08.06.05

I am having a glorious day of reading, writing, and staring into space. The house is empty except for KaliHellKitty.

I've got fresh, sweet tea cooling in the refrigerator, an avocado warming on the counter, and a pile of books that a friend lent me. The Spanish Prisoner is on at 14:00. I've got another chapbook to work on.

I am going to talk to no one for hours.

It's wonderfully warm and sunny. I've got on my most scruffy, threadbare, faded, soft jeans and a slightly slutty bikini top that I knit myself from elasticized cotton. I'm as happy as a sex addict at Plato's Retreat.

I just got a note from ArcAngel 666 that said that I made his agent blush with my words. AND that his brother, a non-poetry enthusiast, had read my chapbook all the way through, and wondered if I was interested in dinner and cocktails. *snort*

Yes, I'm bragging.

I shouldn't be pleased that my words have affected others? Hah! That's the point, damnit. *laugh*

I might be going out tonight with friends. I might not. Either way is okay with me.

Enough. I'm going to wallow in my delusional, self-centered world all day. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. And maybe, just maybe, my fantasy about the well-muscled (but NOT muscle-bound, steroidal, and scary) man will appear on my doorstep. He'll have on a pair of well-loved jeans and a smile. He'll have a margarita in one hand, a bottle of massage oil in the other, and a bag of books slung over his shoulder. He'll ask what I want (that's the truly unbelievable part), and I'll tell him. He'll smile and say "That sounds perfect."

Yeah. Right. And monkeys will cha-cha across the Saharan waste.

Go. Be fabulous.

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