<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d3440559\x26blogName\x3dWonder+Boy\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttp://wonderboyblog.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://wonderboyblog.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d-9208151565435014371', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

Life is only what you wonder.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Slow It Down

Isn't this always how it is?

You're constantly on the go. You're working forty-plus hours a week, and when you're not working, you spend most of your time not relaxing, vegging out, or being leisurely, and, most importantly, not spending Quality Time with your Signifigant Other, because there's simply too much that needs to be done.

There's a pile of stuff in your INBOX that needs to be answered. Not just junk you can delete, but things you really need to respond to. There's phone calls to be returned, plans to be made, checks to be written, clothes that need washing, the house to be cleaned, and so on and so on.
You have to write a new blog post for today, the dog needs to be walked, the trash needs to be taken out, the dishwasher needs to be emptied and refilled and run, the dining room floor needs waxing, the furniture needs to be dusted, the grass needs to be cut, the garden weeded.
And all through all of this your cell phone is going off like Chinese New Year.

And then when you actually do find some time to relax, you don't actually relax, (at least not that much, anyway) because you're busy thinking of the next thing that needs to be done.

And every once in awhile, I'd like to spend a few minutes of the day actually relating with the husband in some kind of signifigant manner, but sometimes we're both so busy it just doesn't happen.
(Going over which bill needs to be paid next, how much, and when, is not my idea of Quality Time, by the way.)

Then there are times (like now) where I think: What difference does it make if the laundry sits there a few days more? I still have some clean socks and underwear! Let the dishes pile up in the sink, they'll get washed eventually. Turn off the damn cell phone and let it rest for a while, it needs a break.
And so do I.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

See ya in a few.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

A Five Minute Story:

Almost, But Not Quite

It had started out pretty typical. Staring and smiling at one another across the bar.
I knew how it was going to end the minute our eyes locked.
He was sexy in that all-American boy-next-door kind of way. Blond hair, blue eyes, lean and toned body. He was easily the best looking guy in there -- aside from me, of course.

He was sitting right by the juke box, and after several minutes of the staring I took a dollar out of my jeans and walked over near where he was.
Someone had to make the first move, and it might as well be me. The ritual of cruising is like a dance, or perhaps more like a game of chess.
The next move was his.

"Hey," he said to me, tugging on the belt loop of my jeans.
I turned to face him and he said, "You're cute."
"You're pretty cute yourself." I replied.
That's how it began.

I don't recall there being much conversation. We sat next to one another, drinking our cocktails, smoking cigarettes, and swapping spit.
"Get a room!" someone shouted across the bar at us.
"Let's go to my place" he said, "I only live two blocks from here."
Fine by me.

I noticed him swaying in kind of a weaving motion as we walked along, and it took him forever to find the key to his front door. How much has this guy had to drink? I wondered.

We got inside his apartment and he fixed us cocktails, and we started making out on his sofa. Kiss me the right way and it's like setting me on fire. It's all about passion. Feeling someone wanting me makes me want them even more, and it just builds. The man knew how to kiss, that much was certain. He left me breathless.
After a few minutes, he said to make myself at home, he would be right back.

I sipped my drink and lit a cigarette and tried to catch my breath. I noticed a CD player and several towers of CDs. I looked through them, selected one, put it in and pressed play. He had said to make myself at home, hadn't he?

The CD was nearly half over, and he still hadn't come back. What could be keeping him? I contemplated lighting another cigarette and waiting, but I decided to investigate.
I walked past the bathroom, and the door was open with a night light on, so I knew he wasn't in there. There was only one other room, and that was the bedroom.
I stepped inside.

Well, well, well! I thought, What have we here?!
He was lying naked and face down on top of rumpled sheets. He looked so adorable lying there. Lightly tanned body, with an ass the color of milk.
I ran my hand along his smooth warm back.
No response.
I turned him over and he mumbled something, but otherwise he didn't stir.
I knelt down between his legs and began working on him with my mouth for several minutes.
No response at all. He was as soft and limp as overcooked macaroni.
If one of my world famous blowjobs couldn't stir him, nothing short of an air-raid siren would.

