Yea Verily, Sex Toys Mentioned

I am this close to finally putting a pencil and paper in my bedside table.

I have spent the last three days trying my damnedest to remember what the hell I was going to write about. It came to me when I was dozing the other day, and I repeated three words to myself enough that I thought I would be able to remember.

Yeah, I remember the three damn words, alright.

chili cookoff compliment

Those three words have become the bane of my existence. I cannot for the life of me figure out what I had in mind when I chose those to represent the super genius post idea I came up with.


And you know, a friend of ours gave me, in my Christmas gift bag, a whole set of kitty cat covered tiny notepads that would be abso-freaking-lutely perfect to cram into my nightstand drawer next to the vibrators, nail clippers, and wasabi dark chocolate (we’re pretty kinky). But no.

Honestly, I have no idea what happened to the rest of the notepads, aside from the one I put in the purse that I haven’t been carrying since I got a wallet phone case.

chili cookoff compliment


Their miniature alliteration taunts me day and night.

Last night, while I tried to find a comfortable position to wrap myself around the ball of hatred that is my right kidney, they teased me, just out of reach on the tip of my brain.

Yesterday afternoon, while we wandered the grocery store, loading up on yogurt and buffalo sauce (don’t ask–or do; I made the bomb buffalo chicken mac-n-cheese last night).

Tuesday morning, while I perused Facebook, seeking signs of intelligent life and finding only Trump supporters.

chili cookoff compliment

If I type it enough will it come back to me?

It would not seem to be so.

I wonder if I’ll ever remember what I was talking about.

Probably not. Stupid chili.