On harmony

I just wrapped up performances of a musical revue I was in, likely the last time I'll be in a show until after the jaw surgery I'm waiting for. It makes me a bit sad, because singing and performing are such a huge part of who I am. It's incredibly cathartic. You take deep breaths with your diaphragm and push your emotions out of your body and into the air, filling a room with the sound of your soul, showing everyone exactly who you are.

And it is that - an expression of your true self. Something happened during this particular show that made me even more sure of this.

The audition was about a month ago. I decided to ditch the bump and grind routine and instead sang a mediocre version of "Another Suitcase in Another Hall" from Evita. Mediocre because I hadn't sung since February (aside from karaoke and in the shower) and I was out of practice. It was okay, but it certainly didn't show the director what I was capable of.

That's why I was surprised when he not only cast me, but also handed me the most difficult song in the show, a duet of "Pie Jesu" from Requiem, where I was to sing the harmony alongside a woman who has been singing so long she's practically a professional. I was flattered, honoured, and absolutely terrified. I ran screaming to my voice teacher, whom I hadn't seen in months.

We practiced and practiced and practiced until I knew that harmony backward and forward. But when I tried to practice it as a duet with the woman singing the melody, it all fell apart. I kept losing my part and singing wrong notes, and having to stop and start again. I couldn't figure it out. I mean, I knew this song. Why couldn't I sing it with her? Why couldn't I find my notes? Why wasn't it working?

"You have to stop listening to her," my voice teacher finally said. "If you listen to her, you'll get sucked into the melody and lose your part. Just sing your part as though it's a solo."

And then, it all clicked. On so many levels. Until recently, I had always been the person who adapted to other people. Who went with the flow. Who let other people decide what we were doing. Who tweaked her opinions when others disagreed so she won't rock the boat. Who would do just about anything to make sure that everyone liked her. I listened to the melody and reacted to it, adapting my song so it would fit with what everyone else wanted.

But this, this was a different way of thinking. Even though I was singing harmony, I had to act like a soloist. I had to block out the melody and sing my part like it was all that mattered. And in doing that, the song would be stronger and sound better. I could have harmony without sacrificing my expression, my voice.

So, I took my voice teacher's advice. I went up on that stage, sang my "solo" alongside the awesome soprano lady's "solo" and we nailed that motherfucker. Hearing and feeling two ethereal voices blend like that is unlike anything I've experienced. Two strong, individual voices that, when put together, made something even more beautiful than they could have apart.

This is the way I want to live my life from now on, what I've been moving toward for the last number of years. This is who I am, and I'm not compromising it for anyone.

Delurk, mo-fo

Hello, dear, sweet Internets. I know you're feeling all kinds of safe and distant at your work and home computers, but you do know I can see you, right? I know you're there, but I don't necessarily know who you are. Yet, you know me. Or at least you know a bunch of my stories. And I'm cool with that, because I choose to do this, right? But it would be nice if those of you who swing on through left a little note once in awhile letting me know what you think of all the craziness that is the Saviabella blog.

(That Girl suggested I change the name of my blog to Savia's House of Cock. Kinda catchy, but probably would end up limiting my topics somewhat. Because I like to talk about vulvas and breasts, too, you know.)

Some other blogger types were feeling kinda lonely, too, so they created The Great Mo-fo Delurk campaign for October 3. It's easy. All you have to do is leave a comment on the blogs you read. It doesn't have to be anything major - just let us know you're here. And I promise to do the same for the blogs I visit, too.

If you want one of these fabulous buttons for your blog, visit Schmutzie and pick up the code there (and maybe even comment on her post, thanking her for making them!) There are eight pretty colours to choose from. That Schmutzie, she thinks of everything.

Happy delurking!

He stands on guard for me

Remember when Madam Diva sent me her breast in the interoffice mail? And I challenged Neil to send me a watercolour of his talking penis? And then he said he would, but didn't? And then I twitter taunted him and called him a watercolour cock tease? Well, he came through (so to speak), just for me. Observe:

It's a happy penis. Who's all patriotic and stuff. And he's even wearing a tie (either that, or he's got some kind of nasty infection. I'm going with the tie.) You've outdone yourself, my friend. I shall never twitter trash talk or doubt the talents of your talking penis ever again.

Anyone else feel like sending me watercolour art of your naughty bits? Maybe I could start a blogroll...

In keeping with the bird theme...

Another dear friend sent me this in response to the birdhouse quote. It makes me smile and bop. I love my friends.

