Sorry, guys. All of the wonderful comments that you have left are currently down due to virus, so the old comments are nowhere to be seen just now. But hopefully they will be back when BlogSpeak is back up, but this is only if I can figure out how to import them. Because I am sleeping with a new comment machine baby. I am now test-driving the new V8model HaloScan comments to see how they do. So if you have left comments to the extent of my hotness, how clever I am, and how my posts have changed your life, feel free to go back in and enter them again.

And...far be it from me to fraternize with the enemy (unless they have champagne. Hey-I can be bought!), but I must, for one time only, bow down to the mighty Jim on today's postings. He made me laugh till I cried. Please read our interview, which I conducted from my yacht on the Med, and enjoy. He sent me a dozen roses and a note that he had a quick wank after it. I told him no problem, glad to be of service (pun intended). But whatever you do-if you love me, do not sign his guest map.

And one more thing-if you sign my Guest Map (over there to the right, beneath that super cute pic of me), it may make you orgasm.

Seriously.

It is just that rewarding.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:58 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 247 words, total size 1 kb.

A relationship is about compromise. Buckets and buckets of it. And sometimes you have to compromise so much that you become compromised. When that happens, the best thing to do is just get drunk. Or pound out a blog. Or call a friend.

The worst thing you can do is get in a car together.

Partner Unit and I do not ride together to work, even though we work in the same building. This, since we take turns-one of us works late, the other leaves around four to take care of the dog. Due to my increased worries over the next redundancy process and absolutely inability to be focused and motivated (for God's sake, just tell me if I have a job or not! If I do, I will work it like a prostitute at a political convention! If not, I will take my slinky and go home!) , I have been the one taking care of the dog. But tonight Partner Unit has customers over from China and must take them out tonight for a posh meal to impress them. So he will be taking a taxi into town, and he did not drive to work.

He rode in with me.

It's like being in a small confined space with Satan.

He does not ride with me when I am driving. Ever. After many vicious rounds of fighting (we are talking relationship-ending fights, a few times) we simply decided that if we had to share a car, he would drive.

I hate the way he drives-80 year old grandmas whiz past us at 30 kmph and give us the finger when he drives. He hates the way I drive-I have already driven the 80 year old grandmas off the road and into a ditch in an effort to get them out of my way and am picking the bumper of their blue Volvo out of the grille of my VW.

So I knew it was going to go badly. And it did. Right off the bat, we got into the car and he turns to me and says: "God, I knew it was going to be a long day. And now I have to ride with you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I demand.
"Nothing. Your driving just scares me. I am scarified of your driving."
"Scarified is not a word, dear."
"It is when you drive."
"Look, I don't appreciate this. You need a ride, fine, but don't make fun of my driving, it just makes me angry."
"Fine, sorry. Just remember that the roads may be slippery this morning. That's all I will say."
"Fine."
"Oh, and keep your distance from the car in front of you."
"Fine. Now shut up."
"See? I can ride with you and not criticize your driving."
"Shut up."
"Love you."
"Shut up."

We start driving. He nervously tugs on his seatbelt repeatedly, making it lock and unlock. This annoys me no end, since it is 6:45 in the morning and the only other company out here are some constipated-looking cows in the fields. There is no one else out here.

"You're doing fine, honey. This is a good speed." he says, as though I am in danger of a cow running out in front of my car and killing us all. But unless the cow is wearing jet packs a la Wile E Coytoe and armed with an itty bitty pink umbrella, we are under no imediate threat.
"Patronize me at your peril, man. I am not kidding." I reply tersely.

We click on the radio, and it comes on talking about the news. Now, I generally hate Swedish radio, and I hate their DJs even more. One of them came up with the game "Scream and Be Rich." Listeners are asked to call in and scream in an effort to win money. By the time those of us driving in our cars to work have suffered through what we had hoped would be a calming ride into the office, we have to be scraped off the top of our cars with a putty knife and double our doses of thorazine.

We listen in silence, and I decide to try out my conversation skills. You know, in an effort to forgive and forget. Hey, I am nothing if not a big person. I am still ridiculously pissed off that we had to compromise and that he has spent the ride silently disapproving of my driving. It annoys me no end-I view my car as my personal space. Ordinarily, I would be singing my head off to a CD and fixing my lipstick, but now I am reduced to being nervous about super-speedy cows.

They are talking about a race on the radio, and it doesn't compute to me. It was a ten thousand meter race. Now, I am not a metrics girl, so I have no idea what ten thousand meters is. I know Partner Unit, just over six feet tall, is nearly two meters. So is that 5,000 of him? Laying head to head? I couldn't picture that. 5,000 of my Partner Unit, should I run on him like a race track (very, very tempting at the moment), would go how far? How far is 10,000 meters?

"Wow, ten thousand meters. I can't picture that." I say. "No seriously. That distance has no meaning to me. If I were to run 10,000 meters, where would that get me?"
He looks at me. "The emergency room, honey."

Fucking cheeky bastard. I look at him and fume. He grabs the dashboard nervously.

We don't say another word until we get to the office.

-H.

PS- If you are come here, silent and lurking, then please...sign my guest map! Just beneath my picture, over there on the right. Jim seems to think that my readers are not dedicated enough to want to take 30 seconds and sign my map. Well, I say to you, my darling readers, the kind that do like instant gratification (you go, baby!) and the kind that go for orgasms of the mind (Hats off to you, too, my darlings!), stand up for me! If you lurk here and take a peek at my site, without commenting, without telling me you are here, please sign my Map. Because if you do, then Jim will be terribly sad and humiliated. He will have to re-evaluate his blog and write more about love and relationships. This, in turn, will have him deeply analyze himself. He will realize he is, indeed, Gay. Or a Hare Krishna. Either way, I will triumph.

I am nothing if not vengeful.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:33 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1114 words, total size 6 kb.

There is so much talk of when to cry. At births, deaths, weddings. When you feel for the first time that true feeling that you and anoher have split up. When you feel, for the first time, that you have found someone.

You know what I want that I have never had (besides a set of 35 year-old Scottish twins there to service my box)? I want to be made love to so tenderly, so gently, that it changes my life. And I want him to cry soft, silent tears while he makes love to me. Not tears of "Oops, sorry, I didn't mean to bend your dick that way." But tears of joy, tears of wonder, tears of closeness.

