I tried more than three combinations to get into this blog. It was VERY important to me that you know what i think. And admittedy, what I think has a harmony and a history that a lot ofy ou probably cannot deal with. This is a most important blog. It’s a Hillary blog - I should turn you away if you seek otherise unles you seek policies and protocol and best practice in a man’s world. I am investigating your role in the greater ideal of faith archrives ruleles THAT — that is unsure because my policies me her (the blogger) feel like the is sitting on a robust alchemy for change. Obama has the vision for change but he lacks the classical music of politics and I think that women hear the politics louder and clearer than ever before but the fact is that when Hillary gets to go home and pick a brain (children are the only ones who blush) she is the just as important but candiate and she did say some pretty amazing thing and I am not sorry I am the pree sisstr, I am more exited to go out and be do  and BE FREIREDS WITH Wi THOSE PEOPLE. Good soonQ

List five people that bring you joy.

List five places that bring you joy.

List five tasks that bring you joy.

Name three people you are genuinely happy for.  Write one word why.

Name three people you envy and why. If you list money, status, or stuff, they don’t qualify.

If you had eight hours to yourself, how would you spend it?

If you could have done one thing differently or over last weekend, what would it have been?

Imagine you had to get a tatoo at gunpoint, what would it be?

You get a pet hermit crab, what do you name it?

What is the best thing you know about your mother’s mother?

What’s the difference between the responsibilities of Senator Clinton and
the women of Wysteria Lane? From boosting network ratings to squelching
unfounded gossip, it’s getting harder to tell the difference between these
polarizing queens of prime time. How is Clinton’s public trajectory any
different than a soapy character sketch of a woman wronged by her husband?
Yet, she is instinctively forging ahead within the confines and stability of
decades of marriage and in pursuit of the feminine American dream. Yes,
Hillary Clinton chose long ago to avoid wearing an apron in public, to not
get caught flinging her naked self off of porches or even to appear to have
the time to chase after a brood of small children; however, in spite of her
‘cut-your-losses’ approach, the burden Mrs. Clinton bears is far greater
than those preoccupied with the luxury of appearances. Amidst her dance
with modern-American English – all perceived flip-flops or sidesteps
aside—her deepest secret, her biological gender, is threatening to sound a
little desperate and fall to the mercy of her competition. She is
traversing the last frontier in the quest for true equity and
bipartisanship in the multi-century debate of the sexes. – vocabulary.

In an interview on her campaign bus this week, Senator Clinton’s Washington
Post article boasted more than a dozen direct quotes – less than a quarter
of which were declarative. Unlike Republicans, I’m not needling her
conservative approach to debates about health care and global warfare, but
rather her under utilization of the English language. There is no denying
she’s highly intelligent, remarkably literate, and more than capable of
making decisions and sticking to them (she’s still married isn’t she?) but,
I have to say her gender is leaking into her sound bites and her shy
subjectivity is detracting from her message. Her preludes to opinion are
falling flat like “ums” and “ahs” and the mid-quote crescendos of her true
vision is not heard loud and clear.

I just really think I have to tell her. No: I must tell her. That’s why I
am writing this letter.

I once knew a woman who coached women writers in workplaces. She remarked, “Learn now to say to what you mean. Never caveat yourbeliefs in business, in marriage, in life with passive, careful, qualifyingwomen’s words like ‘actually,’ ‘really,’ ‘just,’ ‘if,’ ‘but,’ – and, above all, eradicate “I think” before a declaration. If you think it, then so it is.” I nodded in newfound agreement to which she patted my hand and said quietly, “And forget ‘I’m sorry’ – what a waste of time. Never get caught apologizing.”

As a modern business woman, a stickler for grammar and advocate of proper
etiquette in the delicate dance of a woman with the English language, it
pains me to see Hillary Clinton trying to not to step on the toes of her
partner. The only thing a candidate has going for her or himself in this
race besides bank accounts and popular pundits behind the scenes is his or
her command of the language. The vast majority of Senator Clinton’s quotes
in this week’s interview about being a polarizing force faltered under the
strength of a stiff masculine arm on a crowded dance floor and were muffled
in the armpit of manly declarations of “because I said so”. Sure, she’s
deliberately trying to offer a foil to “the decider,” but sallying around
subjective opinions is just as risky.

Meanwhile, Doris Lessing takes the Nobel cake for her impressive dissection of the male - female phenomenon.

Mary Todd Lincoln is rumored to have said that Abraham first approached her
by saying, “I want to dance with you in the worst way.” She is said to have
made a joke of it later among friends by declaring, “And he did.” No
matter, he made up for it with his evangelic, rhythmic, balanced approach
to the English language. The past few hundred years have shown that a
strong command of the language is unequivocally linked to successful
command of this country.

