It’s only Tuesday and I’ve already run the gamut of my weekday emotions–all before bedtime Monday. The upshot is that, while I feel the need to communicate with my own voice, I can’t choose what I want to say. My brain was popping last night and this morning with possible topics. Guess I should have written them all down for the days I’m locked in indecision. Sorrow is good grease for the creative machine. Sad, but true!
So some randoms:
Charlie Sheen–you’re just scary now. Don’t Tweet, don’t show up on the Emmys, don’t call. And what skincare products are you using now because someone has done miracles there, baby.
Heels in September in the Midwest–people, if you’re going to wear sandals after you’ve left the exfoliating goodness of the beach, buy a ped egg or some other device for doing the work of hot sand. And if your toes look like they belong on short creatures from LOTR, just don’t. Just don’t.
Is reading solipsistic or just cathartic? Salvific? Good for the vocabulary?
I want Jim Dale to narrate my life.
After an adult-lifetime of disliking my husband’s ex, it’s hard to break the habit. Sometimes I relapse. Sue me. Or send me to hell, depending on your deity status.
My id is working overtime. I want and I want and I want and I don’t want to listen to reason.
Doing for others makes a person feel better, so this morning I sent random kind text messages in the hopes that my mood would lift. Does doing for others count if you’re really doing it for yourself? I mean outside the boudoir?
I thinking of adding Ryan Gosling to my list. Just temporarily. I’m just not sure who to give the boot. Decisions, decisions. what the hell. Let the list be the top 11.