Drively doo

Blogs are so weird. Sometimes we pour out our hearts, cry and sob and anguish and complain so we can get a little sympathy, any amount will do thank you. And sometimes we write utter nonsense in an attempt to make people laugh at us and thus feel better about themselves, or get ourselves committed if life gets too overwhelming and we can’t find the Vicodin. We write to a tiny select audience that, if we’re lucky, grows by two or three a year until we have a tidy little community established, then we say something offensive and lose one or two of them, or change our lifestyle and lose half of them, or become a television star and gain thousands more.

All in all, we just want to be loved, don’t we? And known. We just want to be l’own. We want to grab a little attention while the getting is good, while we’re young and our brains are fertile and facile and fulgent. (In a few years I won’t remember those words, which is why I’m writing them now, and also to impress you.) And millions of people have blogs, each with their own little knot of readers, and each of those readers has a little knot of readers, and so it goes, tiny communities scattered along the information highway. And none of this was even a glimmer in our minds when we were sitting two feet from the tv watching Saturday morning cartoons in our jim jams.

While Scott’s been home, he’s: fixed the car doors, washed the car, vacuumed the inside of the car, replaced a fuse so the car stereo works again, repaired the computer desk so the keyboard doesn’t crash down onto our laps every two seconds, bought trim for the kitchen’s tile floor, raked all the leaves and bagged them, grocery shopped once, and taken three bags of used clothing to Ebenezer’s Attic. This has left me time to: finish watching the first season of Six Feet Under. I’m exhausted.

Doesn’t my logo look arabic-ish now? Or do you say Arabian? And have any of you read Tales from the Arabian Nights? It’s downright pornographic. Snap. 

We went to the zoo two days ago, which has acres and acres and acres and acres of exotic foliage and, I believe, approximately three animals, two of which were hiding the whole time we were there. Today I still can’t walk without feeling every single muscle in my leg jerk and writhe and scream. It’s like I’m possessed by Joe Cocker, who also mocks me every time I look in the mirror.

“You are… so beautiful… to me…”

“Oh, shut the f* up, Joe.”

I feel smug and pure, using that asterisk. In fact, I’ve been trying to use an asterisk when I cuss out loud now, too, and - I’ll be honest - it’s ffffing boring. But at least now I can be condescending, and you just can’t put a price on that. I hope you guys have a great day. kiss xo