"Justin Osmond sent me a message from India about a cow lying in the middle of the road. Since cows are sacred there, people were driving around it. He wrote that he wanted to get his paintball gun and blast it! That made me laugh.But then he wrote about a man who'd contracted polio as a child and had twisted little legs that didn't work. He dragged himself around by his arms. That nearly broke my heart. It also made me feel incredibly grateful for my legs, no matter how many varicose veins I have. So what if Bob tells me I don't have the right kind of toes for toenail polish? At least they work."

i wish i were on Justin Osmond's contact list.

i've realized that i only employ rhythm in poetry, when drunk. and when the poetry is laughable, highschool, bad (but, still, somehow, published!) i think too much and write too little. i edit less. i read lesser still. but i used to be more inspired, on xanga. i used to write novels! on livejournal. and now i simply have post-its on my dashboard: (including the inspiration for the "novel"). eh--i'll try again, at least, to recount, to no one.