I paused and stared at him. God, he was beautiful.
Sigh.

I scribbled my name and number on a paper towel (the only paper I saw lying around) and left it on his kitchen table where he'd be sure to see it.

    You were pretty out of it, so I left. Here's my number.
    Maybe we can get together again sometime.
I turned off the CD player and the living room light.
I made sure the front door was securely locked as I exited and walked the ten blocks back to my apartment.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

You Better Work!

Guess who's going to be performing at this year's Baltimore Gay Pride Festival (June 18th)?


None other than the fabulous RuPaul!

It's OK to be jealous, bitches!

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Hangin' With My Hag

I spent some time with my "fag hag" Theresa yesterday.
Before anyone protests my use of the term "fag hag", Theresa would be the first to tell you that she is proud to be a fag hag.
Proud!

She's been a friend of mine for years, but it's not often we get to spend any Quality Time together.
She's a very busy lady who works two jobs. Plus, she's a single mom. It's difficult for her to get any free time, and when she does, I'm usually working or have made other plans.

It was so fun to cut loose and act silly, and Theresa is just a blast to hang around. We exchanged makeup tips and talked about boys. It was like a teenage girl's slumber party except we weren't in our jammies.
We had a gay ol' time.

At one point we were careening down the street in Theresa's pink Hello Kitty-mobile, blaring Britney's "My Prerogative" and wailing right along.

Oh yeah. That's pretty gay, all right.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Rough Trade

"I'd trade wisdom back in for innocence,
Just for one look through those eyes"
    --Ben Jelen
    Slow Down
Wisdom back for innocence? It's a nice thought, but would I really want to do it?
It seems like such an uneven trade to me.
Innocence is nice -- don't get me wrong -- but experience teaches you things. Experience gives you wisdom, makes you stronger, tougher, and better able to deal when life gets ugly.

Case in point:
See that fellow on the right? What a big fool he is!
He has absoloutely no idea that the handsome blond dude on the left is going to break his heart and hurt him (emotionally) more than he's ever been hurt before by anyone.
He has no clue of the random lottery of meaningless tragedy and the series of narrow escapes he has in store for him.
Boy, has he got alot to learn!

Young, wide eyed, naive, innocent and trusting -- that's what he is.
What a sucker!

He looks happy, though, doesn't he?

Saturday, May 14, 2005

You Come Talkin' That Trash And I'll Pull Your Card*

I've always said that I can get along with almost anyone. Put me in with a group of nuns, or a bunch of Rastafarians (or any other group) and I will most likely find some kind of common denominator, some way to get along.
It's one of those skills that just come naturally. I don't know why that is, but it's one of those things I don't question too heavily.

However, with that being said, there are some people who (for whatever reason) are determined not to get along with me, no matter what. They are resolved, it seems, not to give me a chance. Right from the get go, they're in my face.
I usually look at such situations as a challenge, putting my "skills" to the acid test.

I've always maintained that I don't necessarily have to be best friends with my co-workers. All that's really important is that we are able to work together efficiently.
I am fortunate to say I genuinely like the majority of people I work with, and I believe they genuinely like me in return.
We look out for one another, watch each other's sections when we're taking smoke breaks, give each other a hand when we're in the weeds. We can laugh and joke, have fun, and still get the job done.
It's a good feeling.

A recent addition to the crew, Ray rubbed everyone the wrong way from day one. Affable and cheerful with the guests, he was totally different in the back of the house where no customers are present. Standoffish and downright hostile with the rest of the staff, seeming like he can barely tolerate us. Acting like a big asshole to everyone in general, and to me in particular.

After a few failed attempts at trying to get along with him, with absolutely no success, I did what anyone else would do: Avoid All Contact.
It worked for a little while.

Anyway, last night I'm going through the IN door with a tray of dirty dishes and I collide with Ray who was going out to the dining room with a tray of drinks.
WHAM!
I held on to my tray, but his went flying. Soda, juice, ice cubes and drinking glasses going everywhere.
Totally his fault, he was going through the wrong door. That's why we have IN doors and OUT doors, to prevent accidents like that.
Well he starts hollering and cursing, calling me a "sumbitch" and saying why don't I watch where I was going.
All this shit.

