Rolling right into and through March, leads us directly into the line of fire of the world's best sporting event, the NCAA tournament, and an appetizer of things to come with major league baseball's spring training. In the world of sport, many things go hand in hand; mustard and hotdogs, beer and peanuts, the remote control and the television are a few that come immediately to mind. One side effect of sport that straddles the line between harmless fun and games and take no prisoners, is gambling. Gambling runs with the kids from the other side of the tracks but also sings in the choir and is the star shortstop on the varsity baseball team. Gambling drives a black low cut mustang with a huge sound system, but also listens to Mozart and Chopin.
I love to gamble. Let me reiterate...I LOVE TO GAMBLE. On anything. Baseball, basketball, cricket, poker, blackjack, football or whether it's going to snow before halftime, or whether the next guy up rips a double, triple or whiffs. But I don't gamble for a living nor do I invest more than I am willing (or able) to lose. I know the risks and have assessed them like any good investor and have decided over the course of my many years of throwing money out the window, that I am not a good gambler. This, however, does not preclude me from having a good time, and consequently, losing money. Money isn't that important, but you do have to have it to be able to throw it away. I, therefore, fall into the category reserved for harmless addictions, and addicts. My friends and I are very similar, which is quite possibly why we never actually lose any money, as it just circles between our pockets, leaving only a long twisted trail of lint behind and some brief shittalking.
However, when making wagers on something that I feel somewhat knowledgeable about (NCAA tourney) against someone with little said knowledge, I tend to take the bet fairly lightly. When that said person wins that bet, which in this case is a domestic affair involving cooking vs. weeding, it becomes a serious affair. Which is why, a few days ago I found myself on my hands and knees, in the dirt, with the wrong end of a garden utensil in my hand, pulling dandelions out of our yard/garden, which, if you didnt know any better, you'd swear we were growing dandelions instead of trying to get rid of them.
This would constitute a 'friendly wager' in the term of the day, much like the wagers in a golf foursome that don't involve money (wait, is that possible?). Our bet was who would win the most games in each of the four rounds of the NCAA tourney. I lost the first round 22-21, and then we tied the next two, until I triumphed this past weekend, much to my considerable delight. My loss relegated me to the hours of weed pulling, while her loss allows her the priviledge of shopping, preparing, cooking and finally cleaning up a dinner for the two of us.
I'm not sure who is getting the better deal, but my side of the bet has been fulfilled while hers remains outstanding. While betting remains a passion and not a lucrative money making venture (much to my dismay), it does serve to heighten the importance of games and events, making the outcomes that much more exciting, thus putting a little added zest into an otherwise ordinary day in the life of a sports fan.
I am not in danger of losing my car, my house, or my girlfriend due to my habit, but it do like to indulge my weakness for the underdog by playing poker online, taking part in ESPN brackets, and calling my friends to wager bottles of scotch on whether Griffey Jr. is going to hit any homers in April!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Every year around the spring vernal equinox, a severe affliction of "bracketitis" attacks the majority of the United States population of males under the age of 45. It is as predictable as the sun rising in the east, as debilitating as a rampant virus and nearly as contagious.
From all walks of life, the 'madness' infects and spreads. It sparks conversation, debate, it lightens bank accounts in an effort to stop it, it frays the threads of even the strongest relationships, and, worst of all, it can make grown men weep with joy or cry with despair.
Flood, famine, earthquake and other natural disasters have failed to slow down this national epidemic. We are at its mercy, trying to seal ourselves off from its long reaching tentacles by moving to a new city, avoiding friends already infected, living on a boat in the south pacific, but it finds us, grips us and turns even the strongest into slothful agents of the disease.
Those succumbing to the 'madness' receive little to no support from their spouses, coworkers and family, preferring to let the sickness run its course and leaving them in the company of similarly weakened. They become patients in the asylum, all tuned to the same station mounted on the wall, watching with glazed eyes, having their doctors check their pulses every third hour, and becoming more connected and ever more infectious the longer the illness runs its course.
It starts benignly enough with idle chatter on the phone, a text or two, some emails between past survivors, and then, like a swarm of locusts across a fertile field in Iowa, spreads far and wide, reaching the outposts of Alaska, Oregon, and Colorado and Florida in a desperate attempt to feed the frenzy and infect as many people as possible before the start of the 'madness'.
