hophead

So, here I am drinking my coffee and sitting at work trying to remember what I had planned to write in my journal today. I had some fantastic deep thoughts running through my head last night as I was lying in bedbut that was last night and now I cant remember.

I used to think it was weird of people to collect coins and stamps and whatnot, but over the past 7 years I have somehow acquired a collection of boxes. I have hand carved wooden boxes, embellished boxes, boxes made from ivory (which I do not condone, but these were given to me as a gift, so what was I going to do? Throw them away?), boxes made from seashells, boxes from Paris, boxes from Jamaicalots o boxes, you know. Inside each and everyone one of these boxes I have placed memoirs of my life so I can remember moments in my history that I might otherwise forget.

Some of the things I have in my boxes:
An itty bitty picture charm with my baby picture in it. When my father passed away we had found it in a box of his on his dresser.
My baby ring.
A shotgun shell that reminds me of a trip I went on to Kentucky with my ex-boyfriend when I was 16. We were so in love
A red gel cap. The last one I ever bought before I decided I was never going to do acid again.
A Christmas gift tag from Steve, to: Slamber Amber.
My passport.
Quotes that I had written on tiny pieces of paper.
Small vials of Nag Champa oil.
Various lips rings and bar bells. (gotta keep them somewhere)

And, after a long time of putting nothing at all in those boxes, I added something last night.

It was an email I had received from a special someone, because just reading it made me feel special.

Awee, isnt that special. (I know, Im corny...)

Special Special, perhaps I could say that a few more times, huh?

Special
Special


Bable bable
Bitch Bitch
Rebel Rebel
Party Party
Sex Sex Sex
and dont forget the violence.

P.S. Thank you Manson for corrupting my youth with imagery of funky black hair, pale skin, and men in dresses.

But you know I love it

Okno more crazy rambling.

Byebye.