L words

It was my birthday this week, and, like on most birthdays, I take stock of the past year. So I'm sitting here eating blueberry...quark? bonny clabber? whatever it is, it's delish, thinking good and bad, thinking about L words. 

Loss, longing, lust, love, levity; the stuff fantasies, nightmares and dreamscapes are made of, fictional or factual. Powerful engines, driving influences, maddening, exhilarating, consuming, confusing. L words my year was made of. Now aren't they all.

My Fresita-infused, sleep-deprived, L word infected mind is also thinking about giving Dita the gift of Facebook. It was, after all, her birthday, too. Yeah, she's still not frolicking in that hay, but I'm starting to feel a little silly/superior/Silurian. Thinking I have neither the time nor the inclination is one way of saying I don't want to. I really don't, which really stems from my natural aversion to things I'm told I absolutely have to do, which is a really juvenile rebellion and some rather empty rage against the man and his machine. 

I've fed the habit, dug up every author I could find and hung on their every word substantiating my aversion; made the Himalayas out of a hillock. But they are writers in a position where they can well do without, who can feel superior all they want. It won't affect their work or visibility one way or the other. Is Dita one of those storytellers? Hmm, no. Would it affect her work or would she benefit from it? There's only one way to find out.

So tomorrow then! Or Monday, perhaps. You know, party's over, birthday week gone, bubbly gone, blueberry blubber gone. L words sorted out. But are they ever?