My name is not Susan

I think I may have digested the better portion of my creative juices along with that slice of cannoli cake.

I'm at a loss.

Meanwhile, all the other gay bloggers are out doing fun things like stripping or watching each other strip, while I'm holed up in my Easy Bake Apartment triple-checking our wedding registry for stray gifts and trying to manipulate Flickr into accepting 600 wedding photos at once.

It's like I've forgotten how to do anything that doesn't somehow relate to You-Know-What.

The good news is that in my therapy session earlier tonight, I was in the midst of making apologies for not allowing myself to simply enjoy the wedding and talk about how fun it was and how I love being married -- and instead rehashing the wedding-funeral analogy and trying to tap into the underlying sadness which seems to color any Significant Life Event and bemoaning the fact that I live so far away from my new favoritre person My Mother and generally Overthinking Things -- when my therapist interjected and told me, "But that's not who you are."

Which made me feel good, because it means that on the one hand, I'm kind of fucked up, but on the other hand, I'm a validated kind of fucked up.

Speaking of which, since Flickr is stonewalling my efforts at creating a comprehensive online multimedia virtual wedding tour, and since I miss my Mummy, here are a select few photos of my mother dancing with a bag on her head, me dancing like I should have a bag on my head, and both of us keepin' on keepin' on.

Apple? Fall? Far? Tree?