Dating Profile

I have gotten back into it at a manic pace that leaves me awfully and terribly tired and blue.  Work all the live-long day, try to be creative all night.  Eat a bad chicken dinner at nine-thirty and go to bed at midnight.  Wake up at five because of some sleeping or other disorder, get up and hurry to do the things you do before you go to an early meeting at the factory.  Meanwhile, the bills pile up on the floor unpaid.  Dishes pile up in the sink.  Unknown molds and funguses begin growing in the refrigerator.  Months go by, and I forget where I put things.  And so I book a trip out of town that I can't quite get ready for so that the stress levels spike.  That is when all the models I have contacted but never heard from decide it is time to shoot, and I want to so badly. . . .  Of course, I want to stay healthy and young, so I squeeze in the gym in the extra hours I have trying to make up for lost days until my knees swells and my shoulders don't want to be raised.  Meanwhile, my body aches with something else, too, and all I want to do is sit on the couch with my own true love.  But of course. . . at some point you give up on that, too.

That way lies madness.

I was lucky enough to squeeze in the Pamplona account as it played out day by day in accordance with the fiesta going on now. Today I would have written about what happened next when the group broke up, but there isn't time.  My body is heavy with a crazy liquid cement that flows through my bloodstream.  Somewhere deep in my nervous system, someone has injected a small seismic vibrator.  My hands shake.  I sweat.

I am tempted to post this as my profile on a dating site.