A little birdhouse in your soul

I've been going through a rough time lately, and a dear, sweet friend of mine gave me the following advice: "Make a little birdhouse in your soul. And while you're at it, keep the night light on inside the little birdhouse in your soul."

And then, he sent me this video. I hope it makes your day, too.

Incestuous Italian cousin lesbian porn

Part two of my guest post whoring is over here at Schmutzie, in case you were wondering how the whole incestuous cousin thing turned out.

Let me know if it was worth the wait.

Chick crush du jour

Found at Feministing.

Samantha Bee, will you do me?

Fucking ninjas

A little video pour vous. Idea stolen from Schmutzie.

Interoffice breast

When I told Madam Diva about my vulva painting, she said, "Hmmm...I wonder if I could do that?" You see, she'd been messing with paint for awhile, and was getting pretty damn good at it. So, I asked her if she'd paint me a breast. She said she'd do me one better and paint me her breast. I was down with that.

And she did. Like that night. She called me up the next day:

Diva: It's done. I sent it to you in the interoffice mail.
Savia: Uh...you do know that other people open my mail for me, right?
Diva: What?
Savia: Yeah, there's a person who opens everyone's mail and distributes it.
Diva: Oh my God. They're going to see my breast!
Savia: Don't worry - it's probably only Carmen or maybe Mary, or - oh God, I hope it's not Darren!
Diva: OH MY GOD!!

So, we waited. One day. Two days. The weekend. And then, today, it arrived:

Pretty fucking awesome, huh?

Carmen was the one who opened the envelope, but she didn't look inside. However, the breast was so pretty, that I had no choice but to Show Her My Tit.

It was the least I could do. Hey, not everyone is lucky enough to have a friend who sends boobs interoffice.

Thanks Diva! It's on my living room wall, matted in black in a black wood frame.

So, who's next. Neil, any chance you'll be sending me a watercolour talking penis in the future?

Nostalgic food blogging

My dad was born in Italy. That meant that there were a lot of things about my childhood that were...different. For instance, they don't have Hallowe'en in Italy, so the Trick or Treating concept was lost on my father. What they did have in Italy, however, were children living in poverty who begged people for money and food. So, when he saw kids going door to door asking people for candy, he said, "We can afford candy. My children don't have to beg. If they want candy, we will buy it for them." So, I was never allowed to go out for Hallowe'en. I also wasn't allowed to go to friends' houses for sleep overs: "You have your own bed. Why would you need to sleep at someone else's house?"

Sigh.

His Italian heritage also meant that he ate a lot of things that people would think were weird. I know I did. I've written about the rabbit (tastes like chicken) and the traumatic experience with the live eels (we thought they were our pets until he chopped their heads off and fried them up), but there was one thing that my dad used to eat that has intrigued me as of late.

My mom had a garden where she grew her own vegetables and herbs, one of which was zucchini. When the plant started flowering, my dad would get her to pick the yellow flowers off, dip them in egg and fry them up for him.

I thought this was disgusting. He was eating flowers? I put them in the same category as the eels and refused to try them.

This spring, perhaps because I was preparing for my own trip to Italy, I began wondering about what those flowers would taste like. It didn't seem like a gross idea anymore - it sounded kind of cool. I wanted to try it. But where to get the flowers? It's not like you can buy them from a store - you have to know someone with a garden who can pick them off the vine at the opportune time.

My mom hasn't had a garden for years and years. But I figured she was my best bet. I begged her to plant just one zucchini seed, so I could try the flower delicacy for myself. Surprisingly, she bit. I think it's because she knows how hard it was for us to grow up without our father and to continue to be cut off from our Italian heritage (he died when I was 10).

Not too long ago, she brought over the first batch of flowers. I dipped them in egg...

...fried them up...

...sprinkled them with salt and pepper and tried them for myself.

They tasted like...zucchini. Only in flower form. They were really good. Now, every few weeks, mom brings me another baggie of the precious flowers. Kind of like a drug dealer. And I must say, I'm hooked.

But don't worry, there will not be a sink full of live eels in my kitchen anytime in the near future.

I think.

The first time is the sweetest

I'm all dead inside! Tee hee, tee hee.

Last post's censoring and uncensoring [and recensoring and reuncensoring - read the comments for a play-by-play] by photobucket got me reminiscing about the first time I ever got censored.

Ah, the memories. The funny thing is that it was all over that plastic whore, Barbie.

