into a comic)! Cormac then invited me to the ever fashionable Friday Flash Friday, as I now invite you, and my moleskine doobob begs to be filled with notes in futile preparation for NaNoWritMo. Maybe, just maybe, I'll quit masturbating and complaining and get on a fucking fast track to Hooterville before my hungry kitty* eats me alive. (Ooh, the incidental reference to intersecting petticoats is just a bonus. That's all it is. A bonus.)
Sleeping on campus was a failed experiment, except that I got to satisfy my headless mannequin fetish. I almost started a new mannequin blog. NO!!! But, they do make lovely filler-- which attests to their proficiency at their usual niche.
When I woke up this morning, I wasn't quite sure how I'd gotten there. Isn't that the way this always starts? Typical, trite, unoriginal. It's all been said. It's all been done. No new colors under the sun. No sex position our Lord and Savior Jesus the Christ hasn't tried out for him and/ or her self. There was that time I added cinnamon and paprika to that one thing, but that had even already been done when Raúl mistook the paprika for chili powder. Nevertheless, I awoke and did not imagine I might do what I had not done any other day of my life. I never thought I might possibly maybe perhaps fall in love with a stranger.
The thing about falling in love is that one can not pursue it. It's one of those Catch 44 situations ((a Catch 22 situation) x 2). Can't look for love in all the wrong places and find it, but if you aren't looking, how will you know it when it knocks on your door needing to borrow some toilet paper? See? Catch my not-so subtle ephemeral drift? It's okay, I know you just watched it drop to the ground, afraid to touch it, lest it contaminate you. You see, I'm married. I'm not allowed to fall in love. If you were to, in actuality, acknowledge my openness to do so, you may have already even tainted your own chances of ever licking your very own proverbial princefrog. And then, where would you be? Left holding the snipe bag. That's where.
So, it's understandable if you feel the need to avert your eyes, if you haven't already done so. I know you have. It's what the Bible™ says to do, and I know you do everything the Bible™ says to do, or at least I hope you do. I'd hate to come over there and find out you've been cramming more than one dick in your mouth at a time.
I'm sure you can imagine my disappointment this morning when I discovered that rather than spending today, my last day in Seattle, meandering the seaside markets and watching the sunset from my informally claimed bench in Lincoln Park, I obligatorily noticed that I had a previously-made, conveniently overlooked, social work gathering staring back at me from my overworked, recycled appointment planner. "What the fuck is a Spanglish Potluck?" I asked myself, until I remembered that there were going to be readings by several local writers that I was charged to investigate. But, Spanglish? The guests on the neighboring balcony turned when they heard my overly audible moan. Nothing to see here..., unfortunately.
I wondered what our office manager, Rita, was thinking. How was I supposed to bring an item to a potluck when I didn't even have a refrigerator or stove? A bag of salad? I'd be that classy lady from Texas again. It's hard enough to overcome people's assumptions when I say I'm from Texas. Fortunately, I've found that most everyone's heard of Austin thanks to a 5th grade study of the state capitals, and I usually don't have to tell folks to which Austin I am referring. I'm just not sure if I'm proud or insulted when they are surprised that I'm not wearing a cowboy hat. Sometimes, I think it would be easiest to just get it over with and go buy that pair of cowboy boots I've been flirting with down on South Congress, already.
At least I had an excuse to walk down the street to the farmers' market I'd seen the day before. I picked up some gorgeous cabbages and decided to make some cole slaw, southern style, but better. I bought some spices and a lovely handmade bowl that I could take back home with me, and a few small jars of the necessary condiments. (You don't really think I am going to reveal a secret such as which spices and condiments, do you?) Suffice it to say, my cole slaw is special, and now I understand just how cruel fate can be in making it so.
I hopped on the lightrail Rita was kind enough to provide information about in her instructions, cole slaw in hand, pretty much prepared to dread the next 3 hours of my life. I was surprised at how crowded the train car, if that's what they're called, was. I wasn't too thrilled to have to stand with cole slaw in hand, but the packedness of the people helped to keep me from falling over on every stop, since I couldn't hold onto a pole.
Surprisingly, I didn't notice the tall man standing behind me until he supported my back with his hand a bit, during one of the rougher stops. I may have fallen over or dropped my cole slaw had he not done that, and I was grateful, though a good amount of my homemade dressing made its way to my foot and his shoe in the process.
I was embarrassed, sorry that his hiking tennis shoes would now smell like apple cider vinegar and be sticky from the touch of apple cider. I wondered if purple cabbage juice stained and figured it probably does. I apologized to him and would have granted him fair cause to be annoyed with me, but instead of being irritated, he bent down, wiped the juice from my thigh, and put his finger in his mouth.
