Thursday, June 28, 2012

Whoseywhatsit Thursday with a twist of lime.

I suppose you can use lemon if you'd prefer, but I'm a lime kind-of-gal.

Life is full of obstacles, hurdles, twists and turns. I've spoken many times about the importance of setting goals, having a finish line. But each finish line should bring about new and bolder goals. The purpose of setting goals is to grow.

Keeping this in mind, lets play a little campfire game. I'll start a story and each of you add to it in the comments and we'll see how much we grow.

As the road twists and winds before me, I stop for a moment to take a breath. Lavender and cedar whirl around my head, soaking my pores in the memories I must leave behind.
'K, now your turn. 

Have fun with this. There are no right or wrong paths this story can take. It's all up to our growth.


  1. But leaving is something I have to do. I cannot linger here with the beauty and light, knowing on some deep level, that I haven't earned it. Sighing, I put one foot in front of the other, leaving a crumb of my heart behind me with every step.

  2. Maybe someday I'll make it back here to the south of France. Like when CNN announces that the lying slut, Charlene LaPont (who stole Henri right out from under my nose), is arrested for international terrorism. You can't be as evil as Charlene and not eventually cause damage on a global scale, right? But until the day Charlene is safely behind bars (or otherwise incapable of stealing my would-be boyfriends), I think I'll stay put back in America. At least there I speak the language.

  3. I wonder if Henri will miss my macaroons. Or my tiramisu. Good lord, how that man loves his desserts. Charlene may have a spectacular body--but can she make a creme brulee with a perfectly crackling burnt sugar topping? I don't think so.

  4. It was back to America for me, back to the miserable Chicago spring, back to cheap wine and neon orange cheese. I hail a taxi, and the cab pulls up next to me. I hop in.

    "Airport, please." I have my purse, I have my computer. My clothes can rot in Henri's closet. I don't want to think about him any more, or carry back reminders of what we had. I lean my head on the taxi's window, soaking in my last drive through Paris.

    Au revoir, Paris.

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  6. Inside the cool confines of Air France, I shift around my seat, trying to find the most comfortable position to last a few hours at least. The flight to New York is long. And lonely.
    I snatch my backpack from the carpeted floor, and shove my hand inside, digging around for my novel. My hand comes up empty. I thrust my hand once again, fishing around, then shove my face in, searching the dark interior, and groan.
    I must have left it in Henri's appartment.
    Great. Nothing for entertainment.Just my thoughts and of course, Henri and Charlene, haunting me the whole damn way to JFK. Those thoughts I have fought so had to block rear their multiple heads, ready to attack, shattering my resolve into pieces.
    A horse-like cough on my right yanks me out of my bubble of self pity


Breaths that matter...

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