Okay, that's enough. I'm going to bury it with nonsense. Since a bunch of you have tagged me as bipolar, which I'm not and I know people who are and my doctors have all confirmed that I am not, thank you oh so very much. There's not a whole lot of mania around here. We've just got the depression and the PTSD/baggage and everything else is a mirage. He's dead, the only way through is up.
Let's be happy, please?
Here's where I point out if you Google Stoli and blow, I'm the fifth hit. Which is funny, because life doesn't get that exciting around here. Thank goodness (or is that My god, I'm dull?).
Here's where I point out that Jacob has become obsessed with my hands. He can cover my whole fist with one of his. He can put my whole hand in his mouth, which wasn't funny, it was scary and I threatened to take out his wisdom teeth with my bare hands while I was captive.
He walks past me and stops to warm my fingers in his hands. My fingertips are cracked and split from the cold and the dry air. It's his way of finding something to be fussy over so he can keep an eye on me. The sweetness.
We're okay. I swear. We still love each other beyond words, nothing there has changed, even though our relationship appears to have an obstacle course that makes the one that the army uses the nursery-school run.
Loch sent me flowers. Pink roses. Just as touching was the thirty four emails (and counting) with sweet support inside from readers. Only 2 icky ones (so far). Thank you, I'll be responding soon.
And lastly, marmalade and butter. Why? Just because.
Because I watched Last Tango in Paris and butter has been a favorite word ever since.
Because you can knock me down but you won't make me any less perverted.
Hugs all around. Hugs all round.
