Green Olives Make No Sense

There are things I love without knowing why. Among them: the musical Cabaret; green olives with pimiento; Troy, New York; most words with hard K sounds; certain blogs; some people; and bourbon, even in its most generic form. I'm sure I could figure out my attraction to these things if I tried, but, really, why would I? Sometimes it's enough for something just to be.

In fact, maybe that's the secret. I should never have to think about broadway musical soundtracks on repeat, or why I love the words Shodack (a town, incidentally, near Troy, NY) and Wachovia. It's enough that bourbon, like certain old friends, is comforting and familiar, even though it's hard to pinpoint what brought us together in the first place. See, getting there isn't as important as being here now, and, in some cases, getting there doesn't matter at all.

Like with green olives.


Anonymous Dad said...

If I tried to make sense out of why I like you, my head would explode. And no one wants that to happen.

11:01 PM  
Blogger Mom101 said...

I love this post: my words are bucolic, lugubrious, and Ronkonkoma. As far as musicals go I'm still a sucker for Pippin.

I've enjoyed reading you these past few weeks since GGC pointed me your way, and took the liberty of blogrolling you. Hope you don't mind.

3:48 PM  

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