Overthunk

As I'm yet aboard the dating train (Weird. A snippet from Billy Joel's "Piano Man" -- "and probably will be for life" -- just came into my head. Tsk, tsk, that's not positive thinking!), I'm still conducting and being observed through a series of bizarre interviews (a.k.a. online profiles, messaging, phone conversations, and meetups). Recently, I've given some of my prospective partner candidates the address of my blog, and even, horror of horrors, my Twitta . Some seemed to enjoy it, but in some, it produced intimidation. When I whined about this to some friends, they claimed similar experiences. Do men need a woman who's not quite as smart or less independent than they are to feel good about themselves? Maybe some do. If that's so, this blog serves as a double-edged sword, slicing some out of the equation. It just underscores what I've said before: writing both validates and betrays me. It allows me to show crystalline facets of wh...

And, more importantly, is she a dominatrix? What do y'all think? ----------------------------------- Mistress Muse Whenever I fail to revise or begin The tang of her leather falls across my skin Whenever I succumb to procrastination She provides me with vexing inspiration Repeated lessons in being humble Smart yet again as I continue to bumble Shuffling my way across this earth She delights in the torture of excessive girth As dogs eat dogs and barracudas shred Creative thoughts flow through my head To gain new power the antiquated hag Shoves down my throat introversion’s gag An abyss of deep feeling imprisons me Chained among careless society My heart’s lifeblood flowing down to the floor She ties my feet in my mouth and slams the door If of seeing the sun I begin to dream She lassos round my self-esteem She won’t permit a lick of pride Preferring my tongue on her heeled boot’s stride Though I might be gifted on one side of the score There’s a downside that amuses that sadistic wh...

To cleave into one’s innards, like a sharp steel blade slicing into a paper-bag-ripened nectarine: eventually, you’ll get to the mazing, shriveled core, but when you do, it’ll be messy, juice will be spilled, and the prospect of the truth of new life and renewal inside that crinkly brown pit is completely unenvisionable. Everything comes before it: cleaning that long-dead Junebug out of the corner of the kitchen counter, flipping from song to song to song to song on Internet radio, flinging washed clothes into the dryer, pretending to perform an Everclear song to a sellout stadium crowd while the roommate’s off buying cigarettes, watching some exhibitionist on a webcam. Guilt: The feeling that if you do it, if you REALLY do it, you’ve outed some dirty secret about everyone you know in some fashion or other, including, and perhaps most importantly, yourself.

Well, I've been tagged by NH (of The Unseen Blogger fame) so here goes: If I were a writer, I'd write fabulous, insightful books. Or movies maybe, which would be wildly imaginative (and hilarious no doubt). Or TV sitcoms that don't suck. If I were a musician, I would usher in a new era of girl-rockin' the likes of which the planet has never seen, like Heart + Guns N Roses + Pat Benatar + Smashing Pumpkins. Yeah. If I were a gardener, I'd plant a garden that was part Palace of Versailles, all neat and orderly, and part jungle, with lots of vines. I love vines. This garden of mine would most definitely have a koi pond, and secret passageways and grottos in which to hide. If I was a psychologist, I'd invent a cure for being inconsiderate and use it to repair marriages, work relationships, bad shopping experiences, and general malaise around the globe. Or take on a famous, troubled client, and fancy myself like Dr. Melfi. If I was a world famous blogger,...