327 Market

I woke up this morning in a typical morning funk. I guess that is the added boon of not having to be over the hill imminently-- I get to lay in bed and stew over the pathetic direction my life seems to be going in. Last night I went to a perfectly lovely party and met a quite a few sparkling, well-dressed, Flip Flop and mountain professionals (we're not all hippies, duh). I gorged myself on fresh sushi and pizza (to compensate for all of the red wine I wasn't drinking, yay healthy choices). As I was preparing to leave, I was ushered into the hostesses bedroom and she gave me a preview of the goodies she's going to be selling at another party. I am not going to go into any detail here, nor am I going to put forth any opinions about the goods (and they are legal in this state).

Lately I have chosen to Wait For the Right Man. As you can imagine, I am getting quite bored. I hate waiting. Especially, since no end is in sight [insert theatrical, wailing violins here]. And as lovely as just plain stimulation is ( I am not knocking that), it just seems so Junior High. Dare I say the word, "shallow" Is it "settling" or "embracing the false Florimel?" Or is it just a harmless release every woman deserves? Could it be justified medically?

TMI TMI TMI Wough Ha Ha Ha!