Seven is Steven without the T.

Seven is complete. Seventh Heaven. Seven Dwarfs. Serven. Seeven. Sehhven. Sewwwwwww. I'll just consider my seven month slack - whole; therefore giving me divine excuse. I don't have much to binge. Eh.. not totally true. I say so much in my head. I spit and stutter. I stand for awkward minutes in the frozen food aisle trying to decide "healthy vs. spicy boneless chicken wings". If there aren't any judging glances I go with the TGIF appetizer special! If I am surrounded by evil I choose the escape shuffle to the wine aisle, select the best Malbec for a TGIF special, glance around the corner, and return to said aisle for Happ-i-Tizer pick-up!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuSPC-Ja6nM

“Suspense is worse than disappointment.” Robert Burns

I would never describe myself as depressed. However, I do have a tendency towards self withdrawal. At times I am unable to slide through disappointments and concerns in order to act cheerfully or participate in the joy of others. Mostly this selfish behavior is targeted or not targeted at my friends and family. It's not my normal behavior. During these gloomy episodes, I can step out of self and see my wretched demeanor but have no desire to do anything about it. I think I want to be alone, but when I am, I no longer feel that way. I have narrowed this personal phenomenon down to when I have been disappointed in, hurt by, or frustrated with those closest to me. Everyone gets the grey fury. I have to change. It's not fair to me. Or them.

Best paired with Pina Colada - Two Straws

My letter writing skills are far less advanced than the imagery and focus of great poetry, but I guess that comes from a traditional expectation of being feverishly honest or more typically romantic and pink.

I am neither.

I cannot brutally tell the truth because I do not like the way it sounds in my head. If I tend to exacerbate my emotions into themes it is best assumed the guitar solo will carry you away into my fantasy.

However, in the midst of this truth, beauty, freedom, and love: I write.

To you.

It wouldn't be fair to compare you to anything less than a force of nature. The kind of force an artful brunette, flushed from early morning's arduous love-making, cannot predict with what appears to be Elvis burnt into her pancakes. Her trailer parked visions of the Holy Madonna are no match for you.

You, strong and unpredictable as a tornado. Uncertain and damaging as hail.

You sweep through backyards carrying hot coals and cold beers - always covering your tracks.

Most of my evenings are spent watching for you in the sky. Scoping the horizon for an ominous cloud signaling your arrival. In any other daydream this cloud might bring doom and destruction, but these lazy summer days welcome the fresh wind and thunder loving.

My skin tingles, you blow through my hair, and I smile.

The judge who will be sentencing us today just found out the dance studio where his wife has been taking tango lessons for the past year has been closed for eight months. Last known instructor goes by the name Juan, prefers fuzzy navels, neon lights, and blondes.

"Two hundred miles!" He bangs his gavel. "Round trip." There is nothing to do but serve our time, and hope we'll get off. On good behavior. The sweat on his brow smells like cheap whiskey and reminds me of past time served. The restraints are all too familiar and I refuse to be led down that cold fluorescent hallway again.

I will be the file in your cake.

The tattoo of hidden duct work in your prison walls.

Be my look out.

My bribed guard.

My shadow and perfectly planned opportunity.

Break me out.

Follow me to the water's edge and disappear with me from sight and smell.

Resurface with me on the shores of Mexico.

We'll blend.

We'll toast.

To the moon and our enigmatic existence.

You made the full moon linger just for me ~ do that with your kisses please!

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I want to be your sanctuary. Not your priest.

I am a heap.

If I am honest - I want you without all your mess.

Twirp, Tweety, and Carl

They each have two fluffs and look just like old men.

Their eyes are still closed so when we touch the side of the nest, their fat little heads wobble on their 'stretched to the limit' scrawny necks!

One little guy didn't make it. :(

The nest is getting smaller and smaller, and they can see us now. And we can pet them. Mama and Papa Robin don't seem to mind at all.