$20 Million to stand on

A female friend suggests sombrely that short men wrestle with more chimera challenges in finding true mates than almost anybody else. The cutting reality is that women on natural stilts will not have little men. Another, says she, is that compact women won’t want sawn-off men for fear of spawning imps and elves.. It is a selective science to save your sons the hardship of moneyless mate-finding (true love). My friend feels that a short man needs $20 million to literally stand on, before he should be ‘seen’ by a woman.

Sweet Mother, What It Look Like?

I was hanging out with my friend, Gee Oh, at the Golden Tulip Hotel’s swimming pool at the gloaming, and rationing on their best effort at Italian cuisine. A live band was keeping time on the same half-dozen rehearsed songs in changing cadences. We were challenging each other to a dance, when the band started “Sweet Mother”, but Gee Oh changed her suiting mind because people might have thought that she was my mother, although she looks pretty youngish herself. So, I was just wondering: does it matter what people think?

Forgiving! Unforgiving! And Proud of it!

My radiant birthday - I’m fuzzy-filled with la dolce vita of love lavished by my warm, wonderful friends, and I’ve been fairy-floating on a cloud. All the keen kindness means a lot to me, coming after the cruel coming of this year.

On my birthday, I always look back to all the despised persons that I’m holding something – anything – hideous against, and I fondly forgive them. I let it go. I did the same this morning. So, officially, I’m loving everybody freely.

BUT NOT THE SMOOTH-FACED SHE DEVIL! I hate her, I hate her, I hell-hate her! I still hope she comes to no good end. I will not forgive her. I so wish she had not called me today. But, then, I spat on her false birthday wishes!

Wednesday, I Love You

I love Wednesday. Because Kiz and I like to hang out on weeknights (so why not Wednesday?) Then there's all those crowded weekends at all the fun places, and I'm a crowd-hater. Maybe it's because Monday's long gone, and Friday's finger-flirting with me from a fraudulent distance. Or because, by Wednesday, I've really got into the groove of the working week. Maybe it's because of that pair of Delilah-licious, luscious legs that lap-dance beneath my office window, at 5 O'clock, every Wednesday.

Nice to meet you. Who are you?

This is earnest embarrassing and not very 'pc', but whenever I meet someone for the very first time, I usually want to know something scandalous about them. I mean prison-scandalous, sexual-scandalous, integrity-scandalous, profession-scandalous, snobbery-scandalous, bigotry-scandalous, etc, etc.



It is not to hold it, nurture it, warp it, hide it, and let it out at a deviously damaging time. It is just to feed fat my human curiosity, and the belief that there's no closet without skeleton. Of course, for the average person that I meet, the locker is disappointingly as clean as a whistle.