Mean Green, Racermania, Catamounts, Mountain Hawks, Orange, Blue Devils and Runnin' Rebels are all pet names for the regional strain of the infection but the mother is simply referred to as "MADNESS". The funny thing about this strain of virus is that it is contained within a three week period of the year, a three week stretch of time that, if eliminated, would save multitudes from this debilitating illness and strengthen the fibers of society.
If you know someone who suffers from this disease it is best to avoid immediate contact, especially after initial diagnosis as the patient is unable to think or talk about anything other than the confusing 'bracket'. The patient is at a highly contagious state at this moment, which generally lasts for three days, and then the infection rate is much lower due to the finality of the disease. The 'bracket' is a talisman to the ill, studying it, hovering over it, debating it, cursing it, altering it, and then, finally crumpling it in disgust as their stomachs become 'upset', and a new bout of illness takes over.
Right now, in the midst of the first and second rounds of the 'madness', the disease reaches its zenith, as those afflicted terribly over the first week have either subsided into a tolerable state, having thrown their 'bracket' into the trash and have fought the virus tooth and nail. And then there are those still infected, still yabbering nonsense about a twelve over a five, and a thirteen over a four. Numbers which mean nothing to the layman, but everything to a man in the throes of the 'madness'. Money is now laid waste too, as twenty dollar bills fight for air space with the benjamins of the big spenders seeking redemption from the early rounds of losing. We are all at its mercy.
Be strong boys, be strong, and we will survive....though Kansas won't and neither will Duke after today. :)
From all walks of life, the 'madness' infects and spreads. It sparks conversation, debate, it lightens bank accounts in an effort to stop it, it frays the threads of even the strongest relationships, and, worst of all, it can make grown men weep with joy or cry with despair.
Flood, famine, earthquake and other natural disasters have failed to slow down this national epidemic. We are at its mercy, trying to seal ourselves off from its long reaching tentacles by moving to a new city, avoiding friends already infected, living on a boat in the south pacific, but it finds us, grips us and turns even the strongest into slothful agents of the disease.
Those succumbing to the 'madness' receive little to no support from their spouses, coworkers and family, preferring to let the sickness run its course and leaving them in the company of similarly weakened. They become patients in the asylum, all tuned to the same station mounted on the wall, watching with glazed eyes, having their doctors check their pulses every third hour, and becoming more connected and ever more infectious the longer the illness runs its course.
It starts benignly enough with idle chatter on the phone, a text or two, some emails between past survivors, and then, like a swarm of locusts across a fertile field in Iowa, spreads far and wide, reaching the outposts of Alaska, Oregon, and Colorado and Florida in a desperate attempt to feed the frenzy and infect as many people as possible before the start of the 'madness'.
Mean Green, Racermania, Catamounts, Mountain Hawks, Orange, Blue Devils and Runnin' Rebels are all pet names for the regional strain of the infection but the mother is simply referred to as "MADNESS". The funny thing about this strain of virus is that it is contained within a three week period of the year, a three week stretch of time that, if eliminated, would save multitudes from this debilitating illness and strengthen the fibers of society.
If you know someone who suffers from this disease it is best to avoid immediate contact, especially after initial diagnosis as the patient is unable to think or talk about anything other than the confusing 'bracket'. The patient is at a highly contagious state at this moment, which generally lasts for three days, and then the infection rate is much lower due to the finality of the disease. The 'bracket' is a talisman to the ill, studying it, hovering over it, debating it, cursing it, altering it, and then, finally crumpling it in disgust as their stomachs become 'upset', and a new bout of illness takes over.
Right now, in the midst of the first and second rounds of the 'madness', the disease reaches its zenith, as those afflicted terribly over the first week have either subsided into a tolerable state, having thrown their 'bracket' into the trash and have fought the virus tooth and nail. And then there are those still infected, still yabbering nonsense about a twelve over a five, and a thirteen over a four. Numbers which mean nothing to the layman, but everything to a man in the throes of the 'madness'. Money is now laid waste too, as twenty dollar bills fight for air space with the benjamins of the big spenders seeking redemption from the early rounds of losing. We are all at its mercy.
Be strong boys, be strong, and we will survive....though Kansas won't and neither will Duke after today. :)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
ten minutes
Have we met?...