Before you start jumping to conclusions, no, I wasn't an uber badass kid who got busted for making my Barbies perform obscene sex acts on each other.

(Well, I did make them perform obscene sex acts on each other, but for the record, they were prostitutes, so it was their job and they were getting paid for it. Also, they weren't really lesbians - I just didn't have a Ken because my brother had decapitated him and ripped all of his limbs off so he was nothing more than a torso, so I had to pull Cindy's hair back and dress her in Ken's old clothes so that the prostitute Barbies would have a John to fuck. Oh, and also, I didn't get caught, so this is really just an aside and has nothing to do with the topic of the day.)

No, this Barbie censorship was while I was in university (the first time), about 10 years ago.

It was the end of the semester and our final group project was to put together a television show that would air on the local cable network. We chose our stories, wrote and researched them, shot them, and worked with a professional video editor to cut them. All in one day. Two days in a row. This was our chance to see how it worked in "the real world." When the second show was complete, we were going to have a party at a local bar to watch it.

I needed two story ideas. The first one I did was pretty straightforward - I covered the campus memorial for the victims of the Montreal Massacre, which is commemorated every year on campuses across Canada. The second story was a little harder, though, because I wasn't sure of what to do. And then, something jumped out at me.

It was a story about how M@ttel was changing Barbie's proportions so her body would look more like teens' bodies - smaller boobs, thicker waist and thinner hips. Sure, she'd still look like a freak of nature, but a different kind of freak - one that would look good in hip huggers.

I thought, okay, they're changing her body. But did they consult with her about this before proceeding? What does the woman behind the plastic oversized jugs think about this? Clearly, I had to get to the bottom of this.

So, I went home, searched through my closet and grabbed my old Barbie collection, a video camera and one of my classmates.

My concept was this: interview Barbie. Get the goods from the source. The video began with me, deadpan, explaining the new development and introducing the interview. We set it up so viewers would assume the interviewee would be an expert on women's studies, but when the camera zoomed out, it was a Barbie doll on the couch next to me (controlled and voiced by my quirky classmate.)

I asked soft-hitting questions and received inane answers:

Savia: How do you feel about the fact that they're changing your proportions, Barbie?

Barbie: It's okay. I needed to lose some weight anyway. I was getting kind of chunky. [giggle giggle]

Savia: Do you really think you are an appropriate role-model?

Barbie: Yes. I am proof that girls can be anything they want to be - like a doctor, an Olympic athlete, a model and a mommy - all at the same time! [giggle giggle]

Savia: I hear this change is to make you look more like "real women." Are there other developments underway that will make you a more realistic role model for young girls?

Barbie: Yes. We are launching a new line of ethnic dolls. I have one of my friends here today, as a matter of fact. [Another white, blonde, blue-eyed doll pops up from behind the couch.] It's Anglo-Saxon Barbie! [giggle giggle]

Anglo-Saxon Barbie: I'm wearing a wedding dress to show every girl's ultimate goal in life to find the perfect man and get married. [giggle giggle]

Savia: I see. Well, our time is almost up. Is there anything you'd like to add, Barbie?

Barbie: Yes. Some people have been saying some things about my Ken and I need to set the record straight. Just because a guy has molded plastic hair and great shoes doesn't mean he's gay...not that there's anything wrong with that. Also, there's nothing wrong with dating a eunuch.

We killed ourselves laughing when we were shooting and editing the piece - it was a fun take on a "news" item and it also served as social commentary and a change of pace from the serious stories my classmates were doing. The guy helping us edit it got a kick out of it, too - in fact, I ran into him years later and he was still talking about it.

At the end of the day, we went to the bar to wait for the show to come on. It was to air on the lame local cable channel, so the programming right before ours consisted of scrolling pictures of local kids' Christmas art. We watched the warped-looking snowmen and Santas for awhile and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.

The show didn't come on.

As we watched the pictures begin to repeat themselves, we began to wonder what was was up. My professor called the cable station to find out. I watched her go from quiet to ranting to swearing to slamming down the phone.

They pulled the show. They pulled the entire show because of something Barbie said. The contentious line was "not that there's anything wrong with that" because it "went against Family Values." Apparently, the local channel was run by a bunch of religious fundamentalists who thought there was something wrong with that.

So, my entire school got censored because a plastic doll quoted a Seinfeld episode.

Suddenly, something that everyone thought was fun became something entirely different. I felt violated by the cable company's decision, but also incredibly guilty because something I had done meant that all of my classmates' hard work wouldn't see the light of day.

