Fluff

Not merely an innocuous noun, but a verb of some concern. A verb which connotes excitement, but not satisfaction, a sense of incompletion... of suspension. Or maybe not. Maybe it connotes porn stardom, I can't say. In fact, I can't speak for what the verb connotes if one holds to the theory that one may not comment on another's experience with any authority, and so on. Pretty limiting, no?

The point, belated though it may arrive, is I desire more fluff and less... less not-fluff. There is no shortage of serious stuff happening at home (2 year old, 2 month old, spouse with a contract position and next to no opportunity to complete the task, home-buying, vomiting cats, unreliable contractors, weird relatives - the usual) and no shortage of terrifying activities in the world outside (and no shortage of media outlets elbowing each other in the face for the dubious privilege of presenting to us, the discerning public, flash animations of children being shot, planes flying into large immovable objects, and... Kid Rock and Pamela Anderson making sweet love on a bearskin rug...). The only description for these acts, and their publication, is inhumane.

In short, we do not suffer from a deficit of exposure to depraved goings-on, rather a surfeit of such exposure. Hence the fluff. I ask you, dear reader, to do me a favour. Be fluffy with someone you love or even know just a little. I am not saying you need provide incomplete satisfaction of a physical nature to these people (unless you want to do that). God no. I have no place in your bedroom (unless you require a videographer in which case call me for bookings and rates), bathroom, under the kitchen table, whatever. Just go, be light, be happy.

P-man out