I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, so I made no thing of it, but I didn't mentally complain as I often might when more people packed into the car causing me to press my body back against his, perhaps more than was necessary. My long commute quickly became too short, and I rather lost track of where I was until I saw a large structure I was pretty sure I was supposed to know.
As I leaned back and asked my co-traveler, "What the fuck is that?" I felt him harden and press himself against my lower back and ass. "It's delicious," he replied.
I leaned my head back and up, looking at his kind and open eyes more directly, less concerned about my balance now, as I leaned into him further. "¿Que?" I implored, practicing my poor Spanglish. "Tu slaw del col," he replied, in kind. "Es delicioso." "I meant that back there," I said, indicating both the building we'd just passed and the hardness that was still against my ass. "It's the space needle silly and what's this slight discoloration of my skin?" he said showing me his finger where the purple cabbage had stained his finger. "I'm pretty sure it's delicious, I mean serious," I said, too distracted not to show the double-edged pain he was causing me—firstly from the urgent longing I'd instantly developed to kiss this complete and utter stranger right there on that crowded train car, and secondly, from the awful jokes we were nervously making.
I managed to fish the piece of paper with the directions on it from out of my pocket about a minute before my stop, and felt myself become conflicted about the idea of imminently walking away from this strange and beautiful man, and turned to wish him an "easy shoe washing" or some other such lameness, and we just smiled at each other fondly.
I considered lying to you and telling you that I had gotten off at the wrong stop and that when I finally got to the potluck, he was already there, even one of the readers whose works I was scouting, but that's not one bit true.
Neither am I a cheater, nor am I a believer in fate, but I do know that I am seriously re-evaluating my priorities as I sit here typing at this sidewalk cafe, watching the sun set on my time in Seattle, wishing he would just walk by me, knowing he won't.
(Well, motherfucker. The only sex-in-the-end double entendre ending this could have is one just like that stupid sappy Sleepless in Seattle ending. Damn Space Needle!)
Actually, I'm not sure if this is a stunted man or a faintly mustachioed boy, but remind me to erase those singing samples off my cell phone that I sometimes make when I am bored and driving around so that I can know how much of a douche I sound like when I sing along with the radio.
Sadly, even he is better at it than me.
I had to ask my daughter to stop laughing so loud when others were sleeping last night. I really hated to do that. (It feels kinda mean to watch these, but I suppose this is what he wants given the fact that he has 59 videos posted over at the YouTubes.)
Does anyone think this is as hot as me? (Of course, that's a truely loaded question.) If not, I imagine the ads I have so fruitlessly allowed to invade my blog will never be of any consequence to anyone, but those who have recently googled:
chunie vagina
corduroy fetish
i am a horny housewife
hypnotic pink eyes gaze eyeshadow
come on over here boy, and bust up this here chiffarobe
suggestive lawn care slogans
stuck in a straight jacket
peace how hard can it be
www.women dance at midnight with underwear.
timmy turner's butt
sexy vegans
hall n oates tour 08
father i have sinned mp3
pictures jesus on tha cross
if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say it at all meaning
carl wayne t shirt
don t believe one optimistic word
c'mere cupcake
forgive me father for i have sinned - dialogue
its close midnight and something evil
forgive me father for i have sinned prayer
its close to midnight and something evil is lurking
kinkyfind
bee slogans
more properly
titties coddle
Poor saps. There are hardly any of those things here, but there are Asian Girls for Love and Marriage and a frottage pic from time to time.
I kinda wish I had a penis right now, but I really can't be certain in what way I mean that.
I love you. You're so pink and fluffy. Your so soft and gooey. You're so oooey goooey chewy and chocolatey. Thank you for the increase in the Zoloft (that I haven't yet started- lest you wonder in your Barbie pea-brain); I think that any minute my bangs and my scrunchie will make me beautiful.
Give me a girl in a skirt and kneehighs STAT. Cardigans are a plus. Hairy legs are a must.
Do I look at guys because I like a good, or even better, awesome fucking, or is it because I am jealous of them, and want to be one, kinda am? While I could pine away for my phantom facial hair, there was that day the genius said I had a mustache and I had seen it in the night as well, and I kinda freaked. Mustaches are forever are they not?
Unlike mullets, they're irrevokable.
I can shave my legs, but I don't again.
If I had a beard, would I wear it long?
If I had a penis of my very own, I could hold it right now. I could slick it up and spank it, and maybe I wouldn't have the mama belly that makes the impracticality of the yogic magicality prohibitive. Would anyone suck it?
I feel for men, because there is nothing sadder than a cock not being sucked, except for my phantom phallus, my lady bits and nether regionalities not being sucked.
So Dr. Jung, can I haz your blessing?
