A Much Better Title Than My Last

Let's Nike this shit, yo. I will not meta-blog.  I will not meta-blog. Don't expect a poem, though.  Shut up person talking about the rolling national debt at 7:42 AM.  Why?  I'm already discouraged.  I need to work on looking look like I already feel adequately impotent.  If they find out I can still get hard from complaining, I'm a goner and I'm a little tired for a political uprising this morning.

As exciting as it was to learn how to crack open one walnut on another just now, my sore palm says to save it for better pursuits.  Speaking of which, I need some space, people.  Speaking of which, I need some space people.  (They seem like they could be useful right now.)

Since I know you think you'd like to want to look at my ass, I've been honing it into a well-oiled machine.  Uh.  I'm halfway through the fifth week of my "10K training" and although I registered for the fun-run part of an actual 10K, if anyone I know thinks he and/or she is gonna come watch me pant whilst out of breath with bouncing boobs, think again.  Don't worry, I eliminated the most recent not-good-enough-sports-bra-of-the-week that I wasted a whole $9.99 on and now know I need to jog around the Academy Sports and Outdoors™ to test that shit.  My mini-van key and left boob almost fell out of my bra last night and if I get stranded out in the dark at the lake because my key gets lost, I'll be living on squirrels and free water in one of those gazebos and being way too happy about it before you can ask, "Did she just steal my donut?"  There are cold showers and they're sounding good about now, except not really.  They still sound unpleasant.  I can now officially run for three minutes in a row, walking only one minute between and do ten cycles of that shit.  Don't tell Betty Crocker I did four minutes just to see how it'd go last night.  If she finds out I strayed from the recipe, everybody knows what happens then.  If you don't, I'll give you a hint:  It doesn't rhyme with Apple Betty.

In unrelated news, I've noticed I'm vague, I mumble and do something else thirdly.  People have asked me to clarify things often lately.  Am I being vaguer than usual or has everyone else in my life suddenly become more nosy.  Though I suspect the latter, I know I am comfortable enough mumble mumbling my way through things and just talking to myself.  It's easy enough to see why I do it in my home.  I don't think I should have to say, "Throw your trash in the trash can," for the sixth time and, apparently, 17 year-old girls who suddenly live in my house again don't think I should either, but I can't seem to get ok with its being there, so I keep mumbling it to no one at all, seemingly.  Is finding the wrapping from yet another band-aid on the floor really probable cause for phone restriction?  But, it's my only leverage.  I think, over the years, I've just developed the bad habit of assuming people won't respond when I state my preferences.  Right?    

This past week wasn't my favorite one in the history of the earth, though there were moments.  Moments when I met moments.  To have several of those in one week was nice.  Most recently, being the only one running over the Mopac bridge as I heightenedly perceived the wind on my skin last night was surreal enough to inspire awe.  There was a birthday that was mine and it was nice and quaint, but all the people I know who live in my meat (ha) world didn't a.) read my mind or b.) read my tweets they don't know exist, so no one gave me 41 spankings.

Yesterday involved the awesomest pan ever of little red homefries with carrots, bell peppers, onions, garlic, a non-descript other pepper I was saving until November, all of which I prepared with one of my dearest old friends who is visiting from out of town right now.  There was other stuff this week, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear about the way I was stood up for the first session of my new tutoring gig of an actual college student and how I still got paid to sit there listening to Pandora reminiscing on my own time spent in another of that community college's learning labs thinking I would never get through Chemistry or Calculus II or Engineering Physics or American History I or another day in my marriage.  I'm pretty sure Olivia Newton John would manage something pithy and perky now, but she's busy giving me a blow job and I'm almost whole, complete, fulfilled, sated.  Don't make me get a thesaurus, 'cause you know I will.  Is that a risk you are willing, wishing, contemplating, considering, etc. to take?

Have I said I'm crazy tired?  The perfect trifecta for an anxiety attack is brewing: lack of sleep, over-caffeination, and lack of sleep.  Last night I enjoyed being reassured that people are all into fat bottom girls, but the glaring lack of songs rejoicing the virtues of ample bellies with stretchmarks has me wondering today if I will ever be loved the way I want.  Let's not mention I haven't the foggiest notion of how that might be.  How about however someone who loves me chooses to?  There it is, the emotional cookie crumble that this writing serves.  I worship the emotional cookie crumble of my choosing as a path to freedom and you can too.

