...
Okay. This is getting serious. So far, Sturgill Simpson seems to hold the key to making me sleep. Not singing. That keeps me up. Talking. OMFG, Sturgill Simpson makes my body work right... so far.
I wonder if he could be convinced to take a side job reading books to us?
Yes, I'd've married him, but I was twenty-five when he was born, and thinking at the time I never wanted to become a silly old lady with crushes on younger men, but now I know old women don't have crushes like we think they do when we're young.
Plain fact is our crushes are much more like they were when we were five or six and didn't have the first part of a clue than at any time when we were so busy fending them off we forgot we wanted one for ourselves. We want back into their arms with our clothes on. It's not about fucking. It's better than that, and we have it over men, I think, because we can feel this that is so much more true than what they're chasing when they dump us for someone who can bring their gonads back to life for a few weeks.
It's never not been right here, and we can love so many completely monogamously, but don't. Humans can love so much more intimately than lovers do, and it elevates the spirit clean out of this filthy wreckage psychopaths make of life on earth.
always and any time....
