Tope.

Oh summer, my summer, what a summer you've been. July Rock City is nearly over and despite the misleading moniker I've not once been to a show. Shocker, I know. But the horizon looms as it ever does, and tomorrow never knows what it doesn't know too soon. Or something.

FACT IS after nearly nine years together my boyfriend finally discovered the source of my charm and wit, and after a week on the wagon he decided enough was certainly enough and handed me a Tecate with lime and a pinch of salt everywhere. FACT IS I am far more interesting on the sauce than off, and far more likely to troublemake and rabblerouse and sing karaoke. It's not a matter of liquid courage, but more a matter of interest or attention span or whatever it is that makes me squirm and fidget and spontaneously combust whenever I sit on the couch and stare at that expensive 46-inch monstrosity in my living room for longer than 47 seconds. So this week past I read 48 books and put Chuck Klosterman in all sorts of compromising positions in my mind's apparently dirty eye. Or something.

So much is afoot my pretties, and must be with the remnants of my shattered ego (thanks Jake) and shattered plans (sorry Shari) scattered about my well soled heels. But I'm picking up the pieces and refashioning them into a mosaic of my choosing, neither sunset nor sunrise but Venus from the foam. (Oh the lies, they burn! They burn!) FACT IS I'm a failure through and through. I am okay with this.

What I am not okay with would fill the VAB to overflowing, and Florida has enough to worry about, don't you think? So I've opted to pack my bags once more, and this time I'm not stopping until I hit the coast. What my ridiculous little life will offer up next is anyone's guess.