Brenda G.'s blog

It is the question of sanity plays around and round like vinyl on a turntable inside of my head every other hour every other day.   On the odd hour on the odd day, I look and walk the talk of a milk-toast human.   I slip my knickers on one leg at a time, hook my bra in the front and turn it around, pull it up and reposition.  I slip on my 'Not Your Daughter's Jean's, zip up and button without breathing in, except  once a month when I am suffering the curse, and then I lay flat on my back inhale deeply until my water-retraining tummy is sucked all the wa