Here is a post that may not be globally engaging, but is curious and interesting enough for me to picket. There is this thing that people do, here at this bat village where I live, that I feel is fun enough (odd enough) to mention.
Bats? Oh. Yeah. Saw another bat, just 2 days ago, but this time it was outside the back sliding glass door where all my plants, which are dying from too much shade, are hanging out.
Anyway, my shade and golf-course-squirrel-tormented succulents are not meant to be the focus here. These folks who stick shit out for grabs are.
What I mean is, you go to throw something away in this bat village and then, in the dumpster area, there are things people just can’t imagine living with any more, but they don’t, not quite, think they are trash. So, they set them there, out and on display, and they offer them up, to other trash throw-er-away-ers, for the taking.
On this 11” cement lip, curb-type ledge, if you will, just opposite of the “total trash” and the “please recycle me” dumpsters, these “you gotta give me a home” baubles plead for attention. The bat village dwellers send these doodads and whatnots out on their own in trash alley in the hopes that someone will find their “I’m over it” crap worth while and take it for a personal “Ah! Gotta have that garbage” treasure.
This trash or treasure tender, a complained about and/or accepted (loved/hated) phenomena, has been going on in bat village since I’ve lived her for almost 7 months (and most defiantly before). The hate crowd says, “Come on! Just throw it away. What the hell?” The recycle crowd says, “Well… You know how people stick things out…? I found some stuff, and…” all the while they don’t want to admit they’ve pirated that rubbish right on back to their lair.
Me? F’, yeah! Sign me up. I just dug a coat out of the recycle bin that I don’t plan on wearing until I move, but it is bad ass. I also got a big pot, for one of my plants, which saved me at least $30.00 in terracotta transplanting costs. My neighbor Jean, she just told my how she found a Wayne Dyer book, “Pulling Your Own Strings,” that was set out on the trash “ledge” which prompted her to change her way of operating, and which, as she said, “Has been fun and informative.”
What does it all mean? I don’t know any more. At all. All I know is that I woke up with a text message from Jen saying, “Bleeding into my right breast. Took an ambulance to the hospital. Hypotensive. Tachycardia,” and, as I later learned, had she not have called 911 for an ambulance, she might have bled out and died last night.
I know. Tangent. Strong shift to the left. Trash; then one of my best friends in peril. I’m an ass, a jarring, disjunctive story teller. A bit crook neck. (Bare with me.)
We, and by “we” I mean Jen and me (and by “me” I mean by proxy of being a best friend worrying), waited until this evening to find out that she would not need a blood transfusion from losing so much blood from the blood clot that developed from her surgery and had bursted. (Sorry, the nature of Jen’s original surgery, which took place on my birthday this year, is not my specific detail to share.) Jen having another emergency surgery today to deal with the burst of the blood clot from the original surgery, that almost caused her too bleed out (if I am even getting the medical terms right), that, well, is my detail.
That is where my morning started, with a panic, because of a text message from Jen sent the night before, while I was asleep, at 11:43 pm. The more details I got, was the more I learned that I could have lost a best friend last night, a best friend who has, on most occasions, been more family than my own family to me.
What’s important? This is what we ask ourselves. This is what we should continually ask.
I can’t go see my best friend in the hospital because I don’t live in the same state. So what did I do? I had the conversation I needed to have with her, and then I got the follow up text message from her that I needed to get to know that she was going to be okay. “No transfusion needed. Yeah! H&H 22 and 7.5 now.”
Sorry. I didn’t know what that meant, “H&H 22 and 7.5 now,” either. But, as I Googled, H and H, sometimes written as "H&H", shorthand for hemoglobin and hematocrit, are two very common and important blood tests, but don’t ask me what the 7.5 is. Where medical stuff is concerned, I’m a doof and gum, dumb and a goof. I don’t know shit (and I am too emotionally exhausted to look it all up tonight). But, that Jen didn’t need blood, as much blood as she lost, and that Jen was going to be okay is all that I needed to know.
In the aftermath of my own shock of it all today, I did what I could. I only kinda not cried 4 times at work today. I spent the evening with my neighbor Jean and her daughter, figuring out how to overcome the boy crushes and best friend highs and blows that come from being 12 years old (Jean’s daughter got screwed by a best friend and a boy—oohf).