Is a line I've never heard or used before in all of my years of dating. A cliche as old as the stools at some of the bars I have been to. It's classy yet tasteless, used and useless, an ice breaker and a deal breaker. We use it as a verbal handshake, a way of becoming personal without intimacy. You hear it rarely now, but time was a man behind the marble bar in his penguin suit could utter the phrase to a milky white seductress in a black gown and get not only a demure smile, but a slight shake of the head of encouragement. Today, it's worn out and tired, much like the sophisticates of old, past their prime and watching the fading sunset of their glory years. Romance is dead, it's often heard, but it's not the heart that has slowed but the art of conversational banter that leads to romance. It's all underwritten by sex and the steps taken to get there.
The innocence of flirtation is practiced, performed, and perfected by those last great bastions of conversation...the world's bartenders.
six minutes
My secret talent...
Lies down below the stars, under the clouds, past the tree tops and down my throat. It's hard to pinpoint a secret talent because if it comes to light than it ceases to be secret, and if it doesn't come to light to practice, play, paint, draw, write or cook, then it can't really be considered a secret, now can it? Secrets are held inside, mostly in dark corners, occasionally in locked boxed, but they are not exposed to sunlight or shared with the bus driver. We keep secrets private and talents public, giving oxymorons another reason for being. I would like to say that my secret talent is writing a decent story, but I've never published and am hesitant to share stories with friends. I submit them to the scrutiny of strangers, getting no feedback, expecting none and feeling somewhat safer in that realm. Sometimes I write because I'm afraid to say what I think out loud....
Have we met?...
Is a line I've never heard or used before in all of my years of dating. A cliche as old as the stools at some of the bars I have been to. It's classy yet tasteless, used and useless, an ice breaker and a deal breaker. We use it as a verbal handshake, a way of becoming personal without intimacy. You hear it rarely now, but time was a man behind the marble bar in his penguin suit could utter the phrase to a milky white seductress in a black gown and get not only a demure smile, but a slight shake of the head of encouragement. Today, it's worn out and tired, much like the sophisticates of old, past their prime and watching the fading sunset of their glory years. Romance is dead, it's often heard, but it's not the heart that has slowed but the art of conversational banter that leads to romance. It's all underwritten by sex and the steps taken to get there.
The innocence of flirtation is practiced, performed, and perfected by those last great bastions of conversation...the world's bartenders.
six minutes
My secret talent...
Lies down below the stars, under the clouds, past the tree tops and down my throat. It's hard to pinpoint a secret talent because if it comes to light than it ceases to be secret, and if it doesn't come to light to practice, play, paint, draw, write or cook, then it can't really be considered a secret, now can it? Secrets are held inside, mostly in dark corners, occasionally in locked boxed, but they are not exposed to sunlight or shared with the bus driver. We keep secrets private and talents public, giving oxymorons another reason for being. I would like to say that my secret talent is writing a decent story, but I've never published and am hesitant to share stories with friends. I submit them to the scrutiny of strangers, getting no feedback, expecting none and feeling somewhat safer in that realm. Sometimes I write because I'm afraid to say what I think out loud....
Friday, March 12, 2010
seven minutes
I wish someone would ask me...
My opinion. I have never offered it up for sale or even just given it away. I feel it's my personal soul that hides deep in the bowels of the treasure of my body. They say opinions are like assholes, that everyone's got one, but having one and sharing one are quite different. I don't want to see your asshole unless I specifically ask to, so why are opinions so freely bandied about? I keep mine to myself, although on days like these it feels right that the world should hear what I'm thinking. Sometimes I stand in the shower practicing the art of sharing my opinion. I'll use the showerhead as my microphone, speaking into it as if a great audience were below me. And in the driving rain of the water, with my eyes closed and my thoughts as naked as my body, I tell the world my opinion.
IF TIME AND SPACE ARE CONTINUOUS
THEN WHY IS THE END NEAR?
eight minutes
This is the place where...
The British, in all of their infinite wisdom attempted to establish a coconut plantation right around the beginning of World War II. Gardner atoll lies as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get, 'out where God lost his shoes,' Captain George said as he peered through his binoculars trying to find a suitable break in teh reef to run the skiff through. George said the only thing living here were boobys, albatross, and coconut crabs as big as trash can lids, despite the rumors that Amelia Earhart's bones were part of the island history. The British abandoned their ill conceived plantation after discovering the lack of fresh water, except that which fell from the sky which would prove to be not nearly enough to survive on living along the equator. Yet, the beauty and richness of an uninhabited island lured us in allowing a stopping point for a boat full of ocean weary researchers.