Had it been anyone else, I would have apologized (even though it wasn't my fault) and helped them clean up. But it wasn't anyone else, it was him, and I'd gotten nothing but grief from him, and I didn't deserve to be talked to in such a manner, so I didn't do any of that.
I just kept going.

He's raising such a fuss that you could hear him in the dining room and a manager had to come back to see what the problem was. After reviewing the facts, the verdict reached was that after almost a month, there is absolutely no reason why anyone shouldn't know which door was which.

Vindicated! Yes!

Then he had to pull the "race card".

I am loath to discuss racial issues simply because race isn't a big deal to me.
Never has been.
Black, Asian, purple with green spots, it's all the same to me. People are people.

Anyway . . .
he started telling anyone that would listen that I'm prejudiced, that I don't like black people, and he's another black man being strung up by "whitey".

WTF?

First, it was an accident. I didn't knock his tray over on purpose for goodness sake! If he'd been going through the right door, it never would have happened in the first place.
Second, I never disliked him because he was black -- I couldn't care less about that. I disliked him because he was a big asshole. That's OK, right? I think I'm allowed to dislike someone for that reason.
And third, why just assume someone is prejudiced? Truly, he doesn't know me well enough to be making that kind of determination.

Nobody believed him, of course.
"Jimmy? Prejudiced? Don't make me laugh!"
It still bothered me to have that accusation thrown at me, whether it's true or not.
Should I just assume he doesn't like white people? That he doesn't like gay people? That he doesn't like gay white people?
I wouldn't make such a statement about anyone unless I had more proof to back it up.

I try my best not to assume anything.
I don't see why other people find that to be so difficult.

* Post title is from Boyz 'N The Hood by Eazy-E, slightly modified by me, because I can do that.

Friday, May 13, 2005

New Review

Before I get to the review, please allow me to ramble for a little while, OK?

I've done several reviews and/or critiques in here, but they've all been movies or CDs. Why is that, you ask?
Because I've come to the conclusion that people no longer read.

Oh, to a certain extent people read. You're reading this now, aren't you?
I should be more specific. People don't read books.
They'll read the horoscope in the newspaper, they'll see what's up with Garfield and Dilbert, or they'll scan a magazine article about their favorite celebrity, or a blog post (like this one), but an entire book? From cover to cover? I highly doubt it.

I have an addiction to the printed word. Ever since I started reading at about age three (my first book was was Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham, BTW) I have loved reading. I've always had my nose in one book or other. You won't find my photo by the word "bookworm" in the dictionary, but it's a very close thing.

So, given my love for reading, it's odd when I walk into people's houses and I don't see a book anywhere. When my friend Mark moved into his new apartment, one wall of his living room was nothing but one big bookcase, so he bought four boxes of used books and put them up on his shelves. He didn't care what the books were about, because he never intended to ever read any of them, they were just for decoration.
How bizarre is that?
Books aren't for decoration! You don't buy a book because it looks good on the coffee table!

Maybe it's just the people I hang with, or maybe it's just me being pessimistic, but it has seemed to me that reading has become something of a parlor trick. Kind of the way people can add up a long list of numbers in their head with no pencils, paper or calculator. People see all the books on my bookcase and it's like "You've read all of those? Amazing!"
The only thing that makes it so amazing is that the only thing they've read recently was the TV Guide.

OK, that was my semi-rant on the decline of literature.
Now, on with the review!

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

It's all Tony's fault.

Tony told me that David Sedaris is one of his favorite authors, and even went so far as to include an audio post of David Sedaris reading an excerpt from one of his books on his weblog.
I had seen David Sedaris' books at the gay bookstore, but I had never picked one up and read the dust-jacket, and consequently, had no idea what they were about.
Intrigued by the excerpt I heard, I immediately did a search and found a few other writings by the author on the internet.

Funny stuff.
Laugh out loud stuff.
I was sufficiently primed by what I had read to purchase the book, hoping I wouldn't be disappointed.

I wasn't.

Perfect for the short attention spanned, Me Talk Pretty One Day is a collection of essays on a number of topics, all of them hilarious.

