Is it true that "Love means never having to say you're sorry?" If so, hubby must love me a whole lot. That man would not apologize for anything, no matter how clear it is, to me at least, that he is IN THE WRONG! I, on the other hand, apologize MY ASS OFF if I see that it (whatever "it" is) is my fault. Does he really not see that what he has said (sarcastic, demeaning remark) is hurtful? When I show my displeasure (usually by throwing up my hands and saying something like, "FINE! I'll just shut up and never say anything again," or stomping out the door and driving around the block ten times) he accuses me of "acting nutty" and asks me if I forgot to take my medicine (Zoloft) today. I reply, icily, that "Of course, I took my medicine!" whether I did or not.

Is it just the "Mars, Venus" thing? Are men inherently unable to admit fault? To fucking apologize? Or at least, switch gears and be extra nice? Hmm. He does do that sometimes. That helps, but it's not as satisfying as I think it would be if he'd just say, "I'm sorry, Baby-doll. Come here and let me comfort you."

Oh well. He cooks, he helps with the housework, he's nice at least half of the time and he's good in bed. What the hell am I complaining about?

The night is hot and steamy, and so am I. It was on a night like this, many years ago, that boyfriend du jour and I were rolling around on the floor, fucking like dogs in heat, in the heat, until we were sweating buckets and completely satiated. We let go of one another and rolled onto our backs, smiling and catching our breaths. He started stroking me affectionately, and one of his fingers dipped into my bellybutton, which was filled to the brim with sweat. Not just my sweat, but our sweat, and BF hadn't bathed for a while, which was part of his charm. Struck suddenly by an unwise, romantic impulse, BF announced that he would "sip my nectar," and put his lips to the naval goblet. I heard a small "slurp" and then a shriek, followed by a great deal of spitting and swearing. I laughed until tears rolled down my sweaty cheeks. "It's not funny," he insisted, but he was wrong.

In case you guys don't know it, let me tell you that one of women's favorite subjects of discussion is the performance of their lovers. Once upon a time, long ago and far away, my sister, Sophie, and I were chatting about our favorite subject, and she told me that she and her husband had tried something new and delicious. She had just peeled a banana and was about to take a bite, when he sidled up to her and suggested a better use for that banana. Sophie thought that sounded like a good idea and laid back and got comfortable. Sam slid that banana into her vagina and then preceded to eat it...slowly. Sophie said that she came like a freight train before the fruit was half gone.

That sounded pretty interesting to me, so next time the boyfriend-du-jour stopped by my place I told him about it. He had us both out of our clothes before I could mention that I had no bananas on hand. The only fruit in my kitchen was a bunch of grapes. Hey, no problem! All I will say is, it was a lot easier putting them in, than it was getting them out. The train was derailed and we never tried that again.

Darn! I just remembered that I had been planning to talk about sweaty sex. Maybe next time.

Okay, I'm trying a new font. It's Trebuchet. It's the color of my hair. It is much drier than my hair, however. And why is my hair not dry, you ask? Because it is so FUCKING HOT AND HUMID in here I am sweating profusely. I feel like I'm going to slide off of the goddamned chair!

There, I got that off my chest. My sweaty chest. Now, for tonight's topic...sex with vertically-challenged men. This has been a subject of great interest to me ever since I was in my teens and heard the little verse, "When they're nose to nose, his toes is in it. When they're toes to toes, his nose is in it." It occurred to me that his tongue was no doubt in close proximity to "it" as well, and that could be incredibly convenient. So I thought of that tonight, as my hubby and I were watching "Wheel of Fortune" and one of the contestants was very (maybe 3 feet?) short. He was with his fiancee, who was much taller. He was a handsome little devil, and I could not help but speculate on the size and potential rigidity of both his tongue and his cock. His fiancee was very pretty and looked happy, so my imagination took off like a greased cheetah and it wasn't long before I had to ask hubby to get down on his knees.

Now, where was I? Oh yes...heat and humidity. I hate heat. I hate humidity. I hate sweat, especially when it's trickling down every crevice of my body. Uh-oh, I just thought of a good subject for tomorrow's post.

