boot and reboot imminent.
Six and Daddy went to bed. It was a long snow day trying to work and deal with calls with the girl talking non-stop for 12 hours. Now it’s me and 17 watching BSG and picking each other’s jaws up off the floor.
And choking on Woolite fumes.
dear husband who spilled his wine on the couch, then unloaded half a bottle of Woolite spray on the spot, inches from my face…
Yeah, I’ll be coughing and sneezing and taking the Lord’s name in vain all night.
I think Carly Simon & Mick Jagger are previously absorbed twins. That’s what Dwight told me, anyhoo…
With vodka and couch cuddles with my old man who wishes he had some nekkid pictures of me from back in the day (25 years ago) before everything started moving south.
But he doesn’t and that’s OK. He makes do.
and eff you iPhone for auto-correcting that to Stanky and Cranky because I showered AND am exceedingly happy and satisfied, so stop questioning me and making me work the back button, bitch.
To all of my imaginary friends on the Internet tonight.
Be well, sweet people. Be well and beautiful and real.
OK, but it’s required that you read your original poetry aloud by the campfire every night.
and rub my feet.
I’ll read some shit out loud and rub yours too, though.
It’s an equitable commune.
I woulda thought a Pinot Grigio, myself.
when my neighbors can probably see me sitting at my desk if they look across their back yard when they’re unloading their car of groceries and kids. Tonight, if they did happen to look across the yards into my living room window, they’d see me swaying and bouncing spasmodically in my chair while I work and listen to music, and stretching my mouse arm to release the cramping that’s becoming unbearable, and tossing back this nice fat chilled shot of vodka.