And, I got a dose of perspective today. Rather than working through another lunch, staying late, and worrying about the follow up review with Bull #2 tomorrow (bully bitch), I ate garlic bread. I focused on a beautiful strong and sensitive teenager’s problems, Jean’s daughter. I relished in the fact that I am going to get at least 20 more years with one of my best friends. I smiled at the treasures that the bat village neighbors put out. I thanked the bigger picture that people and things aren’t indispensable.
And I remembered, that no matter how hard it gets, and how much it can hurt like hell and take its toll, the crap is the cache. The trash is the treasure. Fortune is where you find it.
BTW, if you are curious, among today’s selections for the picking, on the bat village trash walk, were a 3’ x 4’ white framed mirror, a grocery bag full of bird houses (like 7-8 of ‘em), a 2’ x 3’ cork board, a selection of ceramic angels and pooties, and a stainless-steel metal shower caddie.
The shower caddie? Okay. That was my addition. Obviously I’m signed up to the cornucopia of free garage-sale-like trash gifties.
BTW, this is another post I do not apologize for. It’s late. I’ve been stressed all day.
Whatever shortcomings I have as a writer, or in the editing of my own posts (especially the late night posts), I don’t have as a friend loving another friend. I’m willing to be imperfect in my commas and my points. I’m not so willing to loose one of the best gifts of my life… one of my best friends who is my family. I don’t play cards, but I’m playing the ouch card now.
So, if I, in my odd way of being grateful in my personal time of stress, find a way to compare almost losing a friend to the recycled treasures presented by strangers in a bat village, I’m okay with that.
What if in a profound way it’s all connected? What if on a base tangible level, in a greater sharing way, even if the connection is lame as hell, it’s just about coping? What if I’m just coping? What if I’m just trying to work through my expression of appreciation, fear, connectivity, loss, gain, frustration, and elation…
What if I’m just…
So bring it, bat village recyclers. I’m in.
I’m getting dented. I’m having a hard time. What happened to Jen scared the !!!! out of me. But if you want to put things out for my consideration, and if by you doing that I am reminded what are the treasure in my life, even when I’m throwing the garbage out, I’M IN!
I’m in.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
How big is your elephant?
About a week after 911 happened I was to get on a plane headed for the East Coast to see my eldest sister. My other sister, just older than me, who lives on the West Coast with me, didn’t want me to fly after what had happened. She was extremely concerned, and said as much to me. To put her mind at ease I told her what I believed to be the absolute truth. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The universe is not done fucking with me yet. I’ll be just fine, and so will everyone else on that plane with me. Trust me. I've got a long life of lessons ahead of me.”
I’d forgotten how, since I'd said that to my sister, whenever something goes hay wire in my life, to laugh about it, and remember I'm supposed to learn from it, it's been my joke to say that the universe is fucking with me again. Something else I often forget, is to figure out how to learn from what I am going through.
And now we get to this chase...
So there I am, annoyed that I’d already driven the neighborhoods for over 4 hours and only saw 2 new For Rent signs. I was exasperated by how, essentially, my apartment search has become a part-time job in the last few months. And, I was pissed off that I still haven’t found a place that doesn’t make me feel like I am going to have to move again. And, then, there it is, just as I was about to make a right turn, this not too shabby middle shade of mint green four-plex, with a hearty For Rent sign winks at me.
The unit for rent appears to be upstairs, so, that’s good, I think to myself. There are a lot of windows, so, that’s great. No info on the rent amount, though. I’m not feeling like this place is it, the one I’ve been looking for, but, still, I will call on it. There’s just some reason I think I should call.
I even drove by the place two more times later the same day, trying to guess how it was laid out inside and trying to see if I could get a different feeling about this place. I wanted to figure out why it didn’t feel right, why it didn’t feel like it was my new home, yet I kept being drawn back to this damn place.
On what was to be my 3rd trip, the following day, I parked near the business that neighbored the rental and then I walked up a driveway type alley to get a better peak. I had more questions. Was the bedroom going to be on the South West corner, getting all the sun light and leaving the living room in the dark? If that’s the case, then damn it. That’s going to suck. I want a South West living room. (Gawd, I’m a sun light addicted but sun light depraved spaz.) Is the door too shallow to get my couch through and up those stairs on that bend? Seems like it. Still, if/when someone calls back, I’ll go check this place out. I’ll measure my couch ahead of time.