As the ladies of Wysteria Lane will tell you, from pies to politics, an
edge over the competition far outweighs adherence to antiquated social
codes. Language is the only campaign platform that can bring about stronger
social consciousness, a deeper discourse on political issues, and the
advancement of a truly bipartisan nation with [your words, Senator Clinton]
a centrist coalition. This is our language and I’m looking to you to
shatter the glass floor of the masculine vernacular and rise to meet
history eye to eye.

You can dance, you can dance. Have the time of your life. Know what you
want, say what you mean; you are the dancing queen.

Me again. You probably tire. I do too. So many nuances in a period, so many choke-backs in a pool of vomit about what you’ve become. So little time to worry or catch your breath about it. I get tired. Like you are of me. You hope I will Perez-it-out and wax the celebrity moment. I AM THE CELEBRITY MOMENT. You just don’t know or get or smell me yet. You would be surprised. To know me is to know that I obsess. I obsess over the mental image of a cat jumping out of a car on a leash - back seat - and springing off the ground as though alive and unstrangled or Rodney King-ed. I drove to a side street to cope. I hope they raced to the vet. I have no idea - for all I know some white hipster tossed his only knee high fan club member out the window - all i know is i saw a CAT in its own form SKIP across the pavement with a noose around its neck and a spring in its step. I will never be the same. I ate pork tonight and solemnly wondered if I can eat a big pink happy 100 pound pig to make me happy. It did - for 14 minutes and now I must confess my sadness fr eating 12 lb of pig in deep fried dumpling. I ate and ate and ate the deep fried near-wonton dumpling until my gills were ruffled. I don’t know what’s good for me. Help me please. Do I manufacutre a mini-me (how cool already is he-she?) The other Tuesday my old roomate asked me (in three words) describe why you want a kid. In so many words, I toyed with laughter and legacy..and then it hit me “to meet him” - that’s the three words - what is the creepy crazy tired apathetic but smart person that could fill this jo7I am not gong to ask Minie driver for context - come ccccclosseWWw —- upsie daisy stay awake while blogging?@?

it is late and patio-fantastic. ace needs a knife- his foot lives in a matchbox and this kid is dying breed but i want for their pale country club houses and their 20 years of clean to live through me but she keeps whoooo oooohiing and the words flow but i am way older than yoou and way sorrier no matter what you think your voice can tell. n i am somehwat sorry for wanting a cigarette and it it is crazy time in Dixieland.

For years we’ve all been trying to find St. Elmo’s Fire. We think it
looks like the storefront might be up on Prospect Street and I think
the bar is based on the Tombs. Everyone I know who went to Georgetown
lived 8 people to a rowhouse and invited squatters for the rent
breaks. That loft with the Nike ad is horrifyingly huge. Everyone who
works on the Hill these days dresses in stolen Burberry from their
mother’s closets and lives like in an Elian Gonzalez-like situation
because they are all INTERNS. It’s just not feasible. Emilio’s
character is such a loser it makes me sad I ever enjoyed his
sweatshirt-unzipping-skipping bender in Breakfast Club. When he drives
to WISP (hypothetically) to ruin her ski trip, it pains me to no end.
But, I can say that I do know plenty of people that have had weird
house-sitting for diplomat situations so that part must be based on
someone one of the writers slept with. Andrew McCarthy’s character,
for all of his 80s prowess, (Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero) is
pretty deep considering, but I agree about the sex thing. No one under
25 suffers a sex droubt. Its not biologically possible unless its the
main character from the Sun Also Rises. And who likes a really ugly
tomboy anyway? Ally Sheedy’s haircut is so bad in that movie, I
preferred her with the dandruff snowstorm on her captain crunch
sandwich. Just when you thought a chick couldn’t be uglier, scuba suit
busts out in her Laura Ashley best. Although, I can’t blame (and
neither can you) anyone who takes money from their parents at 22. I
still collect and I’m 30 and married.  However, scuba suit’s mother’s
love of the “cancer” whisper and Rob Lowe’s roof scene are among the
best. And their use of “out of hand” as a state of awesome is
something I think we should revive. Nothing beats the Rob Lowe sax
scene in St. Elmo’s on Halloween. I swear he’s among the hottest
people to ever walk the planet. Though my Hilt and I used to giggle
because his name sounded like “Raw Blow.” Demi is definitely my
favorite right down to the pink apartment with the glowing billy idol
earring, and I do think I have known a few chicks like her in my day.
And having a gay best friend in a swanky DuPont apartment - totally
believable. And I do love it when she and Ally Sheedy drink straight
vodka and talk about boys. Been there. This past Saturday, in fact.
And for the record, when I was 22, my friend Pat had a wrangler and 7
of us climbed in it and rode down M Street just to see how it felt and
I remember thinking this phase of my life was about to get out of
hand.

