It's enough to make you think in single, third-person sentences.  Half the stuff that comes to mind is really not Facebook appropriate.  Hell, it's barely appropriate to say outloud.

Shelly is... not drunk enough... obsessing about her obsessions... smoking... spending all her time hunched over her laptop playing Scrabble... wishing this woman wasn't married... fantasizing about the Cantor... frisky as hell... biting her nails... picking her nose.

I suppose in reality most of them just aren't that interesting.  Being interesting, or trying to be interesting is not an easy thing to maintain.  It usually requires copious amounts of mind-altering substances ... like depression, or anxiety

Shelly has made some decisions.  She's decided that she's special, but not better.  She's decided that there is someone out there, somewhere, who can handle me... who wants to handle me (eyebrow wiggle).

I've decided -- and I know I've decided this before -- that I've got too many things I need to do to worry about finding a partner.  Live, damnit.  Smile, flirt and enjoy ALL the beauty around you.  Revel in it.  Glorious and divine....

Sure, it's been a while.  But I'm not dead yet.

Officially, I am largely weakened by women. Slight smile.  If I make you laugh...  I'll take anything you want to give me...  I can tease you, make fun of you gently, make fun of myself severely... yes yes, I am 60 years old, I swear... you don't believe me?  That fine, just keep giggling and leaning into me.  Bring your brown hair near my face so I can smell the scent of your shampoo.  Here, check my ID, I really was born before the 70's.  No, hon, that' means I'm almost 40, not 50.  It's okay, who can do math after as many drinks as you've had?  Sure I'll take an apologetic hug.  Um, then I'm gonna go home.  Time to bashfully go.

It's official.  I think it was official last night.  I just sort of came to terms with it this morning.  I am in a needy state.  I need attention and am dying for affection.  I'm frisky and horny as hell.  I'm post-menstrual... it's probably an artifact of my ovaries screaming, in general. 

Still, needy.  Lonely.  And slightly depressed about all the things I need to do.

Work looms largely.  I've got four days this week to do what I can and take a week off.

Hebrew -- tho it is my love -- also nags at me for attention.  I should be practicing.  At least watching some Israeli movies or something. 

Instead I play Rock Band.  I'm on a timer, so I keep trying to squeeze as much as possible in.  I smoke.  I went to the pub to watch the football game and I had 4 pints of beer.  Light beer, sure, but beer nonetheless.

So, four pints and two bowls later, I'm chattering here.  Pet me, please!  I notice that I respond *too much* when I'm needy, almost like I have to get the last word, except that I'm hoping mine isn't the last.  Too talkative, too aggressive.  I almost told the waitress at the bar that she was beautiful.  Instead I just smiled sweetly and said thank you a lot.  That really gets 'em:  thank you.