Well, drama is one of those qualities, like sweetness.Where you want the maximum to a certain point, but once that point is crossed it is intolerable. I like a large amount of sugar in my iced teas but if I add too much, it is undrinkable.So, they that seek a drama free partner say, although I have never used the phrase "no drama, please".is that they want to fly as close as possible to the edge of the sun,but they don't want the wax that holds the feathers to their back to melt.You might say that they are immature, that you can't have it all , that if you play with fire you will be burned and you are probably right, but you can't blame the hopeless romantics.Or maybe, you are just telling them to grow up.

the passing of clothing

At some point, the "ripped from the headlines" portion of Law and Order became "Adapted from the news story I read while hung over this morning with a few details changed", but I can't help watching it, like a train wreck. Or maybe it doesn't suck as badly as I thought. One or the other, I imagine. I wonder when to stop watching, like I wonder when to stop wearing.

If you are like me, and you aren't, I hope, you get attached to the clothing you carry and when you throw it away, you remember where you bought it and who you were dating, and that it has either become too frayed to wear or it just has fallen out of favor, fashion, or both.

You never know, the day of, that it is the last day you will wear it, unless you notice or make that tear, or see that fray. Usually, it sits in the closet, goes in a purge (I wish I could say "amphetamine-fueled purge" but it would not be honest)and is gone.

Today, I wanted to be different. I selected a piece of clothing, wore it, and at 6 p.m, in a blaze, I tore it off and flung it on the sidewalk. an hour from now, one can purchase it in a pile of clothes being sold on the street, undoubtedly clothes from a laundromat on the other side of town, and my shirt in the middle, surrounded by rogues.

one

I have a friend who is infertile. She told me that she created a blog, so of course I had to go find it, even though she tries to hide it by using code words like "Alaska" instead of "San Francisco" and "blue cheese" instead of "Balderdash", which I did, and boy, am I depressed and sad now. The entire concept of sharing your innermost thoughts with everyone on the planet except for people you actually know is pretty understandable, as I am a bad friend and don't offer the support I should. Comments from women interested in infertility around the globe support her, while my pathetic advice consists of telling her husband to get arrested because my experience of working in jails tells me that every straight prisoner has at least one pregnant girlfriend.