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Posts Tagged ‘meandering around my head some’

Hey, I started this entry some five six months ago, left it hanging in my draft posts and just wandered away. In all the shuffling and fixing and getting ready to pull the plug on this site, I came across it again. I think it’s an important enough bit of my personal narrative to warrant hitting ‘publish’ on it. Maybe it’s a post that will stir discussion, because I have seen evidence in the past several weeks that I am not the only voyeurnaller who feels this way. Your comments are always welcome here –dissenting ones included– and I’m pretty sure I’ve made that clear from the time I installed a commenting system back in late two-thousand or thereabouts. On this post in particular I would ask that the lurkers, too, step out of the shadows and talk with me about their perspective on this.

Okay, so, you know when you have that invisible iron band at the top of your throat, and it’s cinched up just enough to remind you it’s there? And then, when you swallow, it’s like your tonsils become two branding irons that send shocks of bonfire heat all around the insides of that most tender of all the neckmeat? And good LORD, the itch! It is way down deep there in your ears and you’re praying that it signifies that something is a-going and not a-coming because that impending ER bill from several nights ago is going to SUCK and you can’t visit any healthcare-type facility again (save the one where you yourself are employed) until February at the very soonest, April at the outside. But April is your birthday month and it just wouldn’t be right for the Everything That Is to allow you to come to harm throughout the month that signifies your arrival on the planet, selah and amen.

That kind of maddening but vague-ish tonsilly-glandy-flarey throat pain that could mean you are getting better but also could mean that the strep dint get kilt fer shore dead?

You know that kind of discomfort, yeah? So you know, also, of how cranky it can make you in a sort of ‘let’s not be doing any fucking around, okay? I expect us to dig all the way to bone tonight’ fashion.

So, my throat hurts. And it is that kind of hurt. A no-nonsense kind of hurt, not bent on being crippling in nature but not wanting you to forget its presence, either.

My throat hurts and I’m back to square one with my ability to tolerate utter bullshit. Pain will do that to you: It will make you instinctual in nature, a person not prone to frippery like patience for your fellow man, no matter how stupid (or insulting) (or tedious) (or shallow) (or ridiculously, ridiculously self-absorbed) he may be, thusly earning him a pass on the basis of your most excellent home training and Southerin mannerliness. There will be no “Well, bless his heart“-ing done, dig? Your throat is on fire, and that supercedes tact, damnit!

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Did you know that the Willow Ptarmigan is the only species of grouse whose males take responsibility over their young….most specifically, the protection of those offspring? They will distract much larger foes (BEARS) by way of attack to ensure the well-being of their babies. Willow Ptarmigans may be little in comparison to a grizzly, but their desire to go unfucked-with is greater than the bear’s ample curiosity and orneriness. And also greater than that physically imposing stature business.

I think that is just about the fucking neatest thing ever, Fellow Internet Bastards.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

A little over a month ago the box in my head where I go to be happy was sluiced over with some sort of crazy mud that was cloying and uncomfortable to hang around in, so I was forced into other parts of my brain where things are maybe hazier and not very well-lit. Sometimes I wonder if I oughtta just stick around in the mud –in that sunny, airy room there– to see what happens, because the curtains still shimmy gleefully as they glance off breezes and the wallpaper never gets boring. But (and here is the thing that seals this wonky little deal) even the dark corners and the sundown lanes that trail off into nowhere smell sweeter altogether than that nasty mud. Though its surface is shiny and without blemish, I just know there are things in there, in that mud, rotting things that are just playing possum until I grow complacent. Were such a thing to happen, they would then lace themselves together elegantly and drag me down to the floor, planting my face solidly in four inches of my head sludge with no hope of coming up for air.

You can see, of course, why I would choose the ‘Wander Aimlessly Around Head’ door.

Okay, so I ended up in this mostly-unfamiliar spot that found me all butthurt about the most ridiculous of things, most of which resided right out here in the ether between my interface and those that belong to what I have loosely labelled as All The Rest Of You.

It was a weird state to try on for size, this Total Butthurtedness, and one to which I am mostly unaccustomed, owing to my habit of keeping my heart in my mouth rather than on my sleeve. I was swirled up in drama that was only known to my heart, asking stupid shit like, ‘Why is that person taking a swipe at me’ and ‘How can so-and-so leave me hanging like that’ and ‘Oh my gaaahhhhd, when will I ever just be able to be who I am without inciting fury’.


