(or at bare minimum, I choose to curtsy).
Olivia refuses to write anymore until she receives her food and treats on a silver dish like she sees on TV. Women. (Taken with Instagram)
Wouldn’t it be a loverly walk? (Taken with Instagram)
Latest jackpot vintage find for etsy. (Taken with Instagram)
wouldn’t it be crazy sick if the world revolved around you?
wouldn’t it be crazy wonderful if the sky shot out neon hope at night, reminding you that going it alone was your choice and really isn’t all that tough? That lugging one suitcase instead of three gargantuan duffels of baggage isn’t worth a few nights accompanied by the warmth of another (‘sides you know heshe’ll snore, and you’ll have to elbow himher in the bony parts until they roll over)?
trust in that butterfly you forgot to feed—deep down. and always choose caladryl for poison ivy. and quit putting iodine in your baby oil, you orange windbag.
I could write one hell of a gem, here.
Love is all over the city!
An old radio my uncle restored.
A blog is best defined by the individual blogger, methinks. But one thing is certain—if there is no dialogue between bloguettes and bloggees, than we have a virtual room filled to the brim of people muttering to themselves, sadly and inevitably, centered round one topic.
Oh yes, I will be the first to admit that I find myself shrugging up against one of the four virtual walls and scratching my hair into a hornet’s nest of waves while I wonder if I have chosen the right topic, the right audience, and if my work is flowing naturally from my head to my fingers to my Microsoft word-pad.
Dr. Ottery was right. We must be commenting on blackboard in online classes, but also on fellow blogger’s sites, for fear of death by monologue. Or, in the least, to inform others on when they’ve hot a niche worth writing on.
Feedback, both a fun and tricky affair I have in workshops. My pops went into a speal, comparing blogging to fourth-grade-level writing. He’s correct—sort of. I then tried to explain the free writing form of blogging which did not go over well, to my dismay.
Oh. I must also tell you I am now (ahem) 2-5. yuck.
And I’ve been dizzy and nauseous as of late (err..Birthday of a Cinderella Year = limited posting). I apologize and intend to mend this. I know, blog world. I picture myself in the worst-type-of-lover category (ever). My blog is quite the lady, so I have naturally taken on the bf role and boy do i ne-glect her! She is just so demanding, what with her woman problems and needing coddled twenty four horas a day. She craves to be texted to sweetly, adorned with love letters and poetry every evening, and (most of all) if I don’t do all these and more, she’ll find solace somewhere else.
Oh, how her hair drips in layers, draping every curve. Clingy as all get out. And I tell you, I’m just sick in the head over it. I tell you!
Ahem, ahem. Now you may ASK*ME*ANYTHING! Send my regards to previous layout; sorry for the hate mail, Mr. Tumblr. My adoring fans (read: mom and pop) can post messages/comments/life-long-love-letters & I will reply, timely. So, POST AWAY!
AND you can photo reply…how gnarly is that?
© 2010 Lacey Jean Frye. All materials on this blog are copyrighted unless otherwise noted. This applies to any and all writings and photography on this site, unless otherwise noted. Please contact me before using anything here. If you would like to link to this site, please feel free. If you would like to linkback to a post here, please feel free. However, please let me know. Thanks a gazillion!
Wouldya wanna talk at me?
hit me up (I never say that) via e-mail:
ljfrye86 @ gmail (dot) com
If you get your own gmail account, I will chat regarding editing, elixirs, and Elle magazine (unless you are a creepster).
someone out there is loving this. loving to pretend they want you. yet, no more nancy drew leaving beaver models than a dog is keen on vegetables. not vexing out for personal gain, for why would a Denver rose have any old thing to gain shacking fools who’ll end up with some odd ounce of regret? and why no personal thrust onward, you say? am i just that lucky to read past bull hearts so often found behind a midsummer hot-flash of longing and unfamiliar tinges of anticipation? No, not in the slightest. The riddle’s simple and clean: I am the fool.