I reckon it's a good thing I live here and nowhere near the National Postal Museum, because if I did, I would be at every event they have. Imagine there being a letter writing social, you're invited, and then cannot go. That heartbreak is akin to being asked to the prom and your daddy says you can't go 'cause he doesn't know how to dance. Get it? Oh, never mind. The National Postal Museum is hosting a letter writing social. Read about it here:
http://www.postalmuseum.si.edu/museum/1b_calendar.html?trumbaEmbed=eventid%3D97881915%26view%3Devent%26-childview%3D. And listen to this!
"Retro pens, pretty paper, and mailable supplies are provided in this veritable letter-writing lounge.
"Wa-a-ah! I wanna go Mama!" Will someone who lives there go, and write me a letter while you're there? Use one of those retro pens and pretty paper. Mailable supplies are provided. You know my address. See? It's up there near the top. And yes, I am answering my backlog. Wanna see? Scroll down . . .
There! Five pieces of mail.
This one is almost finished.
A tight chest kept me awake last night. Was almost too afraid to fall asleep, in case I stopped breathing. How silly. How would I know if I even came close? A lack of oxygen decreases brain function. Now do you understand why I am the way I am? I can't help it. I say stuff that I might not say if my brain were oxygen-rich. So y'all have to find it in your heart to forgive me on the few occasions when I slip and skid. Hehe. Hell, everything else is deliberate and intended, so I admit it readily, and of my own free will. Some of the markers are to blame, too, so let's give credit where it's due. I do believe they're responsible for some of the creatures I draw. You should see my sketchbooks.
If I have ever freaked you out in a letter, then save it. Hold on to it in case you need to sue my estate later on down the road. Oh, yeah. I gave up cussin for Lent. I am not of the Lent-observing persuasion, but there's no harm in testing other beliefs, right? And last night I told two dirty jokes at dinner. We were celebrating the sale of another drawing. I had some of this . . . Scroll down one click.
Trust me. It was watered down. It's "fruited" sangria. That means there was one blackberry, a lone steroided strawberry, lots of ice and some kind of . . . Wait.
a Spanish drink of red wine mixed with lemonade, fruit, and spices.ORIGIN Spanish, literally ‘bleeding’; compare with sangaree.Even that little bit gave me a "bleeding" headache. I ordered it more for the color; to create atmosphere, and the idea of wine being great for a celebratory photo as proof that I can sip too. I believe I'd get sick if I silly swished it around on my tongue. The aroma though! Oh, it smelled like . . . My mouth watered at "smelled." It's probably a grand thing that I cannot drink, 'cause if I could I would probably write lots of drunken mail while eating drunken chicken and sipping "bleeding," with fruit. Then y'all would never write to me again. Or would you? If I were three sheets of paper in the wind, I might have my own writing social and have y'all over to my home. We'd write letters in the back yard, while drinking sangria and howling at the moon in the dark. That would be a letter writing social people!I still wanna go to the one at the museum. *sniff*