In one essay titled Twelve Moments in the Life of the Artist he tells of being an methamphetamine using performance artist:

    "I bought my drugs from a jittery, bug-eyed typesetter whose brittle, prematurely white hair was permed in such a way that I couldn't look at her without thinking of a late-season dandelion."
And in another titled Picka Pocketoni, he writes of tourists visiting France thinking he's a pickpocket (and an unwashed, smelly one at that). Instead of feeling embarrassed at the situation, which would be the normal reaction, the author uses the situation to feel "quick and dangerous".

We also follow him on adventures with the concept of masculine and feminine vowels in French, and how he avoids this conflict by referring to everything in the plural:

    "Hugh may be annoyed by the two turkeys in the freezer, but wait until he sees the CD players I got him for his birthday."
Me Talk Pretty One Day will consistently make you laugh, while touching strong emotional cords in regards to your own perspective on life. In this book, one can glimpse elements of their own predicaments and foibles, while laughing over how much stranger Sedaris's are.
Most authors strive to make their characters easily relatable to ordinary people, but Sedaris makes the reader able to relate to himself through the insane exaggerations and misadventures that we all like to think we have.

Would I recommend this book?
Absolutely.

But now I'm going to have to read all of his books.
I blame Tony for that, too.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Strange Days Dream

Horrible nightmare last night. This is the second night in a row I've had it.
In this dream I'm some sort of spy or secret agent, and there are Evil People that are Out To Get Me, probably because I Know Too Much.
(Kind of cliched, I know, but I didn't write the script, my subconcious did.)
So, I'm (literally) running for my life in some shadowy Gotham City looking place, ducking down alleys, leaping across rooftops, getting shot at.
The people who are chasing me (I never actually see who they are, I just know they're there) are always just right behind me, and I can't seem to run or get away fast enough. I know, with a dreamer's certainty, that if (when) they catch me, they will do horrible, unspeakable things to me.
I need to escape, but how?

This goes on and on, seemingly for hours, and the more I'm being chased, the more panicky I'm getting.
And then . . .

I feel someone licking my face and I figure it's either Rico, or my husband, and either way I had better get up.
Of course, it was Rico wanting to go out and wee-wee, and he also wanted "breakfast".
I really need to get a "doggie door" installed, and one of those feeders that dispense the Kibbles N' Bits in a bowl at certain times.
Then I could sleep in once in awhile.

I woke up to a truly gorgeous day!
As a matter of fact, it's the third gorgeous day we've had in a row.

Oh by gosh, by golly!
I think Skin Season is upon us again!
YAAAAAY!

I've resolved that I'm going to get some kind of tan this summer if it kills me.
I'm determined.

Possibly going to Happy Hour with the husband to shoot pool, but it all depends on how he's feeling when he gets home from work.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Love Is The Drug

In almost any song, replace the word "love" with the word "drug" (or "drugs", or "drugged").
You wind up with such gems as:
    All You Need Is Drugs
    The Greatest Drug Of All
    Drugs Make The World Go 'Round
    Love To Drug You, Baby
    I Wanna Be Drugged By You
Fun, huh?

Nicotine, caffeine, and alcohol are my only drugs of choice right now, but I will admit to anyone that I have experimented a little (in my foolish youth) with drugs.

So, I experimented.
Exstacy, Tina, coke, 'cid, 'shrooms, among others. If I listed them all here, you'd think I had a serious substance abuse problem, but all it was was experimentation.
What does it do? How will it make me feel? What's all the fuss about?

(Just for shits and giggles, ask someone who does (or used to do) drugs what their favorite drug of choice was, and you'll see their eyes light right up like a 60-watt bulb.)

I rather liked marjuana, though. It makes you mellow and laid back about everything.
I haven't smoked pot in over six years, but I don't see anything wrong with it, except that it's illegal, in this country at least.
It's all natural. It just grows. It's not created by man, or "treated", or altered to make it what it is. You just pick it, dry it, roll it or stuff it in a pipe and smoke it.
I definitely think it should be legalized, but I'm not going to go out of my way to sign any petitions or write my congressman about it.

