Because.

There are ten or so drafts yet to be published in my blogger account. None of them complete - or satisfactory as far as I'm concerned. And this scared me - because I'd heard the other day, on the television, that "writer's block is God's way of telling you that you're not an author."

But I doubt this. And I know this- that the reason I'm not satisfied, the reason why I can't lean back and breathe a sigh of releif and accomplishment, is because I'm not power-mad anymore. And not particularly preposterous either. I'm neither of these, I beleive, because I am loved.

There are quirks to this just as with any other relationship, but we've lived together for near six months now, and I could not feel more blessed. This is a love that fills me beyond words - no matter how many proclomations of love that pass between these lips - they never seem to say enough.

This is a boy who holds my heart in his chest - a boy who hums "Happy Birthday to You" in his sleep.

How could I not love him? And then, love him even more?

Jehova's water babies.

It had been quiet for four months. Two weeks ago this changed - the doorbell rang, and I opened it. Ever since then the two Jehovas Witness ladies have been ringing the doorbell two, three times a week. I peek at them through the keyhole, an elderly women with a small red handbag and her daughter. I'm not really sure if it's her daughter, since I peek at them through my keyhole. Everyone looks like waterhead babies through keyholes.

And waterhead babies look like they're related. And even if they aren't, I'm sure they find some comfort in having someone with whome to share physical attributes.

I think I would, were I a waterhead baby.

I think I am a shucks-hole, therefore I am.

There are a f e w things that piss me off enormously.

First, it's whatever mongrel of an dung orifice that invented these pointy shoes that are so popular today. Unless the guy was a big fan of mace, the siren-bra and other such self-defence mechanism, there is NO plausible excuse for inventing shoes that end in a sharp point about 10 centimeters away from where your toes end. You could kill someone with these. Think of the children! And small dogs. I know what designer that is on my list when I get my very first pair of these, which will be never.

The second is a group of people - the group of single fathers with four children all dying of prostate cancer, regardless sex. These people who hitch rides on the tube and trains, handing you this piece of paper announcing the terrible plight of their children, and that they need money for operations and likewise. In the beginning, I fell for it. When more and more handouts started piling up on the seat next to me, about children in with the same disease but different fathers, all with the same petition, I got suspicious. But I still paid up - as a student whose also a beleiver of karma, it's darned if you do and darned some more if you don't.

When I was told that a freind of mine lived next door to one of these "fathers" in one of the more well-to-do areas of the town, I protested. Newspapers and SL started warning its readers/commuters that the only way to solve the problem of growing begging was to stop giving in to their pleas. And more pleas.

So I did. I felt like a weenie-head, but I did.

Today, one of these approached me while I was withdrawing money from the ATM at work. Which is cheating. You can't tell that father of four lepers that you have no money, because whoomp, there it is! Okay, so the probability of the person in need getting a fresh hundred cown bill is pretty slim, but the guilt factor swoops way up high when you show him that you are very capable of going to the closest store and dislodging a five crown from the wad you've just withdrawn. I gave him all the coins I had. He glares at me after reviewing the contents in his upturned hand, coins were obviously not going to make Little Timmy's legs grow straight.

Like i give a truck.
But I do.
Nobody wants to be an shucks-hole. Except for pixie-shoe Prada.