(no subject)

I just realized something. When I die and someone goes through *my* recipe binder, they are either going to be scandalized or titillated.

See, I have pasted a lot of clipped magazine recipes onto scrap paper.

Including piles and piles of erotic slush.

Yes, folks, it's not even my own erotic writing that will be making my estate executors blush. It's anonymous, mostly mediocre-to-awful erotic writing. Randomly scattered page by page throughout my recipe binder.

Miscellania, slightly mopey and grumpy edition

1. G. and I finally saw "Once More, With Feeling," a.k.a the Buffy musical episode. Um. It was cute in a cheesetastic way, but I don't get the hype.

2. More blood tests for me: my cholesterol is marginally high.

3. I am still feeling a little misanthropic. Not about you, my lovelies. I love all of you and abundantly, too. About unknown quantities and strangers. About meeting new people. I'm not sure how to recharge and recenter (although I know some of what I need to avoid, and, uh, I am working on it. Poorly, sometimes, but I'm trying). I am sure that less outside life stress would help, but, again, not entirely sure what to do about that.

4. Similarly, I am feeling scattered and fail-y in an artistic/vocational sense. Not to mention a professional sense, as I've alluded to previously.

5. Thus, I may need some reminders that I am loved and valued warts and all. Sometimes for my warts, even. I feel very warty right now. I promise to always do the same for you.