I might be more like a man than I care to believe. I am shallow. I am visual. Let's leave it at that shall we?
And if meals could kill, and I know they can, we might be in for some serious trouble. I think the only thing that might save us is that the meal I cooked was so terrible, we only ate a bite or two, if that. I broiled a flank steak so bloody it was barely warm and yet oddly tough. I discovered that I do not have a carving knife sharp enough to slice butter, let alone a flank steak into the very thin slices necessary for tenderness. It is supposed to be a flavorful cut, though tough if over cooked. I did not overcook it, no I did not. Flavorful, I'm not so sure. I served it with runny horseradish mashed potatoes, and a thoroughly lack luster salad. A cheap red wine, and garlic bread. Thank god for the garlic bread. Oh well.
How about those bankers today? Anybody want to talk politics?
Let me just say this about phantasies--they are better left as phantasies. They have value as phantasies. Probably like dreams. My dreams made real would no doubt kill me. Turns out I'm awful. I'd rather flirt than follow through. I keep looking longingly at my computer. I worry about the news I'm missing. And I am terrifyingly honest when asked a question. If you might not really want to know what I have to say, best not ask me. I'll speak the truth. I hope I never meet anyone like me. I might be more like Maggy than I ever cared to believe. She passed along more than genes to me. I am horrible. I will very likely sleep alone the rest of my like. Oh well.
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