SOMETIMES I WRITE BECAUSE I CANT SAY SOME THINGS OUT LOUD
I wish someone would ask me...
My opinion. I have never offered it up for sale or even just given it away. I feel it's my personal soul that hides deep in the bowels of the treasure of my body. They say opinions are like assholes, that everyone's got one, but having one and sharing one are quite different. I don't want to see your asshole unless I specifically ask to, so why are opinions so freely bandied about? I keep mine to myself, although on days like these it feels right that the world should hear what I'm thinking. Sometimes I stand in the shower practicing the art of sharing my opinion. I'll use the showerhead as my microphone, speaking into it as if a great audience were below me. And in the driving rain of the water, with my eyes closed and my thoughts as naked as my body, I tell the world my opinion.
IF TIME AND SPACE ARE CONTINUOUS
THEN WHY IS THE END NEAR?
eight minutes
This is the place where...
The British, in all of their infinite wisdom attempted to establish a coconut plantation right around the beginning of World War II. Gardner atoll lies as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get, 'out where God lost his shoes,' Captain George said as he peered through his binoculars trying to find a suitable break in teh reef to run the skiff through. George said the only thing living here were boobys, albatross, and coconut crabs as big as trash can lids, despite the rumors that Amelia Earhart's bones were part of the island history. The British abandoned their ill conceived plantation after discovering the lack of fresh water, except that which fell from the sky which would prove to be not nearly enough to survive on living along the equator. Yet, the beauty and richness of an uninhabited island lured us in allowing a stopping point for a boat full of ocean weary researchers.
SOMETIMES I WRITE BECAUSE I CANT SAY SOME THINGS OUT LOUD
Monday, March 8, 2010
If you've ever been confronted with your won mortality in an accidental situation you will know where I'm coming from today. Last night on my way home from a very nice birthday party out in the' burbs, I crossed the Willamette on the 405 bridge, taking the Kerby avenue exit. This exit is defined by a long straightaway followed by a tight turn into a stop sign, leaving not much room for error as the concrete meridian will attest with its black streaked and pocked white walls.
In my rearview I saw a fast approaching pair of square headlights in my lane. My first thought was 'goddamn cops', as police are notorious for their quick entrances into unsuspecting mirrors, but this was no cop as the car in question got RIGHT UP IN MY TRUNK, only to back off a bit at the rapidly approaching right bank turn.
Thinking she (yes, that was my first thought,that it was a woman) was now aware of the approaching turn, I eased off the brakes and coasted to the stop sign While keeping an alert eye behind me, I again realized that she wasn't a very good driver so I braced myself, took my foot slightly off the brake pedal to ready for impact, and the inevitable push into the intersection. Of course, she hit me, I slid ahead and stomped on the brake avoiding the cars already crossing in front of me. Road clear, I pulled across and got out. She slowly followed, like a dog who has shit on the carpet and knows its in trouble.
Three blondes in Daddy's 2008 sedan series BMW out doing everything but paying attention. No damage, no injuries, no police report, just a few scared (and I think high) girls maybe in their 20's cruising a Sunday night.
Chance encounters can change a life in a blink of an eye, for better or worse, yet always leaving an impression, a lasting scar that is always remembered if it was significant enough. So many things could have gone wrong last night but didn't. I have been in a handful of accidents in my day, all harmless, all less than tragic and, up until last night, all more than 15 years ago. You knock on wood, rub the rabbit's foot, utter om mani padme om a few times, and thank the stars for good fortune. Myabe it's sort of bad things happening to good people, obstacles thrown up in my way as a backhanded hint to stay vigilant, watch your back, keep the edge, and keep the good karma flowing. I'm OK with these less than monumental hurdles, it'll give me strength later on if something worse were to happen.
And until it does, I've got the eyes in the back of my head peeled and my karmic bank fully deposited. hope you do too...
In my rearview I saw a fast approaching pair of square headlights in my lane. My first thought was 'goddamn cops', as police are notorious for their quick entrances into unsuspecting mirrors, but this was no cop as the car in question got RIGHT UP IN MY TRUNK, only to back off a bit at the rapidly approaching right bank turn.
