I've been thinking about this lost blog o' mine and I have decided not to try and piece it back together. Although I'm sure re-writing it would make it even greater, I feel a strange sense of destiny or karmic justice about loosing my Valentine's Day post. Like my poor lost heart.
I'm a man-eater, baby! I'm cruel and unusual punishment! I'm the spiked heel on the patent leather shoe of Love! I chew hearts for breakfast and then I slurp up souls for an afternoon snack! I'm a Goddess, a Vixen, an Untouchable Bitch of Sex and Love and Lust and All Those Other Things You Think About Late at Night or When Watching HBO's Taxi Cab Confessions. Shit, I AM Taxi Cab Confessions.
You: "Dear Taxi driver, I have to admit: the Center of the Universe."
Taxi Driver: "Nuff said, my boy. Nuff Said."
Ok, I'm not those things either. Although there was one time I went to this happy hour with some friends and someone pointed out, coincedentally, that I had made out with 50% of the group's total number of people. All of whom, also coincedentally, are all on my blog link list.
Sorry things didn't work out. Love the blog!
I know what you are thinking. Before you get all huffy about Slutty McSlut here-- it was only 3 people. Making out with 3 out of 6 is totally acceptable.
And another another thing- Neil Gaiman is not a good writer. There. I said it.