Said questions, of course, brought forth Total Butthurtedness’ maudlin (yet much calmer!) twin, Embarrassed Mortification. Embarrassed Mortification always goes over –with a fine-toothed comb– the ground that Total Butthurtedness flopped around on, finding every fragment of every thing that will enable her to hammer the fuck away at whatever aspects of you that Total Butthurtedness was kind enough to allow to hang around.

Are you still with me?

So at some point I began to get my bearings (and my medication, bahDUMpum!) and got really mad that I let Cyberia actually affect me this way. It’s not really ever been an issue before, and I began to root around for the source of why it all of the sudden was one.

Typically I’m not an especially insecure person whether on the page or off. In this case I had to remind myself of accomplishments cool digital-type shit owing to this: In the past you have been Instalanched! Kottke has linked you! You have even been cited on WikiFuckingPedia somewhere! It is a great likelihood that Norman Reedus probably read the entry where you praised him and dogged the fuck out of Armand Assante, hear you roarrrr!

….and so on.

I don’t give much of a shit about hits or traffic and have been more than willing to say so on more than one occasion. Let me get one thing straight, though: This is not to say I don’t give a shit about people. I care at the point where people take shape out of these strange and persistently-tabulated digits. ‘Oh, hello, Visitor Number one-hundred thirty-two thousand and nine-hundred, you are, in fact, Angela from Brighton, Colorado? Pleezdameetcha!’

There are a whole mess of women these days who derive their whole self-worth from their blogs; if their hits are high, then so are their spirits. God help us if a few-hundred of those eyeballs fixed on their sites wander away. I am not, in fact, one of those women. I derive a part of my self-worth from my blog, yes, but it is in one specific sense: That sense being that I am completely true to myself in the words that I heartily fling across the page where you now perch.

Also, and my! God! what an also, it has easily saved my husband thousands of dollars in therapy (my first twenty-five or so years on the planet wound me into quite a tight little skein; it took me five years of picking around just to find the thread that would start the unraveling of the damn thing and five more years after that for it to even look like I’d been working on accomplishing something). Let’s not mince any words here: He’d sure as fuck have to pay it, because I just don’t have it and he likes having me around. I know this last bit because he is one of the good ones that never lets me forget it.


And so, in rooting for the cause of my sudden insecurity on these here interwebs, what I worked my way back to was this: I’ve been sort of slumming it in recent months by dancing around the fringes of a group of people who care about shit like how many page impressions equal how many nickels (did I say that right, savvy persons?) and less about the currency of song and soul. People who weigh out quantity of words as more valuable than their quality. I’m no hater; that’s great for them. It is a method, though, that simply does not work for me and always seems to leave me wanting.

Plus? I am leaving the buoyancy of my self-esteem in the hands of people I’ve never even met, ones that sit in front of a little box and type words (sometimes incessantly! how do some people handle things like meals and peeing?) that I’ve attached some sort of weight to, whether or not that expectation is actually something like, I dunno, warranted or even deserved.

Here is where I head in the direction of sounding like a geezer, sonny, because I remember a time when this medium was a whole lot of creative and unbridled joy. Blogger (which still is such an ungainly, misappropriated word, yeah?) was just a euphemism for Rogue Writerly Person. Rogue Writerly People aren’t hampered by things like form and the conventional twisting-together of words. The RWP of this world stomp, Thor-hammered and big-bootsed, through the literary heather, silencing cicadas and bending breezes to their wills. They are dirty, dirty neologists waiting to sully your dictionary, sugar.

I used to spend the bulk of my online time being romanced by the amazingly adept voyeurnals of Bobby and Michael and Alanna and Paul and Rabi, to name a few. These people dug at the words, sometimes so deeply that loam would have to be brushed from them before they could be stacked into a structure that your eyeballs (and shortly thereafter, your brain) could hardly wait to shimmy through.

The internet was totally my boyfriend in those days. I have been madly in love with words the whole of my life; naturally, then, it would follow that I might be completely knee-swept at the notion of being only one page-refresh away from a stream flowing with clickable links to places where words were consistently fresh and completely delectable.

All I had to do was pick.

