blanket nom pink! 070315 ... Paint ! hello ! are you part of the magic gang ! *Blimey* *Wowie* its a* Flaoting* *Blanket * ! he he ... what are you pirates ? 070316 ... skanky whats in your swear dictionary... ... i need some new ones.... can't keep saying fuck and fucking... ...don't you like ping pong ? check us the ball i'll serve. do i have to use your eye ball? 070317 ... he he *chuck* i know i'm bad at typing... but ony wanted to have some fun.. can i come on your boat one day? 070317 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Did I not blather here about this periodically recurring argument with my mother? No? It's not the one (see "fences") that let me know that if I ever get romantically involved with a woman instead of a man she'll be sad and, likely... I don't know... I don't know what she'd do. That part wouldn't be fun - or only fun in an arguey sort of way, and as I get older, I find I can't sustain anger for that long. It's tiring. I don't want to make her sad, however misguidedly she finds sadness, and I don't want to be ostracized from family things, because for a contrarian I am terribly conformist. So if I ever have a public, lasting relationship in her lifetime, it'll have to be with either a man or a blanket. With the first, though, there's the risk of pregnancy; with the second, the risk of semiotic confusion (and me using the word "semiotic" wrong can come without any romantic entanglement whatsoever). My mother says a sheet is not a blanket. She tells me to stop calling sheets blankets. I tell her that "blanket" is a blanket term. The tired pun (it wants to sleep in an uncontested bed) makes her more insistent. Wars were fought over things like this. Charles Schulz created Linus and his security blanket, not Linus and his security sheet. I could be wrong, but I am an adult now. Terminological intolerance has no place in the bedrooms of the nation. (If you can't fight a war, fight a pillow fight.) 150417 ... raze i can't tell where you end and where the thought of you begins. 230915 ... kerry when we talk he is usually sitting on his bed. his bedroom is a jumble of boxes and unfinished paintings, piles of clothes. a few pictures hang on the wall. his hair has gotten long over the summer, and now instead of brown it's a shiny brass color. no matter his mood--anxious, triumphant, uncertain, manic, he periodically picks up a small fleece blanket and presses it to his face. sniffing, or savoring, or just reassuring himself. i should ask him about it. 230916 what's it to you? who go blather from