Hoo-boy! Now that I know someone may actually READ what I'm writing, I am gripped with fear. What if Big Brother should get wind of my wind? What if my children stumble across my sordid soliloquies? What if my friends find out about my fuck-filled fantasies? Yeah? So? And what if a comet falls out of the sky and sends the earth to hell in a handbasket? I will no longer concern myself with such unlikely events. I'm just going to let 'er rip.

Wait a minute! What's that great big rocky thing hurtling through the sk...

What is life? It's nothing, I repeat...nothing...but a series of chemical actions and reactions, some kind of low-level electricity, some physics thrown in, and off we go...living until we stop. Some of us leave a mark afterwards, but most of us do not. Most of us are no more important than a ladybug or a minnow. The most interesting thing about life, to me, is how most forms of life cling so tenaciously to that life. Observe a plant that manages to grow in a tiny crack in a rock, or between a sidewalk and a brick wall. It manages to insert a tiny tendril of root deep enough into the crack to obtain a bit of moisture and nutrient, just enough to live in spite of the odds. I have watched insects fight valiantly to keep their footing and try desperately to crawl out of the sink or tub as I attempt to wash them down the drain. I usually give up before they do, and pick them up and take them outside and release them in the flowerbed. A tiny mouse flees the hungry cat. The injured lion licks its wounds. At every step up the evolutionary scale animals do whatever they can to hold on...until we get to man. Only some humans seem capable of voluntarily ending their own lives. From depressed teenagers to suicide bombers, some of us lose that intrinsic "will to live" and develop a "will to die." They find a way to shut down the chemistry, the electricity, the physics of life. By doing so, they may leave a bigger mark than they would have if they had shut down naturally. But it is an ugly, black mark.

Tonight I'm going to write a poem. Here goes! Are you ready? Wait a minute, you're not even listening. Good! I'm glad! I don't care if you or anyone else is listening. So there!

My words have less weight than a grain of sand on an infinite beach
They matter less than one drop of water in all the seven seas
They make no sound
I have no voice

Time for another missive into the void. I could make terroristic threats, I could blaspheme, I could tell my deepest, darkest secrets, and it wouldn't matter. No one will ever see what I write. I could talk nasty. I could talk baby-talk. I could pretend to be speaking in Aztec. It's 100% safe from prying eyes, because no eyes will pry. My meagre post has no more significance than a pebble in the bottom of a deep underground lake. Then why don't I do it? Perhaps because, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I harbor some small glimmer of hope/fear that someone, somewhere, sometime will stumble onto my small grain of sand on the infinite beach of the Internet, and would report me to the Literary Police. They would stifle my screams, arrest my development, and confiscate my thoughts. Oy veh!

Helllllloooooo....hellllllooooo.... Is anyone out there? Am I all alone in this strange world called the Blogosphere? Will anyone ever hear my thin, tinny voice? Will anyone ever find out that I have nothing to say? If I must notify my friends and family that I am posting my meager thoughts on the Internet, and instruct them to sign on and read those posts, what is the point? I should just send them an email. For now I will conclude that no one will read what I am now writing, so I can say whatever the hell I want to. It is completely safe. Okay, here goes...

I've been thinking a lot about frogs lately. They're so green, so wet, so croaky. Soon they will be extinct. So will I.

Okay, I admit that I fibbed in the "labels for this post." It probably won't have anything to do with lust or chocolate. It was just a lame attempt to attract someone's attention.

I want to talk about dreams (not "aspirations," but nighttime-while-you're-sleeping dreams). Do you ever wake up from a bizarre, exciting, crazy, way-out-there dream and wonder, where the hell did that come from? Once I dreamed that I was in my kitchen and heard some strange sounds coming from the oven. I opened the oven drawer and saw several tiny, evil-looking devils dancing around on a cookie sheet, laughing maniacally. I screamed, slammed the door shut and turned the broiler on high. The laughter turned quickly into agonized shrieks. I looked through the glass on the oven door and saw the nasty critters melting away. Now, wouldn't you be scratching your head and wondering how you could have come up with that? I'll bet you could think of a dream you've had that may match it, though. The trouble is, we usually don't remember our dreams very clearly. What I would really like to do is find some way to tap into that perverted part of my brain and let those crazy dream plots unfold while I'm awake! Then I could devise some short stories that would be much more interesting than the boring twaddle I usually come up with. So...any ideas about how to do that?