Tears that prove that that moment, that touch, that time, is all that he will ever need and all that he has ever wanted. While we are wrapped together, naked curves, skin on skin to the last centimeter, I want to feel the gaping emotional wound that only comes with knowing that your whole life you have been alone, and only now in silent rhythm you can move towards reparation.

Tears of rapture, of ages, of culmination and exhaltation.

Proof that, for the first time in our lives, we have finally come home to the person we are supposed to be with.

Is that too much to ask?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:27 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 239 words, total size 1 kb.

Just a short post from what has been a very busy day.

I have found the meaning of life. Or at least, my term for it. And no, it's not orgasm, Colin Firth, or work. It's not love, hate, fire, passion, living, dying. It's not olives, movies, champagne, Sweden, hunger, or softness.

Rhythmic choas, baby. That's the new motto for my life. It seems fitting, really. Anytime I get myself dusted off and ready for a new crisis, the old one sneaks back up and takes me out from behind my knees. Any new survival is just a matter of removing the bandages from the last one.

Rhythmic chaos.

Just savor it a bit. Listen to "Clair de Lune". Sit by a window and watch the planes go by. Don't stress about the next part of your life, be it job promotion, meeting the perfect person, getting pregnant, or watching your kids grow. Don't re-read old love letters and weep for what has gone. Don't shake the Magic 8 Ball to ask what is next. I'm not a fatalist and certainly not advertising being one, I find fatalism a tad too close to apathy. And I stress like no one's business over things that are not up to me. But maybe it's just an illustration that life is all one big screwed up pattern, and all sense of control is only an illusion.

Rhythmic chaos.

Feel free to steal it and make it your life's motto too. Who am I to stop people from discsovering their meaning of life?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 264 words, total size 1 kb.

The kilt post comments upened up another door, one I had not thought of as a post topic, but perhaps it bears its own space.

And this is not a shameless strategy to beat Jim and have people sign my guest map (er...but while you're here...it's just over there to the right, beneath my picutre!). This is a shameless attempt to tell you something abot myself. I hope you like it.

The question was raised on the comments section of sex outdoors. Or what I like to call "al fresco sex". Years ago, when I received a copy of "The Joy Of Sex", this was listed as a racy activity. An alternative to your average lovemaking bear.

Hello. Sex outside is racy? This coming from a book that advertised not bathing or shaving armpit hair before sex as a way of capturing the scent? If you want me to look and smell like a monkey before coitus, isn't it possible that you want me to have wild-monkey sex in the monkey setting?

Since I moved to Sweden, there is one thing that my mind has opened to-sex outdoors. The Swedes are very honest and open about nudity (read: nudity. Not wild-monkey sex. They do not swing and swap partners as often as the porn films would have you think they do.) The Swedes go skinny-dipping a lot (although I still have not done that, I admit). They sauna in the nude, sometimes with office partners and the oppostie sex (ditto on that, I have not done it. But that's because I can't stand getting so hot, I don't do saunas period.) And al fresco is totally ok. It's not considered offensive, just part of life. That being said, naturally precautions are taken to make sure little baby Lars does not see Daddy giving Mommy the ride of her life. But once the kids are in bed, there is nothing wrong with running outside for a roll in the...er...garden (hay is too itchy).

When I moved here I was painfully modest. My only previous claim to al fresco fame was a quickie on the bench in the middle of the campus quad in college. And it was nearly midnight, so it's not like people got out their Scantrons to rate our performance or anything. It was fast, got the job done, and I was able to check that al fresco box.

But then I got exposed to al fresco here. And I loved it.

The first time was in the woods, here in Stockholm. It was warm, and the ground was damp from a previous rain. We spread a blanket, and he walked over and removed my clothes. I was much more giggly than normal, mostly as I was about to be naked outdoors for the first time since my paddling pool when I was 4 years old.

And suddenly, I was nude. As in: Mother Nature, get on with your bad self. Air flow drifted around parts that had not been free since childhood, parts that had certainly changed a lot since then. I felt cool air rushing under my breasts. Goosebumps rose on my bottom, and I felt suddenly very shy and extremely brazen at the same time. My partner came over and laughed, trying to smooth away the goosebumps. He laid me down on the blanket, and we made love for hours. In the end, the blanket seeped through, and my hair was drenched. I made as much noise as I wanted. From time to time, a dragonfly would come alight on my partner's shoulder, as if to say: "Yup. You're doing it right. Thanks for the watch." Moss and grass somehow littered parts of our body like staccato exclamation marks. My partner had green knees from digging in so much.

I was hooked.

And the opportunities for al fresco were always taken after that. Once, roughly against a tree as the canopy dripped rain on us from the morning thunderstorm. Another time, on the beach of Langkawi, Malaysia, as the incredible canopy of stars showed the rolling sea and made me drunk with wanting. Again in the waters of the Indian Ocean, off the coast of the Seychelles, I like to think we fed the fishes. And the best one, on top of an abandoned World War 2 gun turret at the top of the hill. The sun beat down heavily on us, and he gently protected my head from the concrete top. We had sex for hours, the sweat pooling on us, and I would look up to see planes from a nearby airfield taking off above us. I hoped they got a bit of a show.

Why is it so racy to have sex outside? Because you might get caught? I suppose that's the big reason. And if you do, it is possible a stick in the mud might call the police. But let's be honest here-if you were walking home and saw, down the side of an alley, a couple having sex (not wild monkey sex, just the vanilla kind), would you be offended? I mean, say it was just you or you and your partner-obviously this is not something you want your kids to see. Would it upset you? Turn you on? Make you wish you could see more?

If you haven't had al fresco, why not? It's just a matter of sneaking downstairs and into the garden when the kids are asleep. Quietly grabbing onto the body of your loved one and making slow, silent love. It doesn't have to be wild monkey sex (although, by all means, have that if you will! Even go without shaving, whatever floats your boat!) And if you have done it, how often do you replay it in your head?