Somewhere in the noise of the last little while I’d forgotten all about that ‘pick’ part. I found myself just dully following a trail of (fingerquoteythings)big names(/fingerquoteythings) because they were big names and not necessarily mapping carefully what I took into myself. And not really –as I had done before– rooting out new content and gorgeous voices. Look, I like People magazine as a guilty indulgence from time to time, but if you told me that was all I could ever read again then I would likely say, “Okay. I’m pretty much over this whole reading thing.” Or I’d be all, “PASTE! Where is my fucking jug of PASTE?” and cut the People magazines to bits, then reassemble the words in a more pleasing arrangement. Something.

So. I’ve made up my mind to do two things. First, I’m gonna start giving the majority of my online time (which seems to be far less nowadays than it used to be) over to incredible writing by people that are doing it for the sheer joy of it above all else. Second, I’m gonna start remembering who I am in my own writing and occupying that space with the fierceness that I used to.

I’m not gonna worry too much about who or how everybody else is, because I’ll be too occupied with the flow of my own story to let anybody else’s make me feel somehow incomplete. I’m enough. And when I decide that I am not enough anymore, it will be because I have measured what I am at that time against what I want to be in the future and have found myself in need of work.

Those are things that I should in no way be passive about in making decisions. And if you want to know the truth, then you shouldn’t be passive about them either. I own myself and it’s time I started reading the fucking manual.

|| December 15, 2000 || 10:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Uhhh, hi.

Reading chum’s journal-thingy made me sad tonight. Made me really sad. I can’t really put my finger on why. If he reads this, I’m sure he’ll get it. He’s special like that—has the whole insight thing pretty down for someone so young. Mayhap that is why he is bored with his courtiers.*chumster, any thoughts on this??*

I really hope that I wasn’t one of the parties that he was referring to. I hope that he still likes my dance. Isn’t that sick and sad? It sounds that way on the surface, I suppose. You’ve got to look deeper, though. There are few people that I respect in a wholesome way/look up to. This cat has a great intellect and wit and seemingly possesses an affection for people that I could never muster. He tries to bury that light under the bushel of sarcasm, but it’s there and I for one can see it.

I haven’t been blogging as much lately. And certainly the content mostly blows now. Someone e-mailed me yesterday and said I seem ’subdued’. You know what, Will? You’re right. I do. Please allow me to explain in this very public of forums; and Jesus-please-us please let me put to rest the suggestion you had as to why. Good assumption, but one that is way off the mark.

I started this thing for me. You see, I hadn’t been devoting the time to any organized creative output beyond business-related stuff, and creativity for creativity’s sake is the most cathartic and rewarding kind. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that I can get paid for something I enjoy, but sometimes it turns into a washout and you cut corners to get over just a tad bit more. Then it sort of taints your output and things aren’t so shiny and terrific anymore. ANYONE CATCHING THIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT, HUH???

So as I said/say/am saying, I started this for me and did it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find a had a small readership with a decent intellectual capacity. And don’t get me started on the fact that I discovered that I was not alone in some of my most out-there obloquies, opinions and thoughts.

I tend not even to scratch the surface out here. Some of you who know me and correspond with me know that. There are parts to all of us that remain only our own knowledge, even in the presence of those nearest and dearest to us. This is what defines one’s self. Obviously, as this is a public forum, (even though only barely public…) I don’t completely flay myself open or really even point to my exposed jugular. I have said it before and I shall say it again. PEOPLE WILL SUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKING DRY AND THEN WHINE AT YOU TEN YEARS’ WORTH OF SUNDAYS WHEN YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE THEM ANY FUCKING MORE. It’s true. You heard it here first. I write to amuse myself first and foremost, but I would be a lying-ass bitch to say it didn’t amuse me to amuse you. And you, and you. And you, over there in the corner…yes, YOU, ya little cutie.

I have so much to share. Or maybe reword that to say ’so much I could share’….but I dunno. I just don’t know.

I could swear up and down all day that “Oh, ya know, holidays….so effing busy and time-crazed…wah-WAH-wah, wuh, WUH-wuh, wuh. Not to mention blahblahdyblah-blah and such.” Bullshit, and I won’t pour it on you. I like most of you far too much to fake it.