Thinking she (yes, that was my first thought,that it was a woman) was now aware of the approaching turn, I eased off the brakes and coasted to the stop sign While keeping an alert eye behind me, I again realized that she wasn't a very good driver so I braced myself, took my foot slightly off the brake pedal to ready for impact, and the inevitable push into the intersection. Of course, she hit me, I slid ahead and stomped on the brake avoiding the cars already crossing in front of me. Road clear, I pulled across and got out. She slowly followed, like a dog who has shit on the carpet and knows its in trouble.
Three blondes in Daddy's 2008 sedan series BMW out doing everything but paying attention. No damage, no injuries, no police report, just a few scared (and I think high) girls maybe in their 20's cruising a Sunday night.
Chance encounters can change a life in a blink of an eye, for better or worse, yet always leaving an impression, a lasting scar that is always remembered if it was significant enough. So many things could have gone wrong last night but didn't. I have been in a handful of accidents in my day, all harmless, all less than tragic and, up until last night, all more than 15 years ago. You knock on wood, rub the rabbit's foot, utter om mani padme om a few times, and thank the stars for good fortune. Myabe it's sort of bad things happening to good people, obstacles thrown up in my way as a backhanded hint to stay vigilant, watch your back, keep the edge, and keep the good karma flowing. I'm OK with these less than monumental hurdles, it'll give me strength later on if something worse were to happen.
And until it does, I've got the eyes in the back of my head peeled and my karmic bank fully deposited. hope you do too...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
March. In like a lion, out like a lamb. I think all marching should be done like a lion, paws forward, chest out, tail high...none of this lamb bullshit. Strut like you mean it, march like you have something to say, announce to the world that "I AM LION AND YOU WILL HEAR ME ROAR"...ya, like that. One more time and I'll feel good about moving on with my opinion....ready?...I AM LION AND YOU WILL HEAR ME ROAR.
Good.
Now, moving on, we can safely assume that things are not going to be the same around here, that change is blowing down the road and I have my thumb out hitchhiking. I have decided that my life up to this point has been too reactive, and from this point on, my motto is going to be PROACTIVE! I've decided to start taking this so called life by the horns and start dictating how I want to live it, not how IT wants me to live.
That being said, I will be taking the easy way out here shortly and making my exit stage left and heading back to alaska to work again on the Discovery. I know, I know, it's a step backwards you're saying , and I agree with you, but I also know that we are broke and this is the best/easiest way for me to cultivate a new and better relationship with a potential employer and to make some serious change. I need to get out of the hole, and this provides a quick and easy out,although I do miss softball season and the chance to compete for the starting shortstop job at 42. DAMN.
But, with all the ease and fortuitous fast cash you see coming my way, the Sam/Matt show may still be stuck in the same place in the fall as they are now. But, you forget that the new PROACTIVE Matt is not going to let that happen because he has many new ideas, promotions, and thoughts that will allow him to continue living with this wonderful woman and push through the dreary monotony of regular nine to five jobs and find himself something that will satisfy his thirsty curiosity for the new and the strange and the highly addictive.
You will see, because I will be a better boy, more creative friend, a better listener, a more conservative shopper, a less radical air guitar player and a definitely sounder sleeper.
To which I sound off and bid everyone a good night and a good night to everyone.
Good.
Now, moving on, we can safely assume that things are not going to be the same around here, that change is blowing down the road and I have my thumb out hitchhiking. I have decided that my life up to this point has been too reactive, and from this point on, my motto is going to be PROACTIVE! I've decided to start taking this so called life by the horns and start dictating how I want to live it, not how IT wants me to live.
That being said, I will be taking the easy way out here shortly and making my exit stage left and heading back to alaska to work again on the Discovery. I know, I know, it's a step backwards you're saying , and I agree with you, but I also know that we are broke and this is the best/easiest way for me to cultivate a new and better relationship with a potential employer and to make some serious change. I need to get out of the hole, and this provides a quick and easy out,although I do miss softball season and the chance to compete for the starting shortstop job at 42. DAMN.
But, with all the ease and fortuitous fast cash you see coming my way, the Sam/Matt show may still be stuck in the same place in the fall as they are now. But, you forget that the new PROACTIVE Matt is not going to let that happen because he has many new ideas, promotions, and thoughts that will allow him to continue living with this wonderful woman and push through the dreary monotony of regular nine to five jobs and find himself something that will satisfy his thirsty curiosity for the new and the strange and the highly addictive.
