dibs on the dylan...

Sometimes, whether you like it or not, the truth rears its ugly head like a bearded woman waking up from a long winter's nap, and it's not pretty, not by a long shot.

The other day I found myself doing the John Cusack, making lists, alphabetizing my collections then I switched to a more Jason Lee-esque obsessing wondering what I would get dibs on, such as mall rights and for me, listening to Dylan, when the catastrophic relationship that was ended.

And so the truth of the matter remains that I still obsess. I do. I'm not going to lie. Everyone knows I did. Is it a woman thing? I don't think so because the two examples of such desperation were males, but its definitely a human being thing and it doesn't go away.

In my dreams, I'm the Queen of Hearts and I hold court every other Tuesday and I hear the battles of who verses whom and I sentence people to years worth of Britney Spears on repeat or award unoffending parties dibs on the Dylan.

But alas, alack, heavier than the stones in my pockets, is my sense of inequity and a deadly waking fear of dying alone.