Martha's Day

Well, as we all know, I'm a positive weasel when it comes to matters of the heart, particularly when they bypass the ribs, but recently I've delved head first into the published pillow talk of a relatively well known author and have decided my mind, being soiled, needs a change. So how did these dewey worlds stir such an overhaul in my pot? Well, put as simply as I can make it, they showed hitherto cynical me why that peculiar emotion was, to quote an era, all you need, for this author of which I speak also began on the wrong side of our fundamental plague, thinking it a mere infatuation which had been hyperboled to oblivion by inane poets. This all changed, I soon discovered, when he met his then stranger, now wife, Mrs. Roo, and fell hills over mountains into what could only be described as love.

Unfortunately, I didn't have such a miraculous reason to change my morals; rather, I put my faith heavily onto someone else's miraculous reason. But a published author is a published author, and Mr. Roo, if nothing else, was that. And for the moment, I'm going to stick to his words like so much extra-strength name brand glue, my reasoning being that if I embrace this funny habit of ours face first, a wonderful woman will wind up in my clock. To this end, I even started opening my eyes fully on public transport to appear approachable to the fairer sex. A ride for a ride, if you will.

Those embittered by its trappings will no doubt find my prattlings to be further proof of my madness, but I'm hoping that those of the wiser persuasion, with their hearts wedged open in an inviting matter (or wedged shut by a hole-filling spouse), will embrace it with all the warmth of a lover and feed its creator's ego. Right now you are hearing the sound of crossed fingers.