Oh ponytail. I am small and white and full of chirps. I am 9 pounds, I eat that food and I hope you care enough to check on me at 4 a.m. when I can’t make it to the bathroom when you whistle. Call me like I am. Corporate espionage. I can’t lack a future. I am a star. I scaled tax brackets like sticky webs that were my own invention. Now that I have an ounce of perspective, I’m not sorry. I’m not tired. I meant every word. I am more awake now than I have been in the last four years. It’s not about two dogs or day care. I was hibernating in your back pocket for so long, you knew it had to come to an end. Something was not happening right there. In fact, nothing was. I can only tell you that because I love you. A good haircut and the truth put you ahead of everyone else in this rat race. I sit in a secret emotional purgatory, I wait. I hope for action and a pink slip transaction for your fat fucking action. Nothing happens. I cannot even trigger myself to report an apology for the truth. No one ever lost a friend over integrity. The truth? Yes. We’ve all lost friends over the truth. Tell your college roommate he’s banging your big sister and next thing you know you are blackballed and buried in the doghouse. Its been six weeks since I’ve expressed myself. Five days since I signed up to be a Truth Trojan. Why does exploring new territories full of things people aren’t ready for hurt so much? Speaking of banging, should I cut these? They dangle in my eyes like unpaid parking tickets. I had a Merit tonight at the bar and it was the best I’ve had in a long time. I didn’t mean to suck it down. I’ve had too much fun recently, so much so I am afraid it might kill me. If I were a corsage on the lapel of life, I might be dead. Kobe beef tastes like gummy bears. Suspenders are fab. Work them in. I’ll buy the pants, Super Job. My life is twice as hard with you in it, but you are on a roll, kid. Enjoy it while it lasts, it never does.

Renee Zellwegger appears on Dave for the SECOND time. Her whisper voice is so exasperating. What exactly is she whispering? She’s what, a quadruple-bypass whisperer? Or an illustrated bunny whisperer? Please. There is so much Boston Cream Cake in this gullet, I envy her triceps to a point of cult. I must be whispered. Muscle Magazine-stand-whispered. At least when I am whispered I have a sense of purpose, belonging and a cult-like desire to see emotion X through. I am a gay whisperer. I can call someone out from across a hotel. I remarked today on detachedness. My Black friend and I jabbed semantics about marriage being a boyfriend or a summer surfer at the arcade. In the end, they are all Fiery Butt Surfers. No passion or drama truly exists. You have to rely on your gut. You’d be lucky to get hydrangeas on a spring day from the train stop, or fucked standing up in the entry hall, or anything red that goes under your clothes on a weekday when you are feeling vaguely lucky. There is no reason to lose control here. I mean, unless you want to. Perhaps you think I am Miss USA? I’ll have a Stoli neat. With any luck, old Trump will stick by me and I’ll outgrow it. Meantime, these sweater puppets are being summoned by Playboy. Too bad about the slunt down my abdomen. I am sitting right here. I heard that. Here’s the visit from the Ghost of Fat Freshman Past. I think about the girl in the hospital and she makes me lonely. I am interested in the gossip all week. But its NOT relevant, it’s just not.

It gets weird. You think you know everything about Ernest Hemingway. You believe you proved why he killed himself and randomly you are being said to defend a comic book. He knew too much. So did you. You are being fake-in-tune with the worst.

you come on here to see - to read this little humble small time blog … and here you think I’ll be all talking about a hair cut. Like, seriously, it won’t happen and we don’t have a single smoke. I am tired and a little bored with this homemade musical about capitalism and war and there is no butt to plug in my grill. My mind chugs idly at the thought of an artistic intersection so true it must have been planned. Poor Dorothy, I wonder if she ever truly thought money was a drag or if she reveled in her family and that basket dog enough to feel fulfilled. Its so weird that my father is fat and labored, I wish him to be svelte and ready for the Thursday bingo but aware. I am not aware, I am tired and I had custard. I have not vacuumed in a long long time. Wake me up for our baby. I have to wonder if that will prove who I am and we’ll all be shamed, fat, labored and nervous about tomorrow. I am seriously blind and typing nothing good is happening. Her calves are fat. Are mine? I can’t quite see them.