You will see, because I will be a better boy, more creative friend, a better listener, a more conservative shopper, a less radical air guitar player and a definitely sounder sleeper.
To which I sound off and bid everyone a good night and a good night to everyone.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Ten minutes
Is this seat taken?...
Asked the stunningly beautiful redhead with her hands full. It was already the bottom of the third so I figured on having the empty seat next to me to hold the random detritus you bring and then somehow collect during a ballgame. Hat, jacket, beet,binoculars,half eaten bag of peanuts, program would all eventually spend some time in that seat. But not now, as beauty incarnate eyed me and my seat lasciviously. She had dark glasses covering what I imagine to be green eyes, but I could feel their intensity through the polarized lens. In one hand was a souvenir mug with expensive cheap beer while the other hand held a foot long with the works and a bun not big enough. The end of the dog pointed skyward lewdly and I couldn't help the smile starting to cross my face. She sidled by me, her breasts inches from my chest drawing my attention, however briefly, away from the game for the first time but not the last today. She sat down, said her name was Lindsey and that it was nice to meet me. I stammered a hello and quickly cracked a few peanuts to shove in my mouth while I looked for my composure. The ballgame quickly became secondary as we got the pleasantries out of the way and began to move into the realm of potential. It was 5-0 in the seventh when I asked her if she wanted to leave, beat the crowds and find a real drink.
another ten minutes
If today had a color...
It would be broken, a palette of stains neither bright nor dull. The sky morphed from blue to grey to white to black to pink, purple and red without so much as a sound. The forest reflected the light onto mossy trunks of brown, layers of green, the occasional burst of pink and the mottled tans of leafless branches. The streets were a washed out gray, the color of old dishwater too long standing, begging to be drained. Each day's color is a reflection of attitude from one person's perspective. I like to think that the brighter colors are reserved for those days when the sex was outstanding before heading off to work, or the bagel was exceptional, or the coffee barista flashed a smile that could have melted a glacier. Those are highlighter yellow, orange, neon green or pink days while at the other end of the spectrum lie those days when the alarm fails to go off, the bus is late, or you forgot to brush your teeth before heading out the door. Those days it's best to have a dark blue, purple, forest green or even brown to color the day with. I have found no days colored black or white, because we live in technicolor and nothing is that easy.
Is this seat taken?...
Asked the stunningly beautiful redhead with her hands full. It was already the bottom of the third so I figured on having the empty seat next to me to hold the random detritus you bring and then somehow collect during a ballgame. Hat, jacket, beet,binoculars,half eaten bag of peanuts, program would all eventually spend some time in that seat. But not now, as beauty incarnate eyed me and my seat lasciviously. She had dark glasses covering what I imagine to be green eyes, but I could feel their intensity through the polarized lens. In one hand was a souvenir mug with expensive cheap beer while the other hand held a foot long with the works and a bun not big enough. The end of the dog pointed skyward lewdly and I couldn't help the smile starting to cross my face. She sidled by me, her breasts inches from my chest drawing my attention, however briefly, away from the game for the first time but not the last today. She sat down, said her name was Lindsey and that it was nice to meet me. I stammered a hello and quickly cracked a few peanuts to shove in my mouth while I looked for my composure. The ballgame quickly became secondary as we got the pleasantries out of the way and began to move into the realm of potential. It was 5-0 in the seventh when I asked her if she wanted to leave, beat the crowds and find a real drink.
another ten minutes
If today had a color...
It would be broken, a palette of stains neither bright nor dull. The sky morphed from blue to grey to white to black to pink, purple and red without so much as a sound. The forest reflected the light onto mossy trunks of brown, layers of green, the occasional burst of pink and the mottled tans of leafless branches. The streets were a washed out gray, the color of old dishwater too long standing, begging to be drained. Each day's color is a reflection of attitude from one person's perspective. I like to think that the brighter colors are reserved for those days when the sex was outstanding before heading off to work, or the bagel was exceptional, or the coffee barista flashed a smile that could have melted a glacier. Those are highlighter yellow, orange, neon green or pink days while at the other end of the spectrum lie those days when the alarm fails to go off, the bus is late, or you forgot to brush your teeth before heading out the door. Those days it's best to have a dark blue, purple, forest green or even brown to color the day with. I have found no days colored black or white, because we live in technicolor and nothing is that easy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)