“You’re mad,” she said before eating, “but it’s good mad, so that’s all right.”
Extremely decent of her, don’t you think? This is worth its weight in purest gold. You can’t pay someone to treat you like that, because they don’t exist. She has to know you, to wit:
I just got to have tequila for supper while my sweetie ate the rest of her birthday dinner from last night: “big-ass shrimp” (that’s what it said on the menu) with rice and and a bunch of other stuff, including okra. Better her than me, I say. But we had a fine time. Afterwards she sat down across from the wood stove with a book, and I made myself a big pancake with a chopped-up apple in it. Let’s run that by again: I get loaded instead of having dinner, talk with a pretty girl, make myself a huge dessert, and everybody’s happy.
So far, this is working out okay, except for the impending sugar crash.
[Five hours later...]
Champagne, seafood, and chocolate for a double Pisces on her birthday, two night in a row. She responds so well to this, it makes her light up like a star. How come it only took me 30 years to get it right?
I may move slowly, but I get there.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
a) “Successfull writers are like prizefighters who keep on getting hit but won’t go down. They’ll stick with it until is right”.
b) “A creative writer is one for whom writing is a problem”.
from today’s (2/27/10) NYTimes article “Depression Upside”.
I guess that’s you, bro.
thanks for the blog, M.
Hey Mauro!
Dig the prizefighter analogy, not so sure about b), though. Although it’s a problem if I DON’T write!
And it’s somewhat of a problem giving myself over to it completely (art guilt, other obligations, etc.) so it WORKS, you comprendo.
I’m not depressed, exactly–believe me, I know what THAT is!–although that was a life-long issue. Lingering effects, though. More like my psyche is a wrinkled shirt that needs more hanging out in the breeze…