Venice is Okay, But Pickpockets Suck

Bill Stankus commented on my last entry before I left for Italy, "Be sure to slug the first pickpocket you see in Venice."

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Well, Bill, I would have been glad to slug the motherfucker if I had SEEN him. But I didn't! On our first day in Venice, I went toodling off by myself, assuring my traveling companions that I would be just fine and dandy. My wallet was securely esconced in a zippered pocket of my small handbag, which was securely looped across my shoulder and chest. But of course I got lost on my way back to the hotel and had to stop to ask directions several times. I managed to find my way after an hour of panicky wandering, but when I got back to my room, I discovered that I had NO WALLET! Some very skilled shithead had managed to unzip my purse, lift out the wallet, re-zip the pocket and escape, without me being aware of anything. So...I was left with no money, no credit card and no ATM card for the remaining 16 days of our trip. Fortunately, my kids were able to step into the breach and use their own cards to get the cash and credit we needed for the rest of the time.

In a way, the experience was liberating for me. I no longer had any financial responsibility and had, literally, nothing to lose. I didn't have to carry a purse. I still had pockets, but no contents to pick. So I got to be the "kid" in the family, just asking various adults for a few euros here and there, when I wanted to buy something. I'll settle up with the grown-ups when their bills come in.

Okay! That sums up Day 1. It did get much better on Day 2 and beyond, and I'll talk about it tomorrow. But now I have to finish unpacking and then go for a walk with my hubby, whom I missed SO MUCH while I was away. Absence does, indeed, make the heart grow fonder.

Arrivederci Amici!

One week from today I will be on my way to Italy. I will be traveling with my daughter and her husband and three kids and my son and his wife. We will be gone from June 13 to July 1. I am excited and terrified. I am not packed, but I have been refining a list of stuff to pack. It must all fit in one bag (21 inch expandble upright) small enough to take on board and fit into the overhead compartment of the plane. I have been practicing rolling each item of clothing into a tight little ball. I can't imagine how I'm going to get everything into that teensy bag. I keep telling myself that it doesn't matter what I wear or how it looks, because no one will be looking at me anyway. I'll just be one old broad in a sea of tourists. One tiny speck in an infinite universe. Who the hell cares if my clothes are wrinkled and/or sweaty and dirty? There! I feel better already.

So! We'll fly into Venice, spend two days there and head for Florence. Two days there and down to Rome (after a stop in Pisa). Then two days in Sorrento and then it's a night on the ferry and finally arrive in Sicily on June 23, where we'll spend the next 7 days. Whoa! I'm getting dizzy just thinking about it!

I'm going to try to set up a "travel blog" to chronicle our adventures. Believe it or not, even though I'm the oldest of our band of vagabonds, I'm the only one who maintains a blog. So I was elected to be the official diarist. Now it remains to be seen if I actually get this done in time. Maybe tomorrow...

Wichita Kansas - Dr. George Tiller, one of the nation's few providers of late term abortions despite decades of protests and attacks, was shot and killed Sunday in a church where he was serving as an usher. The slaying of the 67-year-old doctor is "an unspeakable tragedy," his widow, four children and 10 grandchildren said in a statement.

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So much for the sanctity of life, gentle readers. A demented murderer took it upon himself to gun down in cold blood a living, breathing man, 67 years old, in order to protest abortion. I think it is probably safe to say that Dr. Tiller's murderer has never been pregnant with a child he felt incapable of bearing and rearing. I also doubt that he has devoted his life to adopting and rearing great numbers of unwanted babies. But he decided, as did various other murderers-of-doctors before him, that it is perfectly okay to kill a mature adult, but it's a heinous sin to comply with the request of a woman to abort her fetus.

We're All Doomed, But It Doesn't Matter

Okay, I've moved on. I've made great progress since that last silly post about anxiety. I am now completely absorbed in the subjects of the futility of life and the insignificance of the human race in the vast scope of the boundless universe. How's that for progress?!?

As an example of futility, I just now attempted to insert a picture of a photo of "The Sombrero Galaxy" taken by the Hubble telescope. Do you see the photo? No? Neither do I. I did manage to copy the text under the photo, which reads as follows:

"The Sombrero Galaxy - 28 million light years from Earth - was voted the best picture taken by the Hubble telescope. The dimensions of the galaxy, officially called M104, are as spectacular as its appearance It has 800 billion suns and is 50,000 light years across."