When a guy called back I got some additional rental info from him: $1,000.00 a month, 750 sq ft, parking in the driveway. Good. Fine. Then I took his name down. Even though he had a simple name, you know, like Jeff, I asked, “How do you spell that?” Then when he answered, and gave the way he spells it, like G e o f f, I thought: SHIT. We’ve dated.
Of course the guy on the phone was not really named Jeff, or Geoff, that’s the name we’re going with. But, using a simple name like Jeff as an example is meant to point out that there would not only be plenty of otherwise spelled Geoffs in this world, there would be no reason for me to assume it was the otherwise spelled Geoff I dated, yet, that’s what I instantly felt, even if this Phone Geoff didn’t sound anything like the Geoff I thought I dated. Then again, it was over 7 years ago, and me and this Dated Geoff only went out three or four times, so it’s not like the Dated Geoff would have been embedded in my memory.
Wrong. I didn’t know for sure who was on the other end of the phone, and the conversation was so brief, but Dated Geoff, he’s been forever fixed in my brain. Know what a Maestro is? A Maestro is an artist of consummate skill. It’s a title, or a respect, often given to a master musician. Sometimes, though, this title can be used to reference a level of skill in other arts, arts that seem to conjure up the thought that music is being made. (At least in my world that’s how the title Maestro can be used.) So, yeah, in my head, those years back, I had called Dated Geoff The Maestro.
What this man could do with his hands, the dancing he made my body succumb to, the music he could make with his fingers, the singing he got my clitoris to do, well… We shall leave it there. And, yes, I said clitoris, not Delores.
Never slept with the guy. It never got that far. There wasn’t even any oral sex. Nope. There were just those two very lovely post-date nights on my couch where I needed mercy because my body was being turned into a symphony at The Maestro’s hands. (I assure you, it was sheer pleasure.)
But that was Dated Geoff, not Phone Geoff. I still didn’t know who Phone Geoff really was. But I’d find out. I’d see if I’d wasted two day’s energy wondering, asking myself, and going back and forth: Can I rent from a guy who felt me up? What if the place is perfect? I just want to find a new place I’m going to feel at home in, damn it!
The wondering would soon be over. Phone Geoff had pulled into the driveway of the rental place seconds before I parked my car across the street. Phone Geoff drove a newer silver truck. Dated Geoff used to have an old blue truck. Still, it would make sense that if Dated Geoff was Phone Geoff, he would have a newer truck by now. Dated Geoff was renovating the house he owned those years back. Buying, renovating, then renting out property, that all seemed like a logical progression for Dated Geoff.
It should be noted, I never forgot how beautiful the arched entrance was that Dated Geoff had made out of the square doorway between his living room and dining room. Sure, Dated Geoff was also living amongst his plaster dust, didn’t have hardly any furniture, but had, instead, made a wall shelf out of a public bus bench and two over-sized industrial plumbing tubes, and had a dining room table to match (an industrial wooden cable spool with I don't know what on the top), but the raw potential in this guy was always there. He was sort of campy, but in a smart way, and he was artistic, rugged...sexy.
It was him. Dated Geoff didn’t even have to get out of his truck for me to know he was one in the same as Phone Geoff. I could feel it. Still sitting in my car, into my cell phone I said, “Hi. Geoff. It’s Levan. I just pulled up.” “Me, too,” Geoff responded.
Still doesn’t sound like him, but I know it is him, I thought.
“Hi. Good to meet you,” I said, extending my hand for his the way any person would offer a shake upon first meeting someone. Geoff, now a little heavier, but just as friggen gorgeous with his light-ash-brown hair, boyish looks, and broad, strong shoulders, gave me his hand in return. The instant our skin connected, Geoff couldn’t fight it. While Geoff didn’t want to admit it first, that we already knew each other, I could tell he’d recognized me the second I’d gotten out of my car. And, once we were hand to hand, his face betrayed him. The curl of his smile and the light in the corners of his eyes proved to me that he knew it was me.
But I was playing it straight. I wouldn’t let him know I knew it was him and that I knew he knew it was me. I let the elephant follow us up the stairway and in through the front door of the rental unit. The elephant followed me around as I peeked into the bedroom, remarked about the size of the kitchen and asked questions about the lease and if there was a credit check and gas heating.
