TO MINX ... OR NOT TO MINX

Recently, I have been blue. This year has sucked, utterly and truly.
I must have worked some bayou hoodoo on myself at the end of 2009 - I look back now and see myself, all shiny faced and happy, THIS WAS THE BEST YEAR, OMG, 2009, GOOD TIMES - and I want to slap my mouth shut! I cursed myself into boredom and self realization and now I am trapped in revelry.
And what have I learned?
I've learned that I haven't learned anything, which is the greatest lesson to learn of them all (figure that out). I've also learned that I purposely don't learn anything, so that I can keep things interesting for a little bit longer.
But most importantly, I've also learned that at this point in my life, there is one thing & one thing only that I care about: being minxual.
You heard me.
Minxual.
Let me explain.
Minxual is a calculated, complicated blend, brewed by the patron saints of pussy control. An attitude that is more street than sweet, it is comprised of the richest of textures (polyester, gravel, and rhinestones) and conjures memories of costume jewelry, everclear, and teased hair. A witches brew, if you will - a dash of sexy, a pinch of demure, a dollop of trollop, a hint (and a half) of bitch, and, most importantly, an innate knowledge of the manipulation of liquid eyeliner (that last part is non-negotiable).
Minxual is the true definition of a free bitch, baby.
I would like to think that I've always been a bit minxual - but it happens. We all lose our swagger, at some point or another. Like I said, in the hoodoo haze of 2010, I've become more thinkual and less minxual - every girl does it. Admittedly, while not typically a chickadee to be usually swayed by thoughts of babies and marriages, I have suddenly found myself, unbeknownst & against my own free will, metaphorically rooted in the ground like a tree that isn't going anywhere until someone decides to come chop me down, and I felt, well, like exactly that. Where was my lumberjack prince? After oh, a week of waiting like a widow at sea, a thought dawned on me - why not just minx out and STOP IT? I mean, who is worth waiting for, anyway? Everyone around me is getting hitched and spawning like rabbits, and I may be bored - but I ain't that bored.
Besides. There are worse things in life than being the Marilyn, right?
So I picked myself up, put on my heels, and touched up my eyeliner - and a minx was re-born.
TIIIIIMMMMBBBERRRR.

For further writing mania of the minx variety, please run along to MINXUAL.net. For all circus life & celeb lovin, continue to make yourself at home right here where you belong.