Just picture this really cool photo of a zillion stars pressed into a ring of exploding light.


Now think about the puny earth...just an insignificant speck out there in the Milky Way somewhere. The Milky Way is just one of zillions of galaxies floating around in infinite space. And yet! We think we are so important! And goddamn it, we are important! To ourselves, anyway...and what else matters to ourselves but ourselves?


These profound thoughts have occurred to me not only while looking at photos of outer space, but while looking at my kitchen counter. Okay, you're thinking, Madam Z has officially gone off her wobbly rocker. Wait! I'll explain! You see, my kitchen counter is besieged by ants. Small, brown ants that persist in monitering my kitchen, watching for interesting bits of food that would go unnoticed by humans but are, evidently, highly desirable to my six-legged nemeses. Several times each day, I swoop down on the indefatigable critters, wiping them up with a wet sponge and washing them down the drain. When I do this, I feel guilty. I anthropomorphise them. The poor little things try to defend themselves. They run, panicky, this way and that, as the sponge approaches. Some of them rear up on their tiny hind legs, in a defensive posture. Every darned one of them wants to go on living! Just as humans would, if they were being rounded up by a giant, sponge-wielding Martian on the streets of New York City.

I've forgotten just what my point was, but I think it had something to do with Dr. Hubble inventing galaxies. Or maybe I was wondering whether ants on Mars would rather eat bread crumbs or space dust. Or was it this revelation?

To Med or Not to Med

Three months ago, I stopped taking anti-depressants. (I had been taking various SSRIs for the past eight years.) After a couple weeks of diciness, I settled down and thought, hey! I've got it licked! I'm just fine-and-dandy-peachy-keen! I don't need no stinking drugs. But now I'm having doubts. Over the past week or so, I have been feeling increasingly anxious and demoralized. All day today I have been on edge, feeling as though something dreadful is going to happen, any minute. What tiny bit of rationality I have left is telling me that is nonsense. There is nothing any scarier happening today than there is on any other day, at least not that I know of. So why this nameless dread? Am I insane? Or is it physical...a mere chemical imbalance in my fevered brain? If it's a chemical imbalance, maybe I should go back on medication. Okay, the SSRI's crushed my libido, which is the main reason I decided to stop taking them. But anxiety is not exactly a big turn-on, either. If I don't feel better by Monday, I will call my doctor.


There! I said it! It's in writing! I will not renege.

I was walking in the woods today, all by myself, and started thinking about questions with no answers. Here are some of them that occurred to me.

If I fall in the forest and no one hears my screams, does it matter what language I scream in?

Does it matter what gender or color I am?

If a hungry black bear finds me, in spite of not having heard my screams, will he eat me, regardless of my color and gender?

What if a hungry white bear finds me?

Will he be more discriminating?

If I climb a tree to escape the bear, will the tree fall, even if I make no sound?

Okay, I'm getting r-e-a-l-l-y irritated here. In a futile attempt to make my minimalist blog seem a little more sophisticated, I tried to add a "gadget" to the poor thing. I really, really want to have a "My Blog List" on the sidebar. So I started clicking here and there, on this and that, and found a page entitled, "Add and Arrange Page Elements." Then I clicked on "Add a Gadget," which presented me with a list that included something called "Blog List," and I thought, AH-HA! After a great deal of teeth-gritting and sweating, I finally managed to add 18 blog titles to the thing. I clicked on "Save" and thought, naively, that my list would magically appear on my blog.

YEAH-FUCKING-RIGHT! GRRRRRRRRRR! For once in my life, I allowed myself to be a teensy bit optimistic, and what do I get? Crushed like a goddamned bug!

Excuse me while I go sulk.

AWRIGHT, AWREADY!

Ben commented on my last post, with this powerful rebuttal:

"Different names for different ceremonies sets a very dangerous precedent for inequality. As children we're exposed to all sorts of stories, fairy tales and promises that one day we will fall in love and get married. To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race. A rose by any other name, on this occasion, smells a little token.

I think the real crux is that it really doesn't affect anyone other than the people getting married/partnered/unioned - whatever the name or euphemism. I think that's why the placard-waving masses voting for Prop 8 come across as so unpleasant. What right do such people have to dictate how other people should love each other, and what therefore constitutes a valid expression of that bond?

