Somebody complained that I hadn't written in a while -- that's so incentivizing.
Isn't that a good non-word? An imago-fictive construct, that word.
These rare nights out serve to remind me of what a light-weight I've become, in terms of Guiness pitchers and literary wit. I come home, put my son to bed, I check my work email (church geek), write my boss, get a temperature reading from my husband, drink some Vitawater, blog a little... where's the sequel to my examination of the influences of Edith Wharton (or whomever it was) and Somerset Maughm? Where's the insightful commentary on The Lord's Prayer in the original Aramaic? Heck, I'm not even using spellcheck. Nope, I'm drunk on beer and this is the minute I possess in which to record my worthless impressions:
I miss having friends who like to go out. I need to work out some well-earned angst. I like guys my own age, and don't find younger men terribly attractive (they all look like they're in junior high school.) I hope I don't puke, having just consumed a handful of those Big Dipper cornchips. I hope Cathie made some progress on the giving statements. I need ibuprofen. Now he's back home doing 9 to 5 -- Living his grey flannel life -- But when he turns off to sleep, oh memories keep -- "More More More" -- Gitchy gitchy ya ya da da... I think Hillary Clinton is just another Washington white guy for President. I'm sad that Edwards won't make it, again. I wish my fish n chips had come with more fish, and real fries. I like Mayslack's bar. It's too cold for romance.
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