Who's someone from your past you'd like to reconnect with? For whatever purpose you'd like: to shoot the shit with, to ream out, to crotch-kick, or to make sweet, sweet love to.
... that two people were instrumental in my joining Twitter. First, Isha . She sent out an article on it when the application was still brand new. (And I remember thinking, "Screw that noise. Like I need more online commitments.) Second was Rebecca . She joined up just a short while ago, claiming she hadn't met a bandwidth she didn't like . (And then she disappeared entirely from the internets .) It looked nice and pretty over there on her sidebar, and then I got a little jealous. The rest: history. And for those unobservant among you ( Jorge ), the Twitter feed is right there on my sidebar, replacing the old Radio 3 player that I loved, but that I think scared the bejezus out of a lot of people. Also, everyone should join Twitter. I'm needing some diversions , people.
Comments
He was a quiet guy (kinda like Tien), but very peaceful (unlike Tien).
:)
In other news, the word verifications pictures are getting so obscure, I can't tell what the fuck letters to type!
I've kept in touch with everyone that I want to.
Maybe I'm just a bitch.
I've been told that.
That makes it easy to examine them.
I think I know a few men I'd like to try that out on.
I'd also like to find Ryan, who was Dustin's counterpart when I was in university, and who is the reason why I can still quote large chunks of Monty Python years later.
Oooh, my verification word is "lxfrqx." It's fun to say! Try it!
I'd like to talk to Todd Weltz, who was probably a premature birth, who was certainly a tiny little boy, who was my age and bright and smaller than anyone but a dwarf has a right to be; who was poor; whose mother went to bingo; whose older brother went to jail; and whom everyone called 'Toad'.
I'd like to know Cindy Shen forever.
I'd like to erase the years of divergence that have made Pat Bazinet and I mutually unintelligible.
I'd like to see Andy Davison. I'd like to see whether he still has a mohawk. But I know he doesn't.
I'd like to put my throbbing thing into Leslie Conning, just to take that smug look off her face. I'm not kidding.
I'd like to apologize in person to Jessica Salt, to whom I, with not insignificant goading, wrote a singularly obscene and horrifying letter in grade seven, and then I'd like to bury myself in her butt.
Well, what did you expect?
Steve Boyle, who I haven't seen since the wedding but whose bare ass is available to me any time on DVD.