As I flip through my library, I notice so many nice words being put to perfectly good use in books and such. There’s really no need to make the English vocabulary suffer the abuses of your lonely keyboards, dahrlings.
Seriously, is there a contest out there to see how many words can be peppered around “I” and passed off as travel articles?
If I have to read one more onanistic rumination about the adorable quirkiness of the duty free shopping experience I may have to actually get nasty. Your musings on mud wrestling, or even, gasp! what travel means to you deep down in the depth of your soul is, well, how should I put it – boring? Some thoughts are meant to be private, dahrlings. That’s why they are in your head.
May I suggest that one consider the joys of tweeting oneself, where thoughtful narrative is limited to 140 characters.
Funny thing. I’m reminded as I write this of a time when I had the deepest emotional flash of brilliance I just have to share with everyone. As I drizzled balsamic over the loveliest little buffalo mozzarella balls I bought at the Italian deli I frequent in the village. You know how it is with balsamic, too much overpowers, too little is a tease. So there I was, poised over the milky white patties, and I was struck by the resemblance to my first husband, Frank. Same sticky white consistency. Same flaccid mien. The tenderness of the moment dislodged tears from my eyes, the drops of which I watched dribble onto the plate and mix in with the dark vinegar streaks creating an emotionally fermented dressing of a sort which exploded...
Oh, um…ahem. Well never mind all that, Pumpkins. I never said my pot isn’t black.
