Small Town Gay Bar

I watched this, last night. It's great.
I made strawberry rhubarb oat bars.
Bloody Tuesday.

There was something else I thought important to tell you...
Love is not a flimsy feeling. Love is not a Harlequin romance.
I think the diminishment of Love and of Love Stories is part of a plan to diminish anything that can save us. Love can do that.
Or ruin us, tragedy. Love can be selfish. Love just is.

Would you rather live and die with the mildest of feelings and only the sense of I-breathe-therefore-I-live?

Sula's been making me think differently about love. And African Love Stories. AND Small Town Gay Bar.
Which bar would you rather be in?

mental notes

"8pm shows thursday and saturday and a 10:30pm friday in which teh entire cast of LCP's rocky horror will be there...

just got the email.

then a 5pm on sunday"

You see, I googled "domesticity"

then "domestic" (I played out
the pronunciation of both and was surprised
at the dome in the first, the dumb in the second.)

Then these; these have made me think of you and you.

Googling.

How serious

is the mispronunciation of my name? Ever
how serious hair bits? The cat
is cackling, smelling with his mouth
open, fanged.

You over
simplify some things, over
complicate the rest.

Maybe what we're trying to love at is false.
Has one of us out-lied the other yet?













What are you trying to tell us about

WHo's dOOoing THat?!

Motherfucksubs.

Yes!

I anonymously comment on my own blog sometimes!

Well, it's official.

I'm leaving both of my jobs. I've found full-time employment somewhere much better than Lincoln and I'm leaving.

Her Hat

resembles a funeral,
would be worn
in a mortuary.

Setting. The lines.
Drag these out. She
stabs, stabbing--

panting.
huuuuh!
uh.
huuuuh!
uh.

She's a bird. And dripping. She's
labeled and dropped. Then
the patting.