With all the chaos that appears to have hit whatever fan it was hovering in close proximity to prior to recent events and is currently flying willy-nilly at unsuspecting schmucks who happen to be walking by I have taken refuge wherever I can. My housemates are angry about the foxhole I dug in the front yard... The place I take most of my refuge is in writing. A vauge, rather ambiguious shelter to be sure, but my shelter nonetheless. I've been writing songs since I was about 12 and though I am often frustrated by the product, the process is a sort of therapy; it's like telling secrets, emotions, dreams and fears to a best friend who, in a time of danger or threat of divulgance, can simply be burned into never telling (and, I should note it's LEGAL to burn this best friend to a crisp, should they ever even consider straying away from your deepest emotional outpourings--this is not true of all best friend burning. Check with your lawyer as to the full legality of the best friend burning option). And there's therapy in burning to a crisp those words that once captured, oh so elequently, exactly who you interpreted you to be, so it's good all around. I have to write; it's unexplainable but something I do every day, be it a song, a journal entry, a letter or just a run though what I wrote previously; keeps me grounded in a way. And lately I have been more grounded than United Airlines, post Chapter 11.
Regardless, it gathers my ADD prone thoughts into some sembalance of a linear progression and allows for the rather anal process of analyzing these ad nausum, or at least until another crisis arises or chocolate enters the room. This desire to constantly do this analyzing is, I think, what truly separates males and females. It's definately not breasts, I think there are many in the male species who have more boobage per acre than I care to think about. I feel as if I should donate my bras to them, simply out of charity. "Bras for Bros" we could call it. Boobs, now those are some funny things. I wonder how many men have died for the simple want of seeing a specific woman's jumblies. Can't say there's been too many women who've died in bitter conflicts over the desired sight of that special man's package, but what do I know. It could have been for the sight of his melons the way some guys are looking. A few months ago my friend was talking about how to get more people to attend his bible study, and the idea of a topless bible study came up and we all decided "Jugs for Jesus" would work dandy for the title but Peter thought it would attract the wrong crowd. Posh. Everyone needs to hear about Christ, even those obsessed with knockers, and we never said it would be a coed bible study. Ehh, technicalities kill everything that's fun.
Anyway, what was I talking about and how did I get on the topic of boobs? Oh Lawd. Writing! Ah yes, writing, it's my outlet, it's wonderful, it's free, it's boundless, there's no rules (unless you are trying to submit anything to Jerry Fallwell's "National Liberty Journal", in that case, just make sure your main point ends in "...and that is why it is absolutely true that the Purple Teletubby is gay." then you be able to snatch up your share of that porky Conservative pride), you can do it with whomever, whenever and you don't even have to notify your HMO. Try it, you'll like it. I'm sure someone told you the same thing about Botox, but come on people, after writing at least you can still smile.
