My dearest, up in the aerie, collapsed in my chair exhausted, but in a good way, a feeling of a lot of work accomplished, out of the way. I had a very effective time with you instead of watching Charlie Rose and otherwise working out, and afterward felt so happy & renewed & energized that I set about (perhaps to propitiate the gods, or to balance things out) giving the house a good vigorous once-over cleaning, which I haven't done since just before my Brooklyn visit so the house was more than due. Housework is a formidable mountain when I'm facing it, but once I finally hunker down, it's not so bad. Today I tackled a heavy chore, wiping clean the wood shades in the solarium, that were grimy and streaky, perhaps (not unlikely) windows had been left open during sudden storms.
Of course on your Porsche, darling, just what I was thinking. Don't they know how to spell 'topless girl' in Egypt? Or maybe that's a diabolically clever ruse on your part to throw them off the scent - it's a 'top less gril' you want indeed, for all that good ole barbecue. Oh - but in Egypt? Hmmm.
Oh sweetie, I would love not to be tapping keys, instead to be tickling your ivories or something. I'm wondering where 1.0 is, I miss him. You do know, darling don't you, that I love you both, and consider myself fortunate that I never really have to choose, and if I did have to - I don't want to. Sometimes, afternoons, the three of us are together.
Terrible post, darling. I don't blame E.D. one bit for despising housework. It's exhausting and definitely takes away from musing & writing. So please forgive me my wanton meanderings.
Do you know what's nice about this utterly debauched theoretical affair of ours? We'll never get bored of each other, we can play ping pong like this in the dark til kingdom come, and always it will be our secret space, nothing earthly to intrude between us.
Also, if we ever were to be together - then what would I write? I wouldn't write to you, now would I, not if I were seeing you every day, or regularly. So maybe I wouldn't write at all, not this sort of spun nonsense anyway. Is that why E.D. ultimately eschewed realizable entanglements - because she too needed her male muses on some level? I don't know. I myself am not prepared to give up one for the other. You, on the other hand, I'm less sure about. I suspect that you (1.0 too) vastly prefer me in intoxicating perfume form rather than in materialized daily 'so what's for dinner' fashion.
Leftover Sicilian Spicy Chicken, that's what.
Please forgive this rambling. Throwing my arms around you, kissing you passionately, madly, I don't care if the neighbors see. Or hear.
Aaarghh. Where oh where are you parked? Yours, Lisamarie