Rapier's Wit

Yep. When I choose a wine, the label had better be interesting. My good friend chooses wine similarly. His boyfriend confirms that the contents could be skunk piss, but as long as the bottle is interesting he will buy it. A few years ago, before I could afford cable and internet, we frequented the library. My driver's license had an address within the public library district and I was able to obtain a card at no charge. Now, I have to fork over nearly $200. per year because I live outside city limits. OK, sorry. Distracted by detail. Prior to cable and internet I checked out dozens of books per month. Chick lit mostly because all I wanted was to be entertained. Perusing the shelves looking for specific titles and authors didn't do the trick. Not being an avid reader, I had no favorites and Danielle Steel no longer did the trick. So, with that in mind and knowing all I needed was lightweight smut and girly adventure, I sought out pink and purple stereotypical feminine

Are you familiar with the game? If not, you must live under a rock. Go knock yourself senseless with a rubber spatula or something while the fun kids play the game. A couple of 'net friends are administrators of a fun page on Facebook called Retrochicks . On that page a promise of a rousing game of boff, marry, kill was promised for this evening. They replaced the profane word used in the title of this post because ... I guess because it is more retro. I don't know. Don't grill me. Damn. In preparation for the evening festivities, Jane, one of the admins, posted this link to an interactive rendition of the game. It is rather silly. According to the creator there are right and wrong answers. The only ones I chose correctly are the ones to f#@k with exception to Adam Levine (Battle of the Adams). One Adam I don't even recognize so I chose to kill him. In the Michael round I got the f#@k right on a guess. The Michael I know of is Michael Cera. Quite frankly, there'

Do you have a scar on your body that you can't recollect how it got there? With all the falls, scrapes, and injuries I've had in my lifetime I am surprised more scars don't exist. On one occasion when it was warm enough this summer to bask in the sunshine to get my dose of Vitamin D, I sat with my leg propped up on my knee. You know, because all the cool kids have imperfect, uneven tan lines. Anywho... While my leg was propped on my knee, I noticed this scar and fully recall how it got there. It's not like that scene from Lethal Weapon 3 where Renee Russo and Mel Gibson compare battle scars: So, this is the battle scar in question It has faded dramatically in the 37 years it has been a part of me. Any guess on how I got it? I bet no one will guess correctly.

The other day I questioned why this blog sits empty more and more. Then, it hit me. Twitter and Facebook. You see, what used to be the topics of babbling on the blog have become 140 character mind bytes. Then, if those meandering thoughts and opinions strike a chord or nerve with those who read them, they'll comment, like or just ignore. Immediate gratification. I tweet it. Boom!  The thoughts and ideas vamoose leaving me with nothing else to say... well, nothing more than 140 characters. I miss this. You know, putting words together to form sentences that create paragraphs. Sure, my grammar is often questionable. The good news for me is that I don't give a shit. HA! The good news for you is that I know the majority of lessons we learned in primary school. Do not request that I diagram a sentence. We learned that in 8th grade when I had a language arts teacher nicknamed Bubbles. The hormonally charged class spent so much time psychologically tormenting the extremely sensi