i obsess.

overexposed.

I got a sunburn when I went to Rio de Janeiro with my host family in Brasil, for our summer vacation, I got this wicked fucking sunburn because, even though I'd practiced my skin up real good at the nearby pool while wearing a Brasilian bikini (picture, please, a piece of cloth large enough to create a pirate eye-patch for a mouse.  Now, multiply that by three, and attach some string in between the pieces.  There's your, er, *my* bikini), I hadn't practiced it up *quite* enough.  En route to the beach (we drove, family-style), we stopped off for the first night's sleep in a town that I wish I could remember the name of.  It was lovely.  (What has that to do, remotely, w the multiple-mouse-eye-patch-kini?  NOTHING.  whee!)  Anyway, we lunched somewhere, the next day, about an hour out of Cabo Frio (the beach that was our trajectory), and the name of *that* town also escapes me, though I do recall it began with an R, and afterward I peered into the shop next to the luncheonette and spied a perfectly edible tangerine-hued bikini made for an even smaller mouse's eyeball, so of course I HAD to have it, snapping it up on the spot.  It didn't cover as much (oh, the silliness in that statement) as the one I'd been accustomed to before, and left a few bare patches of heretofore unexposed-to-sunlight flesh.  Those bits, specifically, one strip on my left breast, and one strip on my right butt cheek, were so scorched as to become raised and leathery.  It took about a year for the skin to lose its slightly-darker appearance.  In the meantime, HOLY SHITBALLS DID IT HURT.  I truly understood the meaning of pain in the days after that exposure. 

I'm going to close up shop, here.

Hold on.  Stop fucking laughing.  I really am, this time.  See, I have a plan.  A several-point one, even.  I'm going to open a NEW shop.  YEAH.  BITCHES.  DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING, DID YOU, SMART-ASS FUCKOS?  (hi!  i like to insult my audience!  -- i don't, really, but i -- just -- oh.  good lord.)

The first part of the plan was to tell you I was going to aim my trusty pop-gun at the belly of this bitch, and the second part was to start a new blog, but to give you some time to beg and plead for the url of the new joint.  And the third part was to possibly explain some of why I'm doing all of this.  Only, I was undecided on the third part.  'Cause OH MY GOD THE TIME IT WOULD TAKE.  You do, you *must*, realize how absolutely fucking wretched I am at telling a story without spending an eternity on the sidetrack-ish portions, if you've been playing along for any length of time, oui?  So there.  You can wait to find out at the new joint as to the manifold reasons why.

For I will list them.

In the interim, you shall have to fold your hands decent-like and be all patient and shit, because SOME PEOPLE are insistent that I keep at this nonsensical business, even though I truly spare about, mmm, five or eight minutes a week for pleasure-writing (blogging not being remotely related to that business of what I would call "pleasurable").  I will say, yes, by golly, I'll say it -- I'm gonna miss this patch of imagined real estate, but shit.  It's fucking time.  Too many bloody unwelcome eyeballs peeled to witness my drivel.  Too many people who read but won't give me a goddam call on the phone to chat.  Which is high -- it's just high.  Who the fuck reads a blog written by a madman but won't call them up on the goddam phone to chat for a bloody fucking minute?  Especially when they could, because they have access to the number, and no excuse as to why they haven't done so, and then it just makes the person writing for the eyeballs all creeped out and shit, and makes that person not want to write on their own little, stupid, idiocy-driven web log. 

I have to come up with a name first, though.  So stick around, chickens and chickadoos, while I ruminate.  I mean, whatever you fucking do, STICK AROUND.  I'm sure it'll be like a veritable madhouse around here in the meantime.  (If a madhouse is still and silent as a tomb.)

(It is.)

(I think.)

Oh!, and email me or comment or some similar shit if you want the new address.  OR, YOU KNOW, YOU COULD CALL ME.  WE COULD CHAT.  YOU COULD ALSO SIMULTANEOUSLY INFORM ME AS TO HOW YOU ARE, TOO, AT THE SAME TIME.  SOUNDS WEIRD, HUH.

*ahem*

pantsed.

Isn't it funny how women can wear both pants and skirts and be entirely socially acceptable but a man who wears a skirt is a freak?

And isn't it funny, too, how women can read men's and women's literature and be entirely socially acceptable, but a man who reads both is kind of a freak?

So if you're a woman and you want to be read by men, you better goddam well stop wearing skirts, is I guess what is to be taken from this lesson.

Because to think that you could keep wearing your skirts and still get the men to read you is to -- well, it's just unthinkable.  It doesn't happen.

Does it?

*

Sadly, I was getting a lot, BUT A LOT, of spammy comment-attempters, for whatever lame reason about which I care not, so I have to close the comments.  Stupid spam-artists.

hungry.

Am currently residing astride a wobbly see-saw wherein one moment I am certain I can fight my way, smiling with teeth a-grit, just by ignoring it, through the solid gray mass of fog that is this life, and in the next very closely-trailing moment I am certain I am among the most miserable of humans ever to try to identify with that one Greek god-dude who had his liver eaten daily by the eagle, merely to watch in horror as it daily renewed itself so as to be munched again by said eagle on the morrow.

Morrow.  Marrow.  Liver.

Mmmm.  Is lunch soon? 

stupid, sexy liver.

And this thing, this life, the one where I compose epics my marrow is sole audience for, captive, waiting to be licked clean and hopeful that it will please when the licking is accomplished, but knowing, knowing, that the marrow will not divvy up the complexities.  Knowing the licker will not have the nuanced palette to divulge its secrets, in that wisp of a moment when tongue meets bony center.

Bummer.