A few posts ago, right around New Year's 2011, I opened up more than I expected to and confessed that as much as I tout my writing as a means to score babes, what I might really want is for writing to help me find true love. Sure, there's something to be said for a high three-digit tally in the "Who banged the most Butter Faces with crazy stairmaster legs" game of life, but that game grows tiresome as you get older, if only because most hot chicks don't like old guys.
Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve. Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze. I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on. Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe. Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night. That's when I saw her.
A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it. I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being. Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me. I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.
Until then, au revoir, my love. I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.
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