Write round

This is my ode to sex in the city and everything Carrie Bradshaw, minus the revolving door of men, hats and designer clothes. What that really means is that most of the time I'm out living life and then when it gets a little confusing I try to figure out my thoughts for strangers to read. I've been doing a lot of ponder, as per usual, regarding the places in life that are broken, confusing and really I suppose just out of my control. I've decided that dating is not a game you play if you live your life by the Golden Rule. It seems anytime I treat people the way I would like to be treated I end up still single. Not that, that is always bad, I've dodged a hell of a lot of bullets. And I'm super thankful. Which leads me to my second point.. I don't think I'm savy enough to play the dating game/ be a serial dater. Well I'd give the second one the old college try, but damn the rest is too exhausting and complicated. So I don't know. And I mean that very literally. I'm lost. I'm anxious. I should be sleeping. This is one of those things that goes unresolved. I have no desire to control human behavior, but I suppose I desperately try to make sense of it. People act within a patter of behavior, and when I don't know that pattern, life just throws me for a loop. So I'm still writing, still figuring out and still not sure what's next or how to fix the broken places. I'm tired of the song and dance. I was hoping for a life filled with passion. I'm not sure if every misstep is forward or back. Am I just weeding out the unlikely's or getting further from the mark? I'm trying to make sure I don't whine. I'm probably having an epic fail. I think mainly this is the blog that never ends because the finality really puts it all out there.

Bang for your buck

I want a shiny new tattoo, to increase the value of my real estate. There's no limit to curb appeal. Sex sells, as long as you don't think about it too much. Bedroom eyes and retail therapy often end in buyers remorse. If you think about it, and you shouldn't; there's no sense using logic when it comes to romance. Go with your gut and the force will be with you, until the particles split, then it's gone baby gone. You'll see stars when your bubble bursts. It's never a fair fight when I didn't know we were playing. Life is just a game, sectioned out like a cafeteria tray, except you can't go back for seconds, but the lunch lady is always grouchy. At least you won't lack for consistency.

Hunting Season

I got lost in coincidence, that appeared to be fate. Or whatever other devices people use to explain a thing that happened with no reason, but just seemed right. I didn't intend to be deceived. I'm not sure that was the intention, though it certainly seemed to be the end result. I'm not a good gun dog. I run when I'm spooked. And that could leave you trampled. Or Shot. Even if by accident. It's harder to count the casualties when you are one. I'm not sure that death by vernacular seduction is as painful as it is poignant. There's no warning shot. Just a split second where you realized you read your fortune cookie wrong.

Strong in the broken places

The old stand by rant is ever ready to be written, partially on principle and partially because I don't know how the hell else to protest a personal injustice. It's like going hunting. (I think, I've never been hunting,yet I digress.) You don't know what's in there until you flush it out. Once it's out you can decide. I think life is a lot like that;, but way more I need to write a blog on editing my emotions, so that they're less damning in the event that they're read. I don't need people to read this, I just have to write it. No matter how embarrassing it is, when I write it down it gets better. I exercise the demons. I know some men with really great emotional intelligence, but still I wonder if I would get the same satisfaction if I just went hunting. I've written like 400 drafts in the last 2 days. Some of them start great, some of them say exactly what I want, but none of them seem to exercise the demons. I have written, and written, but I haven't felt spent. It's as if I've had 400 epiphanys. Sometimes I write because I love words. I love to put words on a page, I love how you can manipulate word. I love song lyrics. I love the emotions that you can illicit. Words can be super sexy. If you manipulate them. I have this dilema, where I believe people. I'm not sure if it's because I want the words to be true, or because my intuition is giving the go ahead. Then I start to wonder about the intergrity of words. It's mildly disabling to live in a world where you have to expect people to lie. Maybe it's just a matter of finding that happy medium between expecting people to lie and just not saying anything, unless your certain. Maybe there isn't even a middle ground there. Maybe people just good spooked. Maybe they're just bad gun dogs. If there's one thing I do more than any other thing it's ponder. It's damn near scientific. I haven't cured cancer yet, but frankly I haven't even given it a whirl. I think most often I ponder actions and reactions. How many shape the world around me, and what I can do do make that happen differently. Then I ponder how much face I can save by not writing crap down in a blog that 4 people read. Back to pondering. Or as it should read, back to cutting my own throat. That's more succinct.

