. . . that is, if my mother had ever given me a curfew. I've been worried sick over the past fifteen days wondering where in the hell you've been. Call me the non-Communist Ricky Ricardo (he was from Cuba right?) but you've abso got some 'splaining to do.
Okay, back to my native tongue (hold the jokes). Seriously, I have been so unbelievably busy with all kinds of shit. Not literally, but more so (obvi) figuratively. First off, I had to go to the city of brotherly love, Filthadelphia for some family business. No, I didn't get a chance to hoop it up with Will Smith (pre-Jada/non graffiti days) but you can bet that I was cruising the streets looking for him. Disappointing. I did manage to sustain myself solely on soft pretzels for a period of a week. I'll be honest, once you hit the streets of Philadelphia (holler, Bruce Springsteen - and also, call me.) and step over the proverbial outstretched hand of the homeless (HIV infected homeless? yes, Tom Hanks) the entire town is gray. Don't get me wrong, I mean we did almost win the World Series this year and Stewart Bradley just moved in next to my uncle (I'm pretty sure he'll need some assistance as he recovers from his early season injury) but goodness . . . thank heavens that's over with.
After that I took a week off of work and did things I've been meaning to do, but have just been so busy working past 4:30 pm EST at work. There was a new Kinerase deep conditioning masque I wanted to try, which was delightful. Don't you give me any guff. You think this hair looks naturally this fabulous. Okay, well it does, but, alas, I digress.
Furthermore, I wanted to see "This Is It" again, which, I did. Yes, you already know I loved it the third time even more than the first and second. I didn't know emotion like that was possible - perhaps it had something to do with the wine juice boxes one of my favorites brought to the event. I wonder . . .
Anyway, bringing this post full circle, and back to AIDS (speaking of which, World AIDS Day is December 1st, I hope you bitches are preparing to check yo'self before you wreck yo'self, but we will get to that later . . . ) and a really good, get out your razor (and your condom) musical, allow me to sum up.
151,200 minutes . . . 151,200 moments so dear.
151,200 minutes . . . how do you measure, measure 15 days without me?
(keep in mind the melody might be a bit off for these lyrical adaptations)
in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in
in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife (what's "strife" . . . ?)
151, 200 minutes; how do you measure 15 days in my life . . ?
. . . and the horrible song goes on and on. I just sampled a verse here for my own intents and purposes. Listen, back off, Andrew Lloyd Webber I am not, nor am I Jewish, I don't have a knack for this shit. Mark that down, it might be the only thing.
Welcome back, and don't let that long go without me hearing from you again.