Catnapped and Doggone
Honey, I have a headache. A bad one. Usually, I write my blogs a bit in advance to protect myself from the totally not in the mood to be smart, funny, sexy risks. What can I say? I'm not Rebecca -- I can't bring it every day without fail. And I wasn't lucky enough to be Josh or Michael who honestly got double quantities of the flirting as breathing thing. There are days -- and this is one -- where there is pretty much nothing I could say, or hear, that wouldn't cast a restraining order quality around the romantic initialization moment.
I suppose it explains why I write non-sequentially. If I didn't play to the moment, I might not ever finish a project while I patiently or impatiently wait for the right color on my writing mood ring. For some reason, I don't have as much trouble with regular moments of literary homicidal rage. Sometimes, even I'm surprised when a character gets on my nerves and has an unfortunate accident.
The romantic interlude is much harder. I suppose it might be because, on a personal basis, I can be a bit schizophrenic. One birthday I might find receipt of lock picks the most personal, alluring gift and then I might follow that up with a Valentine's Day chocolate box treated as an attempt on my blood-sugar challenged existence. Words are the same. Maybe they work, maybe they don't but I'm never really sure until the instant they fill the dialogue balloon above my head. I remember being greatly swayed by "dare you" once although quite recently I responded with a snarky "what are we, 6?" I love the men who can recite poetry casually but have never felt drawn to the Irish drinking ditty. Aren't they mostly the same? I find breaking into song of any sort off-putting and the traditional comment on my looks are almost always met with scorn. On the other hand, I remember a very pleasant evening spent in the company of someone who responded to my elevator look and a simple "nice." (In my defense, it was during my shallow years which I think might be mostly behind me but you never really know that, either, do you?)
A friend of mine once told me that there was a period of time during which gay men carried handkerchiefs of different colors all of which had particularly meanings to advise the interested of the carrier's state of mind. No pick up lines, no uncertainty, no drifting into a minefield of bad day, bad timing and no chance of saying the wrong thing and turning a love sonnet into a Tim Burton script. I find the idea incredibly refreshing but with my sense of style, I might be back for more aspirin.
Thanks for being in the mood to read.