...or just my fridge?
finally got our god DAMNED shutters ordered today.
I thought we were going to order blinds, which take 2 weeks to make.
shutters take 6-8.
weeks.
feh.
so much for the neighbors not seeing me naked.
what???
there's no fucking way I'll remember to wear a robe every day for 2 months.
gah.
oh well.
anyone want my address?
no, really, you can have it--
just call my husband.
I used to hate emoticons, but I could really use one of those little "rolling on the floor laughing" guys right now.
or, you could just picture me, in my flannel pjs with the stars on them
(as pictured on buzznet somewhere)
flopping around on a cold tile floor.
but I'm not really doing that.
who, I'd like to know, EVER rolls around on the floor???
laughing??
i laugh a lot.
and i laugh hard.
but I don't pee my pants,
and I don't roll on the floor.
unless i'm in pain from laughing too hard.
hm.
that could be it.
i cry sometimes from laughing.
once, I had to pull off the road until the laughing abated.
I can still picture the place--
Rt. 1, just as it curved into Wiscassett,
before the bridge, and the cool, old shipwrecks.
right across the street from the fire station, i think.
about an hour from home, still.
coming home from...?
hm.
something...
with T.
good lord, she could make me laugh.
wow, that was quite a meandering little train track of thoughts.
so anyway.
I had the weirdest little vision/pre-dream thing today.
I was drifting off for a little afternoon snooze,
and I had this little scene playing in my head.
now that I reflect, it must have been a dream.
I had figured out a way to stop the Mafia from having power...
it was simple, really.
Just make all small businesses in mafia-afflicted areas trade soley in credits--
no cash.
because, as we all know, mobsters require payment in cash.
and laundering of money is, of course, done with cash.
it was sort of like credit cards, but without the interest and stuff.
it was...
just a way to keep cash out of it.
and then I regained enough consciousness to do a double-take.
to question my motives.
to wonder what in the bloody HELL I was doing thinking about such a thing.
it fucking rocked.
for a minute there, I thought I had reformed a century's worth of NYC corruption.
I have to say, it felt pretty damn good.
a friend came by to check out my new place the other day.
and remarked in horror at the glass shower and two corresponding enormous vanity mirrors.
she found it to be quite a frightening prospect to see herself naked so much.
she's a lovely girl, no reason not to glory in her body, but I think it comes down to being raised Mormon, as was I.
fortunately, i found a power and beauty in my own nudity around the same time I rediscovered sex.
I can still remember the moment.
that motel room--
certainly not a hotel.
stepping out of the bathroom after my shower the next morning.
a winter's sun glaring through the half-drawn curtains...
glancing off my sweet boy's cheek.
he was pretending to sleep--
I later figured out he had used my shower as an opportunity to, uh...
relive the previous night's adventure.
wink-wink.
(ok, fine he spanked hank.)
but...
the look in his eyes as I casually walked through the room...
it sunk soundly into me, deeply.
the truth of a man's blurred interpretation of a woman's body.
as women, we focus on each flaw until we see only those.
if we are lucky, we adjust our self-perception and forget the flaws.
instead we bask in our own particular beauties, which are borne from imperfection.
I only see my hair and the sparkle in my eyes, instead of the damage child-bearing has done to me, or the shape of my nose from the side.
I am who I am.
that tall and confused boy was the first to allow me a glimpse of his open lust.
and at 21, the understanding began to dawn--slowly--upon me...
that beauty is most assuredly NOT skin-deep.
beauty starts at the core and emanates,
coursing through us and changing our shells.
...for those with the right eyes.
beauty is still in the eye of the beholder, and some choose to only look at the outer layer.
me?
I prefer using x-ray vision.
and i'd venture to guess most of you reading this feel the same.
or at least those who comment.
I better read back over this and see if it makes any sense...
some people are very careful with what they post--
editing, revising.
and those are GOOD posts.
nah, GREAT posts.
I'm too lazy for such things...
or, more accurately, I do better running from the gut--
running just below conscious thought, spewing from within,
writing at a pace so fast I couldn't "think" about it if I wanted to.
so...
what comes out is part of my soul.
it's kind of gooey, outside the body.
I suppose it doesn't really belong here, but I like to look at it.
I figure, what good's a soul if you can't smell it, taste it, finger paint with it??
I think that if I keep calling myself a writer,
I'll feel comfortable being just a touch crazy.
good writers are wackos.
come on, just admit it.
they're either looney tunes, or addicts and I'm not into substance abuse.
unless that substance is sugar.
so I'll settle for eccentric.
besides, I live in a utah suburb and I have a pierced nose, for god's sake.
I'm 90% weird by local standards, already!
oh, and I watched the
thanks to tivo, i only wasted a little over an hour on it.
but still.
that guy's piercing blue eyes almost made it worth it.
actually, it was a nice change.
I spend 98% of my leisure time in front of THIS screen.
ok.
I'm going now.
if anyone asks, I wasn't here.
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