And opinions have assholes. Oh, fine, Opinions ARE LIKE assholes. It just sounded better the way I put it, didn’t it?

Translation: Please don’t call me up and ask me jack shit about politics, religion, or money. I guess those are the smoking guns of conversations. There are a few exceptions to the rule, and I’m embarrassed to state one of the reasons, but for the sake of a post - let me just put it all out on the line. The exceptions are this:

1. If you really want to hear about my opinion on any of the aforementioned topics, please go ahead and ask me. It’s your dime. We can talk about abortion, the pope, ANDDDD McCain’s new running mate all nite for $1.87/minute. No problemo.
2. If you know me like the back of your hand, work for a certain politicians campaign (looks at RockStarBadAss and wonders how he’s doing…you have your work cut out for you, sweets. Make ‘mama’ proud!!) and want to dish about certain speeches, commercials and the like, then we can talk because we’re not going to argue. We can talk about abortion, the pope, ANNNNNNDDD McCain’s new running mate (who just looks like a woman who would have kinky F’n sex with her hubby, don’t she? That little Miriam Librarian Act doesn’t fool me for one minute! God Bless her kinky schoolmarm ass) all nite for, once again, $1.87/minute. No problemo. Hey, even I like to talk to people who think the same way I do, therefore making me feel that much better for my opinions. Sure, it’s nice to hear differing opinions but only so you can laugh hysterically at how absolutely fucked up “they” are for thinking the way “they” do, right!?

Any Questions? Good. Next topic of conversation.

I absolutely LOVE my English class. I love love love love it! I’m so jazzed with my teacher and I’m even happier that he has us keeping a journal for the class. Part of our grade will depend on our journal entries. Disappointingly I am unable to use these diary entries as that type of homework. I can’t even think of having him call up this line and doing a fantasy with him. How funny is that? Reminds me of another “brain” crush I had with someone a while ago (my very first ever brain crush, actually) and I felt the same way about him. There are those crushes that just make you kinda creeped out when you think of having sex with them. I don’t know how to explain it. I just wanna fuck his mind, I have no desire to fuck him like intercourse fuck him. Eeew. I’m pretty sure he’s gay anyway. I couldn’t even think to watching him fuck anyone else - it’s like our relationship has become sacred in less than 24 hours and I won’t allow even my kinky mind to soil it. *shrugs* I never said I was easy to understand. So anyway, as I was saying, my brain crush assigns writing exercises. He calls them “Free Writes” (nudge nudge Frisco!) and gives us 10 minutes to do them. Today I wrote about Pet Peeves. I wasn’t planning on sharing it - but I’m going to. So you know how my mind works and you will learn to revere it. Haha. Seriously kidding. You may run and hide. Or you’ll be highly entertained which is much more likely.

Keep in mind that these little exercises don’t really “care” about punctuation, spelling, or anything like that. So I am going to try to duplicate the writing exercise the way it is written in my journal. Here it goes:

I have several pet peeves. A lot of them. and honestly I do have A.D.D., so having a lot of choices really freaks me out. Freaks me out in that I don’t know what to focus on and so my mind just spins around and around out of control (where it stops? nobody knows). But I’m on medication so let me just focus for a moment. Ok. Pet peeve #1: I absolutely hate the fact that my family can not pick up after themselves. Ever. They leave all kinds of stuff laying (learned the proper use of that word today!) around. I can tell exactly how it happens, too:

They got up in the morning - probably late. They made toast - left the bread bag open. Put butter on the toast - left the butter out. Thought to themselves that Jam must sound good - dipped the knife into the jam haphazardly, spread it on their toast - oh, opps, some of it got on the counter - oh wait, I’ll make some eggs. I want some milk. I’m so late. And two hours later when I emerge from my haven of sleep and perfect order, BAMMMM!!! Their shit hits me in the face.

For next week I need to write another exercise. I’ll let you know how that goes and I may post it. I may not. This could get pretty intimate. Much more intimate than knowing who I plan on voting for and how I feel about gun control, Iraq, or even abortion. ‘Cause um - while all these things always mean so much at the time, they seriously aren’t as important to me as just what type of person you are and how you treat the people you love and how you demonstrate that you care about them. Fuck a “Party” - who are you? Seriously, who ARE you? Oh, and do you pick up after yourself. I could love anyone as long as they just pick up after themselves.