The most offensive suggestion of all remains that gay men and women should be happy they can "marry" at all now, and thus by extension near-servile for no longer being imprisoned, beaten and murdered. In many parts of the world, they still are."

I have to admit, he has succeeded in making me change my mind. This sentence is particularly moving: "To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race."

Okay guys, get married. As Ben, Lisa, Bill, and DistributorCap all said, it doesn't affect the rest of us, so what's the big deal? And as for a same-sex marriage not fitting the dictionary definition of "marriage," definitions change with time. After all, the word "gay" used to mean "filled with or inspiring mirth..."

A Rose By Any Other Name Still Could Be Legally Binding

While I am a registered Independent, I do tend to be liberal on most social issues. I'm pro-choice, pro-birth-control and pro-sex-ed in the schools. I favor legalization of marijuana. I'm anti-attempts-to-shove-religion-down-my-throat, but the Golden Rule rocks. I'm comfortable with people of other races. I have no problem with gays, lesbians and trans-gender people. "Live and let live" is my motto.

But...and y'all knew there was going to be a "but" in here...I simply cannot understand the fanatical drive by many gays and liberals to try to legalize gay "marriage!" I can understand and am supportive of the wish of same-sex couples to legalize their unions. It is desirable, spiritually and legally, to have their relationship officially recognized. But why insist on calling the union a "marriage?" My Funk & Wagnalls Dictionary defines marriage as "a compact entered into by a man and a woman, based on mutual regard, to live together as husband and wife until separated by death." That's the definition, like it or not! I can call my shoes "gloves," but they're not going to fit on my hands. I can call a red light "green," but if I try to drive through it, I'll have problems. So why not compromise and call the union between a man and a man or a woman and a woman something else? What's wrong with the term, "civil union?" Why insist on using the word "marriage?" I believe that much of the general public's opposition would fade away, if we could compromise on that one point. If you don't like "civil union," think of something else. Invent a new word! New words are added to our lexicon all the time. Call it a "garriage" for gay men and a "larriage" for lesbian women. I'm being silly with those suggestions, of course. But I'm not kidding about the idea of creating a new term for same-sex unions.
What do you think?

If Only...

I'm feeling regretful tonight. I keep thinking of all the things I did that I shouldn't have done and all the things I didn't do that I should have. There is no bigger waste of time and energy than dwelling on the past, yet I can't seem to let it go. My son told me recently that I talk more about the past than anyone he knows. I think (hope) that I don't carry on about my sundry regrets when I'm talking to my kids. I think (hope) that I just tell them stories about my childhood and young adulthood, some of which are amusing, and some are depressing, but interesting (I think and hope). I also enjoy relating anecdotes about their childhoods, which I find amusing, but are met with grim expressions, eye-rolling, and "Please, Mom, not again!"

As for the regrets, I am playing with the idea of developing some sort of ritual that will help me purge myself of them, once and for all. Maybe I could write them down on post-it notes, one per page, and then ball up the page, one at a time, and burn them. Or flush them down the toilet, one whole flush for each note. I'll need a mental acknowledgement and reinforcement of the act. Perhaps a spoken affirmation of the purge and the resulting freedom from guilt - a little mantra I can recite with each flush or flame.

Okay, I'm going to work on it now. I'll let you know how it goes...

HAIKUCKOO

It was just Wham-Bam

You did not say "Thank-you-ma'am"

You have no manners

I try to play fair

But I always come in last

Only cheaters win

Give me those flowers

I will crush them underfoot

I will break your heart

What? I can't hear you

Are you begging for mercy

Ha! Don't make me laugh

Okay, I give up

I can't make myself hate you

I love you too much

Let's try it again

This time let me be on top

Ah...that's much better

Growing Pains

Today I took a break from playing with myself and worked in the garden. I spaded a 6' x 8' area. I spread composted manure. I raked it all smooth. I planted five 6' rows of seeds, one each of Simpson lettuce, some kind of exotic lettuce mixture, peas, carrots and Swiss chard. Then I came back into the house, took a double dose of ibuprofin, and curled up on the bed, moaning (with pain, not pleasure). Tomorrow I will attempt to duplicate that performance and add another six feet to the length of the five rows. But if my latent masochism will not rise to the challenge...well, at least I have those first seeds launched. And I should be recovered enough by Saturday to resume the project.

