You, me, the rest of the six billion; we’re all familiar with BUTTERFLIES. Those guys who’re specially trained to kick over the furniture in your upper belly when life decides to be kind.
For example when you meet a boy or girl whose bones you’d desperately like to jump OR a woman so special, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that in Santa’s book, you’ve been very good and he just can’t help clandestinely slipping you a few gifts to let you KNOW.
For some time now, I’ve been feeling like someone up there is fiddling with the controls again. I’m living way too much in proportion to time.
In just two weeks, I’ve been plied with such treacle-sweet excitement, such deep YAY-ness that it’s starting to feel like my soul is on a sugar-high that might make me crack where the dark days of fucked up endorphin starvation failed.
In short, I’ve had way more girl crushes than are morally permitted anyone within such a short period of time. If I blogged about every woman who made some sort of impression on my mind/heart/pelvis, this place would get hopelessly over-full, middling-pornographic and monotonous.
So I’m just going to write a short letter to the control-guy.
Thanks for all the awesome women in my life. Those beautiful and admirable and sexy women; those women who’ve mastered the art of being irreverent without being crude.
Women like Princess and Kampire, like Darlyne (I haven’t met any collector nearly as generous with their books as she is) and Liz, my creative director at my new work place. Like Ruth and her absolutely stunning sister. Like the writer of The Hustler chronicles, Like Like…well I could go on and on and on.
Keep em coming!