There is a bit of a conflict here.

Up until this point, sex was the driving inspiration behind every word I tapped onto the screen. There were days when I woke up and thought, “Shit. What the hell am I going to write about today?” Because there are days when a girl isn’t relating everything she thinks to sex. Not consciously, anyway.

So I would think and think and think, and say to myself, “You have your whole commute to come up with something, so think really hard.” Some of my favorite posts came out of the commute brainstorming sessions.

But now I don’t have to write about sex everyday, all the time, or try and relate every single thought I’ve ever had to sex.

There are funny stories I’d like to tell you, like the time we went to a stripper Christmas party and played movie trivia. I’ll probably tell it later.

But right now, there are a million other things to write about, like my penchant for earrings that are three inches long and two inches wide, the little anniversaries of my dad’s chemo stopping, his heart beating irregularly, his fall, and his hospitialization, which are ticking away like a bomb towards the anniversary of his death, like the anxious way I respond to people who appear vulnerable, the way I cry on cue when I see pictures of my niece.

And these are all things that I am arrogant enough to think you want to hear about. Actually, I’m scared that you don’t.

As a side note, I just saw a commercial for Domino’s Oreo Dessert pizza. Jesus. That is some serious shit.

So, I suppose, one should prepare for some very pensive, non-sexual shit that is all about me, the girl, and not me, the girl who writes about sex.

I can do that now that I don’t have an editor.

Although I do think that he reads these posts and thinks, “Shit, Mela, don’t you give these a once-over before you post them?”

Nope.

Bet you wish I’d give you the password, don’t you, Editor dear?