You know what just hit me? Well let me continue to Picasso for you all. I will take my literary paintbrush and spread it across this page . . oh fuck it. Too much to type. Plus - wasn't he the guy that was blind and had to tie the brush around his arm? No? Maybe Renior? Monet?
All irrelevant. Here I am, lounging in my outdoor bistro set and its hit me (not literally - I bruise easily enough anyway, truth. And yes, I do take quite a few vitamins a day - when I remember.)
We can write about whatever we want. I think I'm compensating a bit for my last post - because I don't want this to turn into a diary set up. (Cue all the Anne Frank jokes I've made in the past . . . like the one less than five minutes ago).
I don't have a very good history with diaries. I know for a fact my Mom would always read mine (and fuck you guys, those were some good entries. Keep in mind (as I know you do) I was uber-intell long before know - imagine the delightfulness I was scrawling in my Hallmark "lockable" diary at age 6 . . ). In turn, I would always read my sister's. It was never anything too exciting. Or at least I didn't have the patience or energy to get that far into it. But I would always make it a point to flip to a random clean page in her book and write "I was here. Love, Your Secret Admirer."
Homegirl was quick on the uptake. Somehow she always knew it was me, and would follow suit chasing me through the house with a butter knife of some sort. Yes, really.
Ah, childhood. Those days are (mostly) gone - probably because I don't care enough to go diary-hunting. But if I did. . . oh man, if I did.