I’ll post my schedule some time this weekend. I’ll be up tonight for about 3 more hours hopefully. On Saturday I will be logged in during the late afternoon and again in the evening. Sunday we’ll play it by ear. Monday … um … haven’t thought ahead that far. I’ll keep you posted. Okay?

Talk soon.

I have so much to write about and nothing wants to come out. Or I won’t let it come out. Or something. I don’t know.

I feel that if I write anything right now it will truly be on some cryptic level, and there is nothing wrong with cryptic except everyone will wonder what exactly I’m talking about and it will seem like some juvenile cry for attention. Girls know what I am referring to. It’s that completely aggravating way some girls have of showing you they are distraught - the tears and sniffles and catches in their voice, but when you ask them what is wrong they look at you sideways and say so unconvincingly, “Nothing…” God - I wanna slap girls like that. Hard. I have no desire to be one of those cryptic losers - and yet I have nothing else inside of me that is fighting to get out right now except for that. And I can’t write a letter about it. I’ve done that. I can’t even vent to people about it because the people who I can vent to have already told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would be best to just let this all go and be happy.

And I am happy, by the way. Really happy. I have started school again, I am still smoke-free, I am so incredibly healthy and full of energy because of my pact to walk 10K miles every day (and yup - I did it! I actually averaged 11K steps last week. Go me!) and eat healthy, balanced, non processed meals. It’s a wonder how much better I feel after having started this new way of living. I also have been reading quite a few books about being present and living in the now which is a fancy way of saying don’t have regrets. All in all my life is going pretty damn good. I could complain, but what would be the point? Not to mention, I’m learning this year that nothing is perfect. You can never have a day that doesn’t hold some challenges - and life is all about how you deal with those challenges, those things that come up unexpectedly that threaten to steer you off course.

But I have a twinge of unhappiness. A lot of disappointment, actually. And I’m trying my best to figure out how to deal appropriately with it. I want to give myself permission to feel it, but I don’t want it to turn into bitterness and hatred as those things surprisingly do nothing to the person who you’re disappointed in - and do everything negative to you: tearing your insides up, keeping you up at night, giving you something to worry about, etc.

So that’s where I’m at on a personal level. Just thought I’d share.

In other news, Happy Birthday to Chris! I checked your comment to me and then looked back at my feedback and sure enough, there you were celebrating your birthday with me even back then. I’m happy to be one of your traditions. Have a very very happy birthday and good luck with that other thing that we were talking about. I’m sure you will have a lovely time (or else she’s a fool!)

I’m going to close up shop and head off to bed to write a bit of my story for writing group tomorrow. I will be on late tomorrow evening, but will do my best to log in a little bit before I leave for class. I have a lot of things to squeeze in before I leave for group, and it’s just nearing 3:00AM here now. Forgive me if I can’t log on any earlier than 11:30PM (or so). I’ll post a bit more about my schedule this weekend later today. Stay tuned.

Talk soon!

So, who the hell do I think I am? I disappear off the face of the blog-o-phere for a little over a month and then just waltz on in like nothing is wrong. The nerve, eh? I can’t really speak for three of the four weeks of my disappearance. Come to think of it, I can. I was busy trying to find an excuse for where I’ve been. At first it was just an excuse for one day, but then led to twenty-one days. Yep. That’s where I was for twenty-one of the thirty or so days of my disappearance. What about the other seven? Like you had to ask! For the past seven days I have been sucked into the black hole some like to call The Olympics. Now some of you know exactly what I’m talking about because I haven’t seen many of you for a very long time either! I catch a few of your sleep deprived asses at the 24 hour grocery, loading up on the groceries after realizing one can not live on pancakes alone. Others I’ve beeped my horn at a few times after you’ve fallen asleep at various stop lights around town. Others of you have taken breaks in your Olympic viewing to give me a quick call, probably while the really interesting sports like Badminton are on. You certainly won’t be calling me up during Rhythmic Gymnastics or the ever popular sport, Synchronized Swimming, especially that team from Spain. Gotta love what batteries can do now a days, huh?

I tried to resist this whole Nationalist Patriotic Laughable Display Of Camaraderie. Sorry. It’s true. I never got into the whole cheerleader thing unless it was accompanied by an older male teacher-coach who, for special favors, elevated a not so talented Cheerleader to Head Bitch after a few exchanges after Cheer leading practice. I never was one to cheer for the home team until I was hoarse, and I didn’t like the whole sitting in the bleachers while the home football team clobbered an unfortunate team from the school down the street. I like sports alright, I’m just not an enthusiast. I was on the gymnastics team for too many years, as well as the dance team and the whole competitive stuff wore me out. I also did the whole debate team, music competitions and speech competitions, too. I liked all that stuff - emphasis on the word liked. Now I just get bored. Or so I thought.