Gardening is probably the only domestic chore that I enjoy. My father was an avid gardener and when I was a little girl I was happy to help him, however I could. I have fond memories of Daddy showing me how to prepare the soil and plant the seeds. Then, when they sprouted and reached a certain height, he showed me how to thin the plants. He was a big, strong hard-working man, with big, rough hands. But when he was thinning the carrots or lettuce, he was amazingly precise and almost gentle. Though he's been gone for twenty-two years, I think of him every single time I work in

the garden, and even though I'm a die-hard atheist and don't believe in an afterlife, I can feel him looking over my shoulder, smiling his approval.

Do It Yourself !

Can someone please explain to me why we are taught that masturbation is "wrong?" It feels good. It doesn't hurt anyone. You can't get pregnant doing it. You can't get venereal disease from doing it. You don't have to take a shower first, if you don't want to. No one has to be "in the mood" but you. What's not to like?

But no! We are made to feel guilty and ashamed of doing it. When I was a child, I "knew" that I was a verrrrry bad girl for "playing with myself." I don't remember now how this knowledge was imparted to me, but it was intense. I continued to think this as I grew older. When I started dating, the "dates" always ended up with a wild necking session in the back seat of the boyfriend's car. For the first couple of years, I managed to avoid "going all the way," but the necking always got me so hot and bothered that when I got home and went to bed I could not sleep until Mr. Hand did his dirty work. Then I would be flooded with guilt and promise myself I would never do it again. But then, Saturday night, the drive-in movie, and my resolve would go up in smoke. When I got married the first time, my husband had no clue (and very little interest) how to satisfy me, so I was still on my own. But again...shame followed every episode of self gratification.

Fortunately, I finally outgrew that curse. Renouncing religion helped a lot. Embracing logic helped even more. I remember asking myself, "What on earth is wrong with it? Who does it hurt? How can it be bad to make yourself feel good?" And then it occurred to me that there may be some evolutionary reason for the human arm to be just the right length to easily place one's hand on one's genitals! Ahhhhhhh...!
And oh, how I would like to place my hand on this cowboy's genitals...


Mind you, I'm not recommending "rubbin' the nubbin" or "rockin' the cock" in public! And I have a long way to go before I'd be able to write a post like Captain Smack's "Interesting things I have done to my penis" or write a story like Phillip Roth's "Portnoy's Complaint," where he describes in excruciating detail what he did with some raw calf liver, but this post is a start.

The Big "O"

My first "real" job (9 to 5, weekly paycheck, dictatorial boss) was at a K-Mart in Salt Lake City, back in the '70s. The bosses were all male and the underlings all female. I was full of feminist ideals that had no chance of being realized, and was always boiling with unexpressed rebellion. Since I was married at that time to the king of MCPs (that's Male Chauvinist Pigs, for all you ignorant youngun's out there), I had a double whammy of sexist suppression. My co-workers were an interesting mix of up-tight Mormons and would-be hippies. Even some of the Mormon ladies were longing to be free. I think I was the only California transplant in our little crowd, and my relatively liberal talk and mannerisms aroused suspicion in some and admiration in others. After a few months of employment, I had become friendly with 4 or 5 women and we would have lunch together almost every day.


We had a good time discussing how we detested our jobs, how frustrated we were with our lives and...you guessed it...our sex lives. One day, the subject concerned the female orgasm, or lack thereof. Jill said, "I've never had an orgasm with my husband. If I don't do it myself, it just doesn't happen." Jan claimed that, "Oh, my husband is a wonderful lover. I come every time." We all looked at her, in surprise. I said, "Really?" She blushed. "Well, almost every time." Julie said, "Well, your husband probably knows something about foreplay. My husband's idea of foreplay is to let me look at his boner for a few seconds before jumping me." We all laughed. Then, sweet, slow, little Jeannie, who had been quiet until then, chimed in. "Some women don't even know what an organism is!" Somehow, we all managed to stifle our giggles and I resisted the urge to say something like, "I think most of us know that 'an organism' is a living being..." Instead, we all muttered things like, "Yeah, that's right, poor dears," and then it was time to go back to work.

Ten years later, I fell under the spell of Pan-man. His exquisite lovemaking made me realize that, until then, *I* had not known what an orgasm could be. He was an organism like no other.

