The Palinode and another iteration of the Drunken Lime
I am pretty much racing headlong into BlogHer '10 with little time to pay attention to much beyond completing a couple of projects and selling shoes and doing laundry.
Oh, the laundry. If you only knew you would heap gratitude upon me for cleaning myself up before the conference.
I pretended that I was lying beneath God's glass coffee table, and he was a coke head.
Hello, August! August does not feel august. It feels hot and ridiculously sweaty in a decidedly unsexy way. I've started getting boob zits from sweltering inside hot brassieres. Now that I'm saddled with these stupid borderline D-cups, I miss the A-cups of my youth. They were sweet. When it was too hot out, I'd go without underwear and just put mini-bandaids over my nipples to keep the gawkers at bay. Freedom was adhesive strips.
The Palinode and I used to go to this restaurant when we dated ten years ago. Now, it's closed for good.
I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY. It's obvious. The only thing going on in my head is a running tally of all the things I am not doing at any given moment.
cleaning the house
finishing up this project
finishing up that project
working on the GiST newsletter
writing an article
getting back to that guy from that magazine
clearing out the 200 e-mails in my inbox
fighting with WordPress for a new project
learning the Hustle
practicing my swan dive
I'm just kidding. I don't dive. I hate diving, in fact. When I was a kid, I would stand on the one-meter diving board and freeze solid while my entire swim class treaded water and rolled their eyes at me, except the fat nerd, because he was always trying to get in good with me for when we had to practice mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. His lips were always blue, and it was worrisome.
I'm going to make like Wonder Woman and get shit done. I know I have it in me. I just have to figure out where I put it.