I Like Glitter

Has there every been a better phrase uttered?

I think not.

Ok.

Perhaps this does not resonate for you, but for this sparkle pony, it meant the world.

And, ahem, I was drenched in glitter.

Like.

A lot.

I went to the Detroit Movement Festival last weekend.

In no particular order I saw:

Moodyman, Basement Jaxx, Ash Lauryn, DJ Harvey, Underworld, Seth Troxler, Lauren Flax, Maceo Plex, Skrillex (actually I did not really see Skrillex, but I could not help but be assaulted with the noise of the show, it was easily the loudest of all the shows and I was overwhelmed with both the crowds and also having just witnessed some one in dire need of help and though I was not a first responder, but I did get to have some flashbacks to last summer when I was, I did get the medics to the person who desperately needed help and wend them through a crowd that was wild and chaotic. I did not panic, but I could feel it in my body wanting to come out. I DID ask for a hug. That helped a lot. Hugs are good for anxiety and panic, get yours) Bonobo, Ricardo Villalobos, Ben UFO, and a glorious set by Derrick Carter b2b with Mark Farina who homaged Tina Turner in a way that made me well up with emotions and dance like no one was looking.

I danced a lot like no one is looking.

Except him.

The glorious glitter aficionado.

Ok, maybe not an aficionado, but definitely an appreciator of the stuff.

Which is good, since I was, like I said, covered in it.

He kissed me and I knew it to be true.

He glittered all weekend.

As you do.

When kissing raver girls at festivals.

I am not a raver girl, far too old for that status, but I apparently play one at festivals.

I am also not a festival girl, but I pretended to be at this one.

I wore fun outfits that I do not normally attire myself in, except perhaps at Burning Man.

I wore the aforementioned glitter, biodegradable, I am not unaware of glitter tends to not ever die.

I am sure if I searched I could still find some hiding out behind my elbow or other obscure body part.

Anyway.

I knew he was there, just to my side, or just behind me.

Watching me flail around.

He was very flattering about my dancing.

I was flattered.

I was there in Detroit a few days before he landed, sharing a room with the gal who turned me onto the Movement Festival and encouraged me to go and get the VIP passes for the whole weekend.

I was askance.

VIP sounds hella expensive.

But.

It was Detroit, not San Francisco, and the VIP was worth the few extra bucks.

It saved my ass.

Better bathrooms with short to no lines, water refill stations, I drank a lot of water.

I had to.

I danced a lot of steps.

33,000 my first day.

44,000 my second day.

44, 000, I’m just going to write that again, and give it proper credence, it was 44,258.

A record.

My legs were rubber and my heart was full, full, full.

I don’t recall tracking the next day but it was over 30,000.

I did over 100,000 steps in a three day weekend.

I moved a lot.

Some of it was just walking stage to stage, but a lot of it was dancing.

So much.

I had some pretty transcendent moments.

Including being up front for Underworld, which was the last show of the last night in the big stadium space I was down in front.

I wasn’t sure my guy was going to make it, it’s a lot being down in front, a lot of people, a lot of noise, but he stuck and I was a maniac.

I think if anyone watches you dance to your favorite group of all time and still wants to hang with you, note that.

He’s a keeper.

There are many reasons why he’s a keeper and I could tally them all up, but I’m still trying to keep things to myself, in my heart, in my head, although when I smile at him I think I am wide open transparent.

Ok, I’ll share one other tiny thing he said, I smile a lot and when I smile at him, he said I look like I am smiling “at baby otters.”

Good grief that’s cute.

Kill me.

Anyway.

He didn’t see me dancing at the clubs, which I think would have been really sweet to go to, especially the Ash Lauryn show, it was in this amazing underground somewhere out in a neighborhood way far away from the festival that I went to the night before he got in.

Or, oh, the show at the Spot Lite Detroit.

Good grief.

The space, it was astounding, perfect, a record shop, a dance floor, art gallery, coffee shop, indoor, outdoor, great sound system and I saw DJ Harvey and danced to disco.

He would have appreciated the disco and I want to dance like that again with him.

I danced a lot by myself.

But I don’t mind that.

However.

It is nice to dance with someone who appreciates me and my glitter.

Once upon a time I had an affair.

You know this if you read my work.

It’s there in the corners of the blog, sometimes oblique, sometimes wide out in the open.

And he, the paramour, the illicit lover, hated.

I mean, HATED, glitter.

