I’m already struggling with format. Who shall we be? I can be Pot and he can be Kettle…..I can be Bones and he can be Flesh…or we can just be Mr. and Mrs. Human. The woman that taught me geometry refused to say the word ‘human’ and I still don’t know why. Probably just because we tried so hard to get her to say it. Ooh. I know. Penis Man and…..Undecided. Apt. Tomorrow: Marking Time.
First I want to thank the a handful of bloggers who’ve given me much insight into my own life. I’m no Mighty Girl, but if I ever get dooced, at least I’ll know that it’s okay to be Sad and Beautiful. Whether I end up a little pregnant or otherwise, I know I’ll have Moxie, and that’s all one needs to fake it ’til you make it, right? The Rock has called me amalah for years, so if I ever end up waiting tables wherever the hell hippogriffs is (are?), I’ll still be able to smell the juniper berries for the deep fryer. I’m sure gin will still make me retch! I’ll be able to work the thumbscre.ws on the birth control I’ve wasted, despite my lack of mechanical inclination. Tertiary amines aside, I’ve found one good thing to enjoy in life. Or more. But I’m never going vegan….I had braces on my incisors because I’m meant to chew filet with relish (just not pickle relish), through intelligent design of my own making. I’ll always be fussy, and maybe even finslippy (your guess is as good as mine!); enjoy some suburban bliss. Something Swedish goes here.
If anyone doesn’t want to be linked to from here, just let me know; I’m very much not above editing.
Hopefully that’s the corniest thing you’ll ever read here, but I make no promises. I’m not likely to become much more coherent, either.