I have a chip in my pedicure.
Instead of measuring twice and cutting once, I'm sitting on my couch.
900mgs of lithium is about 225 mgs too many for me to feel the free-flow of linguistic waters. Ideas come and climate change does as climate change will.
She tells me we're in a monsoon. I could use a drink, but we're teetotaling these days. Kind of.
I need a five-year plan. You know, one more thing I can screw up beyond all recognition.
Only this time I plan to screw it up by getting it right. Can I make that sort of a deal with the universe?
If you're reading and taking this seriously, you're half right.
You wouldn't know it, but I smell incredible. It's estrogen, but I couldn't tell you if it's hers or mine.
She's incredible. Really. I wish I could tell you how happy and found and loved she makes me feel.
I want to bring her endless bouquets of flowers, want to touch the softness of her skin until I'm absorbed in it.
Maybe everything will be okay after all. How can you even know what you're looking for until that thing finally figures itself out and emerges from the cocoon? How could you even guess at her beauty, at how blinded you'll be by her sparkle?
You only live by the rulebooks if the jargon isn't non-sensical.
There are infinities upon infinities. Try flexibility.