I noticed yesterday that 100 people are following this blog. Years ago (for about two months) I did a blog of sorts on AOL (that's America On Line). It was more of a journal. I wrote something almost every day. I don't see myself doing that here. My thoughts and experiences aren't as interesting now as then. For instance, now I'm wondering about the real first names of my 100 followers. It would be fun (maybe) to have a list. In the old days I wrote about beer and boobs. For instance:
Journal: Boobs by Mat Twassel
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I have breasts on my mind at the moment. The train station has escalators down to the trains, and at the top just off to one side is the last-minute newspaper stand and next to the last-minute newspaper stand is the beer tub, which is always manned by a young lady. Today's young lady is attractive, as they usually are, and just as I walk by she bends down to plunge a can of beer further into the huge galvanized ice tub. She is wearing a scoop neck jersey sweater, and her bending presents her breasts most beautifully. Truly I feel almost faint. These are boobs. Modest breasts move me most as a rule, though I like all shapes and sizes. The beer woman's breasts are not actually hugely huge at all, but they have a lovely rounded-oblong animal-balloon sort of shape as they hang down, firm and full and beyond-belief creamy, swaying slightly in the snug but loose hold of her sweater shirt. I want them. Oh, how I want them. (They're on my Christmas list!)
As a teen I didn't like the word boobs; too vulgar it seemed. I also didn't care for tits or bosoms. But this woman's boobs have converted me. No, I didn't buy a beer. Even if I were one to buy train-ride-home beers, that woman's beauty is too scary, too much. But I wish I could let her know somehow how beautiful I think her breasts are. Maybe she knows; maybe she can tell from my stride. My brief glance to her eyes, devilishly bright brown full-breasted eyes, and quickly down... away. Sigh.
And what would I do with such breasts? Haven't really got that far yet.
--mat twassel 11/98