If only it were true.
I just ate...oh...I'd say...a good fistful of tiny marshmallows. Seeing as how I don't eat gelatin (usually), my trunk region is now in pain. Last night, while on the phone with my sister, I forced their itsy bodies onto the tines of a fork and roasted them over the open flame of my gas stove. Twice.
This can mean only one thing. Being a lady, I will not put that one thing in print.
Further evidence: I just watched Postcards From the Edge.
I'm so over my brother. I can't stop blurting the news out, though. I did it again yesterday during lunch and immediately had to call my sister to confess my sin. She admitted she'd been doing the same thing and I felt better. "Hi! How are you? Excellent. That's really great. Oh, and my brother's in jail." It's the equivalent of suddenly putting the other person, mid-sentence, into a headlock.
I need the world's shock. I need locked jaws, averted eyes.
The sexiest song in the entire world has to be Clyde by the Twilight Singers.
(This is how my brain works.)
I haven't left the house yet today. I will. Calm down, Mom.
The other night I wouldn't let Ben go to sleep until he could come up with the proper analogy for the smoothness of my legs. Nothing was working. "Like butterscotch. Like waves. Like freshly laundered linen." I wanted him to incorporate both the texture and the temperature, and he couldn't do it and therefore my brain almost exploded. I had to give myself a pep talk, or else it would have been a long night. Finally I let it go. Then, I dreamed Ben broke up with me and my advisor's name was suddenly Mario.
We care a lot. About you people. About your guns. About the wars we're fighting--gee that looks like fun.