One evening it happened. I walked into a room and the Olympic theme was playing. The fanfare of the trumpets called out to me, but I was strong and I kept on walking. I turned my head and the heat of the competition lured me in. I stopped in my tracks, watching the woman’s Volleyball. Wow. They were kicking some major ass. I felt the sand whip into my face as the opponents smashed the ball, forcing our sweet innocent ladies to dig into the sand, their bathing suit bottoms sliding painfully up their taunt asses. I screamed at the nerve of the opposing team, then while humming I’m Proud To Be An American, sat down on the couch forgetting all prior obligations. I had stepped too close to the black hole and I had as a result been sucked into its depths. I sat in the belly of that black beast until 2:00AM, vowing to myself to never get so close again.

I understand. I completely understand your pain. Some of you have been in the belly of that beast for a long time. You have bought stock in Visine, know exactly how many extra shots you need at Starbucks in order to make it through the day, and your wife, kids, dog, cat, or all of the above, have taken to the minute intervals of attention you can spare while the commercials play between the events. I am not here to judge you. I am here to offer you … absolution. In turn, perhaps you can forgive me for at least this past week. Deal?

The good news (at least for me) is that the Olympics are over on Sunday. We can all count how many medals we got (including those that we REALLY earned from the Chinese Gymnasts because we all know they are really only 11 years old!), pat ourselves on the back for being the biggest, toughest, strongest and almost the fastest (those Jamaicans… that’s right man!) people on the whole big Earth and focus on what is really important here in America: The Presidential Race and who is the biggest pop star.

School is about ready to start, I’m working on a masterpiece book, I’m still smoke free and walking every day (so I’m healthy and happy!), and I’m finally at long last feeling more like myself than before the operation. Kidding. Just sounded like a good sentence at the time. I really am feeling more like me though, just not because of any operation. It’s the drugs - definitely.

Enough of the jokes - quick thank you’s. And you know it’s been WAY too long you guys - so I may come back and edit this! I just wanted to thank some of you who didn’t forget about me even though I hadn’t written in this blog in a while.

Man Mountain, Cattekin, iluv69, Doug, Joe, Mark M, muzzle, Tiffy, and SBJ: Thank you ALL for the very generous tips!! (and for the subscription, Doug!!, the bracelet Mark, and the gifts D-train!) They were so unexpected and so very appreciated. Thank you so so so so much!

Chris, Zevon, Cattekin, CHburr, GreenLantern, ManMountain, Joe, redyder, stroker, Joe, iluv69, nothingbetterthanthis, bigdicforu, eminencefront, Danno, susieblue, sploosh, Tiffy, viewfromhere, britampa, jimbob, Tuls LagidorP EhT, Your phone number an, parkersan, bigmike23, whiteboots, SubbieMike, sinfully yrs, Allenawesome, drQ99, and Tomcat1066: Thank you all for your written positive feedback. Again, I know you didn’t have to - but you took the time to write a few words of praise and thanks and I really, really appreciate your generosity! Thank you a million times and then a million more!

That’s all I got for you tonight. I’m on and taking a few calls and hopefully I’ll be able to stay up for a bit. I had a late night last night, got up early and went to a block party this evening. All that sun, fun, pool, and pasta salad makes for a very sleepy CeCe - but I’m up for at least a few more hours!

Talk to you soon!

I have a very good friend - best really - who I occasionally live vicariously through. She has that type of life I always envisioned myself having in a few years: the hubby, the kids, a nice home in NYC, and every Christmas a tree that Martha Stewart would envy. A lot older and wiser than I am, she often gives me tidbits of advise that I gobble up like… I dunno … Skittles that have been sitting in your hand a little too long and have become soft and just a tad bit warm. Shit… that sounds kinda good.

Anyways - my friend, who I shall not name but anyone who knows me knows whom I am speaking, calls me up one day and is way upset. When she gets excited/mad her voice always raises up 2 more octaves and she sounds even more like Minnie Mouse with a ‘tude from the Bronx. It’s adorable.

“CeCe! He’s doing it again!”