I can’t be sure, but I think it killed Geoff that I didn’t show even one sign of recognition. He kept burning a hole through me, asking me with his eyes, and daring me with both a stupefied and amused grin, to come clean, to say something, to let him know we’d already been familiarized. Still, I didn’t. And, I knew he wouldn’t be the first to come clean. Male egos are so fragile.
There were, for me, so many more reasons not to address the elephant in the room. For one, I didn’t know if I wanted to rent the place or not and I needed time to digest that decision before I said, “Hey, are you good with taking my rent money when you’ve already checked the credit under my skirt?” (Actually, why wouldn’t he be?)
Also, he had all the advantages. He’s got a house. Hell, he’s got a fourplex for rent. He’s doing just fine for himself. Me? Have you checked my blog posts lately? I’m emotionally homeless and an emotional mess because of work. And, while I was the one who broke it off with him, because he was one of my first trial runs for internet dating, and I couldn’t handle that he might be dating other girls while I was starting to really like him, I more than repaired his ego months later.
I made one of those calls. You know the kind, where your ego ducks its tail between its legs afterward. I didn’t say much, just: Hi. I was an ass to call off our (3rd/4th?) date by leaving only a voice mail. I was hasty. Been thinking about you. Are you still single? Want to go out again?
In response, he didn’t say much either, just something to the effect of: Don’t worry about it. Not a problem. I’m seeing someone, but it’s great to hear from you.
So that’s that.
I sent Phone, Dated, it-friggen-is Geoff an email today:
Subject: Rental
Hello Geoff,
Thanks for showing me the place. However, upon returning home last night, and surveying my furniture, I think the divided living room probably won't accommodate my couch, etc.
Best,
Levan
What I wanted to say was…
Hi Geoff.
The place is great, except the living room really is kinda jacked. But, I probably could have worked around that weird divider thingy, especially since the month-to-month tenancy is so enticing. However, I’ve been in such a fine mess, by renting a bat cave from a batty so-called friend, that I think at this juncture in my life it’s probably an even worse idea for me to rent from a guy who can make me writhe. My mind cannot accommodate the thought of paying rent to someone who turned me into puddy on my couch.
Plus, we all know it’s just not smart to mix business with pleasure, or, should I say, conduct business with someone who has given me physical pleasure?
So, thanks again for the enjoyable 10 minutes we spent together ignoring an elephant. Hope you enjoyed the mention I made of anything that would allow you to confirm that yes, it was, indeed, me. Saying I had a lot of paintings probably really sealed it for you, eh?, as you saw them all on my wall on the 3rd date. But, tell me, did you actually enjoy my academy award winning performance where I gave you no clue that I knew it was you, or was that just me enjoying that?
Anyway, best of luck to you as you continue to make a success out of your life. Wish me luck on getting my shit together, in finding an elephant free place to live, and on me eventually getting my credit checked by someone who doesn’t make me feel utterly embarrassed about how crapped up my little life is. (Oh, wait, that’s not your fault I feel that way. You just caught me at a difficult time. My bad.)
Happy New Year???
Levan
So, back to the drawing board, back to spending at least 6-10 hours of my time, each week, every week, until I find a new place to live where I can give my poor, homeless soul a place to take a breath. Back to me asking the universe, “Are you fucking with me, or what?" And back to me asking, "If so, what am I to learn from this?”
Hey, at least this run in with Dated Geoff proves that we all really are connected. (Even if sometimes it’s a little too connected for comfort.)
I’d forgotten how, since I'd said that to my sister, whenever something goes hay wire in my life, to laugh about it, and remember I'm supposed to learn from it, it's been my joke to say that the universe is fucking with me again. Something else I often forget, is to figure out how to learn from what I am going through.
And now we get to this chase...
So there I am, annoyed that I’d already driven the neighborhoods for over 4 hours and only saw 2 new For Rent signs. I was exasperated by how, essentially, my apartment search has become a part-time job in the last few months. And, I was pissed off that I still haven’t found a place that doesn’t make me feel like I am going to have to move again. And, then, there it is, just as I was about to make a right turn, this not too shabby middle shade of mint green four-plex, with a hearty For Rent sign winks at me.
The unit for rent appears to be upstairs, so, that’s good, I think to myself. There are a lot of windows, so, that’s great. No info on the rent amount, though. I’m not feeling like this place is it, the one I’ve been looking for, but, still, I will call on it. There’s just some reason I think I should call.