Why does this have to be viewed as an alternative practice? As long as we don't offend others, let's go for it. It's a special way of lovemaking, an alternate that says: Hey, yes we're oustide. And yes we might get caught, but if we do, I just want the world to see what a great thing we have. And if we don't get seen by anyone else, let's just enjoy the moon/sun on our bodies, let's make this special.
We all seem to have fantasies that involve outdoors. For me (and, it appears, a few others), I have a deep fantasy of having passionate loving outside in a thunderstorm, I have never actually been in the rain while making love. I am talking about a real downpour here, the warm and urgent power of a true storm. The sky a threatening black and I can only see my lover during flashes of paralyzing lightning. We can barely see for the rain down our faces and the slipperiness of our skin. Our clothes are soaked and when I lean over to taste him I get a mixture of him, me, rain, fire. I am still looking for a partner that finds this exciting. When I get this, I will know I have found The Guy.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:22 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1186 words, total size 6 kb.

I wasn't planning on posting today, but felt I had to. My honor has been insulted. I have had to call up the defenses, and I call upon you, those who ooze with anticipation at clicking on the uber-Blog that is Everyday Stranger. Blood will be running in the streets. Or at the very least, much HTML code.

Jim has accepted my challenge for map wars.

"The line must be drawn...here!"

See, I showed Jim that nifty feature called the Guest Map. What it is, is a handy little tool. You leave a message and show your geographical location, as well as a nice message. Jim, that ungrateful creature, has decided that he will beat me in the Map Wars. As if, my lovely. As if!

Now, I love Snooze Button Dreams as much as the rest of us. Not least becaue Jim has an excellent sense of humor, but he has earned much props from me as a flag waver of free speech. He has also written, what I believe, should go down in the Blog Hall of Fame, right next to my kilt picture and the Putting it Away post. But Jim has clearly been drinking directly from cows too much. Repeat after me, Jim, darling-Pasteurization. That's right. It's our friend. After all, milk from giant, clearly steroid-driven cows cannot be good for the body. Milk-does not do a body good.

So just beneath that very cute picture of me, to the left, is my guest map. You will see the saying "Make me feel loved! Go on! Sign the Guest Map!" just above a white box that says "View My Guest Map". Click on that baby and sign it. You will earn my respect and devotion, and we can beat the infidel known as Snooze Button Dreams

And as a treat (or perhaps an incentive), I will let you know some of the topics that I have been thinking of for this week:

- Putting it Away Part 2 - results are in!
- To look sideways or not to look sideways
- Continuing Adventures in Sweden Land

And should, after the passing of 7 days, I beat Jim in his Holy War of Mappism (for you are Mappist, Jim. Admit it!) then I will reveal a special little tale the week after that. No tips on it yet, but I imagine the men-folk will approve.

Bring it on!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:35 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 413 words, total size 2 kb.

This has been a pretty post-happy weekend for me.

It is now five o'clock in the fucking morning. On Sunday. And I am wide awake. I should be used to this, I am an insomniac anyway, but sometimes being unable to sleep just pisses you off.

I should be sleeping, after all most normal people are. Earlier in the evening, there were two nice bottles of red wine. A fire in the fireplace. It is raining and windy outside, which by all accounts lulls most people in a somnabulistic stupor, tugging comfortingly at their synapses and imaginations. But it isn't helping mine.

That the old adage is true-there is no rest for the weary. And isn't it so that during the night, your mind starts to replay your worries, magnifying them to about one million times their normal alloted degree of severity? My night has thus far played out thus:

8:00 pm-started fire in fireplace and cracked open a second bottle of wine.
9:00 pm-started watching "Annie Hall"
9:30 pm-we decide the film is too intellectual for our current level of intoxication, we go to bed.
10:00 pm-read.
10:30 pm-wonder aloud and discuss if we should have sex. Decide against it, as he says he will try it on in the morning. Am relieved but also wondering if I have been downgraded in the sexy department.
11:00 pm-fall asleep.
1:00 am-wake up after having a Kafka dream.
1:30 am-fall back asleep, just now able to let go of Kafka dream and horrible images from earlier in my week.
2:00 am-ulcer goes off like a bottle rocket. Yes, that's right-I am 29 and have an ulcer. I also have a therapist, a satellite dish and several mobile phones, so I guess I could not be more bourgeoisie if I tried.
2: 15 am-debate going to take medicine for ulcer but determine that would require walking two flights of stairs in the dark so I decline.
2:30 am-fall into the zone of sleepy dreaminess-I am mostly asleep but able to steer my dreams. They start heading into Kafka zone again.
3:30 am-wake up and am sick in the bathroom. This is not new-I have been sick since Tuesday, during the Most Fucked Up Day of My Life. I never knew that nerves really could affect your stomach like that.
4:00 am-lay back down in bed. Idly rub hand over stomach which-I must say-has become incredibly flat due to combination of boxing and lack of appetite. Debate masturbating but determine that all my toys are too noisy, partner unit would wake up, and I am not really in the mood to attend to his needs, too. And I am not a finger girl, so that's not an option.
4:15 am-get up.
4:20 am-lay down.
4:30 am-give in and get up. Sleep just not going to happen.

So I fixed up my site a bit, going to make some coffee, and read in the living room. At least my problems don't seem so big now that I am awake.

And the good news is, my stomach looks killer.

Good morning to you all.

-H

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:31 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 530 words, total size 3 kb.

....me posting.

This, since my site is a BIG SECRET from my Partner Unit. So when he is around, I cannot log in and check my site, dump my thoughts off, or anything like that. I know this may kick off a whole "Secrets and lies" dialog amongst people, should I tell him, should I not, but the thing of it is...this site is for me. This is a drama that others in the blog community have been going through, but as far as I am concerned, my site is not for him. It is, sometimes, enough of an disabler that two people in my real life even know about this site.

And one secret amongst many that my partner unit does not know the real truth of, is my tattooes.

Someone commented that they saw, in my pictures, the hint of a tattoo on my ankle. The truth is, I have two tattoos. Both of them are for men that I have loved more deeply than I know words to express it. The one on my ankle started out thus:

I was in university at the time, and living with my boyfriend in Dallas. One night, he went out drinking with some friends and I stayed at home. I was joined shortly by his friend, Maria. Now, Maria and I had had a rough relationship-she had really hated me at the beginning, and seeing as how she was an ex-girlfriend of my boyfriend's that still wanted him back, things were often tense between us. Sometimes we were great friends. Sometimes, I hated the bitch. One never knew which way the wind would blow between us.