I suppose if you’re having an affair it might be a give away.

And by the way, I’m not downplaying my part, I have written a book on it, I have, I have processed and grieved and therapized and done inventory and prayed and cried, I’m not writing about that.

But I am writing about the glitter and the reparative experience of being with someone who does not care if I wear glitter, who actually fucking likes it.

It was the most beautiful, astounding thing.

It brought tears to my already sparkly eyes.

Once, on a dark, cold, foggy night at a church in the inner Sunset I spoke my piece and did the deal and shared all that experience, strength and hope that I could with my paramour in a chair in front of me.

We were “on a break.”

Sigh.

Trying to “be friends.”

After my speaking engagement he convinced me to sit and talk with him in his car.

I don’t remember what we talked about.

I just remember crying.

He hated me crying and wiped them, the tears, from my face and then he kissed me.

I was wearing, shocker, lipgloss with glitter in it.

He pulled away, reached into the side door pocket and fished out a white folded fast food napkin, wiped his mouth, grimaced, balled up the napkin and shoved it back into the door pocket.

I felt dead.

Like I had just been erased.

Discarded.

Tossed in the trash.

I was nothing.

He wiped me away.

The reality is that I allowed myself to be with someone who would discard me, abandon me, pay lip service to being in love with me and then constantly leave me, alone, ashamed, hurt.

Not the kind of lip service I am interested in anymore.

I did my work.

I cried.

I did my therapy.

And when I felt shame recently I shared it with my therapist and he worked with me on it.

There is always more work to be done.

(FYI, I feel like this blog, I date myself, ahem, this essay, is rocky, my cadence is off, my keyboard is not keeping up with my keystrokes and I keep having to slow down my writing pace to catch it up with what I am typing, hella obnoxious. I type fast. Almost as fast as I think. It’s fucking with my flow. I feel like it shows in the writing, but hopefully it’s not too bad)

The glitter comment was not the only one that got me, there were more than a few that were said, but I will mention just one more, since it feels sweet to think about it.

I asked the new beau, when he arrived in Detroit, who did he want to see, what acts, what DJs?

His answer.

I came to see you.

Smilling like I’m looking at baby otters.

And listening to French music dreaming about one day making out in Paris with him.

Where I will wear glitter too.

Maybe just more subtle.

It is Paris afterall.

But it is also me.

So there will be sparkle.

That’s how I roll.

Or.

Dance, if you will.

That’s how I dance.

With my great big glittery heart on my sleeve.

And All That

All there is to balance.

All there is to do.

All the fun to be had.

All the flirting.

I love flirting.

It is just so much fun.

I also like taking it a little further, so here’s to trying again and another date for tomorrow night.

Yes.

I am busy.

But fuck it, I also have been told so many times to lighten up and go have fun and all work and graduate school are not going to be allowed to suck the fun out of my life.

And there’s room for it.

I do have room for it.

I am busy, yes, but not so busy that a little lightness, a cup of tea, a conversation, can’t be made.

I can and have made the time.

So here’s to another round of trying and also knowing that I don’t have to make the same mistakes, and also that, yes, there’s probably other mistakes that I will make and overall and all and all, it’s all for the good.

No matter what.

Ah dating.

So much fun.

So many places to get humility.

But really, what I have been responding to is when I am being sparkled at.

That seems a really good way for me to know that there is something true there.

Is the person shining at me?

Is the man across from me engaged.

I mean chemistry.

So.

I’ll be climbing back into the saddle and having very much learned my lesson, be a better date as well.

And if there’s no chemistry, so be it, I tried.

Just keep showing up.

And just leave it alone.

I did some inventory tonight with my person after work and it was just so good.

I shared and when asked what I should have done instead, it was so simple, “walked away and left him alone.”

Or as my dearest girlfriend said today, and has said before, “go where it’s warm.”

And believe them when they say they are not available or if they don’t call back or text back that’s the same as I’m not available and it doesn’t even matter if they’re interested.

“Honey, they’re all interested, they’re just not all available.”

Exactly.

So believe them when they say I’m not available and save yourself the fucking heart ache.

Because they, the guys, the men, anyone, could be a friend too, are giving you all the information you need right up front, right away, and I can hear it with honesty and integrity and believe it.

Which means living in reality.

Not fantasy.

Because even though fantasy is nice it sure as shit ain’t real.

And the “safety” it offers is not really safe, it’s just another way to self-sabotage my way to unhappiness.

