The first night of the DNC convention has me so pumped up, I could run a marathon. Truly. If it didn’t involve running or sweating, that is.
Can’t talk about it on Faceypages. Lord knows some Hillary haters will get butt hurt. And then I will have to ignore them out loud while plotting to fly to their swing states and tie them to their beds so they don’t write in Jill Stein on Election Day.
Speaking of Faceypages, mom was horrified that I reposted an 11-year-old photo that showed up in my Memories today.
I mean, yeah, I’m a good 70 pounds lighter today. But I loved the day and the people I was with. That was back when K from NC was Lachlan from Seattle, when M was Liv and when Neil was his real name, D.
Mine is the last blog standing. And those are what linked us before that day. D and I were neighbors. But none of us would have even known the others existed without our blogs.
And for one night only, the Internet met in the funkiest little restaurant in Old Town Alexandria.
Forgive me if I loved the smile on all our faces, even if my pudgy pork roast ass took up half the photo.
Here it is, along with an “after” shot from yesterday at a Boca beach. It’s nice to know that it’s possible to get better with age …