I even drove by the place two more times later the same day, trying to guess how it was laid out inside and trying to see if I could get a different feeling about this place. I wanted to figure out why it didn’t feel right, why it didn’t feel like it was my new home, yet I kept being drawn back to this damn place.
On what was to be my 3rd trip, the following day, I parked near the business that neighbored the rental and then I walked up a driveway type alley to get a better peak. I had more questions. Was the bedroom going to be on the South West corner, getting all the sun light and leaving the living room in the dark? If that’s the case, then damn it. That’s going to suck. I want a South West living room. (Gawd, I’m a sun light addicted but sun light depraved spaz.) Is the door too shallow to get my couch through and up those stairs on that bend? Seems like it. Still, if/when someone calls back, I’ll go check this place out. I’ll measure my couch ahead of time.
When a guy called back I got some additional rental info from him: $1,000.00 a month, 750 sq ft, parking in the driveway. Good. Fine. Then I took his name down. Even though he had a simple name, you know, like Jeff, I asked, “How do you spell that?” Then when he answered, and gave the way he spells it, like G e o f f, I thought: SHIT. We’ve dated.
Of course the guy on the phone was not really named Jeff, or Geoff, that’s the name we’re going with. But, using a simple name like Jeff as an example is meant to point out that there would not only be plenty of otherwise spelled Geoffs in this world, there would be no reason for me to assume it was the otherwise spelled Geoff I dated, yet, that’s what I instantly felt, even if this Phone Geoff didn’t sound anything like the Geoff I thought I dated. Then again, it was over 7 years ago, and me and this Dated Geoff only went out three or four times, so it’s not like the Dated Geoff would have been embedded in my memory.
Wrong. I didn’t know for sure who was on the other end of the phone, and the conversation was so brief, but Dated Geoff, he’s been forever fixed in my brain. Know what a Maestro is? A Maestro is an artist of consummate skill. It’s a title, or a respect, often given to a master musician. Sometimes, though, this title can be used to reference a level of skill in other arts, arts that seem to conjure up the thought that music is being made. (At least in my world that’s how the title Maestro can be used.) So, yeah, in my head, those years back, I had called Dated Geoff The Maestro.
What this man could do with his hands, the dancing he made my body succumb to, the music he could make with his fingers, the singing he got my clitoris to do, well… We shall leave it there. And, yes, I said clitoris, not Delores.
Never slept with the guy. It never got that far. There wasn’t even any oral sex. Nope. There were just those two very lovely post-date nights on my couch where I needed mercy because my body was being turned into a symphony at The Maestro’s hands. (I assure you, it was sheer pleasure.)
But that was Dated Geoff, not Phone Geoff. I still didn’t know who Phone Geoff really was. But I’d find out. I’d see if I’d wasted two day’s energy wondering, asking myself, and going back and forth: Can I rent from a guy who felt me up? What if the place is perfect? I just want to find a new place I’m going to feel at home in, damn it!
The wondering would soon be over. Phone Geoff had pulled into the driveway of the rental place seconds before I parked my car across the street. Phone Geoff drove a newer silver truck. Dated Geoff used to have an old blue truck. Still, it would make sense that if Dated Geoff was Phone Geoff, he would have a newer truck by now. Dated Geoff was renovating the house he owned those years back. Buying, renovating, then renting out property, that all seemed like a logical progression for Dated Geoff.
It should be noted, I never forgot how beautiful the arched entrance was that Dated Geoff had made out of the square doorway between his living room and dining room. Sure, Dated Geoff was also living amongst his plaster dust, didn’t have hardly any furniture, but had, instead, made a wall shelf out of a public bus bench and two over-sized industrial plumbing tubes, and had a dining room table to match (an industrial wooden cable spool with I don't know what on the top), but the raw potential in this guy was always there. He was sort of campy, but in a smart way, and he was artistic, rugged...sexy.
It was him. Dated Geoff didn’t even have to get out of his truck for me to know he was one in the same as Phone Geoff. I could feel it. Still sitting in my car, into my cell phone I said, “Hi. Geoff. It’s Levan. I just pulled up.” “Me, too,” Geoff responded.
Still doesn’t sound like him, but I know it is him, I thought.