I’m also lightly holding all the things in my heart around this.

It has been an ever deepening awareness of myself that I have been sticking my hand into for years, this I want to date, be involved romantically, try, and then not wanting to try, feeling unworthy, unlovable, not good enough.

You know what’s crazy?

Every single swipe on Tinder that is a positive for me, every guy that I have said, sure, I’d go on a date, has been a match.

100%

I haven’t not matched at all.

And.

I realized it was freaking me the fuck out.

Whoa.

I am attractive.

Shit, fuck, what?

Um.

Hello.

And there’s this nasty little voice in me, oh, that’s just a good picture, you’re more photogenic, you’re body’s not good enough, etc, etc, etc.

Shut up.

I am perfect.

The body is perfect.

Well.

Imperfectly perfect, perfect for me, soft in spots, curvy in others, a grey hair there, a wrinkle here, but this is it, this is me and me is pretty and sweet and sexy and nice and stupid sometimes, but I try and my heart is big and I’m a great cook.

Not that I’m trying to get you to ask me out or anything.

Heh.

I’m must appreciating my assets and knowing, really, firmly, in good stead realizing, that I am worthy.

Worthy of love.

Worthy of respect.

Which all has to do with how I treat myself and the behavior I accept or do not accept from those I engage with.

Which means knowing what I need and want and sticking to my guns.

Anywho.

That’s what’s upstairs in my thoughts tonight.

That and weather and being a bit bummed to not be on my scooter, I thought I was going ot get in one more day of being on it, but it started to rain as I was doing some reading for school before I headed into work, so I grabbed a car and it looks like that’s how it’s going to be for the rest of the week.

I’m not going to ride my bike, I’m not going to waste time on MUNI, my time is a precious resource, so I’m also not going to be upset about spending a few extra dollars getting to and from work and to and from school.

Tomorrow, more reading, get the final edits done on my papers, work, my commitment, and a tea date.

Then.

I get ready for the school weekend and I’ll see you on the other side.

Well.

I’ll still be showing up here.

I haven’t failed to blog yet since I started graduate school.

Kind of amazing that, now that I am thinking about it, but I love it so, I do, my little blog.

My troublesome outlet, I do love it, I do.

The writing is my balm.

The words clicking out of the keyboard onto the screen, then out into the world, to land, well, who knows where.

Just that I sent them out.

Just that I show up.

That’s all.

Try.

Fall down.

Get the fuck back up.

Laugh at myself.

And love myself.

And oh yeah, let me not forget this one, remember.

Always.

That I am worthy.

I am enough.

Yes.

Oh yes.

I am.

So.

Fucking.

Worthy.

Today’s Password Is

Love.

Yesterday’s was “tool.”

But that was yesterday.

“Password!  Password!” My little guy shouted from the steps.

I was laden down with grocery bags and diaper bags and my own bag, his younger brother, and it was time to get inside for dinner.

“Tool!” I shouted.

“That was yesterday’s!” He replied and grinned.

“Big guy, I need your help, I have too much stuff, you have to give me a hint today,” I said juggling all the things on the steps and reaching for my keys while balancing his three year old brother and his brothers hat and stuffed cat on his head, that is the cat was on his head, not his hat, which was falling into the bushes and the dog was inside snuffling with joy to come out and greet us and it was 5:15p.m. and I had to pee.

“Guess!”

Oh my God kid you’re killing me.

“Spaghetti, apple, banana, milk, market, JP, Dave Hale (the two favorite vendors at the Farmer’s Market that we go to on Thursdays, ie tomorrow, note to self get out the market bags), pumpkin patch!”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Kiddo, I…..

I was getting angry and took a deep breath.

“Love,” he said soft, sweet, his big brown eyes luminous in his face, my little angel, my sweet boy pie, then he kissed my hand and swung open the gate.

I do live in a fairy tale.

Love.

FYI.

Was my spiritual principle to practice today.

I have no idea where the kid came up with it, just that it was all around me.

Has been all day.

All night.

I just got back from a kick assery shopping extravagance at SafeWay.

My friend gave me a ride over after doing the deal.

Grocery shopping.

Not that much of a big deal.

But.

A.

HUGE deal.

I am a bike rider.

I don’t have a car.

I have to grocery shop all the time to keep a pace with the fact that I make almost 95% of my food.

I rarely eat out, unless treated, and my restaurant budget for the month is typically $50.

