Like Something Death Brought With Him In His Suitcase

(INTJ)

Ah yes. Who am I and why do I feel entitled to publish my opinions on everything for the whole world to see?

I am nobody. I am a housewife who has two dogs, a mortgage and a collection of stuffed monkeys. I’m a happily-married woman in Middle America whose resume reads like the great yawn of life. Nothing too impressive was done by me. I’m just here to get by.

There are mornings I’d rather stay in bed. And then there are days that I put Meat Loaf in the stereo and crank it loud enough to blast the slut’s wool from my soul.

I consider myself a Christian, and I’d like to think that God does too. Of course many of the commenters on my posts will disagree. That’s their prerogative.

I consider myself politically conservative. My brother thinks I’m a communist. This of course means that I’m probably more centrist that I admit to myself. When I’m alone at night I consider myself a libertarian. Fortunately I also consider myself a libertarian when I’m among a large crowd of people, so unlike most politicians I do have an internal consistency about my ideology.

I love computer games, especially the strategic ones.

If I think of more stuff to tell you, I’ll let you know. Until then, you can read the blog. Or not.

Some recently asked me which song most defines me.  I have a hard time narrowing it down.  But I often default to a few:

“Ripple” by the Grateful Dead

“Watching the Wheels” by John Lennon

“Hard Times Come Again No More” by Stephen Foster

and most importantly  “The French Inhaler” by Warren Zevon

Loneliness and frustration
We both came down with an acute case
And when the lights came up at two
I caught a glimpse of you
And your face looked like something
Death brought with him in his suitcase