Friday, July 21, 2006
Stabbing at Content
I have had a few days to digest the events of the last few days, and I realize that I owe my reader(s) an explanation for the nearly contentless entries.
I am in love.
Even as I write the words, they don't quite seem real. A very vocal part of my cynical soul is dying of moritification right now. The one, who for years, insisted that love was too good to happen to her, or it didn't really happen to anyone, or that it was always fake. Its like admitting you have dandruff or you snore. I am having to admit that I am like the rest of the snotty-nosed, monkeyfaced humans grubbing on this planet, and just like them I burp, shit and fall in love.
Don't worry, this post won't be singing anyone in particular's praises. I have stopped reading peoples' blogs when they fall in love, because its so damn specific. Really, does anyone besides me care about the structure of his thumb? Or his stupendous vocabulary? I vowed that when/if the happy event befell me, I'd spare you the gory details. Also, if I ever bear/rear children, I'll spare you that (except the real exciting bits with the blood and stuff). There are too many baby-blogs. That is a promise, you monkeyfaced readers.
sticking strictly to the Kitchen Window
A while back I helped the Contessa draft a Craigslist ad.
I was going to post that seminal posting here, but alas, I can't access the special e-mail account. doh!
Back to the Homily, Cyrano
I have written many ads for myself, and have met many nice men, and some genuine eccentrics. The vast majority of those contacts rarely lasted longer than a cup of coffee (tho' a few I still correspond with occasionally). I feel like my life is illustrating a sermon about altruism, because in spite of all this personal CLing, the one I want to go on that pivotal Third Date with, responded to her ad. I did the "generous thing" and voila, now I am in love (and completely pixilated, giddy and having difficulties focusing). So the moral is, kiddies, help your neighbor write their CL ads, and you never know who you will meet.
And before you accuse me of stealing men, I'll have you know, that neither of them felt any romantic sparks. The hand-off (even that is an overstatement) was quite amicable. That sounds terrible. Would "transfer" sound better? No. Hm. Well, you get my meaning. And Thanks, Contessa, for being such a fabulous sport.