“huh?” I ask - immediately turning down the volume on my phone to compensate for the volume of my friend. I turn it down to 5 and then after a moment turn it down to a two. It’s definitely sounding like a two volume conversation.

“He’s humping his pillow.”

“Ok - well … I guess these things happen.” I tell her in my most authorative voice. I remember reading something in Human Sexuality Class about masturbation in children - but not sure exactly what I read. Was it bad? Normal? A sign of something to come? (no pun intended)

“He’s doing it in the open in front of everyone.”

“Well… ok. Well that’s not so good then.” I say delicately while holding back my laughter.

“It’s not funny!”

Busted. “Ok - well - maybe you should just tell him to go into his room and do it.” I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about really. But I know my friend and she is upset. She probably said some things to her son that will forever scar him and I’m trying my best to do intervention with out sounding like I’m a know-it-all because I know nothing at this point. I’m not a Mom. Or I wasn’t then.

“I fuckin’ told him to stop fuckin his pillow!” My friend exploded. “His sister started laughing at him and told him he was gross.”

“But…” I interrupted passionately “He’ll get a damn complex! Do you want him calling up those lines and talking to a Mistress who will make fun of his thingee because that’s the only way he will be able to get off and it will all be because you made him feel ashamed of what is just natural?”

“Shut up, Ce!”

I could hear her softening on the other end and I continued carefully, “Masturbation is natural and it relieves stress! He just needs to do it in a more appropriate place. Can’t his daddy talk to him about it?”

“Shiiiiit” My friend sighed. It was a defeated “shit” though. Her anger was subsiding. “Maybe I should take his pillow away from him.” She considered.

“He’ll just find something else - and then he’ll learn to hide it and be ashamed of what he is doing instead of understanding there isn’t anything wrong with masturbating - he just needs to find a private place to do it because not everyone wants to see that kind of thing or somethin’.”

I was sounding more and more like a child therapist as the conversation went on. My friend must have thought so too - because she told me she would consider my advise and try harder to not freak out when her little boy was masturbating against various stuffed things in the house.

Before I took away Jackson’s manhood he was providing me with a certain sick sort of entertainment. He would take various stuffed animals - attack them - grabbing bits of their soft furry flesh in his teeth and shake the victim back and forth while making growling noises. Once he was sure they were …um … tamed (?) he would mount various parts of their bodies and go to work. Remembering my earlier conversations with my friend I decided to casually move the stuffed animal ala Jackson to a secluded part of the living room and go about my business. He would eventually stop and move on to other activities. I spoke casually about it to the Vet, relieved that he wasn’t humping people’s legs or other dogs in the doggy park (such things carry a serious stigmatization that aren’t easily discarded!) The vet insisted that once Jackson had the operation
he wouldn’t feel the need to do that often/ever. I had hope. At 6 months Jackson had the surgery and after he stopped glaring at me and his stitches healed he was back to doing the humpy dumpy. He had his favorite mates; The Zebra - an old child hood friend he hung out with, a toy bunny that he also had since he was 8 weeks old. Not “had” in that sense. Then there was the huge stuffed dog that I bought because I thought it would be cute if my little tiny doggy cuddled with a stuffed animal 5 times his size. Jackson prefers humping one of his legs and basically doesn’t even do the post-coital thing with the dog. He’s a love em fuck em and leave em kinda dog - what can I say?

I dealt with Jackson’s horniness because it was well contained inside of the home. No one knew that behind his little furry face that housed the sweetest, loving eyes and mischievous grin, he actually was Ron Jeremy to the stuffed animals in the house. I swear I fond a few of them hiding, fearing the way he casually tossed the others to the side after he had had their way with them.

A few weeks ago something happened - something BIG - and I realized that something had to change. I had a big decision to make. Only I could make it for him. I was the adult, the Mommy - and I had to really take my role in Jackson’s life seriously or he would harm himself.

Jackson’s penis got stuck.

All I remember is that he was having his special time with Ms. Zebra and um … he stopped - sated - and went about his business. I don’t look down there all that often because it’s his privates you know? And he gets shy sometimes. But I did happen to notice that there was something there that was kinda stuck. It usually goes back after a few licks or whatever (sorry - it’s natural!) and so I didn’t really worry about it. *sigh* This is a NF friendly blog - so please read that last sentence as it was intended: JACKSON licks himself and it goes back. Thanks. As I was saying… I wasn’t worried. But the next day I saw that it was still kinda peeking out as if to say “Hi - where’s the Zebra bitch - I’m ready for round 2 DAWG!!!” I quelled my fears and went about my business. I took Jackson for a walk where we ran across (of course) the adoring public who immediately wanted to pet my dog until he rolled onto his back displaying for the whole world to see his little Jackson. “Hi…” it said. “Where’s my Zebra bitch?” Embarrassed and shamed I quickly escorted Jackson back home and headed towards Google.

