Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.


Happy belated Halloween!

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking....where in the hell has this girl been? Why has she not typed a peep (??) in days?

Well, I winged my happy ass down South for Halloween. And it was good. Nay, let me say....it was goooooooood.

All right, details will take me too long, and I have ass to bust back inthe office which will prevent my going into the level of detail I would normally reserve for this sort of thing...so, highlights:

* number of alcoholic beverages consumed: 1 (I know, what the hell?)

* number of hot asses tapped: 1

* number of kick-ass Ren Faires visited: 1

* number of costumes donned at said Ren Faire: 0

* number of times my hand was kissed by various be-costumed rennies: lost count

* number of rickshaw rides taken after kilt-clad persuasion was applied: 1

* number of times said kilt-clad rickshaw dude copped a feel under the guise of giving me a hug: 2

* number of torture chambers toured: 1

*number of whip-cracking stage acts watched: 2

* number of whips viewed, neither in torture chamber nor whip-cracking stage act: 1

* number of horribly painful sunburns sustained: 1 (and that was enough)

* number of freaky dreams wherein ex-fling beats the living shit out of me: 1

* number of freaky dreams wherein I plot to murder Ed Harris, playing the role of a different ex-fling, somehow involving chihuahua cheese and tortillas: 1

* number of times wondered what the fuck I ate before I went to bed: too many to count

* number of good times had: countless

It was a really good weekend, and I've got the sunburn/afterglow to prove it.

One thing that was really surreal was the whole being-back-in-Atlanta thing - which is odd, because I was there for maybe a grand total of 24 hours...maybe. It was just strange. Made me all philosophic and stuff, thinking about all the experiences I had there, and how much I left behind to come here. Made me think about whether leaving was the right thing.

Two and a half years ago, I left a city I didn't particularly love (feels so suburban, traffic sucks majorly), a man I might've if I'd given either of us a chance, some of the first true friends of my life, creative opportunities I was just beginning to explore, and a community I was just beginning to become a part of...all to fly one-way to spend St Patrick's Day homeless in Chicago with my dog.

Last night, I left Atlanta to fly back to a late-night rehearsal at my kick-ass apartment with my band for our impending debut as the house band for a local Shakespeare company's new production, to check my calendar about booking myself for a three day palm-reading gig in three weeks, to a community I am loving and friends I am also loving, to a life that is evolving slowly into what I want it to be...

Maybe for the first time in my life, I felt like I was flying home.

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