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It's a fine line between living for the moment and being a sociopath.

Patricia B McConnell: For The Love Of A Dog.

Pema Chodron: The Places That Scare You

Daniel Wallace: Mr Sebastian & the Negro Magician

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. --Pablo Neruda

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Dishes remain in the sink, breasts remain undocumented

Looking back over the week, I realised, today, how much I've been posting. As Anonymous Pedantic Proofreader notes, there have been a few errors along the way, but I'm looking at quantity, not quality. It's a guy thing. (I think all the links are fixed, now.)

In a week, Flame-Haired Angel and I will be together, again, after three weeks of me living small in her absence. Being without her is just bad for me. It isn't a dependency thing, it's just that I don't live healthy when she's away. We've had two beautiful, blue-sky days in Paris, this weekend, and I've had my butt stuck to this chair for pretty much the whole time. I went out, briefly, only twice. Both trips were after dark, and one was to get more blank media for burning CDs. Pathetic.

On the up-side, I've done just about everything on the to-do list, including a pre-trip haircut and Christmas cards galore! Well, kind of. A few corners had to be cut, but items a-plenty were duly checked off.

What hasn't been happening is writing. Plenty of blogging, to be sure, but little actual writing. I've been meaning, for example, to write a piece about breasts. My friend Eric has been bugging me to write about sex ever since I suggested that I would start writing about sex. What I don't get is why he doesn't get it. I mean, he's a man, and he doesn't understand how, when I say I'm going to do something, I might not actually get around to doing it? Eric: stop shaving your chest, buddy.

Since I haven't made good in the writing-about-sex department, I thought I could at least write about breasts. It's a topic with a lot of possibilities. Consider that there are more breasts on the planet than there are people and you get an inkling of the possible scope of the topic. And that's just the breasts themselves; nevermind the related hardware.

You'd think I could've cranked out a soulful homily to mammaries without blinking. I've started a couple of titillating pieces, but have yet to get anywhere. Oh, the irony of not being able to focus on breasts. Maybe I'm just so bereft of being without Flame-Haired Angel's personal set that I'm unwilling to consider the subject at all.


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