A Lot of Beginnings, With Nary An End In Sight

It started with this extreme heat, and my desire for a pair of comfortable, breezy pants.

On the first REALLY hot day of this season, I wore jeans made of heavy gauge denim, and I wanted to die, but not before I took fifteen other people with me. Everyone is irritating when I am feeling overheated and watch your ass if you touch me and our skin sticks together. I cannot be held accountable for my actions if that happens. But that is not the point. The point is, my denim error made me realize that I needed a pair of Thai fisherman pants more than I needed the air that I breathe. After hours of scouring the internet for the best deal on my dream pants, I realized that Thai fisherman pants are only available to purchase from Thailand (twenty dollars shipping, a princely sum that I am not willing to pay), or at online headshops, marketed to hippies and yoga enthusiasts (at vastly inflated prices I am not willing to pay). I'm a cheap woman.

I turned to my third love in life, Google. In no time it all, Google provided me with a hot lead on a website that boasted "easy to follow" directions to make my own fisherman pants. They actually seemed easy enough, so I bought fabric, drew a pattern, cut it out, and sewed it all together. The author of my "easy to follow" directions was not a math whiz, and her proportions were all wrong. The author, my ridiculously deformed pants, and my thwarted project derailed me, and ruined my month.

In May, I have started, and did not finish, over twenty projects. I attempted to make necklaces, but my clay wouldn't dry. I didn't have the proper notions to complete the pants with the fancy store bought pattern. I started five stories, and could not find my to the end of any of them. I read correspondence, and can't think of a reply. The only thing I did finish was a really good article about Scientology in Radar. On the upside, my frustrated creative process has manifested in the kitchen. I invented two new recipes (pesto chicken salad, and a pb&j cake).

Unfortunately, I don't really have an end for this story either, so I'll just end with the one story that I know I'll never finish. I think it would have been a good one, but I lost the point...



I have a friend that thinks God penetrated his chest via a beam of light that pierced through his ceiling. God wanted to tell him his special purpose. My friend was so moved by his purpose that he forgot what it was.

This same friend had a past life regression performed by the son of psychic Sylvia Brown. Sylvia Brown's son told my friend that he was Ernest Hemingway in his last life. Now, my friend dreams of writing in a room full of books and cats.

My friend used to have his own locally produced television show, playing piano and singing. He has the perfect voice for showtunes, and terrible stage fright. He used to wear a wig, but not anymore.