saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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I'm back. Hide the children and the cupcakes.

Some people have rules about what they will write about in their diaries. I'm not a huge fan of posting song lyrics or poetry, although I have done so on occasion, when it was relevant. Same for writing about dreams. Honestly, no one is really interested in other people's dreams. That's like describing a movie that you, and only you, have seen. On top of that, it's apparently a 1950s experimental French film created by an art student under the influence of opium, and spliced together with a reel of WWII Looney Tunes, set to the soundtrack for "Porky's Revenge."

You'll never quite be able to capture that special feeling with the right words.

Anyway, one of my biggest rules about writing in my diary is to avoid describing my dating life. Honestly, how completely TEDIOUS is it to hear about, "Well, he was okay-looking and seemed like a lot of fun, but…" and, "His dog really seemed to like me and I found a dollar on the sidewalk outside of his apartment, but…"

I'm not a teenager. I do not presume to think that you give a shit. At. All.

To be honest, sometimes even I can't give a shit.

In light of my No Dating Talk in the Diary rule, I shall say this once. I shall make it as short as possible. I shall talk fast, and I'll even pretend not to notice when you roll your eyes.

I am in a relationship, yes. It appears to have gone better than some of my other attempts through the four(ish) years since my last long-term relationship. We've gotten past the he-saw-what-i-look-like-in-the-morning thing. And the meet-my-eccentric-family thing. And even the he's-seen-me-work-out-at-the-gym thing. So this is good.

So there it is. He is now integrated into my diary, as smoothly as can be expected. And I give him the superspecial Saint Louise title of: Other Half. Or, OH! for short.

Hell, I don't know. I'll think of something to call him sooner or later. Any suggestions?

(And "FB" doesn't cut it. Hear that, Fly? Sorry. Hey, now. No need for that kind of language. Don't make me come out to New York and…uh…on second thought, do make me come out to New York. Okay?)

Hmmm. Hmmm. Two weeks since I've written. Smack me around and call me Miss Kittin.

(Yoo know Frahnk Seeenahtrah? Hee'z dead. Dead.)

I'm plagued by things to say. Yes, plagued. Because they are things to tell you that come out in short, bursty sentences, as if I'm hiding on the roof of a building and dropping them on you like water balloons, and then ducking down to snicker like the fool that I am. No explanation. No reason. Just thoughts that splatter all over you merely because I’m a raging dumbass.

Good enough, right?

So…

Squirrels amuse the hell out of me. So do very large men driving very small cars.

I saw a Spider Veloce in the parking garage this morning. I stood over it and let my drool drop on the bumper.

I want to bathe in jalapeno jelly.

Why do waitresses in bars find it necessary to call everyone "hon"? I'm thinking that this sort of familiarity might earn them more tips. Really, though, all they need is a good, old-fashioned breast augmentation, and a variety of t-shirts that are two sizes too small, and say things like "sexpot" and "tasty" and "you should check out my vagina." Right? Come on, girls. Make it easy on yourselves, okay?

The other day, I saw a homeless man sitting next to the door of a shop, mumbling to himself. A very small boy walked up and put a nickel into the homeless man's paper cup. As I walked by, I heard the man mutter to the boy, "Stay in school."

They were putting me on. Right?

12:17 p.m. - 2003-05-23

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