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.


March marches on. Thank goodness.

This Dixie Chicken* is in dire need of sunshine and sandals, already. Come on SPRING!!!

I was snooping around my archives, looking at where I was this time last year. Not such a happy time. I was a few weeks into the Broken Tailbone Vacation, which - frankly - sucked. Then, I got real crazy and went to my old diary and looked back a couple years. Here's what I garnered:

1. March 2004
I was laying around on a lazy boy, whining about what a pain in the ass my pain in the ass was.

2. March 2003
I was laying in bed with a lazy boy, pulling the wool over my own damned eyes, and buying enough bullshit to fertilize a medium-sized Third World country. Not that I'm bitter. Much.

3. March 2002
Speaking of bullshit, in March 2002, it appears that I was bouncing the bullshit checks a certain other lazy boy was writing me. You would think I'd notice a pattern and quit fucking dating musicians, huh? Damn the male species and their understanding that music is an off-switch for my brain!!

4. March 2001
I was gearing up to move to Chicago, wherein my adventures would continue unabated, my visions of peace and quiet pretty much shot. Huh.

So, basically, in March, if I'm not hung up on a guy, I'm pretty much depressed and contemplating major craziness. Oh, good.

On the bright side, I'm damn funny. You know, not always, but often enough to claim "damn funny" as a quality.

*I am qualified to refer to myself as a Dixie Chicken on two counts. First off, I like it and it's a free country. Secondly, I was born in Florida, and before you say that doesn't count, it was neither Miami nor Orlando, it was Gainesville, and she don't get much more Southern than that.

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