Hi! I'm Mare! Lovely to meet you! Why don't you help yourself to a little champagne, and then make your way over to the little guest book on the left. It's just past the Curtained Tryst Alcove that my butler made me put back into place for those special occasions when we get a handsome vistor. So, please, go on over and clicky-clicky introduce yourself. We're having ourselves a little soiree!
See, I was taking a little pokey 'round my site meter yesterday, and it occurred to me that there are probably a few of you out there with whom I've not had the pleasure of making an acquaintance. Drop me a line! You just know I love that kind of stuff. I mean, a few weeks ago, I discovered someone who'd sat, and over the course of a few days, read a whole, honking load of my entries. Hello! Flattered! Love you! Love the attention! (Ew! Slightly pathetic admission to the world that I just made there!) But c'mon! Who doesn't get a thrill from finding out that someone out there is interested in what you have to say?
Shameless, isn't it? Perhaps therapy is the way to go... but again, that's a whole 'nother entry.
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So, remember my sunburn? The one I got over the weekend? Yeah, my face is already starting to peel! Does that make sense to you? Shouldn't it be causing me a few more days of red-hot agony before it commences the peeling and the Illusion of Dirty Face phase? See, that's what I thought, too. It apparently matters naught that I saturated my face in moisturiser and aloe and various other anti-ageing products aplenty. That would be too simple, wouldn't it?
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The heat is at it's brutal best today, poppets. I want nothing more than to lie outside and completely forget the fact that I'll be complaining about more peelage in a few days. I want to sing along to the hoakiest of the classic summer tunes, the party songs of my high school years, the surf songs of someone else's high school years. I want to lie on my back on a towel in the grass, with one leg balanced on the other bent knee, so that if I bother to open my eyes behind my sunglasses, I can watch my foot swing to the music in the glare of the sun. I want to forget that my neighbours may hear me through the tall shrubbery that divides the properties, and wail in high, off-tone volume along with the requisite Grease medley that's on every summer CD ever produced. I want to drink a pina colada and giggle with my girlfriends. I want someone to say, "Hey, why don't we call so and so..." and then he'll come over and he will bring friends, and they will all be handsome and boyish and tanned, and they will roughhouse in my pool and fight to rub suntan lotion on our backs. I want to gaze at the friends who will have congregated around me, listening to them discuss the plans for the evening because extending the unexpected perfection of the day is an absolute necessity, and smile because sometimes, it just doesn't get better than this.
I don't want to be cooped up in this office which has only two temperature settings: Arctic Freeze and Amazonian Jungle.
Right. Off I go, poppets. Real life calls, and it's starting to holler.
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