There Are No Words, Except Maybe I’m Sorry

I was all set to put up a canned post. Completely canned, like peaches in the dead of winter, a post written way back in the wilds of November during NaNoWriMo. But instead I’m taking a page out of my dear friend Chris Hinton’s book from the Dimwit Diary and just writing whatever is in my head. God I love a man with a half beard. So sexy.

(Photo Credit : thedimwitdiary.com)

Is there a woman in the world who doesn’t want to tap that? I personally can’t resist.(Photo Credit : thedimwitdiary.com)

I’m going to email this post to him tonight. He won’t receive the email because Chris of the beloved partial facial hair is currently holed up in the mountains somewhere typing out a manuscript hopefully while sleeping with a beautiful woman. He loves to do that.

Can you say that? That you hope someone is sleeping with a beautiful woman? I just did. I’m drunk on exhaustion, which is far better than being drunk on boredom. And the former is less likely to end with pairing up mismatched socks.

I had better get to the meat of this post soon before I start talking about mailing people condoms because safe sex is like swimming- everyone should know how to do it.

The above statement makes far more sense if one knows that my closest friend is moving away and I had offered to send her obscure objects in the mail so she wouldn’t miss me as much. I think post marked condoms bring warmth and joy to most people’s homesick hearts. I would also send three wingnuts and an acorn in the mail too. It’s questionable whether this is more or less normal than the last batch of postcards I sent out.

The following is an excerpt from a postcard I sent to family friends.

Even centaurs have to do laundry. Although given the expression on his face, it seems he’s excited by this. Perhaps because that’s what passes for entertainment in the centaur world. Pity. Someone should really teach those creatures how to bowl or skeetshooting.

Even centaurs have to do laundry. Although given the expression on his face, it seems he’s excited by this. Perhaps because that’s what passes for entertainment in the centaur world. Pity. Someone should really teach those creatures how to bowl or skeetshooting.

 

So I’m two hundred and some odds words in and I’ve realized that there is no meat of this post. Which is tragic, except for the vegetarians, they’ll be quite pleased. As it is I’m a steak lover myself, thus I’m going to bed. Good night all, I bid you a tired adieu.

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8 thoughts on “There Are No Words, Except Maybe I’m Sorry

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