Before you chastise me, let me explain first that I have been incredibly sick--and not just with the normal stuff, but also with a horrible flu-turned-bronchitis that is finally, finally waning. I know that it's been 10 days, but here I am, triumphantly returning all sparkle-eyed and optimistic.

A few weeks ago, I was on the phone with Lisa relating the details of some seriously high-voltage sex that I had had a few days before, and as soon as the "amah-zings" had left my mouth, she countered with a "wait, is this the filmmaker?" Yes. No. There's two of them.

"Wait," this is Lisa, "So you're dating two guys, and they're both filmmakers?"

Yeah, I guess so. I mean, that's the simple version.

"There she is. That's my girl; that's our Slutty-Slutty Bang-Bang who left her heart in San Francisco."

There are a few stories here, but the one that is sticking with me the most is that I don't have a whole lot of free time. I work a lot, and with the remainder of my time I usually take to sleeping, being sick, trying to hang out with my friends occasionally and, oh yeah: picking up even more shifts at work. This doesn't leave a lot of time for dating, and what is supposed to be actual, traditional, dates turn quickly into late night rendezvous' that end swiftly in my bed.

Now, I'm not complaining. Exactly. I am, however becoming very aware that at this rate it could take me several years to actually get to know these men. That kind of begs the question: what exactly is it I'm doing here? I'm beginning to surmise that what I'm logically looking for is getting lost in my sheets somewhere. The problem with this, I suppose, is that I don't really give a shit.

Happy Bone Sabbath.

p.s. -- More soon. --M

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