Lunch out once a week is my MO.

My grocery shopping spending plan, though, is close to $500 or for this month $550, since it has an extra week in it.

That may feel like a lot for a single lady.

But.

I am a single lady in the city and when you compare that to eating out, even one meal a day, I save a lot of money on cooking my own food.

Plus.

I am a person who abstains from sugar and flour.

Aside.

You should have seen my friend and I shopping.

Hilarious.

He eats like a growing high school boy.

I couldn’t tell you what exactly was all in the cart but the highlights were an uncountable number of 2 liters of soda, Chili Cheese Fritos, raw cookie dough, and um, other stuff.

My stuff was fruit and organic veggies, edamame, organic free range chicken breasts, unsweetened vanilla almond milk, turkey bacon (my secret ingredient in my brown “fried” rice that I make big batches of and have for dinners and lunches all throughout the week), apples, persimmons, organic avocados.

I think my friend got some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal too.

I can’t be sure though.

It may have been buried under a pile of 2 Liter sodas.

Not to say I am better than.

Just different.

If I could eat like he does and get a way with it.

Well fuck yes, hello, I so would.

SERIOUSLY.

I can’t however and that’s cool.

I love that I have such a kind and generous friend.

I am lucky.

Blessed.

Graced.

If you will.

By the amazing people in my life.

Love indeed.

I was feeling the love this morning as I put on my safety orange cord pants.

What?

You don’t have any?

You so need a pair.

I matched them up with, yes, this actually worked, a pink tank top, layered with a grey tank top that I got from Lightening in a Bottle two years ago with a white rabbit on it with colored swirls of pink, turquoise and safety orange.

I also wore a big glittery flower concoction in my hair and glitter on my eyelids.

And.

Yes.

A sparkly blue heart glitter necklace.

It sounds fucking atrocious.

Like a raver candy tripping on molly and LSD with a side of cocaine to take make it all some how disco sexy.

But.

If you do it right, and I did, I promise, it can be pulled off.

“That’s right, Wednesday, get your sparkle on,” I laughed as I looked in the mirror.

Sometimes I forget that one of the ways I have fun is to let myself dress up.

Speaking of.

I’m trying to figure out what to wear for tomorrow nights show.

I will be going straight from work.

But I am getting a ride into work, so I could wear a cute dress, something that I don’t wear too often.

Certainly not for work.

But.

Why not?

It may be time to break out a crinoline.

I dare say my principle tomorrow will be “happy” if I wear a crinoline.

I mean.

How could it not?

Life is good and full of love.

You know what else is lovely.

Aside from the idea of getting my dancing shoes on.

Poetry.

Oh that’s right.

I finished the sonnets!

I am over the moon.

I haven’t written the artist with whom I am collaborating on yet as I have not yet gotten them cleaned up and into my computer, but they are done.

I have the rough drafts of ten sonnets.

Ten.

In fact, I actually have thirteen, but I fucked up the rhyme scheme badly in one and had to toss the whole thing when I realized I had done the embedded poem wrong for that specific piece, and the other two pieces were written before I had the inspiration that led to the ten that I have written.

I used my poem “While You Were Sleeping” as a frame work to work the all the sonnets around.

I also embedded a principle, this time one of the Ten Principles, from Burning Man, into each poem.

Love is not one of them.

Decommodification is though.

Let me just say, I am going to give myself some props here, the fact that I worked decommodification into a sonnet should be noted as some sort of literary achievement, I mean, not like the Pen Faulkner award, or anything, but maybe the Nemerov, the Howard Nemerov Sonnet prize (which I have secretly coveted for over two decades).

Just sayin’.

Anywho.

I will let him know that I have the roughs and I figure I will have them all typed up in my computer by Saturday or Sunday.

Then e-mail them out and I’m way ahead of schedule and if he doesn’t like them.

Well.

He still has time to collaborate with another artist for his project.

And.

I don’t care.

I love them.

I love that I am a writer, a poet, a blogger.

A.

As a darling friend likes to tease me.

“A woman of the world.”

Indeed.

A very loved.

Woman of the world.

I Just Wanted To Tell You

I think you’re fabulous.

Really.

I know you don’t know me.

(I do a little, by sight, around the block, in the circles, you know.

But no, I don’t know you, although I do know your name and that you seem kind and sweet.)

But I really wanted to tell you that I think that, that you are fabulous, really, everything about you, I just thought I should tell you.

