My feet hurt because I've just come back from the Spiegeltent opening gala, where I danced to bad lounge singing in my second most dangerous heels. My most dangerous heels proved too dangerous when I feel out of them whilst practice-dancing around the kitchen. Shut up, sometimes you need to practice-dance a bit so that you know exactly how constricting your skirt is or how liable you are to fall out of your shoes.
It's early morning now but I'm not even vaguely sleepy. I've been oddly jumpy these last few days, doing mad ballet-yoga around the house (sensing a theme?) and most likely driving my housemates and neighbours crazy. I have lovely neighbours who let me sit on their porch and drink their wine pretty much any time they are home, which definitely comes in handy when you're bouncing around the kitchen in need of company and sedation.
Somehow tonight, between the cabaret and the burlesque, the conversation turned to sex blogs, and in particular the incredible amount of chutzpah needed to write out every last details of your own private life. When I started this blog I intended to be anonymous, but clearly that didn't happen. Now I'm still trying to navigate just how much of my life I throw up here, in what detail, knowing that I am not anonymous and that several of my readers who think they are aren't either. I don't know. My feet hurt. I'm going to bed.
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1 comment:
fun to read about. Though no one can sustain it for too long. Just like anon blogs.
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