Although I don’t like to be touched all that much, I would love a massage. My neck and traps. Not only because of the odd, spotty knots that that are sloping my otherwise lovely shoulders, but because it turns me on a little. I am a conundrum wrapped in a question mark and covered with riddle sauce.
Self-medicating includes a plethora of reckless behaviors. It’s drinking or emotional over-or-not-at-all-eating or working out all the time or driving furious down the highway thinking you’d welcome getting hit. Sex addiction sounds like a really, really good thing, but oddly no. BTW, sex - good; promoting God and religion to treat an overly froggy nature - sillysillysilly.
Peter Forsberg has returned to Colorado Avalanche ice but I think all he’s going to do is skate around a bit between periods, sort of like the bikini girls who hold up the round cards during a fight for whoops and hollers.
I just ordered updated office equipment (plus a zoomy new laptap on which I will write a Diablo-Cody-worthy screenplay, however I will not wear gold ballet flats to the Academy Award ceremony) and upped my DSL to warp speed. I don't “do" technology. Like water or electrical home repairs, I’d rather leave it to the experts. I don’t want to know how it works. I just do.
Since I work “from home” I can spend entire days in the clothes I slept in (a.k.a. pajamas). I sometimes create important marketing collateral, corporate sales copy to drive revenue and high-level executive communications while braless.
Ativan is helping lure me into sleep at night, but I tend to casually and randomly fall off my feet during the day.
I asked and my uncle mailed my Dad’s watch to me. It was stopped with the pin pulled out on the 17th. That had to be December 17th. I'd just sent him the silver watch for a Christmas. Knowing my Dad, he was saving it “for good”. I pushed the pin in because time exists in the now and is always moving forward.
I was not affected by the writer’s strike in the least and I found myself out and about and doing more with the real people. I do, however, enjoy a fresh SNL every Saturday. Conan was better during the strike.
When I was 14, I wanted a pair of red Chuck's and to be just like Riff Randell. I still keep a pair in my closet.
I wish I was more like Sadie the feral cat. She was lost and abandoned for a time, but wise and brave enough to find a kind soul with whom she dropped learned behaviors and eventually came to trust, survive and thrive. She’s still tough and in charge, but will randomly head bump or look at me with big eyes, tilting her chin up as if to say, “I’m right here” and just wanting for a minute to be loved and touched before getting back to tasks at hand. The cat gets it, why don’t I?