I smiled and said thank you.

This stranger, not a friend, a passing acquaintance at best, but someone who has seen me show up for the last few years, out of the blue, right when I am making my strides, the come back kid.

Come back to fabulous, baby.

We’re all waiting for you.

It felt so nice to hear.

I didn’t even tell her that her timing was fabulous, really, that hearing from her after the past week was such a nice thing.

I just thanked her again and smiled and let her give me a hug.

I mean I had no idea volunteering for a commitment would illicit such a response.

I am not sure if it was the relationship, though, I do think in its way, it totally was, that finally got me to figure out my routine in conjunction with work and living out by the sea.

Small aside.

I, for a hot second, considered a place out in the produce market neighborhood which is sort of an industrial wasteland of railroad tracks, low-income housing, and warehouses that most folks have no idea exist.

A long time ago, eight years, I believe, I worked as a customer service rep at one of the produce markets.  My room-mate got me a part-time gig there.

The pay was shit, but it was pay, and it was easy, and I got all the free produce I could possibly eat.

That was the pay off really.

Yes, sir, I was literally working for food.

I know the neighborhood, and the place available is in an artist/work/live space.  I considered it, not because I want to move, but because if it’s less than what I am paying, than that might make sense with graduate school tuition looming.

But it is not cheaper and I am staying.

Much to my relief, really.

Why live in a neighborhood where I would have to bicycle commute through one of the filthiest homeless thorough fares in the city–under the bridge at Cesar Chavez and the 101/280 split.

There is a bike path there, but it is not fun to commute through.

Anyway.

The bicycle commute I do, though longish, is not bad, and my rent is good and my location, down by the sea, with the buttery moon cusp crescent sinking into the indigo sea as I write, is divine.

In fact, I shall be down by the sea this weekend.

It’s a good place for me to go.

Just sit, with a book, in the sun.

Or walk the shoreline for a while.

The weather is actually predicted to be 70.

I’m there.

I want to continue giving myself space to feel out any other feelings that may be coming down the pipeline.

Today was pretty mellow.

One small, brief, slightly petty argument with the ex in my head which I promptly realized was fear, and was able to quickly let go of, and nada.

Just some serenity.

A busy day at work didn’t hurt.

Nor some check ins with friends.

I have some unexpected and really nice responses to the writing that I have been doing here.

I appreciate the feedback my friends, I really do.

And then to be given such a sweet and unexpected, out of left field really, compliment, was just the cherry on my love sundae.

That’s what I have been feeling a lot of lately.

Ha.

I just realized something, and it’s akin to when I adopted my feral cat Uni.

I had been praying for love.

But not very specific.

I was given a cat.

I meant a boyfriend, I hollered at the ceiling when the little white furry nugget that was Uni as a kitten kneaded on my chest and put her small white and pink face under my chin and purred so loudly that I was smitten with love.

Smashed with it really.

I realized that I have been praying for love a lot recently, even before the break up.

Not his love.

No.

Just love.

Ok.

Maybe a little for his love.

But again, I was unspecific.

I was just lighting candles, I like candles, shaddup, and when I light one I usually ask for love.

Not money or sex or prestige.

Love.

God for me is love.

So whatever conduit he decides is where it’s at.

Of course, I have been absolutely showered with it, bathed in it, swept along with it, flooded with it.

Love.

Everywhere, like rich golden sunlight and warm sandy beaches and it’s poured out from my community like a river of buttery goodness–affirming me, my process, my person, who I am, what I stand for–smothered in it, love.

From friends and family and community and my fellows, those I know and those I don’t know very well.

It’s been a virtual love fest.

I laugh.

God, my God, has a funny sense of humour.

I am back on the beam.

Back to my fabulous self.

Reconnected with that which is the most important to me.

My self-love and acceptance of who I am.

I don’t need to forgive him.

I never did, not really, he’s just doing the best he can.

I needed to forgive me.

And I am just doing the best I can.

I hid my glitter under a barrel and apparently it burst out, a love bomb explosion of fabulous.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Least of all myself.

I promise I won’t glitter bomb any of my friends, or myself, but I won’t hide who I am either, nor get small, nor not speak up for who I am and what I am.

I am fabulous.

Hear me roar.

Or whatever sound glitter makes.

 

 

Unexpected Artist Date

With my friend Katie.

So nice to run into people on the street who are going the same way you are, but hey, would you mind, I have to make a detour to Flax?

