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Second Chance

She licked her wicked wounds and revealed her exotic and disturbing past on occasion at ladies luncheons and rotary breakfasts.When she dove into the dust of her back yard she pulled out apricot trees, watermelons, plums, pomegranates and even roses. Selma flowered in the relentless sun that would whip her sheets dry in a flash.

Frazzle

Frazzle, you little devil you. Yes I’m talking to you. Why can’t we just get along? You and your obsessions, compulsions and fears. You keep me working and reworking it to death sometimes. You chain me to the computer screen just so you know I’m hard at it—not even letting me get to the creative [...]

And now a word from my inner free-range chicken

My “can’t really care” is also not the “How many fucks I’m not going to give” meme that makes the social media rounds. I’m not propounding rebellion and recognizing my own voice—though I applaud that step in time. I’m not embracing my bad habits, defiantly poised against corporate motherhood telling us to eat our broccoli and go to the gym.

Magnificent enough

Suddenly, other parts of me required unfolding and oxygen. I had to explore right here inside, even though visas and maps were tricky to come by. “Magnificent” helped me stretch and circulate blood through numbed extremities and circumvented pathways.

Dear Mr. Malaprop:

I thought I was done with commentary on the world of computer dating for a bit, but then I discovered an old favorite phenomenon. Everything old is new again. Dear Mr. Malaprop: I’ve always enjoyed your Grandma (Great? Great Great? Well of course she’s at least great, whatever the generational aspect.) You can imagine how [...]

Post 7: Write Him a Lovely Message

I rarely hear from a guy who lives within 15 miles of me AND posts a picture AND is less than 35 pounds overweight AND I could even start a cup of coffee with. I know, these items wouldn’t seem to form such an insurmountable hurdle, but they do. And then the messages from these fella’s … well maybe they have a different definition of lovely than I do. These guys give clear signs that they haven’t read any part of my profile. At worst they’re evil scammers. At their most innocuous they’re probably drunk and lonely.

Post 6: Are you an Asshole?

Most of these [Google] results were asshole tests—no we’re not talking hemorrhoid diagnostics. I guess people need to find out if they are assholes. I mean that seems natural; I know plenty of assholes and I don’t think they know they qualify.

Post 5: Your Profile

Guitar man? There are lots of them. Subtext? “I never grew up? I have no money? I’m an independent spirit–code-name: groovy misogynist?” The guitar is at least a woman-shaped object in his arms.

Post 4: Which website?

My fun is in highlighting annoying, weird, crazy stuff that really happens. (Actually, I’m more focused on routine misses and reveals.) Since I’m almost at the end of my patience for this week, let me just get this off my chest:

Passion

In afterglow, electricity shoots across my shoulder blades, through my throat and right between my eyes. Each release expands my spirit, touching even the tiniest of polite encounters with strangers. It strokes more significant connections and my desires for the people of my life.