HAPPY 'RISH DAY!

So, you like my brand new outfit? Do I look nice in green? :p

Check this:



Do you like my bowtie? It's green. Today is green day. You know: Potatoes and fried fish and chips and green beer (which is actually a Black and Tan)

(Like my bowtie ... isn't Black, and I'm very good at 'Tan'ning girls when they are so, so, very bad, bad, bad ... good!

Mmhm.

Wanna know a secret? C'mer. Closer. Lemme whisper it in your ear ...

I'm wearing the green bowtie, just for today, and ...

I ain't wearin' nuttin else.

WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

I feel silly. I'm gearin' up for tonight, after Mass, see, because it'll be Sunday then, see? And ... my cheeks are already bright pink!

Oh, YEAH!

Hmmm. I'm feeling ... hihihihi

... um, HAPPY ST. PADDIES DAY!

I ... um ... excuse me, I have to take care of some ... 'thing's ... um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU!

;)

Kiss me, I'm Irish!

OF COURSE I wore green today. I wore that tight little green sbux apron ... AND NOTHING ELSE!

Now, wouldn't THAT be a St. Paddy's Day to remember at my little coffee shop! (but the air would tickle between my thighs, and the apron would be abrasive on my little titties (not in a bad way, mind, but ... well, whew! is it hot in here? My cheeks are pink!)

hehehe

I feel giddy. I feel silly-funny. I feel ... well, this shows you how Irish I am: I didn't even remember today was St. Patrick's day until people started showing up wearing green, all day! And then I was like ... DOINK!

So, hm, what's in the fridge? WHO CARES? 'Cause I'm going OUT to an Irish Pub (pronounced: poob) and CELEBRATE!

Ooh! I have a joke for you! What's an Irish seven course meal? ...
... A six pack and a boiled potato!

Get it? Get it? hehehe

Yes, it's still Lent, but isn't this a solemnity in some countries? like Ireland?

And you know what? On St. Patrick's Day, EVERYBODY's Irish. It says so on a big sign at the Guinness plant in Dublin: "On St. Patrick's day, EVERYBODY's Irish." So there!

(EVEN St. Patrick ... who WASN'T! but don't tell the Irish that, unless you want to play some Irish Standdown ... and lose!)

(I don't think I'll try the Guinness tonight though. I tasted that once, and ... I mean, just a taste, and now I know what they mean by that drink being a seven course meal!)

So, boys and girls, kiss your girlfriend, 'cause today, she's Irish! YAY!

Hey, you two, back there, this isn't France, and if you're going to be doing that, get a hotel room, for goodness sake!

Okay, I'm outie! Mothers, lock up your daughters, 'cause `phfina's on the prowl, and the panther is uncaged!

ROWR!

Why? (Silly me)

So, that last post was a doozy.

AND I'm tired.

But gf was all like, you know, Swedish humble with her ... hm, what do I call it? ... 'curiosity.'

"Why do you hate yourself? and Why do you want to die? I've asked you before, but you didn't answer, so you can ignore my questions, but I'll keep asking until I get a satisfactory answer so, ..."

And I could just see her cross her arms and raise her eyebrow, ... waiting. Or give me the big pleading eyes, wanting to know why.

And then ...

Well, and then, I got all ...

Well, you know how, when you're talking with somebody, and they get this thoughtful look on their face? You know what that means, right?

Does it mean they are going to say something thoughtful and intelligent?

No, not really. People know what they know, and don't what they don't, and putting a thoughtful expression on your face (my face) does not bestow instant wisdom. No, the thoughtful look is covering the real look: the 'doi-doi-duh, I'm clueless' look and the 'oh, fuck, she caught me!' look and the 'quick, I gotta think of something smart or witty to say, so I don't look stupid' look.

Yeah. The thoughtful look.

Because anybody can have thoughts. I have tons of them. One of them was "I hate myself! I hate myself! bis-bis I want to die."

That's a thought. It comes unbidden, easily and naturally.

