(Work in Progress)
I've been getting ready for the preacher. Mostly that involved cleaning - especially Velvet's room since I firmly believe it's best to approach his impending arrival with the idea that he's staying in there. Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters on Central Park West is cleaner than it's been ever since I got fired last summer for being tacky about Firestarter Academy on the blog and had to give up the maid. It's been a struggle without a maid, but in this economy nobody feels particularly sorry for me on that score - except maybe Gail who is an absolutely supportive friend. It could be cleaner, however, but I felt that shoe shopping, manicure/pedicure and a new brassiere were equally as important as freshly mopped floors.
The moon is waning which means that it's a good time to release ideas that get in your way and/or weigh you down so I've been working on that too. Naturally I've changed the salt in the little dishes I keep in every room to absorb the negativity. I like to toss the old salt off the terrace and into the wind to remove negativity and restore creativity. I also like to toss flowers from wilted bouquets into the garden six stories below me and think about qualities in myself and my life that I'd like to grow.
Right now, I'm focusing on a life without fear and a free spirit that is open to possibility. That's why I took that book the Narcissist wrote a while back and tossed it into a river. I took it along on my trip to Tree Hugger University last week with the idea of leaving it out somewhere on the road to Ithaca since that Ass-Whole went to Cornell and I always associate him and Cornell - much like Kurt Vonnegut associates Cornell with a grandfalloon in Cat's Cradle. Grandfalloon is a Bokonist term for a false karass or a group of people who outwardly choose or claim to have a shared identity or purpose, but whose mutual association is actually meaningless (from webdefinitions).
Driving down Highway 81, I noticed a river running just off to the west which could have been headed toward that gorge in Ithaca into which people occasionally hurl themselves. Since the small towns next to the highway had bridges, I figured it was likely that I could get to that river somehow and to me, it was much better to toss that book into the river than to leave it in a trash can at a gas station or McDonalds. As it happens, when you get off 81 at Marathon, NY there's a park right on the river bank. A goose watched me chuck that book into the river, and I watched the book float away carrying a sentiment printed in the acknowledgements: To (my real name) for your love and support during the writing of this book.
I'm sure he liked writing that to me and his two best drinking buddies since it made him feel superior somehow - especially since I'm pretty sure he didn't feel so superior once he set out chasing gang bangs on Adult Friend Finder. Now the whole thing is water under the bridge any way you look at it. I saved the page he autographed to me, though, that said some individualized bullshit about me being his number one fan. I burned that two nights ago along with some notes he had written me. I left the ashes out in the moonlight for the wind to carry off without any help from me. I didn't want any rotten energy from that turd to interfere with my ability to be fully open to the man arriving this evening.
I also got rid of a bunch of lingerie that I had collected during the Ashley Madison Experiment. Now that I've reached a certain age and level of experience, it has come to my attention that about the only answer I could give if someone asked me if I'd done something before is, "Not in this outfit." Since I'm fully committed to starting out this adventure with the idea that the preacher will be staying in Velvet's room, the lingerie may not even apply - but I didn't want that ridiculous Ashley Madison energy in the environment right now either. It was some pricey lingerie, too, and I toted it over to the Salvation Army store on 96th and Broadway in a giant "happy birthday" gift bag. Sadly, the store was closed so I left the Birthday Bag filled with French panties and camisoles out on the sidewalk next to a used stroller, car seat and who knows what other debris. Generally, bag ladies and street vendors cruise by the Salvation Army corner every hour on the hour, so my old drawers are cheerfully floating around New York City by now. And they were nearly as fresh as the day I bought them, too, because we all know how I feel about keeping your panties clean (Gayle's Panties, Stonerdate 02.16.08).
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