Company's Coming!

So...I had to tidy up. First...I hung my shell art that I made a couple of years ago. These two pieces have been moldering away in the basement, but now they are prominently displayed. I think they are pretty. I can't draw or paint, but boy can I glue!

Then....I dusted! You should have seen my dust cloth when I was done. No, you shouldn't have. No one but I, the negligent perpetrator, should be subjected to that disgusting sight.

First, I dusted the desk, and all the tschochkes on it.

Then, the shadow box in the kitchen. It took almost a half-hour, by the time I finished fussing with them. Everything had to be just right!

Finally, the window sill in the living room. Isn't it exotic looking? I just love all the little doo-dads I have all over the house. The only drawback is that it takes forever to dust all of them.

Well, that was boring, wasn't it? Next time I'll talk about sex. I can hardly wait!

Talk Radio Blows

According to certain blowhards who spew their nonsense over the radio waves for three hours a day (that's three hours for each blowhard, one after another, from noon until midnight), five days a week, our feckless country is heading, full-tilt, toward SOCIALISM, maybe even FASCISM! These dire predictions are based on the actions of the evil BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA in his first six weeks in the hot seat. (The fattest of the blowhards has taken to including President Obama's middle name in his references to him, as though Obama had chosen that name himself.)


Apparently, neither of the afternoon blowhards has access to a dictionary, or they might not be so cavalier in their accusations. I, however, have my trusty 1947 Funk and Wagnalls New College Standard Dictionary (inherited from my father) by my side, and I will share with you the official definitions of "socialism" and "fascism."

Socialism: A theory of political and economic organization advocating public collective ownership of the means of production, public collective management of all industries, and production for need and use instead of profit.

Fascism: Any authoritarian, anti-democratic, anti-socialistic (emphasis is mine) system of government in which economic control by the state, militaristic nationalism, propaganda, and the crushing of opposition by means of secret police emphasize the supremacy of the state over the individual.

Okay, let's start with socialism. Call me naive, but I'm pretty darned sure that Obama has no ideological fantasies of the government owning and managing all production and industries. I think he's just trying to shovel cash their (banks and auto manufacturers) way, hoping to shore them up until they can dig themselves out of the hole they're in. And to keep it from looking like an out-and-out handout (like the crazyass TARP fiasco, which OBAMA HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH), the government is taking part ownership in the businesses. I'm not sure this is all a great idea, but my thirty-year-old Bachelor's Degree in Economics does not qualify me to second-guess the "experts."
Now, fascism. The blowhard who throws this term around sounds as though he thinks fascism is an extreme form of socialism! I believe that Communism is the more appropriate term for an extreme form of socialism and I would like to remind him that in WWII the Communist Russians were fighting, tooth and nail, against the Fascist Nazis! And that is the least of the problem with using that vile word in connection with Obama's fledgling government. Look at the definition again, Mr. Big Fat Idiot, and tell me what part of it you can honestly say you believe applies to our democratically elected, knocking-himself-out-trying-to-unify-us President.

Unlike some blowhards, I don't want President Obama to fail. I want him to succeed, because if he succeeds, we all succeed. Even if I don't agree with everything he's doing, I respect him and his team and am willing to concede that they know more than I do about the dire straits we seem to be in. To those who oppose the actions of the administration, I say fine! We're a democracy. Let's hear your plan! Don't just stir the pot of discontent and rebellion if you don't have any ideas of your own, other than constantly invoking the memory of that senile old fart, Ronald Reagan.

"Madam Z," I tell myself, from time to time, "you must learn to acknowledge your mistakes and move on."

But, I don't listen to myself. I try to salvage the unsalvagable. "But I spent so much time - money - effort on it! I can't let it go to waste!"

"Foolish woman! It's better to let it go; forget about it - put it in the garbage and try again another day. If you're going to eat/do something that's not good for you, at least be damned sure it tastes/feels good."

The most recent battle is still being waged. The subject of the dispute is a batch of truffles. Why, you may ask, would someone try to make her own truffles, when she could get a perfectly good bag of ready-made truffles at the corner store for 3 or 4 bucks? That is a legitimate and worthy question. Why indeed? Temporary insanity cannot be ruled out.