I realize I have an addictive type personality, so I was always very careful. I read you can hooked on crack or heroin after only one use, so I never tried those.
It's bad enough I'm a cigarette smoker. I don't need to be addicted to anything else.

I also avoided anything that involved needles. (Not that I'm afraid of getting a shot, it's just why punch holes in your veins if you don't need to?)
And I always made sure not to lose my judgement when it came to safe sex and saftey issues (no driving under the influence, for instance).
In a sense, I was very lucky. Things could have been horribly different. I was skating on some very thin ice, and I turned out OK, amazingly enough.

I really don’t need drugs anymore, though.
I’ve got love.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

The Best Part About Working The Sunday Breakfast Shift

Belgian waffles.

Mmmmmmmmmmm.

Happy Mother's Day. It's going to be extremely busy today.
Can't wait for it to be over.
3:30 couldn't come fast enough.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Another Can Of Liquid Crack, Please

    Experiments in Chemical Reactions, Part 1:
Due to lack of sleep the night before, I was feeling sluggish and slow in the middle of my double-shift the other day.
You know the feeling where you have no motivation to do anything at all? And coffee wasn't helping one iota.

One of the waitresses was going over to the supermarket across the street and she asked me if I wanted a Red Bull Energy Drink.
Turns out she was going on a "Bull run". Almost every server there wanted a Red Bull and she was elected to go fetch them.

I had never had one, but I do remember the advertising slogan:

Red Bull gives you wiiings!
I was in dire need of some energy and motivation at that point, so I said why not?

I can't accurately describe the flavor, but it didn't taste very good, so I chugged it.
About ten minutes after I finished it off, I felt the motor in my chest, which was idling up to that point, suddenly rev up to top speed.
Wowee!
I don't know what's in that stuff, but I was zipping through the dining room like I was on crack. Wheeeeee!

Tony saw me flying through the dining room and asked me why I was so energetic all of a sudden. When I told him, he said,

    "Red Bull?! That's good stuff!! You should try Red Bull and vodka the next time you go out. It tastes like Gummi Bears!"
(Red Bull and vodka will be Experiment #2.)

At the end of the day, I was really, really tired and worn out. After the "Red Bull effect" wore off I was ready to hit the sack, but it got me through the day, which was all I wanted in the first place.

I wouldn't do this every day.
The "crack effect" was a little strange. I'm usually pretty energetic anyway, but Red Bull multiplied that by a factor of ten.
I haven't read anything that says Red Bull is bad for you health-wise, but being that "speeded up" can't possibly be good for you.

I expect they'll be taking it off the market any day now.

Friday, May 06, 2005

This Is How I Feel

It really takes alot to make me angry.

As a matter of fact, you have to be trying really really hard and pushing all the right buttons relentlessly to get a rise out of me.
And even then, I'll most likely hang up the phone if I'm on it, or leave the room (house, club, wherever I am) and try and compose myself rather than explode.

I think this comes from how I was raised.

We didn't get angry in my house. We got "upset" or "disappointed". Bad or tragic things left us feeling guilty, depressed, ashamed, melancholy, or sad, but very seldom was anger ever expessed at all.
I don't know if that's good or bad, it's just the way it was.

I have no scientific data to back it up, but I think we learn how to feel, to a certain extent, by the way our parents taught us to.
Or possibly taught us not to.

    For example:
I was scolded (very forcefully I might add) for crying when I skinned my knee after falling off my bicycle when I was just a little kid.
"Boys don't cry!" my father told me, skaking me. "Boys don't cry! Dry up those tears and I don't want to see you crying again!"
That was drummed into me to the extent that it takes alot to get me to tear up when I'm around other people. I doubt that if my puppy Rico (whom I love dearly) passed away I would cry. Oh, I'd be devistated, no doubt. And I'd probably cry my eyes out in private until I had no tears left. But in public, with witnesses?
I very highly doubt it.
(Get me in a darkened movie theater and put on a sad movie, though, and watch the waterworks begin!
Sometimes I watch tearjerkers on purpose just to invoke the tears. It's theraputic for me.)

