Speaking of getting back to normal...

Now that I've posted that, I feel much better.
So I shall immediately proceed to the "normal" part of the program.
In fact, I'll plan on nearly no one reading that post...
it just felt good.
I'm sort of afflicted with this need to spill every thought from my head,
in order for it to feel complete and completed.

What
ever.

I have some homework to do,
some email to attend to.
But I would rather do this,
for the moment.
Kids are tucked up snugly,
hubby's flying high through the cold black sky--
possibly piloted by a friend of mine,
I'll have to check.
I told him to ask if the pilot was "D---".
He suggested a more obscure question, one he thought was very clever.
"I'll just ask if the pilot eats pussy."
Oh, good one, hun.
MOST PILOTS ARE GUYS.
I thought it was funny...
My husband rocks.
Have I mentioned this lately?

So...
I'm going to let my mind wander...
I'll sink into my chair, legs stretched out.
My mind is winding its way through dark hallways,
leaning against a wall--
hat low, smoke curling up in rings.
My mind is a badass.
It will saunter through the night of thoughts and memories,
sighing occasionally,
flicking a glowing ember to the wet, cobbled street.
My mind will shrug and flip you off.
...but soon, my mind will find.
my mind will find--
what I am looking for.
Oh there it is...
Good music.
Finally.
flowing through my crappy speakers,
sliding through my ear canal--
a straight shot to my heart.
Not like cupid's shots,
just a direct path,
lest you misunderstand,
misundersit,
misundershow,
misundertell...
Words are like clay,
or a jumble of tiles holding letters--
Scrabble anyone?
Let's scrabble for the last eclair,
as we both notice it at once, from far across the room.
Sliding into the table from opposite sides,
knocking down the vase of wildflowers, sending a soft-edged river-like puddle to the far end of the wood surface,
the pile of napkins fluttering loosely, languidly to the floor.
You win.
Your finger punctures the pastry,
reaching the custard filling,
and I dramaticize my anguish.

Crap, now I want an eclair.
Hmmm...
or maybe I wanted one anyway...?
What a riddle.

I want to sneak away to the car dealer and instead of my soon-to-be-had Volvo wagon...
I want to smile while holding a finger of inferred silence to my lips,
and bind to myself a Corvette.
Oh, but that would never work...
that car is for the other me.
The one who hasn't arrived yet.

I am feeling colored from the inside out, today.
I am feeling full of soft and warm and hapy thoughts, right now.
I do forget, sometimes, that my life is incredibly wonderful.
I am grateful for it...

I wish I could remember what I said to my husband to make him skip the deep laugh it pulled from him
(I think that laugh was on pause, like a CD, and released a moment later)
and go straight for my jugular.
...or tickle me until I screamed for mercy.
I hate being tickled.
I hate it so very
very
much.
Mr. Husband thinks it's funny.
"Well why do you laugh if you hate it?"
interesting question, really, from a physiological standpoint.
It seems to me that it must be a reaction beyond control--
a reflex.
Like sneezing when one's nose is tickled.
Or yawning when someone else does...
I dunno, man.
Cuz I sure don't equate being tickled with good times.
Unless we're talking feather on bare skin in dark room under candle light
(sorry, i was trying to stack prepositions and nouns in a foot-long parfait)

Well, this was a good warm-up.
I need to write a "goodbye" poem for English class.

Good bye.