“My Dog’s Penis is stuck - what do I do?” Come on. What did you think I typed in there?

Minutes later I knew what I needed to do. I had to wade through ALOT of advise too. Butter, Neosporin, to massage or not massage?, until I finally stumbled upon the one thing I knew I could do. I had to ice my dog’s um “balls”. Carrying Jackson to the kitchen I opened up the freezer and grabbed a few ice cubes. Grabbing some paper towel I placed the ice cubes in it and turned Jackson onto his back, cradling him in my arms. His tongue escaped to give me a quick kiss.

“You’re not going to wanna kiss me after this…” I muttered and gently applied the ice.

Jackson’s expression shifted from curiosity to absolute disgust. “I don’t have any balls, stupid.” I heard him say. So I shifted the ice cubes up a bit to the base of his …”Oh - you’re the meanest mommy alive!” his eyes screamed at me and he started to squirm and close his legs at the same time.

“You need to stop humpin the dry ass animals!” I told Jackson.

“Um - I make do with what I have you cruel heartless woman!” He replied.

Looking past the Brawny that was now mush I saw that Jackson’s thingee was still out saying hello to the world. Considering butter for a brief moment (didn’t know where the damn Neosporin was!) I set Jackson down on the floor to consider my other options. I could call the Vet in the morning and HE could put that thing back in. I could try to push it back in…eeeew. No. I could … ‘Damn’ I interrupted my own thoughts, ‘I can’t believe I fuckin was icing my dog’s dick!’ Ok - so - the vet. I’ll bring Jack to the vet!

“Jackson!” I screamed suddenly. “Don’t lick it it will NEVER GO BACK IN!” I Rushed to Jackson to pick him up and interrupt his masturbatory experience - but as I got closer I noticed… The thingee was back in. My nightmare was over. My baby was going to live another day! And most importantly - I didn’t have to take him in to the vet to get his penis put back in.

The very next day I knew what I needed to do. I picked up all his “girlfriends” threw them into the washing machine on delicate and put a bit of wool light in there to make things all nice and soft. Once they were all washed I placed them all on the picnic table in the backyard to dry. I was planning on packing them up after they were nice and dry and giving them to Jackson on “special” occasions. I figured he could have a date night and he could go at it for a bit and I would then pick up the girls and put them away until next time. *sigh* Once the girls were on the picnic table though, Jackson wouldn’t leave me alone. He would go to the table - look up at the nice pieces of ass that were laid out there - and cry, whine, claw at the table legs and attempt to jump up to get them. After hours of this I finally relented and gave him his pieces of ass warning him to not get anything stuck - I still hadn’t found the Neosporin and I wasn’t in the mood to ice his nether regions again. He ignored me and went to work. Luckily nothing got stuck. I kept an eye on things.

So my big decision still is upon me. Do I take away Jackson’s … um … girlfriends again? Do I take away the only thing that brings him pleasure? Do I rob him of his sexuality just as I robbed him of his balls? Shouldn’t a little white Doggy have a little bit of boom boom if he wants it? Who is he hurting? The zebra really isn’t complaining. But if I let him continue to hump dry ass stuffed animals, his penis may very well get stuck again. He’s sort of asking for it by not using any lubrication, don’t you think?

I haven’t made up my mind…and I’m open to suggestions. I really am. A parent needs to do what is in the best interest of their child, you know. I’m suppose to protect him from the harsh realities of life - which I assume means stuck penis’.

My momma definitely didn’t tell me there would be days like this!