The False positive

If there's one thing I do more than any other thing it's ponder. It's damn near scientific. I haven't cured cancer yet, but frankly I haven't even given it a whirl. I think most often I ponder actions and reactions. How many shape the world around me, and what I can do do make that happen differently. Then I ponder how much face I can save by not writing crap down in a blog that 4 people read. Back to pondering. Or as it should read, back to cutting my own throat. That's more succinct. I'm an individual that is often lead by intuition. For better or for worse.. it's a slippery slope. Sometimes I get so caught up in a moment and my guts are doing a happy dance, but my brain may be pushing the abort button. This generally results in FUBAR. Frankly, most roads often lead to FUBAR. I know a little bit about a lot of things, but I also know a lot of nothing. I don't know anything about men, well at least nothing I'd want to admit to.

Manic monday on a thursday

So in my quest to side bar from being a little black rain cloud, I think I lost my words a little. Not that I always need to have something to say, but I'm sitting on some sort of turbulence and it's tough to spit it out. I've had a week that's a little surreal, though yesterday brought it home with the clarity of the same old same old. I just had to double check that to assure I had enough prepositions. Sometimes I lose those too. I'm rare with out words, and sometimes the lack of them simply means I haven't been able to find the right ones to put together. I like to be succinct damn it. Accuracy is key, because words are powerful with layers of meanings. Once I'm running against the clock here so I can go get pretty for work. I think that makes it better and worse. So here's the dealio, the process. Something commercial worthy is totally in the works and pretty much waiting for something to happen to make it all go away. I think I naturally like bugger these things up, since I get all flustered and lost for words, or some other thing to over analyze every movement thought and action from a person to determine if I wore the right shoes or not. I go from charming and funny to twittering and awkward. Now that's pretty sexy. The mens come a runnin. What up player?! High fives all around. Then it makes me furrow my brow, which causes wrinkles, It's a viscous freaking cycle!!! I really wish there were stronger punctuation than the exclamation point. What if I'm more adamant than excited? How will anyone know? Distractions distractions. Sigh. I digress. I was reminded yesterday of my impending trip home. Reminded like a cop pulling you over for a speeding ticket, how welcome my presence is. Oh the trauma boiling point of hysterical laughter. I need body guards. Or something. I suppose this means I found my words. Though I'm not sure what they accomplished, just to prove that I don't have to weep out all my emotions. To sum up I suppose it means 1.) I'm probably going to be late for work, 2.) I might be a little in like and am expecting it to get completely FUBAR any moment now and C.) You can go home again, but you may have wished that you didn't, know matter how adorable your nieces and nephews are, and how hard you to intend to snuggle the little monsters. Though I don't really want it to be FUBAR. I want to create a new acronym that means everything is awesome and forehead wrinkles are sexy.

All Blogs go to Heaven

Wowza. So yesterday I suggested (suggested!?) that someone read my blog. For just a little insight into my soul. For the sake of posterity, I perused it a bit myself. WTF? Not that I'm that surprised by the content, but no matter how well written I'm feeling a little vapid, over how apparently sad I am that I can still belt it out with Beyonce. No matter how well I put the words together. From now on I'm committing to not whining anymore about how sad I am that I'm a spinster. just kidding. But mayhaps, I'm committed to looking a bit more thoroughly at the whole picture rather than just lamenting singleness. Trust me I know the other side ain't bliss. I think sometimes I find it hard to find balance between expressing myself and religious wing nut. I'm just so damn good at religious wing nut. There's something morally wrong with that sentence. or something. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps it's the ongoing identity question. Finally something new and different. A 30+ woman struggling for identity. What breath of fresh air. No, but seriously, and quickly, because I have go to slap some make up on I can be pretty for work....and maybe a few other things. wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more. Where was I? oh right... seriously Good little church girl seeks to be surronded by fantastic people for quality time. Sometimes the world blows up and I write about it. But feel free to remind me about what's important. BTW, that was a figurative belt it out with Beyonce, trust me. TRUST ME, you don't want me to sing. I know, because most likely, I've probably got a song stuck in my head that I'm singing.