When I wrote the piece regarding my cousin, I tapped into the most real me that there is. You all seemed to catch that. I got TONS of e-mail, even from people that I never had a clue existed: “….and you don’t know me, but I have been reading you for a while. I finally had to break down and let you know that you really get to me sometimes…”. Whaaaaaa? I have readers in motherfucking BELGIUM???


So I back off. I shut down. Whoaaaaa, some distance, fellow commuters, please! I am contagious, okay???

Please don’t take this as I sign that I never want to hear from you people. Humanity just makes me nervous. Lots of people out there are unpredictable (don’t get me wrong, unpredictable is good at times) and atrociously, unforgivably stupid. I am quite pleased to know that people who come here, no matter how few, are intelligent and thoughtful and sincere and comically self-effacing. I like their input, be it commentary, suggestion or hapless sexual innuendo (just kidding about that last one, the air was just getting sorta heavy in here).

The long and the short of it is that I am growing, and I feel a time coming that I may just lay it all out there. It’s all been itching in the back of my brain for a few moons now and I am growing dissatisfied with all else.

SO, if you dare, if you care, hang around and sooner or later we’ll play scratch and sniff with my brain. Consider your dumbass self warned.

And oh yeah, fuck every last one of you. >:oD

|| December 3, 2000 || 12:37 am || Comments (0) ||

Mike TeeVee….you remember. We’re all little bits streaming through the air. Some of us are just strung a bit more loosely than others.


|| November 9, 2000 || 11:39 pm || Comments (0) ||

I think I’ve reached that point / Where giving up and going on / Are both the same dead end to me / Are both the same old song

I think I’ve reached that point / Where every wish has come true / And tired disguised oblivion / Is everything I do

Please stop loving me / Please stop loving me / I am none of these things

I think I’ve reached that point / Where all the things you have to say / And hopes for something more from me / Are just games to pass the time away

Please stop loving me / Please stop loving me / I am none of these things

I think I’ve reached that point / Where every word that you write / Of every blood dark sea / And every soul black night / And every dream you dream me in / And every perfect free from sin / And burning eyes / And hearts on fire / Are just the same old song

Please stop loving me / Please stop loving me / I am none of these things / I am none of these things

I am none of these things

/// the cure, “end”

|| October 18, 2000 || 10:30 am || Comments (0) ||

I wish that I could say that I am constantly amazed by how little it takes sometimes to set me off and send me spiraling towards the junkie wishing well. However, I am never amazed. I am frustrated and saddened and frightened by it, though. Perhaps that’s just what keeps me from pushing, popping, smoking or snorting anything in the world that I can get my grimy paws on.

Unclean. Unclean and lusting and remorseful. I feel all of those when the big jones hits.

You see, I am a two-time ‘user’. The third time is the charm, everybody knows this. That means if I fall offa the wagon the second time, it will be my last. I will never come back. I will be worm food after a time, because I have not enough control to be a lifelong practicing addict like Thom Yorke¬† or Iggy (good ole Iggy) Pop and a host of others too numerous to name. How the fuck do they do it? How do they rein in the bliss and the monkey far enough to stay alive, much less function? Must be something genetic.

Meanwhile, here I sits, having a fucked-up, rattly jones-day. The screaming in my sinews is palpable and I hope it doesn’t disturb you as you go about your activities. Love to you.

|| October 5, 2000 || 12:47 am || Comments (0) ||

There are times when a person is rudely yanked out of the present by some associative smell, by something seen that triggers a memory, by something uttered from the lips of someone (said someone having had no idea that the turn of the phrase they just gave voice to would cause a minor fold in their listener’s space-time continuum). The past moment, now that the linchpin is pulled, comes banging and clanging into the present without any foreshadowed knowledge or even the slightest peep of a warning. It can be insanely overwhelming, to say the least.

This has been happening to me a whole lot lately.
That having been said, lemme tell you a fucking story, boys and girls.

There was a time in my life when things were really, really off-center in the whole three-squares-a-day department. Three squares a week were not even the norm. Shitty school lunches were the highlight of the day, and God help us on weekends. Dad had bailed to go chase some tail and powder his nose (“Must be a little chalk dust, punkin’…”) and generally live it up in the worst/best midlife crisis fashion. Mom worked her ass off shuffling real estate (or trying her goshdarnedest to in what was at the time a male-dominated market) literally 19 hours a day to keep the heat on in the only home we had ever known.