It gets worse. I had a perfectly good bag of Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips in the cupboard, that I have been chipping away at for several days, a tiny handful now and then, when I must have something sweet. They are heavenly. I also had a couple ounces of dark chocolate which isn't anywhere near as good, but is purportedly "good for you." THEN! I bought a can of sweetened condensed milk, for some goddamned reason, which I don't even remember, and it had a recipe on the label for homemade truffles. I was electrified by this! I didn't even know ordinary people could make truffles! They seem too exotic to be made at home, at least at my home. The recipe was deceptively simple: 1 can condensed milk, 18 ounces of semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1 tablespoon of vanilla. Put milk in saucepan, add chips, heat till chocolate is melted, add vanilla, and refrigerate till firm. Roll into balls and cover with some kind of coating. (I completely ignored this last step, since it's the inside that I was interested in.)

Okay. I didn't have 18 oz of semi-sweet chocolate chips, but I had those milk chocolate chips and a couple oz of that dark chocolate, so that should work, shouldn't it? SHOULDN'T IT? In case you're wondering, the answer is NO. Well, maybe it SHOULD'VE worked, but it DIDN'T. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't particularly good. It wasn't anywhere near as good as the plain goddamned chocolate chips were! And I used up about $6 worth of ingredients making the stupid stuff! So I stuck it back in the refrigerator, hoping it would taste better the next day.

It didn't. My self told myself to just throw the shit away. I certainly don't need the calories, anyway. But NO! I had a new plan! Melt the ill-fated concoction again and add a bunch of peanut butter to it! That'll show my smartass Self!

Oh man!!! It is now resting peacefully in the compost heap.

Question: Was he GREAT, or was he GREAT?

Answer: HE WAS GREAT!

He was calm, confident, self-assured and gave one hell of a speech. Plenty of lofty goals. Plenty of inspiring acknowledgements. Never flubbed a line. Promised something for everyone. I loved what he said. But I do have a question for him:

Um...President Obama, sir...How are we going to PAY for all these worthy goals?

It's Just Dust!

The best thing about blogging (and other Internet activities) is that it gives me an excuse not to do other things; things I do not want to do. Such as dusting. I do not like to dust. I don't know why. I put it off until the dust gets high enough that I could probably plant seeds in it, and have an indoor garden.

The drawback of blogging (and other Internet activities) is that my computer sits on my desk, which has a large, dust collecting surface, with two shelves mounted on the desk, one of which is at eye-level, and both of which are covered with dust. I don't notice it at night, because the light is dim. But in the daytime, the sun slants through the window behind the desk and highlights the evidence of my shameful neglect. Fortunately, I have a short attention span, so it's usually not a big problem. Unless, that is, I start to think about the composition of dust. That is what I am doing now. What's IN that shit, anyway? I think I read somewhere that a lot of it is dead skin cells, and the dust mites that feed on the skin cells (but I'm not going to think about that now, or I would get all paranoid and probably have to set fire to all the surfaces). Then there's the regular dirt that gets airborne and then lands on the furniture. There's hair, too. And probably all kinds of dead insect parts. Much of it is surely just small fibres from clothing and furniture upholstery. When my kids were little, we had a couple episodes of pinworm infestation, and our family doctor told me that the pinworm eggs were probably covering every surface in the house and the only hope for not reinfecting us all was to thoroughly dust and disinfect all those surfaces (along with boiling every piece of bedding and clothing that we owned). And while I'm pretty darn sure that neither Hubby nor I are afflicted with PW, I still think of that possible component of dust, on the rare occasion that I do break out the Swifters.

Bottom line is that there's no good reason to stir up that yukky stuff very often. Let sleeping dust lie... until, of course, my mother-in-law is due for a visit. When that happens, the dust will fly!

Two Words, Four Words, Six Words, Eight

Okay, I'm tired of haiku. I'm going to experiment with a new, less challenging format to express my lack of thoughts. Or something like that. How's this?


I will.
I will write it.
I will write my story now.
But first, I will eat some ice cream.
Oh no! The ice cream froze my brain!
My story is encased in ice.
I won't write it.
I can't.



Or this...


Why me?
I am not worthy.
Huh? I am? Are you sure?
Okay, here goes; remember... you asked for it.
Once upon a time, I lived in boxcars.
A fairly good-looking prince rescued me.
Or so I thought.
I escaped.



Th..th..that's all folks!