But Saga did what I requested she do. She did the inquiry. She didn't just have a thought, but she thought it through to the conclusions. And the conclusions she made were probably along the lines of: 'Well, that's stupid!'

Me, I just had my thoughts, but did I think them through? No. I didn't do what I've asked you to do. I didn't inquire. I didn't separate my thoughts that I have from reasoning about them, figuring it out to the end. No, I just went, 'wah-wah' and was fine with that.

So, when Saga inquired, it was my turn. She asked, and I had to answer.

But what answer can satisfy "'I hate myself and I want to die' Why?" I mean, really? Why would somebody (I) hate herself (myself)? What reasonable justification can be given for that statement?

I mean, like, there's no satisfactory answer to that.

So, instead, I smiled a little smile. I've been shown up, using my own methods that I've so prided myself on my mastery (What's the feminine form of 'mastery'? Is it: 'miss'-tery?)

Do I hate myself and do I want to die?

Um ... '5th Amendment'?

But under the light of scrutiny, isn't that the funniest statement in the world? Silly, even?

Silly, silly me.

Am I 'all better now'?

Well, I am better now, but a certain reviewer of a certain cathartic story of mine told me my fear will always be with me. Okay. I mean, for now: okay. So maybe I can be friends with my fear ... you know: sometimes. And be like 'oh, I'm afraid; hello, fear, how ya doing?' I mean, I say that now, but even as I say that now, and am not now despairing, I am afraid of being afraid.

But tomorrow becomes today, even as I write, and that today is a better one than yesterday, so I am thankful, and grateful, for that. And tomorrow? That is 'tomorrow-tomorrow' or 'really-tomorrow'?

... I'll have to face that when it comes: I've got plenty on my plate for today, so I'm off to bed now to be able to do that.

Good night.

Little one

So how do I sing the peanut butter song I invented?

Well, of course in my little ingénue girl-girly voice, of course!

Okay, look, I am NOT twelve, okay?!?

FINE! pick on the little wee one while she's down! See if I care!

Look, just because I have little girl titties and little girl kitty and little choir girl voice does NOT mean ...

*sigh*

It does have, well, one advantage, and that is, when I'm insane ...

... and when are you not, `phfina?

Oh, so thank you, Ms. Muse!

ANYWAY! ... when I'm insane and actually answer the phone (I so have to get caller ID!) and I say, 'Hello?' in my shy little girly voice that I'm so blessed to have, the telemarketer invariably asks in kind, mothering tones, 'Is your mommy home?'

And I can honestly answer, 'Um, no?'

And that spares us both the next few minutes of torture of her trying to sell me stuff and me trying to say 'no, thank you' politely without hurting her feelings.

(Hey, telemarketers have feelings, too, you know, even when they are reading that infernal script!)

Yes, and more than some of my lovers have had to explain to all, far and wide, that I am not her daughter nor her niece nor her ward, and some of my lovers have delighted, more than inordinately, in allowing that misunderstanding to persist.

It doesn't help me that I ... 'prefer' older women. Is this a phase or a stage? I thought high school girls went through that and then got over it, but ...

HEY! do NOT go there! Yes, thank you, I have graduated high school. I'm actually matriculating, thank you very much.

*sigh*

So, yes, yes, so, anyway, yes, you may entertain your willful childish-fulfillment thoughts when you see me prancing about my flat applying the jam and the peanut butter to what you foreigners (we say 'ferriners') stare in shocked disbelief at ('You call that bread? In our country, you don't poke holes through that half-cooked dough, you know'), singing in my little girl not-at-all-whispy-nor-breathy voice:

"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
so rich and creamy, so smooth and nutty.
Peanut butter, peanut butter, oh, I love you, peanut butter."

But don't be surprised when you get a petulant pout from the waif-nymph with big blue eyes.

*blink-blink*

:p

And, no, no pics. I don't need 'bean pole' nor 'stick figure' comments to rub salt in the wounds, thank you.

And the 'oh, you really aren't twelve, are you sure?' don't help either, thank you!