Innocence

..
I spent a lot of time on the beach when I was little, and one of my favorite things to do was to make sculptures out of twigs and shells and seagull feathers and whatever assorted beach debris was at hand.

I would frequently top my masterpieces with these hollow pink plastic torpedo-looking things that could always be found washed up along the tide line.

I remember how confused and angry I was when my mother would remove them (ruining it, just ruining it) while I wasn't looking.

In retrospect, I kinda wish she'd just told me.












I quite like the blowgun

Spidla on da Roof : A Paean of Praise

This post is dedicated to my much-cherished friend Carlo Spidla, who, having hocked me way up a chinik for an update, had nerve enough (the chutzpah!) to express dissatisfaction with my latest offering.

"Noo, a better update, I've already heard that one."

Oh really!

Then I read his comment on a previous post and I realized what this was all about. Kid wanted a shout-out. Sweet, naive soul. Thinks I have a readership or something.

But ask anyone who knows me, I'm all about indulging. So, fine! Here:

I love Carlo Spidla dearly, truly do. Love him so much I had to take it upon myself to relieve him of that western-style dress shirt he lent me after I got soaked through by the rain on my way to his house. It's got these pearly buttons and silvery threads, and... just didn't suit him at all. Didn't even have to see it on him, I could tell just by how good it looks on me.

Yeah, I'd do just about anything for a friend like Carlo.

If you didn't already know, Mr. Spidla is the author of some pretty steamy stuff about ebony feet. And fake Jimmy Choo bags. But that's all in a day's work. Oh yeah, and he fiddles around with music sometimes too.

But he really doesn't need a shout-out for that. After all, he's all up in the gears of the hypemachine. Never mind, you've probably already heard that track if you read, oh I don't know, THE NATIONAL POST.

Anyway, my good friend whatshisface is one big bag of talent and I am damn proud to drop his name. Like it's hot. Because it is. Like ebony feet and replica handbags.

Plugged. What.

Win

...
So yesterday I was waiting for the light at a crosswalk, minding my own, when this super huge fatty man (I mean, husky and then some) came flying up the street on his bicycle, flesh flaps a-whappin' in the wind.

And as he rounds the corner he roars: "MOVE! FATASS!"

At me!

And I was all, "I THINK YOU'RE PROJECTING!"

My fellow pedestos thought it was pretty funny, and there we were all a-titter, mocking the fat man on wheels.

Hot lesbian XXX action!!!

...

Seriously, who needs YouPorn.com when you have CNN?

Don't Call Me, I'll Call You

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My life is full of romance.

The last "date" I had involved a cute drunk boy showing up at my house for an evening stroll. I was optimistic.

Well...

He didn't seem all that tanked when he arrived, but by the time we were three blocks away from my house he could no longer hold himself up.

It took me a full forty minutes for me to mostly carry his six-foot-something-impressive frame back to my place. Where he passed out on my bed. I had to take his shoes off.

Don't look at me like that, this one was leagues beyond too drunk to fuck.

At least he was complimentary. “You have the most beautiful collarbone,” is what I think he slurred as he slipped from my arms and onto a sharp rock. Oops. He's going to feel that in the morning.

And he did. Oh, believe me, morning was all kinds of comfortable.

“Where did all these grass stains come from? I don't remember anything.”

Oh suuure.

Dear Teenage-Boy Roommates,

.............................
Sure, maybe now I'm the alluring older woman.


But wait till I'm sitting around the couch all day in my pajamas, laughing at my own farts.


Yeah, you just wait.

I really like how they all look super thrilled

"good news!"