In the little Oklahoma town that we lived in at the time, there was no such thing as Catholic Relief and my mother was staunchly against joining the welfare rolls. We came from the deep south and there was a large stigma attached. Ma’s reasoning was that her girls may not be garbed in the height of fashion any longer, but they sure weren’t gonna be wearing the almighty cloak of poor white trash. Pride has no nutritional value, you see, so it did no good to swallow it. What was the point, after all? My job was to keep the house tidy, make sure my tomboyish sister didn’t stray too far past the now-empty barn or permanently disfigure herself in her wanderings, proof the homework and guard what little food we had from her constantly-rumbly tummy. I tell you all this not to elicit sympathy, just to give you some background that is instrumental in this particular tale. I survived to become the closet genius and Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico) lover that I am today.

Quick, throw on the brakes and join me in the ever-present today. I was wandering through a toy store a couple of days ago taking stock of the coming holiday season’s offerings for the young ‘uns. I cruised down the doll aisle and happened to catch sight of some hideous little Campbell’s Kids (you know, like the soup) dolls. This particular pair, adorned garishly in wedding finery, scooped me up and slammed me face-first onto memory lane. It was very, very yucky.

“How can two little dollies do such a thing?” you ask. “They are made to bring companionship and pleasure and many hours of fun play into lives (sounds like a dildo advertisement, right?) all over the free world.” Get comfy, fellas, ’cause here comes the crux of it. Ready?

Pan back to the past: One afternoon, the phone rang. Mom was –as always– at work. My sister was playing (oddly enough) quietly. I picked up the phone to hear the booming, boisterous voice of a gentleman on the other end. He rattled off the call letters to the local radio station and informed me that we were randomly chosen to participate in a promotional contest and that I was live on the air. If I could sing the Campbell’s Soup jingle, I would win TWO WHOLE CASES of Campbell’s Soups.

Oh, this was SO grand! My mind was reeling, but I got hold of my thoughts and managed to drag up the image of those delightful little Campbell’s Kids dancing in grandiose cartoon fashion and sing-songing that WONDERFUL SOUP-WINNING JINGLE! Hallelujah and shave the monkeys, I knew that damned jingle and I sang it with tentative excitement and anticipation. Upon finishing, the DJ loudly and proudly announced me victorious. I had won! We had food at long last! GOOD food and God only knew how long I could stretch two whole cases of soup betwixt the lot of us! Oh, thank you merciful heavens! I have seen the promised land and it is flowing with cream of mushroom, it is strewn with chicken noodle!

I was nearly jumping out of my skin as I dialed my mother’s work number. I was fortunate enough to catch her in the office and not out on a call. I hurriedly related the recently-transpired events to her and I could hear the smile in her voice at my enthusiasm. “Mom, mom, we have some FOOD! I won food for us!” and I started to tell her my plans for rationing and stretching our good fortune. Maybe things were starting to look up…

In the background I heard a male voice begin to sing the Campbell’s jingle. “Hey mom, who is that? Did they hear me on the radio or something?” My mother fell quiet and at that moment, in the best display of bad timing ever in the history of man, my mom’s prankster co-worker picked up the extension and began sing-songing the jingle in a little-girl falsetto.

“Hey girl, I really hadja goin’, huh?” I was stunned into silence and my gut slid down the front of my knees as I slowly settled the receiver in it’s cradle. I slumped into a chair, putting my head down on our heavy oak table. The sobs were so low and big that as I heard them, I was vaguely amazed that they were brought forth from a little-girl body. The phone rang and rang and rang and I never answered it.

Those fucking dolls. Those fucked-up grody-looking dolls. I was okay not remembering that story. Give to Toys for Tots, you fucks, and include a motherfucking ham. And don’t you DARE look into your refrigerator replete with condiments ever again and say you have nothing to eat, because you DO. You and I both know you do. Be thankful, ingrates. The world owes you not a fucking thing.