Some people can cry or get extremely (but terrifyingly) angry at the littlest things, and that's amazing to me.
A coworker, who was going through alot of major drama, broke down and cried to me not to long ago. And of course I was like, "There, there! It'll be OK!" and I tried to comfort her the best I could with hugs and encouraging words, and I'm pretty sure I succeeded in doing that. But there was a part of me that admired her ability to do that, to just cry and unburdon her troubles on someone.
Dammned if I could do that if I tried.

Then there's the flip side of that. The people that can just cut loose and vent and get all their frustrations out and just be vehement with their emotions.
I admire that, too.
Anger leaves me feeling helpless, like I'm on a raft in a stormy sea. It's an emotion that makes me afraid of myself and what I might be capable of, and I find that pretty scary.

And as for the "good" emotions: happiness, joy, elation, contentedness, satisfaction, glee, optimism, and pleasure. . . .
They just come naturally to me, and for that, if nothing else, I am everlastingly grateful.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Who's That Guy?

I first noticed him in Bend It Like Beckham.

I noticed him next in Vanity Fair (starring the fabulous Reese Witherspoon) and then in Alexander.
Alexander was a dissapointment, but I can't say the same about the actor who played Cassander, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

He even looks good in that un-airbrushed un-retouched photo with the big juicy zit on the side of his mouth.

I wish I could say the same.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

When Does It End?

Project, project, project.
There's always a project going on at the ol' homestead.

Every time I think, "OK, now we can relax and enjoy!" there's something else to do.
It's neverending.

The husband and I have just nearly (but not quite) completed our biggest home-improvement project to date: redoing the hardwood floors in the living room.
When that's done we're moving into the dining room and redoing the hardwood floor there, too.
Whew!

    Other projects in the works:

  • Replanting the garden in the front of the house.
  • New grass for the back of the house.
  • Totally redoing the basement: floors, ceiling, walls, everything.
  • Reshingling the roof.
And I'm sure when (if) those are all completeted, there will be more to take their place.

I get exhausted just thinking about it.

We also have to get the house together for a party we're planning this summer.
We're thinking a 70's retro theme.
It's slated to be sometime in June, probably, which gives us plenty of time to prepare.
It'll be da bomb. yo.

Monday, May 02, 2005

A Knight Without Armor

    "You bastard!"
I'm not used to people saying that to me, much less right after I answer the phone, and especially not my good friend Fireguy, so I was a little taken aback.
    "Huh?" I managed to say.
Not the best comeback, I'll admit, but I didn't have much time to think.
    "You're a bastard." he repeated.
I could tell at this point he wasn't serious, but I still had no clue what he was going off about.
    "I'll have you know my parents were married for nearly six years before they had me," I said, "So I am definitely not a bastard. What's this about?"

    "You encouraged me to go out with this boy, and I did, and now I like him a lot!
    I had a great weekend!"

I could tell he was grinning as he said that. Like a cat that swallowed the canary.
    "But now I've opened a door that's been closed for a long time," he continued, "and I'm frightened because I don't know what's going to happen next!"

    "Who of us does?" I replied.

I know how it is, though. You get your heart broken into tiny hurting little pieces enough times and then you finally get to the point where you say, "OK, that's it! I've tried that love thing and it only brought me pain. Over and over again!
I've had it! I'm through! I'm not even going to think about love. Who needs it?"

You basically throw in the towel in regards to love or romance.
You build a wall, and put all your armor on.

I've done it many many times.

The armor protects you from being hurt, that's true. But it also prevents you from feeling anything, all the good things that love can bring.
Yes, in opening yourself up and welcoming love you risk getting hurt, and possibly devastatingly so, but life itself is a risk. You take a risk every time you walk out your front door. What are you gonna do, stay in the house all day?

I've been there too many times to count.
But try as I may, I just can't stop myself from going there.
Try again! the little optimistic voice in my head tells me, This time it might work out!
Maybe I'm just a glutton for punsishment, but I don't think so.

Taking all your armor off and standing naked (figuratively speaking) before someone is one of the hardest things you can ever do.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Postcards From The Edge

    PostSecret is an ongoing community art project. People from around the world share their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard.
Some of these moved me beyond words.

'Nuff said.