I'm done blogging. I broke up with the boyfriend I was writing about in one way or another on this thing throughout it's inception, so I don't really want to start over in here. And blogging is really not my thing anymore. You probably knew that since I stopped blogging a long time ago. Anyway, I will keep this bad boy up, because I can't bring myself to tear it down. It was fun; thanks for reading. Chapter is closed. Have a good life.

PS I will check back and delete spam comments now and again, and I will prosecute if you try to steal any of my bad writing and manage to get published so don't do it.

It seems like I can't take two steps without being surprised today. I kind of like it. Especially when I surprise myself.

Ahhhh, San Francisco, you are so nice to visit when I am stressed out.

I don't know WHAT I am going to do about this.

Am I lazy because I'm depressed or depressed because I'm lazy?

Trickster

You slide on in, slick and smooth
All sugar sweet lies and lines and
serpent skin

Anything you want honey, it's yours

I know what you are, what you need
Your fingers, long and slim, delicately toy
with my errant curls as you whisper

Anything you want honey, all yours

Tempted, I bite into my lip, tighten every
muscle and look anywhere but your face
You slowly trace my lips with two fingers

Anything

Our eyes meet, our lips part

You want


© k.l.d. 2008

I don't see myself in a long white dress, with a matching veil and pretty pink cheeks. I don't see myself in little white shoes I want to take off as soon as possible or wearing a lacy little garter that serves no purpose other than tradition. I don't see myself posing in pictures I'll hardly ever look at, or waiting in line to return gifts I already have or don't want or need. I don't see any of these things because I don't understand them. What I do see is spending my time with someone who understands why I don't want those things and won't pressure me into thinking I should. What I see is knotted hands woven together at sunset and two sets of old eyes squinting at the remaining light before crawling into bed.

Right now I'm sitting on my hand-me-down futon with my cat and a fuzzy blanket, glasses on and hair tossed back in my stretchy gray shirt that gets me 200 bucks knocked off car repairs. There's a pretty cute guy sitting on the floor with headphones on, and a cheesy horror flick on the tv courtesy of the SciFi channel. What's running through my head is really nothing to do with the previously mentioned but instead everything to do with what I haven't mentioned.

There's a lot going on in the world at any given time when we are having a relaxing evening or tucking ourselves into bed yet we seem to think it all just stops with us from time to time. But the fires are still burning, the guns are still firing and the little boy down the road is still awake because he's afraid of the monsters in the closet.

We all think we are the most important people in the world, or at least the most significant, when we are in a hurry to get somewhere or wondering why the hell we got fired or our mom got cancer (before you go getting worried, no my mom does not have cancer anymore and I was only fired the one time for bullshit reason). Why doesn't it occur to us that the guy in the next car over has the same problems to deal with, possibly more? Why don't we think, gee, maybe I should say thank you to the fast food drive-thru personnel for just "doing their jobs"? I mean it;s a pretty thankless job, it really could only improve their day if we are polite instead of barking our orders out and driving to the window and speeding away after a demand for extra sauce.

What I'm trying to say here, in a very roundabout way, is this: why aren't we nice to all these strangers we encounter on the road, in the store, on the street? When did we develop the notion that everyone owes us, and we owe no one? And if everyone really owes everyone else, isn't it about time we start paying up?

So I got to see Nick Hornby do a reading last night, which was incredibly cool. And then to make things even better, he did an unscheduled Q&A. And then he signed things including my copy of High Fidelity, and his new book Slam. The most amazing thing to me is that he's just this regular guy, regular like you and me.

I really should finish writing my book. I don't need to be extraordinary to do it, just motivated.

I want you. But you can never be found in your words. Your words like butterflies floating through the air, ever graceful, ever gentle. They look beautiful and if I listen closely, carefully, I hear the feint sound of a body growing tired from too much work.

I don't want your words.