of Salt.

You might need a whole salt lick if this blog sticks around for a while.

My name is Teresa.  I just turned 30.  I moved in with a man-boy for the first time 5 days ago, which may say a lot about me.  I don't know what.  Probably that I am a unfortunate looking heffalump with an extreme case of halitosis and anger issues, who just now intimidated a blind guy with a sinus problem into letting me crash at his house, then shrieked at him until he agreed we were in a relationship.  Probably. 

I work in a boy dominated industry, which has been very influential in my life - both the industry, and the men-folk that I work around (not in a filthy-slut-whore way.  Jeeze, look at you, drawing conclusions and you don't even know me.  Typical.)  I don't want to talk too much about it, cause I have a feeling I'll be saying not nice things sometimes, and not nice things are way more fun when said behind backs.  You know it's true.

It has been many years since I've written anything, so please forgive the poor grammar and all that shatner.  I'll try to improve if you try not to be an asshole about it.

Swearing.  I do it.

Drinking.  I do that too.  The old liver threatened divorce once, we went to counseling, and are still trying to work things out.  It's having it's revenge now though.  Instead of just a morning of hangover, it says, "NO! No longer shall you recover in a spry like fashion.  Now you shall lay about doing your best impression of a Salvador Dali clock, all the while bemoaning how you've treated me for TWO days.  HA! HA!  TWO!"  And I say, "Liver, did you google melty clocks just for that reference?"  And liver crosses arms, and haughtily says "I knew it the whole time.  I read books."

I am an impossible klutz.  A can't-have-nice-things klutz.  A will-break-it-in-ways-you-didn't-know-were-possible klutz.  For instance, the first complete day moved into man-friend's house, I got bleach on his shirt and smashed my head into a beam which caused me to drop my head and bang my chin on the coffee table I was carrying.  Wait I am not done.  At the end of the long day, as we sat on the couch drinking tea, talking about our new life together, the mug I was holding disintegrated, covering me with hot, hot chamomile.  MF (man-friend) stared at me for a long while then said, "please don't burn my house down."  He wasn't kidding.  He still isn't.  Every time I drop something, tip something over, bend the unbendable, smash into something, or light something on fire, he gets a helpless panicked look on his face that would be cute if it wasn't a reflection of my super human destruction abilities. 

Even though he isn't a real turtle, I'd probably hurt Tommy's feelings or possibly break him.  

Most of the time I lack life skills.  Cleaning doesn't get done, food goes bad, and procrastinating becomes a self multiplying thing (ie. I know I want to read a book instead of studying, but that's procrastinating, so instead I avoid reading the book by braiding and unbraiding my hair for an hour or 4).  Sometimes, communication using my words is tough.  So instead, I express myself with dinosaur noises and clawing action, as an expression of both anger and affection.  Don't know how to put that into words.  RAaAAAAARRGGWWWRRR maybe.  Or GRRAAANAAAAAAGNNNNNGGGER.  Or just grr. 

I guess that's enough of me telling you who I am.  Maybe I should just let you figure out that I am a bit of a mess on your own. I don't know where this blog is going, I think I'll just let it shape itself.  Hopefully at some point I'll figure out how to stop starting my sentences with "I".

TWAG