The controversy polarized the class. My prof was incredibly supportive and most of my classmates stood behind me and thought the cable company was being ridiculous. One even scheduled an early-morning meeting the next day to arrange a protest of the cable company and for awhile, it seemed that we would actually get to make the news and raise awareness about the cable company's homophobia. However, a few classmates came to the meeting with their own agenda. They turned on me, accusing me of making a mockery of our profession and making our school look bad. They wanted to sweep it all under the rug, and their presence at the meeting was enough to diffuse the revolution.

I felt so betrayed, because I considered these two people to be my friends. I went home and cried my head off for a few days, becoming depressed and feeling utterly alone. It didn't matter that my other classmates were calling and being so great, all I could hear was the negative words of the minority. I made myself physically ill over it and ended up missing one of my final exams, almost failing out of the entire program as a result.

At the time, it was traumatic and difficult. I was used to getting along with everyone, to being the good student with the really high grades, to doing whatever it took to appease people and not rock the boat. And it was all falling apart.

Now, I wear that censorship badge with a sense of pride. These days, if I'm pissing people off and making them uncomfortable, I figure I'm doing something right.

Savia gets censored (is anyone surprised?)

So...last night, I uploaded my vulva painting to photobucket so I could use it as an avatar. This morning, I posted a comment on Schmutzie's site and instead of my lovely painting, the above graphic was displayed.

I took a look in their Terms of Service, and they don't allow any images that contain "nudity or pornography."

Apparently, they didn't think it looked like a flower at all.

Bastards.

Guilty pleasures

As stolen from Abigail.

1. Jack Bauer, the fictional character, not the actor behind the fictional character. (He's so damaged, that Jack. I want to save him. Can you tell I'm the daughter of an alcoholic?)
2. Stephen Colbert (hot, hot, HOT!)
3. Beyonce (work the thighs)
4. Justin Timberlake (mmmmmm)
5. Hot cousins (I'll get around to the next incestuous cousin entry eventually, I promise)
6. The Rock Chick (while alternately thinking of Jack Bauer, Stephen Colbert, Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and the hot cousins.)
7. Flirting with my friends' husbands. The cute ones (the friends and the husbands.)
8. Poutine
9. Phone sex
10. Staying in my PJs all day on a Saturday and watching the TV shows that I taped all week with my VCR that I like to pretend is a TiVo but it's not.
11. Ordering bandera bread from Boston Pizza (with a large side of creamy tomato sauce instead of the Santa Fe sauce on the side. It's greasetacular) and paying the overpriced delivery fee so I don't have to get out of my PJs.
12. Telling people I'm going to join the gym next week...every week. Ordering more bandera bread instead.
13. Dancing like a hooker in my living room.
14. Swearing like a mothertrucker.
15. Musical theatre. All of it. Even the crap.
16. Breasts
17. Cheezy chick flicks
18. Grey's Anatomy
19. Trying to sing harmony along with the songs on the radio. Trying.
20. Burlesque
21. Retail therapy
22. Gossip
23. Facebook

Shut your fucking face cousinfucker

As promised in my last post, here's some guest post action over at Schmutzie's pad about an encounter with my incestuous Italian cousin. Stay tuned, there is a part two.

Meme of five

Almost two months ago, the talented and fabulous Knuckle Toes tagged me in a meme. I was too busy running around trying to get things ready for my European trip, so I wasn't able to get around to it until now. So, here you are, KT, just because I can't bear to let you down (like you give a fuck, except that you do):

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Fighting off my incestuous Italian cousin. (Schmutzie's asked me to do some guest blogging for her, so you'll hear this story in the near future on her blog, I promise.)

What were you doing one year ago?

Discovering happiness and self-acceptance for the first time in my life.

Five snacks you enjoy:

1. Dark chocolate
2. Peaches soaked in red wine
3. Tomatoes with olive oil, wine vinegar and feta cheese
4. Greek cheese drenched in brandy and lit on fire (mmmm...flaming cheese)
5. Cherries

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:

1. All That Jazz - Chicago, The Musical
2. Pie Jesu - Sarah Brightman, Requiem
3. Coffee Stain - Sarah Harmer
4. Sweet Ones - Sarah Slean
5. Striptease - Hawksley Workman

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

1. Give most of it away to arts organizations and socially progressive charities.
2. Make sure my mom actually had a retirement fund so she doesn't have to work until she dies.
3. Quit my job and go back to school full-time to get my PhD.
4. Hang out in Italy with my awesome Nonna.
5. Grab a bunch of my friends and go on a crazy trip around the world.

