Before landing on this page, you and I were only separated by a mere three degrees. Now we can be one on the web. That's not the definition of technological singularity but it should be.
With this tumblog, I promise kittens and balls of yarn for the kittens to play with. There will be some making out and a lot of hand-holding. I hope that when you are lonely and lost on the outmost corners of the interweb, you can come here and find yrself and feel the good vibrations. You are special and no one can touch that!
Your Pal Mal
Does She Love You?
If at Halloween you’re invited to a TV- and movie-themed party and she dresses up as Winnie Cooper and you dress up as Paul Pfeiffer, mainly because you already have the glasses, and at the party some guy who’s a dead ringer for Fred Savage saunters up, peels off his mole, and says, “Get lost, Paul, Winnie’s mine,” and you’re left standing there while the two of them go off dancing to the soundtrack from Forrest Gump, and when two hours later she finds you sitting by the punch bowl explaining for the umpteenth time that, no, you’re not supposed to be Woody Allen, she holds up a tie stolen from a passed-out Alex P. Keaton to her petticoat and redubs herself Annie Hall, and you Alvy Singer: She loves you. And, to be honest, I sort of love you, too.
