My god it’s been a long time.
I miss being what you might call a writer or at least a blogger.
I miss days when it mattered.
I miss being creative, and living a life that routinely got me in trouble – I miss the trouble, and the people I used to get into it with. Well, certain people anyway.
It’s been a long fucking pandemic; will any of us ever be the same, when this is objects-closer-than-they-appear in the rear view? Not the over that people are pretending now, the ‘it’s not over at all but we’re too tired of it to know that’ kind of over thats’ whole-cloth nonsense. Will we ever, though, be who we used to be?
I need a martini, but I need it with the people I used to drink martinis with. My dogs are good company and all, but, well, it’s not the same, now, is it? They can’t mix a decent drink, and though they’ll definitely kiss, they also don’t kiss nearly as well as – well, as some other people – and gin doesn’t cover dog breath.
I need to write something better than this. See if I still can.
Maybe i’ll be back tomorrow. Or maybe in another year.
I’ve talked about it before; I will again. I don’t think a lot of the idea of valentines day.
Pink candy hearts and paper cards are not part my celebration of carnal, physical love, nor are they pat of my celebration of romantic love.
My kind of love leaves marks, bruises, welts. It leaves one spent. It doesn’t include a sugar rush and a lot of packaging.
All that aside, though, love is what we make it, and it needs to be celebrated. We need to remember to say it out loud, and to show it with forgiveness and acceptance, respect, an open mind and an open heart.
For those to whom I’ve not say i love you enough lately, I do, even when I forget to say it. For those to whom I have said it, I mean it. Those words don’t come lightly from my lips, and when I say they, they are absolutely real.
Happy Valentines Day, people.
Shhh. Don't tell anyone. [looks around] I'm a hopeless romantic. Shhhh! I know. Me. The cynic. The realist. The practical guy. The big pervert. The sexual omnivore. The guy who wants to take a girl and bend her over his…
Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.
I’m a hopeless romantic.
I know. Me. The cynic. The realist. The practical guy. The big pervert. The sexual omnivore. The guy who wants to take a girl and bend her over his knee.
I grew up the son of a logician. I was, I told myself, Spock. All about the logic. No emotion. But you know what? I’m not Spock. I’m more about Kirk. I want to teach the silver-haired alien girl in the slave collar about this earth “kiss.”
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