Sometimes I crawl into my mother’s lap and I just snuggle in there … knowing I’m way too big to be carrying on this way - but enjoying the lap experience even so. A man I’m seeing (lol! That sounds so much better than the reality so let’s just go with the fantasy, k?) says that I’m kinda searching for the parent I didn’t quite get, but I really hate that typical therapeutic bullshit. It reminds me of the other day when I was watching some Oprah show about (what else?!) dieting and weight loss/food plans/ etc. I find these shows absolutely ADDICTING. I always wanna just see the after the life change people when they walk onto the stage next to their fat former selves. So anyway - I’m watching this show impatiently (of course) cuz I just wanna get to the end (don’t act surprised!). Here is this guy who is like … 500 somethin pounds. I’m not kidding. And he says something like um “I use food for love” - and I lost it. I absolutely lost it. As far as I’m concerned, people watch too much of this psychological bullshit babble. Too many wanna be “Doctors” say some key things that in theory are pretty damn true (Food is an addiction - people who are overweight often use food to self medicate…) and I just think that often times people drink up that stuff like another Frosty from Wendy’s. Slurp Slurp Slurp. Now let’s repeat what we just drank in. Oh yeah … I’m fat because food is a drug. I’m fat because my mommy didn’t love me and I turned to food. I’m fat because gas is almost 5.00/gal. I hate hearing what people think people want to hear. We all know how food isn’t love anymore - but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re sitting on the Oprah stage at 500 plus pounds dying of obesity. Knowing that “love is food to me” does not cure anyone of their addiction. So where is the connection, you know? Could the connection be that isolating and eating is an easy cure for anxiety and loneliness - and risking rejection or whatever is more difficult so a person who struggles with weight picks the “easy” choice with the predictable result? That feels more “real” to me than spouting off some psychological babble bullshit. Sorry - rant over. Wait - let me just tie it back to what I was saying: So when the man I am seeing gives me some of that psychological babble bullshit after I’m telling him something that REALLY has the issue I want to talk about - it upsets me. Yeah yeah yeah - dysfunctional, co-dependent, unhealthy. LOL. Can we have some new terms, here?

I’m not sure if this impatience is a new thing to me, by the way, or something that was always here but just a hidden side of me. It can be pretty entertaining at times, but I realize it can also come off as particularly cold and heartless. Bitchy-like. I’m seriously a sweetheart. Most of the time. I think.

Back to my mom … I was sitting in her lap - smelling a spot on her shirt that reminded me of raspberry sorbet or somethin’ - and I was telling her how I don’t have any time. Her response to me? “CeCe - you were saying this when you were 8 years old. ‘But Mom’ - you said to me, ‘I want to do everything NOW because who knows if tomorrow I will still have the time!!!’ ” Yeah. 8 years old. Amazing ain’t it? I was an emotional wreck even as a young child. *takes a bow*

So today I ran around like I had a rocket up my ass. No it’s not the drugs - and no I can’t sell you any. I don’t think. I went to the gym and worked out with my ex boss for an hour - then we went shopping to pick up a “few” groceries. Yeah right. We went to CostCo. You can not pick up a “few” of anything there. Costco is love - and I am certain I have substituted Cosco for love. There, I said it, Dr. Oz. So - we go to Costco - then I fill up my prescription - and then I go back to my friend’s house and jump in her pool to cool off for a few - then I remember I have to take my groceries home too - so we go back to my house. Then we pick up Jackson who got an impromptu hair cut from a friend who is staying at our house (she has too MUCH time on her side… she’s not a groomer and Jack looks a fricken hot mess…) and we continue to go for an hour walk (11,024 steps today!!) and then I realize that I have done absolutely nothing today for myself really - like no alone time, you know how that is, right? And I started to get REALLY cranky/bitchy/pouty/passive aggressive. Danger zone. Seriously. And what is it that makes me so damn cranky?

I look at that damn clock and I think to myself - I need about 10 more hours in a day. I need time to sift everything back into my life. I’m convinced that I could possibly make it all fit. Maybe. If I tried. Hard enough. I start to feel cheated - then I start to panic because there is SO much I want to do… so much … and there is this limit on my life called a “day” which has this annoying thing in it called “hours” which are limited to 24 hours. Then my own mother gently reminds me (while laughing softly at my misery - just like a mom! lol!) that I have plenty of time and that people always feel this way - and that this is “life”. That I will do all the things that I want and more - if they are right for me to do… I’ll always want to do more and that is healthy. (??) So I guess I can stay with that for a moment. It’s 11:32 now and I logged in an hour before I thought I would be able to but an hour later than I had been shooting for. You get what I’m saying, right? But I am trying to take solace in the smaller victories here - and the things I am discovering and learning about myself. I’m granting myself an hour of totally useless Oprah Philosophy because hey … everybody needs a little time away (I heard her say…. *Extra points for the song reference, boys!*) and there will be time. For everything. Within reason.

I hope.