This whole “coming back to blogging” thing has been pretty cool.
It reminded me that I feel more “right” when I’m writing.
Yeah, it’s a good thing.
The other morning, I’m in the bathroom, doing what you do in there (well, what I do in there. I’m not sure what you do in there. And it’s probably for the best if we keep things that way, yes?)
I look down at my left thigh.
And give an involuntary yelp.
I yell to the Man Friend to get into the bathroom.
(To his credit, he just came, never even questioned it. And I think that if he’s going to date an older woman, whose body comes up with a new way to disappoint and decay and desiccate on a daily basis, that bodes well for him. And for me. And wasn’t that a lot of “d”s in that last sentence? And oh my, but we’ve fallen off the rails here, haven’t we?)
I present him with the evidence:
And the question (as if he is suddenly a doctor of complicated leg problems), “WHAT INTO THE FUCK IS THIS?”
He mentally walks back through the last couple of days, trying to remember if his klutzy girlfriend actually bumped into anything/dropped anything/became squished between two things. He comes up with nothing.
And then I remember.
This used to happen to me sometimes when I blogged more. Specifically while I sat for several hours dicking around on the internet for inspiration for posts, then playing solitaire, then checking my email, then stalking people on facebook, and then finally writing a god damn blog post on my laptop. You see, those purple dots? Line up perfectly with the “heat holes” on the bottom of this laptop.
Totally worth it, but TOTALLY weird.