Sunday, February 19, 2012


February 2012
I rather like a frog. I'm not sure that Gray & Farrar could find a prince that meets to my expectation. Of course the prince is, we know or should know, a fantasy. He is a perfect man. Handsome in a Rupert Graves sort of way (it's my fantasy); with a keen intelligence like ... oh, smart guys that I've met; and creative and charming and witty and well-dressed and sexy and thoughtful and poetic and sympathetic and mannered and shiny and well ... not a real man, at all. He is like the David Cassidy poster from my Teen Beat magazine back in the day. Oh how I loved how his feathered hair! He thought he loved me, and I believed him.

Who wants that. Give me the frog. Someone I can tidy up after, annoy with my endless musings about what happened on any given day, and love messily. Erratically. Though committedly. Don't sell me short Gray & Farrar. I can love a frog.

A boy at a lake once took my David Cassidy poster (conveniently, I always had one on hand), pinned it to a dart board. took a dart, pinned a fish to it, and then used it as target practice, splattering guts and gill all over the feathered hair, and dreamy smile.

That's my frog. I take it down, tidy it up a bit, and it still makes me to swoon. Rib-it.

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