Numbers and I are friends-of-friends. We wave when we pass on the street but it’s not like we talk on the phone all the time. Numbers and Daria are great friends. She balances the family checkbook to the penny and the chitter chatter about little stuff. I don’t get it, myself. Siobhan keeps trying to explain Poor Impulse Control’s statistics to me. I get all squinty and confused and then a pig flies by when I understand something, like that – if I understand the numbers – about two hundred visitors a day fluff their tutus here at PIC, though about seven or eight dance in the swan chorus – the comments, if we must. Don’t be so literal!
I keep baking cakes and the visitors keep coming. How about you introduce yourself? Did we date? Have we traipsed around the net together? Are we kissin’ cousins? Simply gorgeous strangers?
My bet is you’re here for an outrageous reason and I’m dying to know what it is. Quench my thirst for knowledge, you wild charmer. Who are you, and what’s on your shinysparkly mind?