Dirty socks. His dirty socks.
Just to get him back for tossing me in that dumpster... heh.
This is fun.
Will be working overtime this week, if all goes as planned.
Will try to go see that movie.
Hope it works out.
Best Friend leaves Saturday. I'll miss him. He'll be gone for a week. After he comes back he'll be all taken up with moving, poor man. Pointed him in the direction of Uncle Alan, who could help him hook up with an apartment, but apparently he's not going to look for an apartment of his own until he graduates this fall and gets a Real Job.
I'm going to miss seeing him every day. He's ...
It's rough when parts of my world are taken away. Breakfast every morning with him is one of the things that holds my notoriously unreliable mind together. A busy young computer programmer is not going to have the leisure time to see his best female friend for a couple hours every day, not unless --- who am I kidding. Not *even* if they're dating.
And it doesn't look like the dating thing will be happening, at least not any time soon...
My editor, having a whole bunch of fire ants down his pants, is proceeding to rant at me about wussiness in the modern online pagan community.
Basically, in his words, "Witches are not doormats."
On his web site, he raised the issue of the case of a certain man, who'd described himself as a Wiccan (but had evidently not been following the precepts of the faith when what he'd been doing came to light) who'd been arrested and convicted for sexual abuse of young girls.
A year after the initial hoo-haa had died down, the media seems to have revived the issue -- specifically to bash witches.
My editor wrote an article of protest, stating that the times for witches to hide and say nothing about themselves were over; unless witches stood up for themselves and spoke out and made sure the media saw that they did not condone the actions of this person, and gave the media a true picture of themselves to report, then the only people controlling what went on about witches in the media would be the enemies of witches.
He got jumped on, all over, by a variety of different people, mostly the young and insecure.
I think I am too.
Once upon a time I was going to get married. If I'd gone through with it, if I'd gotten married right on schedule, I'd be walking down that aisle in four days.
I think it registered in my brain, finally, that there was a problem, when I told my mother-in-law-to-be the identity of one of my bridesmaids: River, my ex-boyfriend.
"Let me talk to A* now," his mother said. I handed over the phone. A* proceeded to talk with Mommy, and then chewed me out for divulging that River was to be a bridesmaid wearing a dress. "She says she won't come to the wedding if that's the case," he said.
"Good," I said, because I'd had enough of this woman.
"Um..." he said, and proceeded to waffle around the topic that in fact while he despised his mother and all her works, he still wanted her at his wedding.
I was furious, and damn near burst out with what I was really feeling, which was this: River means more to me than your mother or any other member of your family, including you; he saved my life more times than I care to count; if he can't be in my wedding as he wishes to be in my wedding, then I won't have a wedding at all.
Oh, I backed down, eventually, and then was furious with myself for betraying a central point of honor. There will be no wedding, not for me and A*.
My biosis, on the other hand, will marry River at some point in the undefined future. It's still uncertain which one of them will wear the dress...
Worked a day an hour longer than usual today.
There are some real fluffheaded twits out there, and *sigh* now I'm going to have to deal with them.
I can't give up.
I recently joined a witchy little Yahoo-groups community. It's one of the most featherheaded out there.
So I get five messages from this group while I'm reading an e-mail from my former fiancee, a wonderful woman who's a far better writer than I ever have a dream of being.
Their messages are 10k, 5k, 6k, 4k, 7k. Hers is 33k, the story of death, life, rebirth, survival. High school. Drugs. Cancer. Pain. Survival.
I delete theirs without even reading. It's a perversion of all that's right and holy to even think of reading theirs after reading her song.
Oh, Emily, Princess of the World, you can still make me cry....