05-22-00
Today, I realized a quirky limitation to sharing the intimate and/or interesting details of my life with the web. Someone sent me an email, and while I would traditionally reply, and then tell them all of the quirky little things that happen to me on a daily basis, I realized that this person had most likely read all about said incidents on my webpage.
So, now I have this email to write back to my friend, and I have no amusing anecdotes to share that are fresh and new, unless I hold out on you all. Except for this: Why is it that once you finally make it through all of the stages of grief [denial... Tammy Faye Bakker-esque weeping... anger hate rage... melancholy... yearning... acceptance...], whatever the hell it was you were grieving over usually comes back up and bites you on the ass? Honestly, why is that? I'm not complaining, really. Sometimes a good bite on the ass is all a girl really needs. And then some.