Did I mention my haircut is one inch too dykey on me for my tastes?  Is it sexist of me to think manly is good, but dykey isn't?  If I start wearing a vest, workbooks, and Wrangler pull-away jeans with my flannel shirts, will you commence with the daily moisturizer check plan, even if I balk?  Though, I hereby and forthwithily consent to your using restraints, if necessary, to hold up you end of the, er, agreement.  The safeword is "fuck me."  You're following along and taking notes, right?

I was sad to learn that in my not giving a fuck, I am going to be missing the International Air Sex Championship next Saturday.  Mr. Bee traded his having the boys that night with another.  I'll have to schedule some Inappropriate Charades another time in honor of the event.

I wish the guy who is on break in front of me wouldn't shift his chair so he is only facing me like we're going to talk every time he takes a break while I'm "working."  Sometimes I'm a bitch, and sometimes I'm too nice.  If only Sandra Bullock were here, she could tell me when it's appropriate to be tough and when it's appropriate to be soft and pretty, so I can win the Beauty Pageant.  Since she's not, I'll have to rely on Terp2it  to tell me what's appropriate.  I'm not gonna link, 'cause then he might come here and intimidate me with his beard.  Use the google, but here is a video of one of the talented folks I saw perform last night. I love Austin.

"O" Music Video
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Waiting for Duct Tape

Hi Feb 5.  Where have you been all my life?  Here we are again, waiting with ample wear and tear.  I'm not really sure why I haven't blogged much lately.  I've been busy, sure, but that's usually when I'm most pressed to blog.  I've kinda spoiled it here with the stolen pictures that I take no credit for just about ever.  I make no profit here believe you me and so my blog has been the minor place to find the crazy photo of the woman with whipped cream and chocolate on and, I hope, in her lady parts and in her hair and on her face and her breasts and, oh you get the picture.  In some ways I hate that's what thing my blog is good for, a good stolen pic.  But, they are good, no?

I could account the week's or last two weeks' events.  I was teaching.  I was busy.  There was snow in Austin (ok, that one is unusual), I am sticking with the walk/run regimen to the extent that I can now run a full three minutes and the other day even did that ten times, and for you math aficionados that  makes 30 minutes.  Seriously.  I rather hoped the effort might result in weight loss, but it hasn't, but still, that really isn't the underlying point.  I am feeling stronger and don't tell me muscle weighs more than fat, because I damn well know that.  I am a powerhouse.  I have super muscle, but as my fitness teacher in that one class I took a few years ago said, I just have a layer of fat on top of a shitload of muscle.  Yes, that's exactly how she said it.  Anyway, I am feeling like I can run for three minutes at a time ten times in 50 minutes, so I'll just say that that is good.

At this very moment I am trying to imagine that I am not feeling slightly light-headed from paint fumes.  I'm not.  I am.  I'm not.  The drawback of not having to do my rounds for the next two hours is that it is because I am sorta kinda supervising a visitor's painting, but it is too cold to open the door.  Wait.  Is it?  Ok, I opened the door for a bit.

Where was I?  Oh, I don't really know and I'm halfway not giving a shit, half-way feeling a slight bit of angst, and half just stopping and knitting a hat for Snaggletooth, and then there was a guy and another and breakroom anecdotal mumble mumble and I'm sure I can go check my email, play a round of Scrabble and get another thing of water before I finish the next sentence.  I miss my poetry, my short fiction, my muse?

I think my perceived misery in marriage was my muse.

Oops, something shiny, knitted a few rows, told a co-worker about zenni optical and replied to a message about chickin' it up tonight.  I seriously figuratively fought Mr. Bee off sexually last week, which was really battling my own self more than anything else.  The urge to relent to what I know has become quite strong and though I am all in favor of booty call scenarios, but the last time we did that was the last time I did that, and I'm feeling like I stepped backwards in some sort of non-nonsensical forward/ backward/ right/ wrong scenario.  Phoo.  I don't really believe in those, and think if I have the urge, I should follow it, but I didn't have the urge at first and it grew back later.  I'm 99.2% of the time just busy doing my deeds, but it seems this here diaretic blog is for my metalivin'.  Processing relationships, friend, foe, lack of, etc.  I don't really have any foes, and don't really have too many difficulties in platonic relationships too often, but sometimes lack of sex I do have issues with, but not ending sentences with prepositions. 