That night, we were drinking cheap wine coolers by the four-pack. We got a bit tanked, and I decided-I was going to get a tattoo. She had several, and was behind me all the way. We walked from the house to Lower Greenville, a very happening place in Dallas that was a mere four blocks away, and I walked into a tattoo parlour. I told the beefy, stereotype tattoo artist that I wanted to get a "K". A K, since the name of my boyfriend was Kim. He agreed with no preamble, and thus, slightly drunk, I got the K tattooed on my ankle. Maria and I hobbled home, and I waited for my boyfriend. She and I debated if she and I should have sex together before he came home-after all, she was bisexual and I was, well, curious, and we both wanted to know what K saw in the other in bed-but my boyfriend came home before that could happen.

Now, you may ask why I got that tattoo, since I am obviously not with him any longer. The truth is, I did it because I was so absolutely, utterly, wildly in love with him. I was mad for his touch, his presence, his nearness. He taught me how to breathe, how to live, how to love. He gave me blinding orgasms, the first I had ever had in my whole history of faking it with the pathetic parade of miscreants that came before him. He was my everything, and always would be.

I knew, even if we split up, it would forever only be temporary. We couldn't stay apart, we didn't know how to. We would meet up in a cafe, some years down the road, and bury the time we had apart between us like a box that simply never existed. I seriously did not believe I could live without him. When we split up. I had to move out of town to get him out of my fucking mind. I drank too much. I took up work as a form of control. I left the country. I changed my appearance. I went back to a tattoo artist and had the K turned into the Japanese symbol for "endurance and eternity". Because that is how long I will love him. Cheesy, but true. Some people just reach in and leave a stamp on you, and no matter how hard you try, you may always read: "Property Of: "

But I don't have to wait for him, to have him in my life again after a short spell without. I can't wait for him, actually. There will not be a cafe for us to meet up in, to find ourselves inseperable again, with no words neeed.

He died shortly after we split up.

The other tattoo is on my shoulder, you can see a little black blob in my main picture. It is also a Japanese symbol, the one for "heaven". Now, this does not mean white robes, God, and St. Peter. The Japanese define heaven as a state of pure and perfect happiness. And for me, this state perfectly described another man in my life, a man who will remain nameless. He brought the biggest and greatest property claims to my heart, deeds that he still owns and always will. He burned off Kim'S "Proprty Of: " marker and made his own.

When I hear that Matchbox 20 song "You Won't Be Mine", it makes me grieve for him, to ache for him, to hate the lots that life gave us. Because sometimes I truly think that he won't be mine. That, like my first love, there will be no cafe for us someday down the road.

Some people have asked me if I regret either of my tattooes. That since I got them for men, perhaps I am sorry that I chose to open up my body as a canvas, an illustration of loss. And the truth is I don't regret either tattoo, not for a second. When I love someone and let them inside of me I give them all I've got. I don't regret getting the tattooes for those two men, the two greatest, scariest passions in my life.

Because the truth is, I would've done a lot more than that for both of them.

The question is not: what would you do for love?
The question is: what wouldn't you do?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:16 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1026 words, total size 5 kb.

I have an anger control problem, remember. So when I read absolute vacuous shit like the nonsense spouted in the below article, I want to get a little bit bitch-slappin' happy.

Wired Nerve had asked some questions on his lovely, cunnilingus friendly site about the "Real Man", as according to the AskMen.com site, aka "Men who have little dicks and need to get a clue about the inner workings of a woman's body instead of comparing stereo equipment" website. Allow me to quote this piece of inanity:

A real man focuses on power, money and family. He doesn't focus on sex. Sex comes as a result of having power, money and a wife (and if she doesn't satisfy you, there are plenty of other women who will, especially when you are powerful and rich).

WHATEVER. Was the guy who wrote this shit one of the boys that had to satisfy themselves during the dorm years with a magazine called "Juggs" and a can of Crisco? Did you ever get dates, or just stay in your room watching Charlie Sheen in "Wall Street" until your fly busted and you ran out of hair gel? If you have to be rich and powerful to get it, there's a word for you-prostitution. And here's a news flash, ace-you don't satisfy your wife, she sure as hell won't be satisfying you. I don't see, anywhere in the most insulting Neanderthal piece of media since the song "Spank My Bitch Up", anything about how you should just shut up and make your woman scream with orgasms. You do that, and your dear little stay at home wife might actually fuck you, instead of heading for Juan, the Pool Boy. After all, you will be so powerful that you will have a pool. And at that rate (and after all that Crisco), his hose will definitely be bigger than yours.

A real man knows that, outside of his barber, all his personal hygiene needs must be taken care of by a woman.

Again, were you born under a rock? Did you think that just cause you are the all-powerful bread winner that women would come flocking to you, just to be able to reach under your towel during the massage and jerk you off just because they wanted to get a little power semen on their hands? I don't think so, cowboy.

Here's a news flash. You want to be a real man? Here's my insider view of it:

- Tell your woman you love her. Often.
- Cry if it warrants it. That whole "just be a man" bit is so Dr. Phil.
- Go muff diving often, and without prompting. It will earn you points.
- Take care of the woman when she needs it and asks for it, but for Chrissake we are adults and can handle ourselves too.
- Don't fuck around with us about your career being more important than ours. You want to think that? Three words for you: Mail Order Bride.
- Be there to do man things like fix the satellite dish and order wine. Also be there to do sensitive things like write us sweet notes and sponge us off in the shower.

And for Gods sake, don't write stupid articles like that.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 04:48 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 557 words, total size 3 kb.

And I thought I got a load of traffic when the gorgeous Wet Wired linked to me! It was NOTHING like what happened when Anger Management linked to me. So prompt link check to the fabulous Don's site, please. I say fabulous because not only has he linked to me in the Goodest category (which I will do my very bestest to earn that continuing privilege), but he called me a cute chick.

I think I am going to keep him.

I think that I would like this site to be the leader for those that are looking for the passion in their lives. Or at least a good orgasm. OK, if not even that, then we will settle for good...honest....talk.

I noticed that a few people on other sites are shocked that I lay out all the details of my personal life. I think in the past few weeks, in particular, I have found the voice inside of me and just have some things to get off my chest. And why not? There are a million sites to talk about politics. A million sites to talk about HTML code. And yet, why are there so few sites that address this really complex yet stubbornly simple issues-falling in love. Falling out of love. Making up, breaking up, faking up. The dynamics of sex, making love, fucking...

