In the merry tradition of GOD DAMN IT I’MMA WRITE EVERY DAY, Intern IMed me this afternoon in that wonderfully persistent way he has of “gently” reminding me I have shit to do.

I hate it when he does that.

Conversely, it’s also wonderful, perfect and the reason I ship cookies to Toronto.

He asked me, conscientiously, about my brief love affair with Smirnoff Ice this afternoon (we never need mention it again) and somehow I answered some question of his to the tune of “I miss feeling sexy.”

Yeah, I don’t know how it got there either.

(I’ll have you know I have a disgusting urge to start this next sentence with “irregardless,” but because I am not the scourge of the Earth, I will spare you. I think we can blame the Ice.)

No matter the method, we began to talk about the concept of sexy.

I don’t know if you regularly have conversations about “sexy” with hot-blooded 16-year-old menfolk, but I do, and, arguably, I’m pretty good at it. Insofar as I haven’t yet done anything illegal, scared him off or even talked dirty.

God, I’m good.

Perversely, the whole conversation became a thought exercise that’s entirely too difficult for my personal expectations as to how I spend my time.

Watching “Glee,” chopping onions in my onion-chopping goggles, proposing to 9-year-olds — these are acceptable uses of my time.

Complex thought exercises that require patience, focus and reliance on my internal thesaurus? Not what I signed up for.

Nevertheless, Intern is incredibly good at his job and I decided to play along while watching Annette Benning’s eyebrows dance through “The American President.”

(Right, football, sure, uh huh.)

I’ve talked about being alone before — and about how it’s the right choice for me now. That was months ago and, no real surprise, it hasn’t changed. But “alone” doesn’t necessarily have all that much to do with “sexy.”

I feel sexy when I towel off after a hot shower, warm and plumped up from the water and heat.

I feel sexy in those moments between wakefulness and sleep at night when I go to bed.

I feel sexy after two poor man’s black velvets at my local dive bar, or a few glasses of champagne outside on the deck.

I feel sexy when I awaken after an unexpected nap or on a morning I’ve turned the alarm off.

I feel sexy when I hug the cool pillowcase on my squishy pillow to my belly.

And I feel all of that on my own, with no input from anyone else.

But we all know there’s a very different sensation involved when your “sexy” stems from someone else.

Not that it doesn’t exist in a vacuum — but you’d be hard-pressed to feel sexy at someone else’s touch without that someone else.

I feel sexy when my lover washes, brushes or plays with my hair.

After all, it’s my hair we’re talking about here.

I feel sexy when holding a conversation with my lover using only my eyes across a room.

I feel sexy when my partner has done or said something right, righteous and good — that pride fills me with a warmth I couldn’t call chaste.

I drank today more than I have generally in the last few months. (Shut up, I’ll pay for it tomorrow.) And I felt sexy for it, if stupid in beverage choice.

And I missed it. That social sexy. Actively, consciously, physically.

I’m still not sure if I’m ready to unleash the whole Mer-lada on any one man any time soon — I mean, really, that takes some planning, logistics, supply chain — but I do know:

I’m bringing sexy back.

On September 6^th, 2010, six days after a ridiculous deadline by which I wanted to launch, I tweeted my first oh that meredith post and, as you all know, a star was born.

I launched in a fit of impatience, with half the site’s pages blank and none of the buttons working.

I launched with a welcome post I’d written, rewritten, edited and had reviewed ten or so times.

I launched in the early days of the Great Autumn Clusterfuck of 2010, anxious to begin to build myself a home, here, in the community that had so embraced me.

I launched that night in an enthusiastic and rash decision to throw myself fully into the blogging community.

And it is so apt that tonight falls just a day after yesterday’s post over at Ms. Lizzy’s place, in my love letter to the internet.

I do so very much love it. And you. Each and every one of you who reads my words, tweets with me, comments or even just lurks – you have made my life better. You have made me better. Or at least more willing to indulge in petulant indignation.

Which I think we can all agree is a step in the right direction.

And with this love, I have learned so much – and I have learned that I have so much left to learn.

I’ve learned I love to write.

I’ve learned I hate to write.

I’ve learned I love to have to write.

I’ve learned I hate to have to write.

I’ve learned I’m still the same exacting bitch I always was.

I’ve learned a lot of warm fuzzy things about the online writerly community.

I’ve learned I have no ability at all to budget time.

I’ve learned I love twitter and am terrible at it, when doing anything else.

I’ve learned I produce some really ridiculous things when under the influence of almost anything.

I’ve learned that non-bloggers and non-blog readers think of blogging in a somewhat childish or negative light.

I’ve learned I want to set them straight. Sometimes with stabbing. #FuriouslyHappy

I’ve learned some of you have better taste in movies than others.

I’ve learned being asked to guest post humbles my grand ego.

I’ve learned there are finally people in this world who appreciate my love for silly hats.

I’ve learned that Google Analytics can make my day or make me feel desperate for attention.

I’ve learned that even if I can’t answer the scary questions, I can ask them.

I’ve learned I’m a much bigger attention whore than I thought.

I’ve learned the Georgia Bulldogs’ mascot is actually a zombie.

I’ve learned television is killing my brain, and I like it.

I’ve learned my press release skills can be put to good use.

I’ve learned I really am the worst twitterjail recidivist.

I’ve learned I’m easy to persuade into crazy athletic undertakings when enthusiastic.

I’ve learned you people really like my hair. No, I mean REALLY like it.

I’ve learned I cannot expect my geek to read my mind. Though I’m still guilty of assuming otherwise, on occasion.

I’ve learned my marriage prospects are not as low as I thought.

I’ve learned people really like it when you offer them baked goods.

I’ve learned sincerity requires black-&-white photos.

I’ve learned I don’t have to be funny to be interesting.

I’ve learned that my mind doesn’t stay made up for more than five seconds.

I’ve learned that I still want and want and want some more.

I’ve learned that half-nekkid photos sometimes get me out of twitterjail. (No, there’s no link to half-nekkid photos. So there. Hi, Daddy!)

I’ve learned there’s a whole world of people out there who get just as excited as I do over epic footwear and sparkly goggles.

I’ve learned I can ask for enablers or naggers and get them both.

I’ve learned that drunk blogging is fun and that people don’t really care how much sense I make.

I’ve learned that I can, in fact, attach a pheasant to a fascinator.

I’ve learned I never need to shop online alone again.

I’ve learned there’s a special place in my heart for ego jokes.

I’ve learned to take photos of myself I actually like — they involve ridiculous faces, upward angles and my cell phone camera.

I’ve learned having my own geek is indi-fucking-spensible.

I’ve learned there are people out there who’ve felt as I have and want to hear all about it.

I’ve learned that I can’t trust non-phone cameras to not hold awesome photos hostage.

I’ve learned one’s mother is an incredibly useful actor in the world of a blog.

I’ve learned that even if I can’t give details, people still care when I’m suffering.

I’ve learned that people actually will read poetry if I write it.

And I’ve learned that when shit is bad, bad enough I can’t tell you about it, you’re all still there, willing to hold my hand.

Major props to @HexingThoughts (as always) and @fetfet50 for help on tonight’s post!