Postscript to this story….the dude who phoned to prank me was a really great fellow and had no earthly idea what a mindfuck it would be. Had he known our situation afterward, it would have broken his heart to know that he had goofed on me in that regard. Don’t hold it against him. HE SIMPLY DIDN’T KNOW.

|| September 9, 2000 || 3:20 am || Comments (0) ||

Q: What’s the difference between a Northern fairytale and a
Southern fairytale?
A: A Northern fairytale begins “Once upon a time…”; a Southern fairytale begins “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this

So here I sits, at 3:37 a.m. CST, eating eggs covered in The Original Louisiana Hot Sauce with a chocolate chip muffin on the side and some skim milk washing it all down. Normally, my lovelies, I near-despise eggs, even those cooked to a fluffy scrambled heavenliness a la my ma’s infamous recipe. On occasion, though, I do gets a pireful hankerin’ fer tha thangs, and tonight just so happens to be one of those times. The baby sits to my left, easily observed through the french doors of my office/dining room, watching The Brave Little Toaster with a look of amusement mingled with bliss (the same exact look he’s worn the 300 other times that he has taken said flick in). We are fresh offa a 1 a.m. visit to the E.R. *sigh* and he is on a sugar high that promises to last until 4:30 or so….

Was having a great time with the hubby *wink-wink* around midnight when the phone rings. I moan “Ignore it” and we both do until we hear the semi-frantic voice of mom-in-law beseeching us to pick the phone up and baby whimpering in the background. This is very uncharacteristic; my mother-in-law is never frantic and most usually quite capable in all situations. Cursing and fumbling to find the cordless ensues and by the time it’s found, she has hung up. When I call back, she tells me that my 20-month-old normally happy baby awakened her with screaming and was on fire with a 104.5-degree temp. She chucked him in the tub and I yanked on the nearest matching ensemble. Hubby has to work today and someone has to stay with the other two children, so I vote myself out the door and into the car to retrieve the young master.

Poor little thing. He is Mister Go Lucky normally, but was crying forlornly at the mere mention of his name. The bath seems to assuage his fever the tiniest bit and I give him some children’s ibuprofen on the fly. He scribbles jaggedly and angrily on his MagnaDoodle while riding to the hospital. Once there, the whole process goes rather swimmingly, which is no small feat for the hospital that we loosely refer to as “Medical Shitsville”. We are ushered in straight away (to my utter amazement) and seen within 15 minutes. HO-LEE SHEE-YUT. Zoinks, Batman!

End result is strep throat and he is given two cups of juice while awaiting an antibiotic shot.

He muttered “ohno,ohno,ohno” the entire walk back to the room we were assigned, so on some level methinks he knowed it was coming….he is highly intelligent and we can’t put much past him.

Keeping in mind that he was not feeling too snazzy to begin with and had already been subjected to the whole icky rectal temp thing twice, the shot was not well-received and he subsequently scored two yummy popsicles after the nurses got done cooing over him. He is a real beauty, what can I say? The popsicles were not quite enough to temper the situation, so as he sat on my lap he touched my lips repeatedly and said “lalala”. This means he wants songs to fill the moment, a throwback to when I would singsong “La la la, connect the dots” while he was an infant.

How can I possibly refuse this feverish little moppet, his curls sticky with sweat, his eyelashes matted from tears? I break into the standards, the repertoire of no-fails that have been honed to perfection by nearly 9 (GOD! Has it been that long?) years of mommydom…

After the requisite 15-minute post-injection observation period and handing off of the prescription, we are free to go and he is nearly a new man, fussing with his blanky on the way to the car.

All the way home he babbles and chatters at me in his loose baby-cum-toddler lingo. He is enchanted by the clear night and all the bright-shinies that it contains. As we hit the old country roads, he is delighted to play peepeye (translated as “peekaboo” for all northeners and foreigners) with the moon, which is low-slung and bright white. He keeps exclaiming “WOOK!” to me while pointing at it bobbing to and fro within the trees. This moment reminds me….

One night on the drive home, my daughter (then 2-and-a-half) turned to me and said excitedly, “Look mommy, the moon is following us. It must like me.” This was followed by a few moments of silence and then she turned to ask, “Mommy, can the moon come home wif us?” “I dunno, sweetie, you’ll have to ask the moon if it wants to.”

She asked me to roll down the window, which I did, then she politely asked, “Moon, would you like to come home wif me? I would like you to.” The moon followed us and she felt very special to have garnered its’ attention.

And here was my boy, sugar-loaded and fascinated with the moon. And here was me, caught between two moments in time and utterly fascinated by it all.

And oh yeah, I am eating eggs. The end.