There's Just So Many Things...I Waaaaaaaaannnnnnnaaaaaa Say.

Nothing like using a Peter Cetera lyric for your title.

I'm just trying to get back into this.
Because it's summer.
And people tell me I'm good at it.
And I need to hone my writing skills.

Last night was a bit rough. But I got through it.
withOUT meds.
withOUT wine.
WITH a friend via text.
WITH a book that I still haven't decided if it's good or not, although it did make me think about my single/slorey lifestyle.
WITH some journaling.

And so.
Here we are.
Non-academic writing for the first time, well, probably since the last blog post.
And let's be real. It's not like my writing is all that academic when it's supposed to be.
A consistent remark on my papers that I get almost A's on.
Oh wells.

Sometimes its fun being dramatic.
Sometimes its fun keeping secrets, even if they're from yourself.
Sometimes boys are dicks.
Sometimes they are really funny and maybe nice.
Sometimes your friends can be dicks.
Most times your friends are super awesome and ridick.
Sometimes its (or is it it's? Where is Gilberto when you need him?) fun to do lady things.

Favorite lady things:
brunching
gossip
dancing
mani-pedis
cute knickers
eyebrow maintenance
crushes (but not really)
Tori Amos' "Scarlett's Walk"
Neko Case
skirts
boxed wine
cheap champers
70s

Sometimes I wonder if I'm trying too hard, or not hard enough.
Horse apiece
Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Fast and loose or close to the vest?

I will never understand Brazilian waxes.

My dogs bring me an infinite amount of joy.
REALIZATION: If I wasn't single I wouldn't have two dogs.
And I probably wouldn't have the infinite amount of joy they can bring me just by snoring or burping in my face.
Cos my dogs are super classy.
Just like their mum.

Everyone has a fatal flaw.
Mine seems to crop up on the third date or hangout or whatever we're calling these things these days.
Fall off the horse.
Get back on the horse.

I'm thinking of getting a sleeve of Todd Rundgren's Something/Anything album cover on my left forearm. This will happen upon graduating or getting published.
Graduation will most likely happen sooner since I'm not even trying to get published at this point.

Remember when I wrote fiction?
Remember when I used to go out every weekend?
Might I be good at non-fiction writing?
Based upon actual events.
Ripped from the headlines.

I still don't understand poetry. Why be so succinct with words and grammar and syntax? Why not just ramble? Is this an either/or thing? You either get poetry or you don't?
Home Burial by Robert Frost.

Bruises from your dogs are way less fun than bruises from sex.
But still better than bruises from leukemia.

My type A is screaming to get out.
But my type Z is louder.

Topper needs routine.
I think I do too.

I mowed my tiny city yard yesterday and am sore beyond belief.
Bruises on hips.
Scratches on legs.
Muscles ache.
Blister on my thumb.
"Maybe get a blister on your little finger. Maybe get a blister on your thumb," Dire Straits.

I wish communal living wasn't looked down upon.
I wish my friends would all live with me.
It'd be like 1920s Paris every goddamn night.
I wish I was a little bit taller.

Step on in home rehab complete:
Tile for the foyer has been purchased.
My ceiling keeps falling down.