This is real life. Why not play it that way?

More from me later, when I surreptitiously huddle over my laptop and try to survive a visit from my Swedish outlaws.

-H.

PS-the kilt post proved more wildly popular that I could have imagined!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:30 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 280 words, total size 2 kb.

Last night I worked a bit later than usual, so I had the office to myself for a long while. I was able to finish up some last minute things I had to do, but started to flag and fail to be productive, so I packed up for the day. I felt myself sliding back into the mucky emotional cesspool, and I struggled to fight it off.

When I drove out of the parking garage, the sky already Elvis Presley velvet and the radio playing softly in my car, I noticed that Fall really had arrived. The tops of the trees as I sped towards home were yellow and red, and bowing under the cool northern wind. I felt the familiar chill in my toes, a sign that the heater needed to be kicked on in the car, to then play heater tag, turning it off and on as I got too hot and too cold.

As I drove down the motorway, hurtling my yellow Beetle at top speeds, I started to think about my life. The things that I had experienced so far, and how hard this week had been, and all of the upcoming trials that I would be facing, little obstacle courses set in my future. The thought of them just made my shoulders feel weak in non-acceptance.

As I pulled off the motorway and waited at a stoplight, Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" came on. I turned the radio up slightly to the crackling sound of the intro steel guitar. I imagined being held by someone and having my face kissed as we swayed our hips to the music, the room darkened and his lips leaving warm trails on me. I felt so tired.

Then I looked out the window at the car beside me. In it was a woman, and she was silently crying. Tears made tracks down her face, and she errantly wiped them off and then brushed her hand across her coat lapels, spreading the tears.

World was on fire, and no one could save me but you... came the luscious sounds, on the radio.

I thought about her, and watched her in voyeuristic animation. This woman, is she going home to someone? Does she throw her keys on a table and start to think about dinner options? Or occasionally, as she lifts her hand to alight her keys into the air, does she stop and look at the blue veins that thread through her wrist and wonder if she's ever noticed them before? Does she maybe look at the scarred surface of the table and think "This is not my home. I don't care about any of this."

Strange word desire, and what it makes foolish people do...

A few brittle leaves landed on my car windshield as I continued to think about her. Did she fall in love with a man who seemed to be everything that she needed and wanted, who says the right things at the right times? Is she a lure in the game of heart-baiting, in that maze in which we run, not unlike rats, to the center, where not only is the cheese the meaning of life, but also someone to grow old and die with in a place that we love?

I never dreamed that I'd need somebody like you...

Did she find out she lost her job today, the one source of identity that drives her in the mornings and weighs on her mind on Sunday evenings, when she should be attending to things like ironing and children's homework? Did she just have a bad day, the kind of day where she just thinks: Fuck it. I can't do this work anymore. I don't care. All I want is to get away. But inevitably, the next morning, she will rise out of bed, take her shower, massaging a soapy sponge across her breasts and torso like a whiteboard eraser, and fantasize about how her day is going to go?

And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you.

And then she looked up at me, and I figured: it's her heart. Her heart is broken over someone. And she didn't look embarrassed at being caught crying, and she shouldn't have done either, since I was crying too. I had been since I pulled out of the parking garage. Strangely enough, I didn't feel embarrassed either. We just looked at each other, both of us locked in the environment of our cars, trapped by the weight of our own hearts, only able to spill out emotion in the privacy of ourselves.

The light changed. I turned left, she went straight. I didn't turn to watch the silver Volvo speed away, I only took comfort that tonight I was not alone, that two women a world apart that never met and never will can share something so personal that they can't even share it outside of their cars.

That misery does love company, even when you never get a chance to talk about it.

And by the time I got home, my plastic smile was in place.

What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:25 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 885 words, total size 5 kb.

I have updated my links, including those that are linking to me. For a wild ride and the answers to everything, check out: Wet Wired. The big man in charge whose deep comments you have seen here (and was the one that brought my site to attention on his site), pylorns, gets top marks from me-he called me a hot chick. I love that.

And those of you that haven't signed my Guest Map, linked just below my links to the right, then please do give it a pass. My goal is to always have more people on that map than Jim. Hey-I told you I was competitive.

And this one is for Drew, who I imagine thought I did not have the guts to do it (am not sure how great the pic quality is, on my screen it looks a bit fuzzy, but it's the thought that counts). Please forgive the pic, though...I forgot to put something on....

...lipstick!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:32 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 172 words, total size 1 kb.

OK, I am still shaking and an emotional toxic zone, and major love to you, my Chickens, for the support. Honestly, it did cheer me up. But I am going to try to keep this place back on track, otherwise Sue will be the only reader tuned in to my daily "Why I Should Kill Myself" report.

So here is something that I have had a very long ongoing debate with my male friends about: sticking it in.

That's right. Sticking it in. Putting it away. Placing the dog in the doghouse. As in: the need to put your dick somewhere. In someone. As opposed to freeing willy or wanking off (for a refresher course in the terminology, refer to this fab site.)

(*Ahem* sorry about the rough dialog, God knows this site never gets crude.)

It goes like this: I have had two seperate dialogs with the two very important creatures in my life known as Best Friend and Dear Mate. Both are men. Both are also English, but perhaps that doesn't have anything to do with their sexual appetites (or maybe it does, but let's dispose of the petty regionalism on this site, yes?) Anyway, we have been having ongoing discussions about spanking the bishop. Allow me to replay a dialog (not an approximation, but you get the gist) with Dear Mate, while we were having lunch recently.

DM: God, I have not had sex for over a bit. I very much feel the need for some.
Me: Well, go and spank the plank. I mean, it gives you the same effect.
DM: No, not quite. I mean I really feel the need to have SEX.
ME (not getting it, obviously): Wait, you feel the need to have sex, or to have an orgasm?
DM: Well, they're kind of one and the same.

That lucky, flippant bastard. Must be nice to be a guy and be assured of having a final result.

