I hold him hard, wondering how long until the next time.
After his less than colorful Red Dog, The Maroon orders Shiner Bock, too. I can't finish mine, though I'm enjoying it. Even the name tastes good. However, the last time I knocked back dark beer too quickly, I had trouble walking to my car.
Political Animal reminisces, inspired, perhaps, by an overly heated discussion with an ex-military quasi-comrade.
He is Luke to my Leia. The bagels on my head are more secure than they ought to be, considering the haste with which I arranged them. We pose well together, comfortable in our seven? ten? year relationship. We have history.
Speaking of history, a blast from the past, the present, and possibly future: one of my new favored people has written a wonderful article on an old favorite band.
The children bring my attention to an animated short, which is wonderful. I'm no CG expert, but this Animusic is impressive. How do you pluralize that? Animusica?
Plural leads to collective, and collective leads to Lulu Eightball. That Emily Flake is funny. She just is.
Comics lead to comedy, which (despite being more akin to desperate bitterness) leads to this week's The Pain- When Will It End? It reminds me of recent uncharacteristic venom, mine.
Struggle
Flex Vulcan arm of power
move against a fractious cousin
who bites back when you bully
regretting not the cost of his
slice in unprotected back.
More tears with each hour
bodies by the dozen
embrace each other fully
over headless human hostages
rolling in Iraq.
(To those who don't like poetry, my apologies.)
We are at the National Air and Space museum by way of Tomfoolery. It's a space theme, and mostly we're here to have our photos taken with the guests. This is working?
Tales of a Foot Worship Party, brought to us by the lovely professional, Mistress Matisse, make me think of someone who once carried me across broken glass.
His name is David Smith, and he's a freak. His feet are soft as a baby's. He asks me to touch them before lifting me into his arms. I am squeamish and overly empathetic. I squirm and squeal, hiding my face in his shoulder. Squeezing my eyes shut fails to block mental images of his tender soles across those colorful jagged bits. I imagine my reaction is quite satisfactory. He tells me later he chose me based on my size.
"And yours is the first face I see. Surely proof that God loves me and wants me to be happy." I rush to him for hugs and kisses. It has been eight months, maybe even a year since I've seen him.
Are there tears in my eyes? Of course.
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