Here it is, out in the open, now anyone can steal my astrological identity. GO, be conflicted with that T-square. I wish you luck in having your Mercury square Saturn over there in the 12th house and square Jupiter over there in the 6th house. You will be driven to compulsively communicate your innermost feelings. In fact, your health and sustenance will rely on it.
I know I just lost each and every atheist admirer right there.
Fuck that dogma.
Dogma style?
Kinky.
I have about 300 seconds until I have to remove my toosh from this lousen chair at the coffeeshop I love. I hear children crying. I see a girl learning to walk. I hear folkish music, smell coffee, and can look in any direction and see unisex art and restrooms, and velvet chandeliers with little tassels.
There is an AA meeting next door and it makes me feel safe that it's there, even though it's a lame one.
I shall hang on for dear life, lest the weight of all those six packs make me sink or swim. I'm kinda lazy, would rather float on a raft, bereft. Hear me beefcake? I'll lick that frosting.
Yes. Yes. This post will be the one which will give me the long-sought, but ever-feared clarity I so coyly pursue. It is love itself knocking on my door, and I will be startled because it is so rare that anyone ever knocks on my door, because I reside out in the boonie-fucks and I may not even answer the door. I might decide that the unraveling of the fabric of my inner life is far too rich to be bothered with such things as answering the door. And so the love that is capable of being contained in this post will go on over to my neighbors' houses and they won't even recognize it. To them they will just see a woman with hairy legs and a mod haircut and a faint mustache and they will just think that she has the wrong house (and they will be right) and that she needs to take a shower and that they don't speak French anyways. They will offer her use of their phone and then they will each think that she is rather pretty, even if she is rude with her boldness to knock upon a stranger's door. And, then I will be sad because I am stranger than them and I would know that she likes to be kissed around that mole on her inner thigh, but she won't know I know.
And, it could be the case that within this these words my future at.one.mint. is already existent and then the illusion of physicality could be ended freshly, but I cherish it too dearly to be enlightened by it's curiously sweet taste, and yet rue, in its stacks and stacks of junk on my desk that Mr. Bee should think pertain to him too, such form. But I would rather no one touched my stacks but me unless they would do it just the way I like, and then even if Mr. Bee did handle my wares the way I so controllingly state is necessary, it still would not be the same as if Sophiè rode her bicycle over and asked me if I wanted her to pump me and I would say yes and we would ride off into the sunset that comes way too early as does this eerie wind that makes the trees scrape the roof, though it doesn't bother me. And, neither do nails on a chalkboard which cause for some a shiver down the spine that would also ensue were I to do "Criss Cross Applesauce" down So- as I now call her-'s back.
So, Quietly I Wait.
If I say nothing, I will hear my answer. 'Tis not a cricket, But an owl I hear Crying, "Whooo Are you waiting for?" I mistakenly revere the owl, The messenger, While ignoring the knock again. Impertinence, a mask falsely worn, Belies significance, Fleeting, opportune, apt, And, then, even it passes.
Over a week ago a blogger I recently discovered, DivaJood, handed me esta concesión, El Arte y Pico. I got a few of my blog priorities mixed up, didn't post much this past week, and then a thing and a thing and the next thing I knew, DivaJood was reminding me that with pleasure sometimes there's responsibility. It seems she used her superbadassmojo™ to remind me to write this post... in a dream.
So, there I was. My current mind went back into my eighteen year-old body. In retrospect, I can admit that is like the "dream" scenario, more wits and a teenage body. But, I was interacting with my mother and having a bunch of "Aha" moments re: how I turned out like I did. I was able to not react to being treated disrespectfully with disrespect, but that didn't really make it any less annoying. At some point I saw it, the album, "Journeys with Jood" and I told the possessor of this album that, "I didn't know DivaJood had an album and was famous like that." Then some guys were looking at my laptop and I was worried that they were going to open it and accidentally get on the internets, which would have violated the Prime Directive as Al Gore had not yet invented the internets back then. My cat was there and I realized I missed her and she was the only one besides me who knew that she had already died and I had traveled back in time, so we were able to have that moment together and it was all good... until I tried to meet my husband where the Half Price Books is (but, not really) and then there was some other stuff and some other stuff and I realized that I've been thinking all these years that my husband's not "The One" because I had that dream back then of "The One" and they didn't match up to me, but in the dream by the new Star Trek physics, it all made sense: I had to write this post.
Alrighty then:
1) You have to pick 5 blogs that you feel deserve this award fort their creativity, design, interesting material, and also contributes to the blogger community, irregardless of language.
Or what? Alrighty then...
1. Jess Wundren es una hot tamale y have you seen su posts de los Santos de los dias? ¡Quichimama! And, who ever said politicos non son Artsy y Spicy?