Five bad habits:

1. Pushing the envelope until it tears.
2. Letting my mouth get ahead of my brain.
3. Refusing to cook or clean.
4. Becoming friends with people who end up flipping personalities on me.
5. Letting other people's shit get to me.

Five things you like doing:

1. Singing
2. Swearing like a mothertrucker.
3. Cuddling with my satanic pets.
4. Fucking other people's blogs.
5. Curling up with The Rock Chick.

Five things you would never wear again:

1. A white sweatshirt with Garfield the cat saying, "I hate Mondays."
2. Stirrup pants.
3. Guns 'n' Roses concert T-shirt with a fingerless pleather glove and backcombed crimped hair.
4. Skintight jeans that could only be zipped up with a pair of pliers while lying down on the bed and holding your breath 'til you turned the same colour as the damn jeans.
5. Separates with the same pattern on them (i.e. tiny yellow flowers. Blech!)

Five favorite toys:
1. The Rock Chick.
2. The Rock Chick.
3. The Rock Chick.
4. The Rock Chick.
5. Superstar.

Fuck this blog

Savia's at the pub and kind of drunk because she's had like a whole half a beer or something (I wish I were exaggerating, but this is pathetically true.) She meets Smyrish.

Savia: Oh, my God! I want to fuck your blog. Not you, though you seem very nice and cute and stuff, but it's just that I want to fuck your blog!
Smyrish: How would you even do that?
Savia: I don't know, but when I figure it out, I am totally going to FUCK YOUR BLOG!!!
Smyrish: Thanks.
Savia: But if your blog is going to fuck other people, just make sure it lets me know because then, I will use a condom the next time I fuck it, or alternatively, I could decide to stop fucking your blog and just be friends.
Smyrish: I will definitely let you know.
Savia: Deal!

Seriously, read his blog. But if you need to fuck it, please be respectful and use protection. I don't want to end up with some kind of a computer virus or something. I'm just sayin'.

A decent proposal, part two

Josh sped out of my life on the Piccadilly line.

This is part two of the story I started here.

I left London the next morning with a smile still on my face from the romantic encounter. I knew he'd email, but I wasn't sure what would come of it. A few days later, I got a cute little note that said something along the lines of: "Hey, it's me, your future husband, Josh. LOL. Just thought I'd drop you a line to say, 'hey.'" I thought that was pretty sweet, but didn't respond, as I didn't have a lot of time at the Internet cafe. Then, a few days later, I got this:

Hey, I just thought you were probably traveling and stuff so you wouldn't be online all the time. I feel really weird, because I have been thinking about you off and on since I met you. I mean have you ever had that feeling like something just clicked. I usually don't just start talking to a girl that I don't know, hold her hand and ask to be able to keep in contact with her. I mean it's just a couple things, you were very nice and sweet. You seemed artsy, but you said you read books to analyze them. That is sooo attractive to me. I don't know why.

I thought I should tell you about myself but I really don't know what to tell. I hope you felt the same weird little spark I did. I think you did because you gave me your email. I don't want to lie and say that you're all I think about, but I am definitely interested in seeing what happens, and I want you to know if it does click I would really have no problem moving to you!

I really hope to hear from you soon. Ask me a lot of questions so I can tell you about me. I am not too good at talking about myself. Oh and tell me all about you! I will probably write a couple more times if you don't respond in the next week or so since I know how it is getting around in Europe and everything.

Josh

Uh, wow. I certainly wasn't expecting that. I was checking my email on an extremely slow dial-up connection at my cousins' place in rural Italy. Ella (hot twin Italian cousin #1), who was sitting next to me, asked why I was blushing. I told her the story and her eyes lit up.

"But what about Superstar?" she asked.

Exactly. What about Superstar? What the hell was I doing even considering this guy when I had someone at home who loved me? Sure, we were on a break, and the distance was creating all kinds of problems for us, but he deserved some respect. He deserved for me to think carefully about all of this before I started corresponding with some miscellaneous guy who fell for me within five minutes of meeting me on the London tube.

So, this is what I wrote back:

Hey Josh,

Thanks for the very sweet email. I am in rural Italy right now, so I won't have many opportunities to check my email, so please don't be offended if you don't hear from me until mid-August.

Yes, I definitely felt something, too, but you have to understand that I need to find out what is going on with my boyfriend - we took a break before I left so he could figure out what he is doing with his life, so I have to give him that chance. You seem really great, so I hope we can talk and keep in touch regardless of what happens.