ME: OK, so why not go and toss off?
DM: It's not the same.
ME (tempted to reach over to his plate and spear an errant mushroom): Yeah, I get that. So what, you are feeling the need to have a home for your junior partner? To actually place him in a warm cavern?
DM: Yeah, basically. Don't you ever feel that way?
ME: That I need to have an orgasm? Sure. After all, look at my last weekend. But that's not the same thing as feeling the need to have sex, for me.
DM: No, what I am trying to say is, men feel the need to put it away. In something warm and wet and reciprocating. Maybe women don't, since sex and orgasms are not always inter-related. But for men they generally are, unless you are doing it wrong. But perhaps we feel the need to follow our evolutionary urge, and have straight-up intercourse.
ME: So a vacuum lined with wet sponges won't do?
DM (shovelling pasta to his mouth): No. I mean, intercourse as in with a woman.

And, as not to offend my gay readers, I am sure he also meant that gay men feel the need to stuff it up other various orifices. Nothing wrong with that.

ME (wondering when he is going to eat that mushroom): A blow-job won't do?
DM: No, we need to actually have sex. It actually needs to go inside a woman.
ME: Wait-you NEED, or you WANT?
DM: Need. Don't you ever feel that way? Don't you ever feel like you want to get stuffed by someone?

And I had to think about that. Did I actually NEED to feel a dick inside of me, or was I ok about just getting the orgasm? Let's just assume that if I did have penetrative sex, I would be guaranteed an orgasm (oh, perfect, perfect world). Is that actually necessary, or am I ok with just finding the magic zone via oral fun or my electric toybox? Did I REALLY have to have the feeling of having the gap filled?

These were new thoughts to me. I have gone through so many batteries that I didn't always feel the need to have something in there. I mean, often during playtime I chose the least invasive object. The-er-more interfering toys (oh, for Chrissake. I am trying to be so careful here and use delicate phrasing, but for Gods sake, I am talking about a blue, sparkly, rotating magical dildo with a fabulous vibrating clitoral stimulator that makes me scream and requires a lubing. All right! Are you happy now, I had to break down my delicate veneer!) only gets used occasionally, during confirmed sessions of privacy.

ME (eyeing mushroom hungrily): No, I don't think so, actually. I mean, what I need is the orgasm. If I was sure that penetrative sex would give me an orgasm, then I would likely choose that, and perhaps even grow to need it. Otherwise, I am just as happy to not be excavated.
DM: Ok. Well men need to put it away. Seriously, we just feel the urge to stick it in a warm wet minge (and he did use that word. He is cool like that.)
ME: Isn't that archaic? I mean, isn't that the line used in every campus dorm the world round?

OK, I didn't actually say that, I added that here to be PC.

ME (finally spearing his fucking mushroom): Well, I will have a think about it and see how it applies to me.

And I have asked a few people. No, I don't stop people on the street with a clipboard and poll them. I have made a few discreet inquiries amongst friends, and it turns out thus: I am so far the only person that does not feel the need to be fucked, I only feel the need to have orgasms (and I feel that need alot). I am debating if I need to change that attitude. But I have only asked my man friends, so I leave it here on this blog to think about:

Do men really feel the need to put it away?
And do women feel the need to be signed, sealed and shipped?

-H.

PS-one small editor's note-Dear Mate is basically my best friend, too. Partner Unit (aka the person I am supposed to be having sex with on a semi-regular basis) an entirely different beast indeed.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:40 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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For the nice comments. They did help. And David, I took one half-bottle of cabernet for my icky-cloud blogs, just like the doctor ordered. That, and a few mindless chick films should help me.

I think I will be ok eventually, and in the meantime will not spread my blog with doom and gloom. It is not my goal to depress the people that read my blog on a daily basis. For Chrissake-we all have enough to piss us off and upset us. Why let some little white girl in Sweden add to the plate? This site just happens to be the only place I really open my brain, so I just wanted to say:

I'm blue.

I think tomorrow's blog will be back up to standard. It may be false cheer, but hopefully the peanut gallery will still cheer me on and will forgive me my false trespasses.

On the agenda for tomorrow:

- work a bit harder at the office and hope my mangers don't notice I bunked off in the middle of the day today looking puffy-eyed, thus figuring I should be made redundant since I am an emotional toxic zone.

- take the car to be inspected. Since the vapid VW Beetle has brake problems, passing this (second try) will be iffy. If I don't pass by Monday, the car is "banned" from driving on the roads, according to the paper I received from the Swedish driving agency. Yeah, like that will stop me from driving.

- so that I pass the car inspection test, I think tomorrow I will wear my extremely cute and rather short kilt,complete with kitschy silver buckles on the side. Without any underwear on. Hey-I'm a girl. I can work it.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:06 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 301 words, total size 2 kb.

Thanks for those that left nice comments. I am touched, honestly. Thanks, guys.

So my very stressful event has happened. I survived it. And it was the longest night of my life, survived only with the help of a tranquilizer (hey-I have anger control issues, remember. If you have that, doctors tend to prescribe the things like a Redi-Remedy) and a crazy sleeping tablet.

And if I see that little bastard Roland the Mental Health Fairy I am going to rip his goddamn wings off.

I still feel I cannot talk about what really happened, but suffice to say what has occurred has made me crumble in places that I didn't even know had chinks in them. I am a hollow, empty shell today. I can see my emotions, all wrapped-up in a snug and tidy little box, high up on a shelf with "Do Not Remove" written on it, and cannot actually reach them. I cannot stop crying. I cannot stop shaking. I have to write this blog post in Word for this first fucking time since I cannot seem to even be able to spell. Is that possible? When you experience trauma you forget how to spell? So like, if I had some other kind of emotional trauma, I wouldn't be able to tie my shoes? Or suddenly forget how I have been shaping my eyebrow arches and just go after them with a Weed Whacker?

I wish this pain would just go away. I don't remember the last time things felt this badly before. Not even with one of the greatest loves of my life died. Believe it or not, this is worse.´

"Pity! Pity, Party of 1! Your table is now available!"

Sometimes I look at my life in wonder. Last night, walking back to the building from my boxing class, my hair wet, tendrils curling around my pinked cheeks, the smell of lavender soap, sweat, and deodorant on my skin, as I badged back into Company X's building I thought of how lucky I was to have my job. Then when I drove home, to the perfect house, I thought about how much I love that house. I had a large glass of pear cider as I watched the frost settle on the panes of glass. Everything I have in my life is there because I try to be brave, to not be afraid of life. People think I am tough and invincible. To those people, I have just one thing to say:

Perhaps you don't know me.

