Hi!
I guess the hypothetical readers exist, after all! I got quite a bit
of
e-mail regarding my comments about sex, pro- and con-. Let me
clarify:
I like sex. I LOVE sex. I love having sex with Matt.
He always makes sure
I am satisfied and doesn't hold my gag reflex against me too much.
I love all three types of sex, which I will define below:
1. MAKING LOVE - This is a way of connecting with the person you love.
This
is why sex is special when it is with someone you really love, because
you
can have this fusion of minds, hearts, souls, and all that other crap.
2. SEX - Your standard issue sex. Playful, casual, mundane or
exotic. As
Stephen Baldwin says, "Sex is like pizza. Even when it's bad,
it's still
pretty good."
3. FUCKING - Oooh I love fucking. It's that sweaty kind of sex that
you
don't even have to KNOW the person you're having it with. It's
all about
chemistry. It's the kind where your entire being is concentrated
in your
throbbing sexual organs. The slamming of skin on skin.
Matt is so strong,
which comes in handy during fucking. He can just hold me down
and... fuck
me. Or I can ride him like a pony. Whatever.
However, have too much sex and you end up with pain, soreness, raw skin,
bacterial vaginal infections, complacency, and a series of average
orgasms
Have sex every few days and you get amazing orgasms, intense horniness,
and
constant excitement.
THAT, my friends, is what I'm talking about. ;)
Comments? E-mail me.
Subject: One Last Thing...
...before I go on my four day vacation (yipee!).
Okay, I have a confession to make. Deep down, I think I'm
convinced that I'm an idiot. Yes, you heard it here first,
folks -- Meg is insecure.
People are constantly telling me, "You're a genius!
You're so smart!" but I tend to blow it off.
People are easily fooled, I tell myself. I have
everyone hoodwinked. It's all a lie....
Remember yesterday, when Mr. _____ * called me
to tell me my freelance piece proposal thingy was
"impressive" instead of telling me it was the dreck
of an unqualified poseur? Somehow I never expect those kinds
of things to happen to me -- someone pay ME... to write??
I also never actually expected people to read my
journal. I read other people's journals and think:
____ is so together. _____ has a life I envy.
_____ is successful. ________ has a great relationship.
________ is a BETTER WRITER THAN ME. _______ has struggled
so much and overcome so much -- they are so
admirable. By the same token -- how can anyone
actually be interested in my fights with Matt? In
my friendships? My soap operas? The fact that
I saw Jerry Seinfeld in Jerry's Deli the other
day?
I was having a real crisis a while back, deciding
what to do with my life. Suddenly I stopped to
ask myself some questions.
Q: What is your passion, Meg?
A: Poetry.
Q: What else?
A: Writing.
Q: And what do you want to do with your life?
A: I have no idea!
Q: Um... why not write?
A: I'm not good enough.
Q: So you're not even going to try?
A: No. I'll go into computers. Or marketing. Or
something. Anything that doesn't require me to
have faith in myself and take risks.
Q: Meg, get over yourself. Why don't you get your
M.A. in poetry?
A: What am I going to do with an M.A. in poetry?
Q: Teach poetry. You know... your life's ambition?!
A: But I won't make any money doing that.
Q: What's more important, money or passion?
A: Passion.
Q: So follow your bliss, Meg.
A: I'm scared.
Q: Everyone's scared.
A: What is everyone scared of?
Q: I don't know, but I know what YOU are scared of. You
hate to fail. You're scared to be a disappointment and a
failure and not live up to your potential.
A: So I should try anyway?
Q: What's the worst that can happen?
A: Abject humiliation and utter failure.
Q: No, it's not. What's the worst that can happen?
A: I'll look back on my life and realize I wasted it
by being afraid to do what I love. By not giving
myself a chance to succeed doing what I love.
Q: <softly> That's my girl.
After coming to this realization, I was online that very
same day when Mr. ______ struck up a conversation... eventually
leading to his offering me the chance to write a freelance
piece. Message from the universe:
Follow your bliss.
Follow your bliss.
Follow your bliss.
Love
Meg
*P.S. Does anyone know why fiction writers in the 1800s
or whatever used to do this? They'd be writing
fiction and instead of making up some name, like
Mr. Barnabus or Ms. Fliffleflaffle, they'd say
Mr. _____ or "Jane went to _____" -- does anyone know
what I'm talking about?! :)