To Mourn the Non-Birth of my Woman Half

Let me begin this by off-topic conversation.

I'm wondering if anyone else besides me thinks that the verse in Sugar Daddy (yes, I'm still on my Hedwig kick) that goes:

"I'll be your Venus
On a chocolate clamshell
Riding on a sea of
Marshmallow foam"

is hard to sing?

No worries on answering. There's a good possiblity that was a rhetorical question.

----on track----

I'm not a womanly woman so to say. If anything, I barely reach the girl-mark before I come tumbling down from the metaphoric womanhood symbol of stepping in mommy's high heels. I tell you this to show you the impact of my current semi-psuedo depression over the loss of the shoes I held hostage in the "hold" area (think "layaway," Wal*mart shoppers) until some meany took them back to the floor and they got sold.

They were beautiful. Like little blue strappy cupcakes for my toes to lick at. They weren't modern, I'm certain. Out of date, for sure. They were on clearance. Yellow-ticket yummies. And now some size six twit is squishing her smelly toes in my shoes. Or maybe some very small preteen transsexual is, let's not leave out that option. Or maybe a big pawed dog. I dunno. I don't care. I just want my shoes back. My cute Mudd brand clearance priced cupcake tastey shoes.

While they might not be my first interest in shoes they are my first depression over not having them. It may seem petty, and this too shall pass, but for now I am happy to gripe and live in the sulking of the loss of my outdated tootsie huggers.

Besides, I'm going to Hedwig on Saturday.

Without my pretty, delicious shoes...

I obviously need a little more mope time.

I should look on some Knoxville Theatre Page and see what plays are coming next month that I can invest in. That will make me the taddest bit happy, I'm sure.

currently: all a-mope

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