Because I am afraid. A lot. I just never tell anyone. There are many hallmarks of people who are afraid to live. They make sure they use up the milk before it expires. They take a promotion on a job they don't really want in order to make sure they have a job. They leave the house way too early for an appointment only to wind up arriving thirty minutes too early. They don't get up to pee during the movie since they don't want people noticing them as they make their way out of the aisle. And they settle for a partner that is good company and a good friend, but not the fiery passionate love of their lives.

And on that last point, I am a scaredy-cat, as are most of the people around me. We're all so worried that we will fall off the carousel that we never try for the brass ring, even when it is right in front of us. We are all destined to live lives with people that we love"¦but are not in love with. Partners that do not make us yearn, long, and lust after them with a desire so hot it could be called a chemical dependency.

As you may have discerned, I am actually incredibly cavalier about sex. I have had multiple partners (ok, we're not talking huge numbers, here) that are construed of men, women, and...ahem...more than one person in a bed at one time. More than two, even. OK, more than that, but I am not saying anything more for now. I had an affair years ago. God knows I love spending a good weekend with my Maestrobater. And I have had an open relationship.

Actually, I have been thinking about that open relationship recently, since I wrote about it a few days ago.

When you have an open relationship someone has to go first. That's just the way of it. Until someone actually takes that step, an open relationship is really just a game of bedroom-fantasy Chicken. Someone has to be the first one to step into a new ring and say: “Right. Here I am. Let's have a round of boxing with someone other than my partner. Let's put our money where our mouths are." And your official boxing partner, the defending champion, is left guarding the spit bucket and Gatorade, mortified, nervous, wounded, outraged, devastated. The first person who steps out of the boxing match called The Relationship sets the benchmark. Every email, text message, or phone call swapped between that partner and the challenger becomes the mark to which the defending champion must prevail against.

And then, when it's time for the defending champion to step into their own ring"¦well, then it becomes a grudge match. The defending champ has the right to battle a new contender. Their own partner did, after all. And since their partner did it, whatever combinations and fancy footwork their partner had, they can as well. Since their partner went 3 rounds and 4 orgasms, they can too. The defending champ can deliver a one-two combo punch that breaks their official partner's jaw (and their heart), since they had that blow themselves.

The official partner is, at once, sympathetic of the damaged, demolished pain that their champion faced previously. They understand then the horrific pain that first occurred, the very first time they placed their booted foot outside of the ring. And after that, they have to try to figure out how to manouver in their shared ring, or if their boxing rules need some adaptations. And both of them are very, very brusied and tender. So does misery really love company, or is a heavyweight belt really better suited for solo work?

If two rights don't make a wrong, what do two wrongs do?

I am still shaking pretty badly from the other issue in my life and so will go home soon. Like any crisis, I hope it passes soon. Not only because I cannot handle feeling like this, but because I miss my sex drive, too.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:39 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1114 words, total size 6 kb.

But I am not feeling especially funny today. And Blogger seems to be fucked up again. And Drew darling, I tried to do AIM but it seems like it does not work...

I am beyond stressed today. I don't even feel like myself. I feel like someone watching me from afar, a little inter-terrestrial at the controls, observing while I am on autopilot, like that little dude in the alien's head in "Men In Black". There are some rather stressful events which will be taking place in my life over the next 24 hours, and I am just trying to find a way to make it through them alive. I would talk about it on this blog, but it has to do with someone else and their business, so I don't feel it's my business to rip it wide open for the rest of the world.

I also am not feeling well, but I MUST BOX TONIGHT! My Best Friend has thoughtfully agreed to don some pads and let me beat the hell out of him. And afterwards, if I see Caisa in the shower maybe I will make a pass at her. Then again, seeing as how she works with my partner unit, maybe that's not a clever idea.

All I want is to go home, open the windows, peel off my clothes, and have a special someone crawl into bed behind me, naked. To haul me up against him, in that warm spooning position, his thighs behind mine, his cock in the hollow of my bottom, his chest hair warming my back, his strong arms wrapped around me, and his face in that little corner of my neck which I love so much to be touched. Soft words murmured into my hair, words of love, words of need, words of lust, words of fire.

And all I want is to be held, and comforted, and assured that the rest of the world can spin on around us, but there is time enough for the two of us in bed.

And maybe we could sleep.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:32 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 357 words, total size 2 kb.

Egad. I have been keeping track of the best Yahoo/Google hits that found their way to my site. Turns out Melodrama and Jim have the same idea today! Just proof that there are no more good ideas left in the world.

Oh well. Here are just a few that crack me up:

- "I want to fuck a stranger" (well...don't we all, pal?)
- "Who relly killed Anna Lindh" (A-I am very embarassed I mis-spelled "really" somewhere on my site. B-if I knew, do you think I would still be working at Company X and writing a blog? Come on now, people).
- "Sex with a woman in bed in Stockholm" (while not an original occurance, I sure as hell would be interested in the story behind this one).
- "South African diplomat sex" (still an oldie but a goodie).
- "Everyday Stranger blog" (Yippee! I have come of age. Someone actually went searching for me. And when you enter Everyday Stranger on Google, I am the number one hit).

I feel exonerated.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:59 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 184 words, total size 1 kb.

Crazy is as crazy does.

There are a lot of blogs out there. Blogs about politics (a whole lot of those!), about school, about kicking various chemical dependencies, and others that are just ways for family members to stay in touch. Except for one posting in my blog about politics (which apparently was either completely ineffectual or scared some people liberal), this blog is only about one thing:

My life. And I am amazed and relieved that people are following along.

Or to quote a line from "Ally McBeal"-
Georgia: "Ally, what makes your problems so much bigger than everyone else's?"
Ally: "They're mine."

And there are many aspects to my life. Sure, there's the sex (and a lot of it!). There's the fact that I sold my soul to Company X and am worried about losing my job. There is another facet of me, an American, living and working in Europe. And while we are at it, let's not stop flying the woman banner, eh?

But there is another aspect of me that no one other than early and devoted readers of my blog (love to ya', Johnr) and those in the medical profession really know about. And that is the fact that I have issues. Well...don't we all. But I have been seeking help for some of my issues.