2. Übermilf es una hot mamasita y no Arte y Pica observaciones de ignorance get past her. Solo pregunta sus vecinos.
3. Not only es La Lass Artsy y Spicy y covered in 11 herbs and spices, she's actually my 3-D friend in real life after we met through teh blogs. For reals. Have you seen what a chimp can do if left alone at a typewriter? It's gorgeous.
4. Tits McGee, can we just be Arte y Pica trophy wives for a day?
5. GETkristiLOVE was a faaaar better VPILF candidate than Sarah Palin can ever hope to be. Does Sarah Palin put the "Ho" in "HockyMom? Well kinda, but not in a good way like GkL. Plus, GkL is a badass nature lover and nature is the original Artsy y Spicy. Have you ever really considered a jalapeño art? You should. And, GkL is even spicier than that.
2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to her blog to be visited by everyone.
You hear that? You're the everyone.
3) Each award-winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her the award itself.
You're so bossy.
4) The award winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link to "Arte y Pico" blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
Dear Diaretic Blog,
What books am I reading, you ask? Actually, nobody asks me that, but my son has to report which books he reads all the time, and incidentally, our list is identical.
I know this is going to come as a shock to you both, but sometimes, just sometimes, I piss people off. I know. I know. It's hard to believe. I can scarcely believe it myself sometimes, but there it is. Out. On the table. Pick it up and smell it. Eww, I'm sorry. Don't do that, but do feel it up..., please. Aww. Yep.
Her head is up in the stars, I hope.
This one says, "Poor me, I don't have a head."
When I woke up this morning, I wasn't quite sure how I'd gotten there. Isn't that the way this always starts? Typical, trite, unoriginal. It's all been said. It's all been done. No new colors under the sun. No sex position our Lord and Savior Jesus the Christ hasn't tried out for him and/ or her self. There was that time I added cinnamon and paprika to that one thing, but that had even already been done when Raúl mistook the paprika for chili powder. Nevertheless, I awoke and did not imagine I might do what I had not done any other day of my life. I never thought I might possibly maybe perhaps fall in love with a stranger.
So, it's understandable if you feel the need to avert your eyes, if you haven't already done so. I know you have. It's what the Bible™ says to do, and I know you do everything the Bible™ says to do, or at least I hope you do. I'd hate to come over there and find out you've been cramming more than one dick in your mouth at a time.
At least I had an excuse to walk down the street to the farmers' market I'd seen the day before. I picked up some gorgeous cabbages and decided to make some cole slaw, southern style, but better. I bought some spices and a lovely handmade bowl that I could take back home with me, and a few small jars of the necessary condiments. (You don't really think I am going to reveal a secret such as which spices and condiments, do you?) Suffice it to say, my cole slaw is special, and now I understand just how cruel fate can be in making it so.
I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, so I made no thing of it, but I didn't mentally complain as I often might when more people packed into the car causing me to press my body back against his, perhaps more than was necessary. My long commute quickly became too short, and I rather lost track of where I was until I saw a large structure I was pretty sure I was supposed to know.
Does anyone think this is as hot as me? (Of course, that's a truely loaded question.) If not, I imagine the ads I have so fruitlessly allowed to invade my blog will never be of any consequence to anyone, but those who have recently googled:
Dear Barbie Dreamhouse Diary-
I have about 300 seconds until I have to remove my toosh from this lousen chair at the coffeeshop I love. I hear children crying. I see a girl learning to walk. I hear folkish music, smell coffee, and can look in any direction and see unisex art and restrooms, and velvet chandeliers with little tassels.
Yes. Yes. This post will be the one which will give me the long-sought, but ever-feared clarity I so coyly pursue. It is love itself knocking on my door, and I will be startled because it is so rare that anyone ever knocks on my door, because I reside out in the boonie-fucks and I may not even answer the door. I might decide that the unraveling of the fabric of my inner life is far too rich to be bothered with such things as answering the door. And so the love that is capable of being contained in this post will go on over to my neighbors' houses and they won't even recognize it. To them they will just see a woman with hairy legs and a mod haircut and a faint mustache and they will just think that she has the wrong house (and they will be right) and that she needs to take a shower and that they don't speak French anyways. They will offer her use of their phone and then they will each think that she is rather pretty, even if she is rude with her boldness to knock upon a stranger's door. And, then I will be sad because I am stranger than them and I would know that she likes to be kissed around that mole on her inner thigh, but she won't know I know. 
Over a week ago a blogger I recently discovered, DivaJood, handed me esta concesión, El Arte y Pico. I got a few of my blog priorities mixed up, didn't post much this past week, and then a thing and a thing and the next thing I knew, DivaJood was reminding me that with pleasure sometimes there's responsibility. It seems she used her superbadassmojo™ to remind me to write this post... in a dream.
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