quickley

Any male who's had the privilege to encounter me in intimate moments will attest to the fact that my fascination with facial hair is downright animalistic. Not unlike dogs to each other's butts, or moths to flame, I will, if allowed, peruse every follicle with the tip of my nose (the widely under-used 11th finger) and note the Starry Nights that swirl around on your face. Is that weird?

The fascination, of course, leads to the frequent acquisition of red, raw, weeping chins and peeling noses. What's a girl to do? Slather my face in vaseline before every make-out? No. This is not universally attractive solution. There's a delicious amount of grinning and bearing it going on. Life is good. There is the delicious company of a perfectly jugglable number of absolutely fantastic, warm, sexy, very real men. Serious crushes developing on the world's most fascinating ladies. Moments of love at first sight, Monday morning champaign brunches, grins and giggles, melting like processed cheddar, and hugely important, and sudden movements of the heart abound. I am so happy to be here.

Recent migration to the Village have left me surrounded by friendly pure-laine homeless old men, and pretty punk faces, in a world where gender is irrelevant. Life does get better, the further East you go. I think I'm going to like it here. My apartment is Hot. HOT, I say, as warmed by the good hearts and company that have already swung through, and have established residence here. We are perfectly balanced, we four (Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water Signs, each.) and laugh and play and eat en-famille. We wonder, we wonder, should we be waking up?

I am the luckiest girl in Montreal.