“Hi. Good to meet you,” I said, extending my hand for his the way any person would offer a shake upon first meeting someone. Geoff, now a little heavier, but just as friggen gorgeous with his light-ash-brown hair, boyish looks, and broad, strong shoulders, gave me his hand in return. The instant our skin connected, Geoff couldn’t fight it. While Geoff didn’t want to admit it first, that we already knew each other, I could tell he’d recognized me the second I’d gotten out of my car. And, once we were hand to hand, his face betrayed him. The curl of his smile and the light in the corners of his eyes proved to me that he knew it was me.
But I was playing it straight. I wouldn’t let him know I knew it was him and that I knew he knew it was me. I let the elephant follow us up the stairway and in through the front door of the rental unit. The elephant followed me around as I peeked into the bedroom, remarked about the size of the kitchen and asked questions about the lease and if there was a credit check and gas heating.
I can’t be sure, but I think it killed Geoff that I didn’t show even one sign of recognition. He kept burning a hole through me, asking me with his eyes, and daring me with both a stupefied and amused grin, to come clean, to say something, to let him know we’d already been familiarized. Still, I didn’t. And, I knew he wouldn’t be the first to come clean. Male egos are so fragile.
There were, for me, so many more reasons not to address the elephant in the room. For one, I didn’t know if I wanted to rent the place or not and I needed time to digest that decision before I said, “Hey, are you good with taking my rent money when you’ve already checked the credit under my skirt?” (Actually, why wouldn’t he be?)
Also, he had all the advantages. He’s got a house. Hell, he’s got a fourplex for rent. He’s doing just fine for himself. Me? Have you checked my blog posts lately? I’m emotionally homeless and an emotional mess because of work. And, while I was the one who broke it off with him, because he was one of my first trial runs for internet dating, and I couldn’t handle that he might be dating other girls while I was starting to really like him, I more than repaired his ego months later.
I made one of those calls. You know the kind, where your ego ducks its tail between its legs afterward. I didn’t say much, just: Hi. I was an ass to call off our (3rd/4th?) date by leaving only a voice mail. I was hasty. Been thinking about you. Are you still single? Want to go out again?
In response, he didn’t say much either, just something to the effect of: Don’t worry about it. Not a problem. I’m seeing someone, but it’s great to hear from you.
So that’s that.
I sent Phone, Dated, it-friggen-is Geoff an email today:
Subject: Rental
Hello Geoff,
Thanks for showing me the place. However, upon returning home last night, and surveying my furniture, I think the divided living room probably won't accommodate my couch, etc.
Best,
Levan
What I wanted to say was…
Hi Geoff.
The place is great, except the living room really is kinda jacked. But, I probably could have worked around that weird divider thingy, especially since the month-to-month tenancy is so enticing. However, I’ve been in such a fine mess, by renting a bat cave from a batty so-called friend, that I think at this juncture in my life it’s probably an even worse idea for me to rent from a guy who can make me writhe. My mind cannot accommodate the thought of paying rent to someone who turned me into puddy on my couch.
Plus, we all know it’s just not smart to mix business with pleasure, or, should I say, conduct business with someone who has given me physical pleasure?
So, thanks again for the enjoyable 10 minutes we spent together ignoring an elephant. Hope you enjoyed the mention I made of anything that would allow you to confirm that yes, it was, indeed, me. Saying I had a lot of paintings probably really sealed it for you, eh?, as you saw them all on my wall on the 3rd date. But, tell me, did you actually enjoy my academy award winning performance where I gave you no clue that I knew it was you, or was that just me enjoying that?
Anyway, best of luck to you as you continue to make a success out of your life. Wish me luck on getting my shit together, in finding an elephant free place to live, and on me eventually getting my credit checked by someone who doesn’t make me feel utterly embarrassed about how crapped up my little life is. (Oh, wait, that’s not your fault I feel that way. You just caught me at a difficult time. My bad.)
Happy New Year???
Levan
So, back to the drawing board, back to spending at least 6-10 hours of my time, each week, every week, until I find a new place to live where I can give my poor, homeless soul a place to take a breath. Back to me asking the universe, “Are you fucking with me, or what?" And back to me asking, "If so, what am I to learn from this?”
Hey, at least this run in with Dated Geoff proves that we all really are connected. (Even if sometimes it’s a little too connected for comfort.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
