and if you say hide, we'll hide

Spouting Violets is private right now, because I'm halfheartedly looking for a new job and realized that if you google my email address it eventually brings you here. If you just google my name, the only things that come up are pictures of a blonde girl who is not me and that dumb blog post I wrote twenty-nine years ago for that nonprofit that shall remain nameless. (Yep, still mad about the typos. Not mad enough to ask them, again, to take it down - but, still pretty bitter. Stiiiill stewing.) "Why would they google your email address, Lindsay?" Because that's what I do when we're interviewing at the place where I currently work - you'd be VERY surprised at the types of discussion boards Google turns up when you google the email address on some people's resumes. You'll sure feel a lot of feelings. I know I do.

So anyway, it's private right now, but it won't be forever. Only for a little while. I know this, but you don't yet. Secrets, and ship lights. We'll meet in the morning.

I don't have many words right now, anyway. I'm working on making writing a priority again, because it's an important part of how I make myself be a real human, but I'm feeling a bit burrow-y of late. December feels ten days shorter every time it comes around, and the things I have and want to do at the end of each year seem to keep multiplying. My birthday is on Thursday, and by the next week I hope to have made a few decisions and perhaps have an answer or two.

In the meantime - David Bowie, huh? I think it's weird that I spent the night before he died playing vintage arcade games in the village and then going uptown to listen to "Let's Dance" and its ilk under a glowing Rubiks cube. And I know I am not alone in that some of the first sexual feelings I can remember having were for Bowie in The Labyrinth. Don't lie, broads. Don't lie. (Him, and the cartoon wolf from the Three Little Pigs Silly Symphony. OH HEY.) 

(And Eric from The Little Mermaid but duh.)