I want to tell you all these things. I swear.
But I am too distracted. I just can't seem to help myself. I haven't slept well in days because I just get so giddy and excited that I can't turn my brain off, not that I even want to. I'd rather think about the butterflies swirling in my head than drop off, so that's not much of an incentive for my brain to cooperate. And perhaps the lack of a full night's sleep has made me a little loopy, but when I think about my last days in Portland, I can't help but curl up into my 13 year old me and giggle uncontrollably. I am totally screwed.
I know what you're thinking, Internet, and you're wrong. You think I met someone in Portland. And that couldn't be further from the truth. I met him last year. Hah! So there. And I truly do not want to reveal too much. My life is the All Humiliation Network on here so I'll be discreet. For now. MWAhaha! Seriously though, just because I flay my life out for the world to dissect does not mean that I don't respect others' privacy.
AND this is so insanely new that I don't want to say too much for fear that the gods will take it away. Foolish mortal, they laugh, if only she had shut her huge maw. Teach her to tell her business to the whole world. Crazy lady. We must punish her!
Nonetheless, I can't help but feel totally happy. And so, even though I'd rather not write about this, I'd rather savor it with my girly friends, I just can't help it. It's what is on my mind, yo. It's not my fault.
And I have to say, in the last hour and a half since I started this blog, took time out for a conference call, and played phone jeopardy half-heartedly with my dad, my uterus has taken me hostage and is now employing some kind of medieval torture as punishment for my caprice and utter lack of sensibility by wrapping a fiery belt of indescribable pain around me, which is washing any inkling of happiness in river of utter misery. (And WHO wins the award for the longest sentence ever? Moi!)
See? The gods ARE punishing me! Damn this girl needs some chocolate stat (I'll eat my weight in fudge and call you in the morning). And possibly a straight jacket. Because every moment I let this post get any longer, I just prove myself that much more insane. If that's even possible. And yet I keep writing. The words keep pouring from my fingers. I cannot stop myself. Somebody tell the poor guy to run for his life from the crazy lady with rogue ovaries and possessed fingers.
Good god in hell, I sound attractive.
In a last ditch effort to save my dignity, please enjoy a song that I have been totally crushing on by the Orion Experience. Oh, baby!