So believing in his newfound, Fab Five empowerment, the maxed-out Queen wedding planner was a-flippin' as I was fucking up the pending wedding reception's country club regal vibe by having the dining room's lights blazing for formal portraits. I disguised my paint-melt stare and, feeling holiday empathy/pity, reassured him that all would be absolutely fine by Show Time.
The bride wore a white cape.
And odd fingerless gloves.
I understood neither.
The groom wore his heart on his sleeve.
Their vibes, homemade, were truly touching and had my jaded ass all teary. Truly.
I left the gig and, in the fog, could not find my way out of the property. Half an hour later, with the Forester fog lights on, I had encircled the property twice, had gone down some false starts and had nearly driven off the road - twice.
I revisited fellow Libra pal into the wee hours and would not give him the roadmap to this blog. He threatened Google search. I said, most jauntily, and don't forget the J. You forget the J and you are shit outta finesse.
So, Your homework assignment follows:
Link to here and get busy with your summation.
Yours Truly's Nutshell (not bombshell):

Simultaneous Americano and grad school addictions. Slight derailment of career. Love and art experiments. Less booze, more workouts, thinner moi.

All My.