Thanks to all of you who have been leaving lovely comments lately. For some reason they all landed in my spam folder. I thought you were mad at me, so I was mad right back at you... I'm done with this bud-shit blogging, I said.
So it was a little bit embarrassing when I opened my spam folder and found all your sweet comments all tucked in and begging to be published. It was like Christmas in June. You were not mad and it was only a silly misunderstanding, hehe...
One of the hidden-then-found comments allowed me to discover artist Bridget Coux, who lives in France and paints the most precious little oil paintings. You can buy Bridget's paintings here. I want to own them all. I'm particularly smitten by her use of black.
Bridget has a whole series of birdies eating French pastries on Flikr here.
Meanwhile, I've replaced my hour or so of commenting on your blogs with exercise. I hope you're not mad that our relationship is turning into a one way street. I'm exercising everyday and I feel so good about it and because of it. I've lost some weight, not much but that's because I'm gaining muscles, right?
Things are good here. Very good. Or maybe exercising is helping my mood. It's a bizarre feeling to wake up in the middle of the night, and finding nothing to be anxious about (believe me i try). Of course there is guilt: my entire persona being defined around the guidelines of neurosis, self-doubt, struggle and confusion, I feel i should apologize for being happy. And a nagging thought: Am i still likable when things are going my way for once?
Oh screw it...
When you're happy and you know it clap your hands!
CLAP! CLAP!
