Stevedores, Justacorps, and les petits mots d’amours

Really, I just like things that rhyme.

It’s been a rough summer. A gorgeous, beautiful, hot summer. But a rough one.

I’m not much in to opening up. I’m sure you know that already.

So for the good people who have been there as shoulders to sniffle on (sorry about the shirt; I’m sure that’ll, you know, come out), walls upon which to beat my fists, willing receivers of endless hours of kvetching, and just as good company, thank you.

I don’t think we think much about our relationships with one another. I mean, in general. We focus on one or two meaningful relationships, but we don’t express our gratitude enough. We don’t say enough, “in spite of your peccadilloes and armadillos, you are a Good Person, and I appreciate you.” I’m not calling for the fourth international hand-holding and mutual emotional masturbation conference or anything. But it’s so goddamned easy to find fault with one another, and so goddamned difficult to just …to just *breathe*. If that makes sense. Which I’m sure it doesn’t.

It’s like watching hours and hours of Quantum Leap on Netflix. You pick out all the corny stuff and the really cruddy 80s cinematography and shoddy sitcom writing, and you kind of gloss over how really cool that show actually is, until it’s 11:30 at night and Al the hologram says something ridiculous and Sam the time-travelling dude has to figure out how to be in a woman’s body without playing with her boobs all day that you realise you still really really like it. The show, not playing with boobs all day. Although you might like that too, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Boobs can be an awful lot of fun.

I think my simile engine is busted.

At any rate, thanks for being out there. I know things will get better.






2 responses to “Stevedores, Justacorps, and les petits mots d’amours”

  1. the_iron_troll Avatar

    I’m a big fan of your armadillos.

    1. cenobyte Avatar

      I wish I had more armadillos, really.

i make squee noises when you tell me stuff.

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