Take care,
Savia

I hoped that would send a pretty strong message about where I was at, but it seemed Josh, like a lot of people, only focused on what he wanted to hear:

Well thank you for confirming what I felt, I was excited to hear the same thing. I wish there was a number I could call you at, since I have a chance to buy international calling cards. To be honest, I hope your boyfriend says no because then I would have my chance with you. I know I don't know you that well, but I am really interested in trying something that is long-term. You know, I am tired of dating. I would like to settle down if that doesn't freak you out...

I didn't know what to think. He wasn't freaking me out at all. Because the vibe I had gotten from him in London was not one of desperation. The feeling I got was that this was the first time he had really connected - clicked - with someone in that intangible, special way. And I knew exactly what that was about, because I had already been through it with Superstar.

I had told Josh that I couldn't write until mid-August to buy me some time to figure out how I felt about the whole thing. While I was in Italy, I kept turning it over and over again in my head. Sure, it was exciting and romantic and felt like something right out of a movie. But you can't base a relationship on the fact that you have a great meeting story. And if I were frustrated with my current long-term relationship situation, why would I jump from that into another one that would be even more difficult because it would be not only long-distance, but cross-border?

Sure, we had chemistry (for five minutes) but when I thought back to the conversation, it was all about me. He had asked a lot of questions and I had done a lot of talking, so he knew a lot about me, but I knew almost nothing about him. All I knew is that he worked somewhere where he had health insurance, had been to Paris and London on a trip, was flying to Chicago, though that wasn't where he lived, and likes musical theatre. I didn't know what he did for a living, how old he was, or anything else. Because I hadn't asked. I was too busy basking in his adoration of me.

It's easy to get intoxicated by adoration. I went through an entire relationship based on the guy putting me on a pedestal. I never found him very attractive physically, but I was in love with the image of myself that was reflected through his gaze. He told me everyday that I was gorgeous, smart, talented, amazing, inspiring, radiant. That he couldn't believe the universe had brought us together. That he wasn't worthy of me and I was too good for him. In the end, he proved himself right. Because it was all words. Smoke and mirrors distracting me from the fact that he was never around and had another woman on the side the entire time we were together. The problem with pedestals is that it hurts a hell of a lot more when you fall from that height. No matter how gorgeous, smart, talented, amazing, inspiring and radiant you are.

And while I'm sure Josh is nothing like Mr. Idiotstick ex, it was still the same dynamic. And the reality is, I don't want to be put on a pedestal. I don't want someone who worships me. I want to be with an equal, a partner, a soul mate.

I wanted Superstar.

So, after I got back to Canada, I wrote Josh this:

Hi Josh,

Thanks for thinking of me. I wanted to write to let you know that my partner and I are off the break and are planning on working things out. So, I guess you know that means no Canadian health care for you ;)

I just wanted you to know that I wish you the best - you seem like a really sweet guy and you deserve someone amazing who will treat you well. You have some really nice energy about you, and I am of the belief that like attracts like - you will attract someone who matches you as long as you're true to yourself and your values, are honest about who you are, and are fearless about putting yourself out there and taking risks with your heart. I think you're doing that, so it's only a matter of time before you feel that amazing connection with someone who lives a little closer to you than Saskatchewan.

Take care of yourself, and don't settle for anything less than magic.

Savia

I should probably mention that another reason why I knew Josh wasn't the one for me was that his emails made me twitch. I've edited and cleaned them up for the blog for two reasons:

1. The first time I read them, I was so blinded by the romance of our encounter that I didn't notice the multitude of typos, spelling mistakes, lack of capitalization and punctuation, and all around sloppiness of them. I wanted you to read them the way I did the first time, so your opinion of him would not be affected by his writing.
2. If I post that on my blog, it will make me twitch for days. Days! Seriously, I can not handle that shit.

But, just for you, I will post his final email to me, unretouched. Although, I will twitch for days as a result, even though it's not nearly as bad as the other ones were. But you've waited this long for the story, so it's only fair, my sweet Internets.

Well I am happy to hear things are working out for you guys.... but sad at the same time, I kin dof figured it would work out for you. I do want you to know if for some reason it doesnt work out I will be here! I dont expect on dating anyone for awhile, like i said it is hard for me to get interested in someone. but yeah I hope we can stil be friends keep in touch and see hoe our lives unfold!

I hope he finds what he's looking for.