Crap, this is what I first diary-wrote for, to process my feelings.  Then there was the interwebs that I kinda habitualized myself into switching to and here I am not really having too much attention span to go off and work on longer pieces or pieces that involve multi-stages.  Damnit.  I am not having the motivation.  I've got some ideas, a decent amount of time, and not so much the drive.  It's a goal thing.  I know I want to see this movie (note to self-- buy tickets), and even though it's about education, I am feeling caught in the middle of feeling all blissed out about the here and now and feeling like I need to always "do something," an urge I got from my mother for better or for worse.  Or, maybe it's from me, and still the zen of it all is that both can be true.  I guess it's about sinking my feet in and loving the here and now in writing, getting into hearing what the moment in my head and heart and probably nether regions (seeing as I've added writing a piece for the erotic reading series in March to my to-do list) have to say .  But, that's not what this is about. 

The Genius saw my piece of paper on my file cabinet the other day that says that 2011 is the year I run a 10K and the year I write a book.  Knowing I've been working on the 10K thing, he asked me when I was going to write a book.  I said probably this summer, but I'm really not going to count on that.  I'd like to have an idea sooner.  And, crap, crap, not only is the wall in front of me at my formerly gloomy weekend job sunshine yellow, I don't have an idea.  And, I'm torn.  I usually write and come up with ideas as I write.  One word at a time, as is clear in my posts, but sometimes it works out nicely for fiction, but what is this relationship between sensing the desire for something and ruining the mojo for it by not relaxing into allowing it.  There we are; passivity is the answer.  That's how I will write a book, accrue (?) a lover, by waiting for right timing.  By becoming internally ready enough for it to burst forth from nothing, and while I am partially mocking myself, I only can because it is so very close to true.  What's wrong with that?  Nothing, if it works, and the verdict is still out on that.  The verdict that will not come in probably ever.  Feh.

All I ever want this to do besides solve all the worlds' problems is to help me meet my emotions, and here we are.  Damnit, with the painter and the other person.  I want to cry now.  I'll probably talk out loud in my car and cry now at the sound of my own voice.  Sometimes I listen to myself to do myself a favor, and that usually works, but I haven't tried it since really over-analyzing it like this.  Maybe, this too I can squash.

He paints such straight lines and I got to speak in spanish.  I even cut a joke earlier and still here we are.  I've nowhere to race off to for an hour.  This is the perfect time to start a poem or a short story.  Maybe, but it can't be here.  There is the situation in Egypt, there is the continuing corporate take over of America, which reminds me to mention that I just watched the first season of Mad Men and, of course, fell in love with it.  It is the smartestly written show dealing with sexism that I've ever seen, which, of course, affects and is caused by both men and women.  I want to eat that show or blow it at least, but I'm pretty sure that's just a misguided projection, and when we talk about it like that I'm wondering if I should stick my head in the sand enough to just admit that all of this is.  Or, maybe I want to think I can do it differently if I do it just right.  I'm pretty sure something ocd-esque is brewing in the likes of toil and trouble.  I could use some of that.  But, not really.

The Lip Model had been staying with me this last week and after months of not and her dad kicking her out (finally, thank you), she is at my house and it's been going very well.  Of course, I have less space than ever and a renewed sense that I need to get a larger place, and even have an invite to visit a private alt. school that is interested in me for next year, even as AISD threatens to shut down every single school in Texas to appease the horned Perry one.  

Now, I must pee and my urge to knit is strong and I was thinking it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be known as a world class knitter.  I'm far far from that, but it is a reachable goal, I think, if I sink my heart and soul into it for the next 40 years.

I think there's more because I can even procrastinate peeing (reminds me of the thrift store the other day) for too long, but here I go.  Seriously, gonna chick it up with my friend.  Gonna feed my girls, gonna knit this hat.  Gonna write one more sentence, or even two.  Okay.  I don't want to say goodbye.  I guess there's our video if I can find it not on my My Boob.

Gloria Gaynor - I never can say goodbye
Uploaded by edith-rv. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

I also never can say hello, so I'll have to go make that video. I'll be right back.