She is not what you see in front of you. She is the product of all the years that have gone into her before you met her. You weren't there when what happened to her happened to her. You may never know her. Don't fall for her appearance. Don't let that pretty smile suck you in. There is sarcasm lurking in this woman, a mean streak that has been developed by years of others being mean to her. Take her hand, but take it slowly.
I'm having a dinner party, tonight, and I am excited about it, except for the fact that I have to clean this apartment. The carpet, in this humble abode of ours, is a mess. There is animal hair all over it. I need a high powered vacuum cleaner to stay on top of it; and someone to push the vacuum cleaner around for me. And cook my meals. I'm a simple man. I don't want for much.
We're going to have spaghetti, and I am going to offer two choices of meatballs: veggie, and turkey balls. Well, not turkey balls, but ground dead turkey meat that I form into balls, and then cook.
Balls, is a good word; albeit a weird one, in some senses. It can mean so many disparate things.
Kiss my balls.
Have you seen my tennis balls, honey?
I love how each new day gives me opportunity. I have the opportunity to act on what I learned, yesterday, among other things. Last night, I had a lousy night, but this morning is good. That is one of the beautiful rewards of the gift of life: things are not stuck where they are, and we are, for the most part, not stuck in the same rut for life. We have choices. We can choose to stay stuck where we are, or we can do something about it. My mood can remain somber, bitter, withdrawn, or I can realize that what happened last night does not matter, that it is now that counts.
Let's make our nows count!
I really hate cleaning. I like to live in filth.
As I scurry about the abode with a broom, in lieu, of powerful vacuum cleaner, trying to get the massive amount of animal hair up off of the carpet, my dog Morisson is like, "What's up with this? What is going on here? We never clean."
My very good friend, Cyndi Craven, a dynamic singer-songwriter, checked in with this, after I posted that I am a slob: "A feral organism is one that has escaped from domestication and returned, partly or wholly, to a wild state." Cyndi has a knack for being intelligent, and succinct in her postings. I love her.
My cats get really weird when I clean. They get quiet, and they find a vantage point where they can watch me scoop up their hair, along with the dogs' hair. They are somber as they watch. It is as if this hair that is scattered all over the floor is important to them, and that losing it somehow signifies that a part of them is being removed from the space.
I can't keep up with The News. There is so much of it. It is always changing. I, mostly, don't like what they feed me on the tv news, so for now, though I have a tv in my home, it is not plugged in. The local news is really crazy. It is evil. How these people find so many rapes, murders, and home break-ins in my hood, I don't know. I sometimes think that The Journalists, and Camermen must sideline as rapists, murderers, and b and e specialists creating opportunity for themselves, making something for them to talk about, write about, take video of.
I met an artist named Cher by the free sample area at Trader Joe's, this afternoon. I was sampling multiple cups of the free coffee that the grocer also gives away in that corner of the store, when Cher walked up, wearing a large navy colored beret.
I asked her if she was, "In The Guardian Angels?"
A chat about Police States then ensued. (Trust me, most of my conversations in the grocery store are not about why The Americans won't riot like The French just did. Usually, I just ask a gal if her fabric softener is working for her, and we talk about apple sauce.)
Cher was refreshing, not only because she was intelligent, and had an interest in things besides Monday Night Football, and not only was she an artist, but she because was putting her art before money.
And she was paying for it. She was considering selling her eggs to get her next project off the ground.
"They pay you six grand for the first batch, and then eight for round two," she said. I went from telling her that I would not want any mini-me's running around where I could not love them(she told me, "Don't worry, you don't have any eggs!)to wishing I had me some eggs to sell for $1,400 grand.
Gosh, I could get a new laptop with that.
(The dialogue in this story is not the exact dialogue as it occurred. I have paraphrased a bit, one, because it is impossible for me to remember whole conversations, word for word, and, two, for literary affect.)
And by the way, her name really wasn't Cher; it was Elizabeth Taylor.
I get the feeling, today that, if anything did ever work out with this person who I am thinking about, and then quit working out, at that level, that all of her friends would hate me. She hangs around a lot of gay men, and I think that they are very possessive, to say the least, and downright clingy to say something more. I could be wrong. I have been wrong before. I have a lot of random thoughts about many different things during the day. Thanks for letting me share.
I drank enough coffee at our dinner party, tonight, to keep me up until New Year's. The Good Neighbor Amer poured cup, after cup, like she was selling it to me, but she wasn't, and The Dinner Party was a Huge Success. If you are lucky, I might invite you to one in the future.
I've often heard men talk about their dicks, but women don't seem to much talk about their clits. Why is this?