said a strange girl,
in a strange mood,
from a strange land.
She felt she should be tired,
and maybe even was.
She felt she should be ready,
for something out of reach.
She knew she wasn't finished,
with all she wanted to.
She could not put her finger,
on how to sate her soul.
She felt she should be satisfied,
already, but was not.
She felt she should be laughing more,
even as she giggled.
She did not want to shed the tears,
which welled inside her throat.
She sounds a bit wishy washy, doesn't she??
And as I wrote that, I felt a rhythm, but I didnt' really mean to.
I think it has a cheesy rhythm, if it has one at all.
Sometimes I turn on this computer, looking for something.
No, not a file, not a document.
A rush, a smile, a flush.
Sometimes I find it, sometimes I don't.
But when I don't, I remember that I shouldn't rely on something else to change my mood ring.
It's on my finger for a reason.
(No, I don't really wear a mood ring.)
My mind has been flooded with impotent fantasies lately.
No, not fantasies of failed attempts at sex.
(but that would be funny!)
Strange fantasies of men who turn me on, but somehow each separate little dream blends together and I get distracted by the story line...
How tall this one is, how far away that one is.
Yet another symptom of my immenent death by brain anuerism.
Even my husband agrees that there is something wrong with me...
I guess I should make that call.
What's the use of having insurance if you don't go to the doctor for every stupid bodily function (or malfunction) that raises a question?
My money's on thyroid meds.
So I had this cool idea for a story the other day.
The men probably won't like it, in general, but it might do well in PlayGirl.
Shit, that reminds me--
I owe an email to Julie.
I would sort of like to get started on it here, but it's going to be a long one.
(shuh, that's what she said.)
God, I'm a dork.
Yes, god cares.
Dammit, I forgot I need to get all my four-letter words used up before we meet the Mormons.
Fuck, piss, shit, cock, cunt, Hell, Damn, Fire, foot, shoe...
oops...I was on auto pilot.
I forgot we were talking about euphemistical 4-letter words.
Mother fucking shit for brains, Lisa.
Lick my ass, you nasty freak.
I think this might be having the opposite of the intended affect:
I am now prepped and ready to go.
Ok, think boring thoughts, think boring thoughts.
missionary position, testi(cal)mony, tithing my hands to the headboard---
fuuuuuck this isn't working either.
Tuesday is the deadline for the University's literary journal's submissions,
Thursday I have a 5 page paper due on "London"...
It's a foggy city, great accents, bad cuisine, and royalty--
what else is there???
Oh...the poem by Blake.
Who said orgasms cheer you up?
I demand to know!
Not on strange days, in strange lands...
Maybe I should try again?
The first one was assisted, and really very satisfying.
I don't talk about it much, but my husband should really be teaching classes.
He is more than just talented.
Think I'll go now.
Let's pretend I didn't say at least half of the things I said...ok?