Say what you like about socialized health care (and trust me, I have a lot to say about it), but they have taken pretty good care of me. I do some have issues. Not the kind that makes you hesitantly minimize the blog window (...back away sloooooowly from the crazy lady's blog). Actually my problem is anger. Although, to the naked and sane eye I may appear very laid back, I am actually often wound tighter than the perm of an 80-year-old Florida retiree. In fact, the only people that know how I really am are my shrink, my two closest friends, and, oh, well I guess everyone who reads this blog now. My temper is fast, furious, and like the flow of a woman's menstrual cycle, it's completely unpredictable.

And the biggest problem with me is that work is my everything. The heart and soul of me. My driving force. And yes, I am trying to change.

The problem is, what do you put in the void it leaves behind?

Anyway, I was supposed to get an "official" diagnosis today. But the assessor called in sick, and simply left a note for me at the reception. She has had a diagnosis for me since the end of July, but didn't want to stress me, so didn't tell me on the phone as she rather wanted to tell me in person. Clearly, she is not used to dealing with Type-A personalities like myself, that want answers and want them NOW GODDAMMIT!

The assessor gave me lots of tests, some of which cracked me up (and not in a going-batty kind of way). Some had questions such as:

- "Did you like to set fire to your blankets as a child?" (Ummm...no...but thanks for asking.)
- "Do you often hear voices that tell you what to do?" (Even if I did-which I don't-that's got "real crazy" written all over it. That box would get checked "no" even if it was true!)
- "Can you predict the future?" (You are screwed if you are a professional fortune-teller taking this test, apparently.)
- "Did you like to torture small animals as a child?" (well, seeing as this is the number one behavioural pattern in serial killers, guess this would put me in the Manson family circle if I said yes. Are you checking to see if I am ill, or criminal? It was a no, at any rate).

My appointment has been re-scheduled to next week. This has pissed me off and I find it thoroughly unprofessional, but I am loathe to raise a fuss about it since they might really worry about my mental stability.

Assessor 1: (looking over my test): I don't know. She's a difficult one.
Assessor 2: Yeah, she scored high on the verbal, but Christ her math scores were abyssmal.
Assessor 1: Um, you're looking at her SAT scores, not her psych test.
Assessor 2: Oh sorry. My bad. Here we have them.
Assessor 1: Hmm...so she likes to masturbate, huh?
Assessor 2: Yeah. She's an insomniac, too.
Assessor 1: And worries about getting fat. A lot.
Assessor 2: Hold on. What's this? She counts the letters in signs she sees while stuck in traffic?
Assessor 1: WHAT!?
Assessor 2: And she even counts the punctuation!
Assessor 1: What? Punctuation? That sick bitch!

I am hoping for a visit from Roland the Mental Health Fairy tonight. Hell, there is a Tooth Fairy, an Easter Bunny, and a fucking leprechaun each March, why can't there be a Mental Health Fairy? I have him pictured as Dave from Wendy's dressed in a light pink tutu and carrying a sparkly wand labeled "Freud". He pirouettes into the room in the middle of the night, Cuban Stogie firmly clasped between his teeth, to help whisk away my Kafka dreams and restore the chemical balance to my synapses.

I am puting my ego under my pillow tonight, next to my Pocket Rocket and set of 8 new AA batteries, and see if Roland the Mental Health Fairy can fix me up.

God knows over the next week I am going to need his help.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 04:29 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 923 words, total size 5 kb.

Yesterday I did F-A. Nada. Not a thing. My big claim to fame is that I brushed my teeth, walked the dog, and otherwise watched TV. I managed to avoid a nervous breakdown by manouvering my way to the breakdown lane, putting my head in neutral, and re-reading my owner's manual while debating flagging other healthy ids down for some roadside assistance. And I wrote really long blogs, which was quite something.

I think I am good for now.

The final tally is: 5.

I am happy to report that dead battery problem was solved, and no Black and Decker tools needed a la Layne. Since I was a loser, I watched a lot of McGyver as a youngster. I was thus able to ingeniously hook up my favorite vibrator to an alternate power source that was rigged using a pencil, a rubber band, and a geranium, which I saw in an episode where McGyver needed to build a submarine to escape from a pack of Great White sharks.

NOTE: this ingenious recipe is not to be confused with rigging a pencil, a rubber band, and a chocolate bar. That is the McGyver recipe for a bomb-type mechanism that can also be used to seal holes in dykes (as in dams, not as in lesbians. That's another recipe.). Try to keep your homemade recipe inventions straight here, people.

When the rubber band idea didn't work I resorted to stealing the batteries out of the satellite remote control. And have added "batteries" to my grocery, list, innocently listed alongside the wholesome milk and unassuming dog food. So, for Layne's pleasure:

1) the first one occured Saturday in the morning, on the sly. Material thought of was an adventure I had with more than one person. I have just one word to say: university. Oh, and I thought of John Cusack. Like that needs to be said. Doesn't everyone think about him when they have a sparkly blue vibrator between their legs?

2) the second was in a drunken haze just before bed. Used a different toy and thought about the greatest lover I ever had. Amazing. Vaguely remember screaming "Stella!" and wandering through the house afterward.

Sorry-said lover's name was not Stella, and did not actually do that, I was just hoping to steal a little literary humor. Points to those who know where that comes from.

3) was in the middle of the night and I have only the vaguest recollection of doing this. A bit worrying, actually. I truly hope I can re-latch that part of my subconscious that made it ok for me to do this in the middle of the night. I can't imagine my partner unit responding well to me acting like a bucking bronco in bed while he is trying to sleep.

4) Sunday night, boozed up, I thought about the same thoughts that I had on the first round. And John Cusack.

5) was just a freebie, right on the heels of number 4. Not sure what I thought of, and not sure that it really matters anyway.

I wonder if this means I am a nympho.

I promise to try to stop posting so much material on me playing the one-eyed slot machine.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:20 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 551 words, total size 3 kb.

The biggest problem that I am currently facing:

All of my double-A batteries are dead.

I have been drinking and cannot drive.

FUCK!

-H.

PS-but maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I can sit down and write the great American novel.
PPS-on the other hand, maybe the great American novel idea is so done.
PPPS-and I am not currently in America, so perhaps cannot write said great American novel.
PPPPS-screw it. Will have more wine and hope for inspiration for great pseudo-American novel.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:07 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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