Your tits are not a valid conversational topic, hon. Try again.

So, I realized (again) tonight why I don't hang out with groups of females very often.

They irritate the hell out of me.

Can someone please explain to me why the extent of a female's conversational ability is confined to about three asinine things when she is in the company of other females?

1. Men. Women love to talk about men. The men they like, the men they hate, the men they fucked, the men who fucked them over... and most of the conversation on this topic is degrading, gossipy, bitter and/or completely unwarranted. I can't stand listening to women bitch about the way men treat them. Listen, sister. If you weren't such a bitch to the guy, maybe he'd be a little nicer. And if you weren't so emotionally wrecked and needy, maybe he'd enjoy your company a little more. And if you weren't such a slut, maybe he'd respect you a little more. Don't get me wrong... men can be pretty stupid sometimes. But women like you certainly don't help the situation.

2. Women. Women love to talk about other women. Yep, gossip. Yes, dear... the whole room needs to know who slept with who behind who's back. And we all care who danced on the bar topless that one night in Cabo. And we're just dying to hear what that bitch said about us while we were in the bathroom. Good Lord, is there no end? Is your life so pointless and meaningless that you feel the need to find fulfillment in the gory details of other people's lives?

3. Tits. Yeah, you thought this one would be on the Things Men Talk About Too Often list. Well, it is. But it's on this one, too. Why on earth do women enjoy discussing their boobs so much? Cup size, cleavage, breast-feeding babies, nipple rings, bra shopping, drunk-flashing people... who gives a flying fuck? Maybe instead of that breast implant, you should have gotten a brain implant. It would have been put to better use, anyway. Listen, sweetie. I've got my own tits. I don't need to hear all about yours. Please. Put 'em away and let's chat about something that matters.

For the sake of all that is decent in the world, please think of something else to talk about. There are orphans in Africa, and they don't care one bit about your boob job.

Put People and Cosmo back on the rack, and pick up Time instead. Or The New Yorker. Or the New York Times. Or whatever small-town, two bit newspaper you can find. But for Pete's sake, woman, read something that matters!

I like to think I'm a decent conversationalist. I may not know a whole lot about a whole lot, but I know a little bit about a lot, and that helps me converse semi-intelligently on a wide variety of subjects. Here's an abbreviated list of some of the topics I can discuss, if not intelligently, then at least interestingly.

1. Cars, especially classic ones. The prettier it is, the longer I'll be able to talk about it.
2. Star Trek. No, I don't go to conventions. Yes, I can discuss the philosophical ramifications of various episodes.
3. Movies. And I don't mean American Pie or Legally Blonde: The Stupidest Sequel in the World.
4. Current events. And I don't mean the latest American Idol show.
5. Music. And way more than just the current Top 40 hits, too. My taste dates back to the early '40s and spans almost every genre imaginable.
6. Technology. Believe it or not, I can hold a conversation that involves terms like terabyte and defrag.
7. Literature. Think Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe. Not paperback romance novels and soap-opera-esque chick lit.
8. Work. Yes, I can tell fun stories about what happens at work, and the interesting things I do for a living. I don't always find it necessary to bitch about my bosses and my coworkers. Sometimes, yes. But mostly in the context of a story that will make you laugh.

Ladies, please don't get mad at a guy for staring at your tits when you talk if you can't find anything intelligent to say. Learn how to have a decent conversation, and maybe, just maybe he'll care more about your brain than your boobs. And if not, well, move on. You deserve someone who sees the real you. Just do yourself a favor and make sure the real you is a little more than just great tits. You'll be doing your guy (and everyone else who ever has to speak to you) a favor, too.

When you wish upon a star...

I saw two different shooting stars tonight, and made two different wishes. I wonder which one will come true first.

To write again...

I've finally worked out the basic plotline for my novel... one that I think I like. I bought a new journal so I can begin my book on fresh, virgin pages. And I bought Pecan Sandies and milk, because they are the nectar and ambrosia to my Muse goddesses.

Life's too short

I can't even count the number of times I've heard people tell me, "Life's too short not to have fun." And while I agree to an extent, I sometimes wonder if I'm the only person with the philosophy, "Life's too short to have meaningless, pointless fun."

Is there anyone anymore who understands the benefits of delayed gratification? Is there anyone who believes that a meaningful life of purpose, character and wisdom is a thousand times better than a life of hedonism, one-night stands and me-first-ism?

Is there anyone anymore who realizes that there are only a finite number of grains of sand in the hourglass of life, and once they drop, they can't be taken back? Is there anyone who cares?

Oh, believe me, I enjoy fun just as much as the next girl. But only the kind of fun that means something... that will still mean something ten, twenty, fifty years from now.

Guess I'm just a little old-fashioned. And I guess I'm OK with that.

Shades of brown

Shades of brown:

The color of his eyes
The color of wet cardboard
And the color of the mud his cardboard shelter sits in.
The color of shit
The color of a torn up sleeping bag
And the color of the dirt on his hands and face.
The color of tobacco
The color of a weak cup of coffee
And the color of his wild, matted mess of hair.
The color of struggle
The color of bitter apathy
And the color of a lonely, wasted life.

The people passing by him try to live their lives
In yes or no, in right or wrong, in black or white
But he is trapped inside these shades of brown.

---

I wrote this almost exactly a year ago. My life now is in a completely different phase... but his? His is probably the same as it was then. Where can you go when there's no where left to turn?

It makes me appreciate my life that much more... the things I struggle with in my life are minuscule in comparison to the difficulties that others deal with on a regular basis. So I close my eyes and count my blessings... and say a prayer for that man as I fall asleep.

Blackest hours

Blackest hours:

At midnight, when the falling stars parade
My heart sings in its joy and mystery;
But when the moon itself begins to fade
I lose that sense of awe and revelry:
For sunlight glares and burns my eyes at dawn
And nothing is mysterious at noon;
In daylight hours, my inspiration's gone
Until again I write beneath the moon--
Imagination flourishes at night;
Dreams are better dreamed in darkness deep
Words don't flow as richly in the light,
So why waste blackest hours on empty sleep?
Immortal star-songs raise their voice for me,
And I write what I hear as poetry.

This is something that I wrote a couple years ago, but I stumbled across it tonight as I was browsing some of the old files on my computer, and I remembered how much this particular piece meant to me then, and still means to me now.

Now, if only I could get myself back to a place where I can write like this again. That's my goal. To create. To produce music in the form of words. To attempt to express in meager words what can only be felt with the heart and soul.

Reflections on rain

Beautiful sight #3,948 -- Street lights and neon signs glistening and reflecting in the pools of water on the side of the road in a late-night rain storm.

Even though it kinda sucks to be stuck riding a bicycle in the rain, a late-night rain storm is still one of the most beautiful things in the world. Everything feels fresh, clean, alive. This dehydrated part of the country soaks up the downpour and begs for more. And me? I sing and dance in the rain. I laugh at the clouds, so dark up above... the sun is in my heart, and I'm ready for love. And as always, there's a smile on my face, even when raindrops drip down my cheeks.

Rain has a healing ability, I think.

I got to catch up tonight with the man who basically taught me everything I know about my job. Random run-ins are one of my favorite things. And thank you, RB, for everything.