fingers crossed

One of my friends has convinced me to go out on a date with one of the guys I met at the Street Fair last weekend.

It has been nearly 20 years since I dated anyone. I honestly have no idea how to go about it correctly.

I think it involves shapeware at this point. Hopefully I won’t hurt myself in the process.


I even bought some magnetic false eyelashes.  I have been wearing them around town to see if I can stand them long enough to not rub them off into my drink.


No promises.

Lucky him, I plan on splitting the bill. I expect equality, then I need to show it.

But how do you have those awkward conversations that need to happen like… “I can’t even give you a timeline on sex. Pick a random number of dates, and I will say that’s too soon. Plus my daughter is sensitive, offbeat, unusual. Also, I only have a twin bed.”

My friend keeps saying, “You don’t have to decide any of that on the first date. You just have to show up.”

I have my doubts.

The worst part about not being in an established relationship anymore is I have to watch my hands.  The other day, while I was standing in line at a grocery store, I reached over and squeezed the hand of the guy standing next to me.

He was as surprised as I was.  His girlfriend was (thankfully) cool with it. Thank Goddess I didn’t grab his ass. That would have probably lead to a throw-down.

girl fight

Of course, I’ll get a manicure which has reminded me that I have a poem that I haven’t released.  I wrote this one, along with karma, sometime around Thanksgiving 2018.

I wasn’t in a particularly happy frame of mind. My daughter spent the holiday with her dad and I just couldn’t bring myself to be with happy people (i.e. family).  So I bought turkey lunchmeat and cranberry sauce to make sandwiches, plus a bottle of pecan-pie whiskey that I like, and played MMORPGs all weekend long.

And listened to ’90s lush grunge. And wrote poems. Including this one. Bon appetit.


October twenty-six.
index finger, right hand,
a ring of red roses.
pain I choose to withstand.

I can’t cut out my heart,
although comfort it’d bring.
I can’t bind it with ribbon,
paper, hot wax or string.

but I can remain still,
as needles puncture skin.
and remember: in life,
to survive is to win.

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Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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