Sexy Sadie

The world was waiting just for you.

Its not like I have anything to say that couldn't be said better by worse, miles by way of inches, one if by land, two if by sea, ready to ride and spread ... alarm, no more than the papers or the national news syndicates, short and impolite way of saying that I should be bathing, sleeping, working, laundering (not money). I dream of a place with warm sand and ocean and solitude for two and sex, god yes! lots of sex and, and, and, I battle censorship and fight the man, give it the old college try, which, if you know me, you would know not to cash that check; and that I don't complete sentences nor use proper punctuation and I even speak in double negatives just to prove a point, and its not even binary and I don't even care because four AM is a good time to consider ambivalence or worth or meaning or any pursuit of the same. So robotic did I feel today that I think my TiVo might have have developed a small crush on me after years of treating me so bad and vengefully filling itself with Nascar races and Real World XVIILIVXCXXIMIVX episodes. So numb did I feel today that my cranium didn't explode when I read that story about the 13 year old committing suicide over a fake myspace boy. And so bitchy will I be tomorrow that it will require all of my self-control not to quip, "No, you have a nice day, Asshole," when I attempt to procure the card for which I nearly collateralized my soul. Not that I believe in that sort of thing. I'm just a body and a brain, just like my daughters. And since I'm not bound by the silly beliefs of religion or fate, I'll instead start hurdling unchecked through space and time and then some other stuff would happen and then (I'd fast forward at at least a 2 or 3 through this part) it would be life or death and then I would mysteriously become a nebulae bathed in light, "Sexy Sadie" humming in my shell-pink ears, and then ... well, I've kind of lost control of this metaphor.

Sexy Sadie, that is a fine looking Christmas tree.