Uh, yeah, count me in.

Although it is really easy for me to drop a batshit amount of money in there and I already feel like I spent the money that I made this weekend in the city, but yes, I want to go.

I was walking back from the Upper Haight is a really leisurely manner, debating what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, and who I wanted to see.

I was done with the nanny gigs and had gone down into the Mission to the office to get my bicycle and bring it back to the people I will be working for at Burning Man.

I rode it through the Mission, through the Castro, over the hills and through the woods, to Burning Man we go, along the Wiggle, through the Pan Handle, across at Clayton, left at Stanyan, right on Cole and over to the house.

Whew.

That was a work out.

And if you think writing that paragraph took me a minute, imagine riding a slow, low slung chopper bike through the hills and valleys of San Francisco.

But I made it and I supremely enjoyed the ride there.

The wind was cool, the fog was coming in, but the sun was still peeking out from the banks of fog and it felt delicious on my skin as I pedaled through the city, waving at a few people, smiling for the sheer fun of it, imagining that I would soon be making my inaugural ride on playa with the new saddle.

Which is comfy, but there are still issues.

Sigh.

Cruiser

My legs are too long.

The saddle does not sit back far enough for me to get good leg extension on the frame.

That being said, it is still a serviceable bike and it will be great on playa, it’s flat, the wheels are nice and fat and I have a snappy purple pennant and a new silver bell.

Ding ding.

You should have heard me whistle as I rolled through the Panhandle, I amused the shit out of myself.

I got it to the house, tucked it away in the garage and bid my bicycle adieu.

Next time I see her to ride her it will be at Burning Man.

Yippee!

After I dropped the bike off to my employers I decided despite not knowing exactly where I was going or what I was doing  I wanted to walk.

The slowing down on the cruiser made me realize what a lovely city I bicycle through on a pretty regular basis and don’t pay attention to.

I walked and looked and smelled.

Granted I also ducked and dodged and crossed the street a few times when I was in the thick of the throngs of Haight Street shopper/tourist/homeless/’kind bud’ madness.

Slight aside: how is it that there are homeless guys and gals hanging out at the top of the park spare changing for medical marijuana, er McDonald’s, and they have gorgeous tattoos?

That shit cost some money.

Believe me,  I know.

Granted I see a lot of shittastic tattoos and homemade gun tattoos and prison tattoos and I let my room-mate practise on me tattoos, but some of them are really good and the really good usually means, really big money.

Anyway, the amount of homeless dreck and dogs that happens right at the mouth of the park is always a little weird to navigate through but I do notice things as I push the pram to the Golden Gate Children’s Area.

God I am lucky to have such close access to that park.

Aside over.

I did some window shopping, tried on some clothes, but there’s not really anything I need and I don’t want to spend money on more stuff right now.

I realized as I was putting away my weekend bag I really have prepared myself better for this Burning Man than I have for any other.

Of course, with it being my 7th I sort of know what works the best for me and what makes me the happiest to have with me.

I let myself get those things this year.

But I don’t need to go over board and when I was assaulted by all things neon, sparkling, and bedazzled at the Piedmont store on Haight, I knew it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

I walked back out of the store to see I had a message and I got a hold of my friend who was already up in Noe Valley.

That decided me.

I would go up to Noe Valley and hang out and then go do the deal up at St. Phillips and see my people.

Like I said before, I need my fellows more than I have ever realized and I need my friends and that’s where they were going to be.

So I decide that is where I would go.

As I was walking from the Upper Haight down to the Lower Haight I saw the 24 bus go by and thought, well, shoot, I could just keep walking down to the bike shop, grab my one speed and head up the hill or…

I could bump into a friend going my way, by way of Flax.

Yes.

I got glitter glue.

And stickers.

Heh.

And one post card to send myself from the event.

I always do.

It’s nice to come back and have a post card from your most authentic sparkle pony self to remind you of the time you spent out there.

I like to send myself postcards where ever I go.

I had a nice meander through Flax while my friend got her art supplies for a class she’s teaching and then we went up to the Valley.

It was perfect.

I saw friends.

I laughed.

I poked fun at myself for having bunny stickers in my bag and glitter nail polish on, but really I love it, and I feel happier, sillier too, sometimes, for it, and tomorrow I will whip out the glitter glue and go to town.

But for now, the day is done and I am going to fix myself a little more tea and watch a little Orange is the New Black before I punk out.

More glitter tomorrow.