Oh! The rain is pounding the streets as car tires slap-slap-slap their way over the busy streets near my home. I’ve hit bottom on my coffee mug and should be zapping to the door, but first need to get the funk out with a long hot shower.

I’m bussing in the downpour. Tonight I’ll come home armed with a bottle of wine. I’m sequestering myself for some writing. I like to bottle it up sometimes, like sexual tension. When you don’t write for a while, it comes a little harder, a little faster, a little more furious, sometimes longer. I’m getting to that bursting point.

The great dead Canuck writer Robertson Davies once uttered that a writer ought not write until the thought of not writing becomes unbearable. I give in so much to the want to write that I seldom know the fit-to-burst waiting-for-it sensation. And like with sex, a little deprivation can go a long, long ways to making things fun again.

But I know the writing desire will hit before I return home this evening. I can feel it percolating.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’ll write worth a shit. It could all be recycled pretentious crap. But I’d rather hope for the best.

Whatever to write on, though? I’m torn between the right-wing idiots who’ve been writing on my blog of late, or matters of lust and longing that have begun to appear in my life. I’m leaning toward the matters of the heart, though, as we’ve all probably been getting our fill of politics of late. After all, I still haven’t told you about the fantastic makeout session I had just before my back gave out on me. Literally RIGHT before. Talk about the agony and the ecstasy. Love me a great makeout session. Three hours on the floor, well.

Speaking of which, to say I’m keen to see this boy again is a bit of an understatement. Perhaps the word “riled” might be more befitting. I had dirty notions that such an encounter might come my way this weekend, now that my back’s healing. What happens then? I get my period last night, a few days early. Talk about getting a red flag on the play(ing). God.

Ah well. Yes, working for a living is a foolish, foolish thing. If ever a girl deserved to be independently wealthy and work-free, this would be she. I could blog to my heart’s content. And putter about my home. And make boys call in sick to work to while away a dirty, dirty day.

But. Sadly I’m a working girl, and this girl’s finally going to scrub up and get out the door to the office. Tonight, a write night. I love a Friday night write night with good wine. Of the simple “me” things that keep my life mine, it’s one of my favourites.

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