Minivan dreams
◊ Well, that picture of me showing off my stomach seems to be so popular that I think I'll post it in this entry, too.
Haha. Smut.
So, here's something I've been wanting to get off my chest (not pictured):
I'm really a good girl at heart.
All this drama, all this pretending to be so hardcore and opinionated and independent, it's all a lie.
All I really want is for a handsome, generous man to take care of me and love me and nurture me and buy me diamonds.
I want to have his children.
Lots of children.
I can't wait until I hit 30 and decide to settle down. I'll turn into Supermom, wearing middle-American fashions and driving my kids to soccer practice and piano lessons and the orthodontist's office.
I want to spend my Sundays planning dinner for the family, grocery shopping, and maybe doing some needlepoint. I'll have a sensible haircut and I'll get a manicure every month or so, as a treat to myself.
I want my husband to be proud of me and my neighbors to be jealous.
So ends my first attempt at fiction.
Ugh. I feel dirty now. I think I need to go scrape the crud off my tongue stud and start a revolution, just to get the suburban stench off me. Print up a zine, or something.
Or, for something a bit closer to the truth, sit around reading my co-editors' blogs (that would be Julio's, Luke's, and Owen's).
Luke's bio has possibly the most perfect thing ever in it:
I also want a pony.
(not too big and not too expensive)
See? That's why I keep saying I want to lick his skull.