Conflicting interests

I just found this on a blog which I adore, but which isn't updated regularly. This is much to my dismay, as I still check it regularly in fits of blind hope and devotion. Anyway, found. Her friend sent it to her, and I send it to you (caps hers, or her friend's, or her friend's friend's):

THE WORLD’S SHORTEST FAIRY TALE

ONCE UPON A TIME, A GIRL ASKED A GUY, “WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

THE GUY SAID “NO” AND THE GIRL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER…

WENT SHOPPING, DRANK MARGARITAS,

ALWAYS HAD A CLEAN HOUSE, NEVER HAD TO COOK,

STAYED SKINNY, AND FARTED WHENEVER SHE WANTED.

THE END

The conflicts of interest come in here. Obviously there are some present in the above fairy tale, but here are more I mean. 

I miss, on every level, feeling close to another human. 

When I look up at the night sky, I think of that one guy from Arkansas. I think this is because his brother told me that this guy, like me, loves to walk in the dark. I see symbolism in stupid shit. 

Of course, that's not to say that I can see a picture of David or think about him for more than about two seconds without starting to, I don't know, get twisted up.

And of course I have always liked being single, in the shallow ways illustrated in the above fairy tale. No one to have to coordinate with? Answer to? Pick up after? Awesome.  The only thing more I could ask would be that all this freedom would be worth it.

That line was so emo, even I want to throw up a little. And I mean it's not like it's not true, but I've always had a little flair for the dramatic I guess. I get it from my dad. And my mom. And my brother and sister. My bad. And I mean the other truth, the less dramatic and whiny truth, is that I love and I have always loved flirting. So that's an upside to being single, though I haven't really had much of a chance lately. Which is really a shame. 

Tonight we all met at the farm--the close-to-Richmond farm that is, not the paradise-of-my-childhood farm--and set up those lights that we could for the rehearsal dinner this weekend. They looked rather lovely, if I do say so myself. And you'll just have to believe me, because I didn't take any pictures. I mean, I did take pictures, but they were of the lake instead of the tent. And just now, because I love you, friends, I got up to fetch my card reader and show you those lovely lake pictures. Unfortunately, it would seem that the last time I uploaded pictures (you know, those ones from Lafayette that I promised I'd post and then didn't), my brain went on a union break and it took that sweet little pink card reader with it. I'd like to think that my brain is back at the point, but my magic plastic usb wand appears to be still on vacation. I'll try not to begrudge her the time off. 

To make up for this lapse, here are some birthday-Festival International-baby baptism-home-houseguests pictures just for you:

Happy birthday to me (These are in reverse order, by the way. Mostly. Whatever.)

Stilt walkers at the Festival International.

Crawfish boil*, ftw. And lest you think that pile small...

Crawfish, pre-boiling. There were rather a lot.

Martin's house. You're actually seeing almost the whole thing. (It used to be markedly larger, until the city decided that they really needed to have a parking lot right over top of most of the house.)**

The offending pole.

The offended leg. There's still a bit of a bruise and a knot there now, over a month later. I was talking to someone behind me, okay?

In the parking lot of the Children's Museum.

French street signs!

Cajuns don't mess around.

A piece of the biggest Live Oak tree, um, ever.

Awesome fountain at night...

awesome fountain in the daytime.

Okay, so I know I promised pictures from the baptism(s) and houseguest time and stuff, but this is taking forever and I really should do something about my not-sleeping-until-3-a.m. habit. It's not a very good habit. It's 12:34 now and, as some of you may know, time after midnight flies like the Concorde. So. Peace out.

*If you wear contacts and you ever attend such a boil, then please, for the love of God, do yourself a favor and wash your hands thoroughly before removing your contacts. Then do it again, at least five more times. Use dish soap. Use lye soap. Use the most intense soap you can find. 

Or, better yet, wear gloves every time you touch your contacts for the next three days. I'm not kidding.

**I really have no idea why some of the font on here is bigger than the rest of it. I was fixing it, but then I saw that there was more, and I really just don't care that much at the moment. I think you'll be okay though, right?