Tabbatha unexpectedly pulled a midweek allnighter, so I've very reluctantly crawled out of bed to write this.
She had Paul in tow, so nothing rude or immoral transpired, but still we held each other all night, and that's a very calming feeling. As I snuggle up to her, bad thoughts melt away. Suddenly I am unaware of George Bush's insane imperial presidency, or the fact that he has been using Henry Fucking Kissinger as a consultant. Kissinger, man! Look, forget Vietnam or Cambodia or any of his genocidal tendencies there, I just want to say Chile, taking out Salvadore Allende--democratically elected, mind you--for puppet facist Pinochet, which only means that every citizen of the world with two brain cells to rub together must surely realize that everything Hugo Chavez said about this guy is absolutely right. And Rumsfeld, is there anything this guy could do that would cause Bush to unload this psycho? And...and...and...
...and anyway, all such thoughts melt away.
So I asked Tabbatha to kick in a few thoughts here--mainly to get me off the Bush rant--and so far she's offered, "Hi." Anything else, honey? "Well, I'm really great. Apparently. According to you." Uh-huh. What else? Um, are you sure you want me to write about your boobs and underwear? No? Okay, then, I won't even mention them.
"You're the writer, honey," she said finally. "Write something beautiful."
So I'll just write Tabbatha.
