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first, I know I loved Padz more than my own life, yet I was admitting that I treated her like an independent almost more mature than me (ok sure) entity. Instead of being with her and prioritizing her. She had gotten cranky and had bit me. I swear I researched it on the web at the time and found nada. I can't stand the thought of ... look, I'm the girl that was famous for eschewing flowers as a gift - who wants to watch something die and then have to throw away its pus water? (and I was famous for wearing skirts and dyeing my hairs red). her death and brief decline were devastating to me. I walked out of the vet knowing my life was forever different. I bought a blue stone - one of the few things I managed to keep hold of. dangle that preposition
She taught me about love. why is the measure of love loss.
it's going to be Spring in a few hours. the time I ruined the marriage to my first husband (being the person that does the blind-siding) on a winter to spring trajectory. In my fucked up head,it was going to better for all. I mean, it turned out better for ...
dwelling on it again.
I've got some gofundme written, and I want to shit. It's so scary to put yourself out there for rejection. It's so scary to admit you're broke. and I'm like oy vey. it also must be like onlyfans. if you don't advertise it on your social media, no one sees it. (I wonder if I should get chatGPT to rewrite the pitch)
Dwell
and I came here for the opium and blond baboon by janwillem van Der Wetering. the last surprising gift Andrew gave me (one of our fight/discussions had been "the way I know is that your presents used to be amazing and now they suck like do you even know me") was a bottle of Opium. My guess is that when he was buying some for his self and ad or a promotion to "pair up with one for the ladies" or some sort. It had been my signature scent for a while - before Egyptian goddess. In fact, my first perfume love (I used to spend time in old ladies makeup and closets and perfume) was rive gauche by Yves st. Laurent. the blond baboon - who remembers what it was really about - yet I recall is as a story where the villain was complicated and he had the head of a blond baboon on his wall to remind him of his deepest shame, and you didn't find out until the end. I have many what I call "blond baboons"
my entire collection that has gypsied with me from stage to stage... is every object - connected to love... even the blond baboons....
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