I had a revelation the other day that I actually enjoy writing about life more than living it! I used to dream about achieving this state, but now it rather bothers me.

okay, a further thought: My (unfortunately deceased) husband was a poet who promptly stopped writing as soon as we married. A few years later, I asked him why. He answered, “I think it is because I can only write when I’m unhappy.” There was not much I could say to protest his writer’s block after that, but I did start worrying when he started writing again.

These are two comments I wrote in Listentothebabe‘s blog.  A friend told me they were tweet-worthy, but I think they are too long and no one reads my tweets anyway, so forgive me for tweeting my own song here.  (Babe, if you’re having to read these over again, sorry. Next time I’ll just ping you.)

Damn, now there is something else I just have to say:

Twenty years ago, would any of us have dreamed that one day we’d be using the words “tweet, twitter and ping” so frequently?

Okay.  Over and out.  Promise.  I’ll go watch an episode of something sent to me by a kind benefactor. —Judy