Hard Way Home

I have divided you up into camps. Three of them. I have discovered your camps more than created them. True, it may be unfair to clump you all together, but I have exactly no emotional energy to waste anymore -- so you are where you are. Most of you surprised me, ending up in sections of my heart that I never thought I'd put you. Keeping me on my toes.

I want to thank you all. Even the ones in the "doesn't give a fuck" camp - you've helped me along, liberated me. Down to bare bones vulnerability, in my darkest closet of self-loathing, you set me free. I don't have to worry about you anymore. Now, don't get me wrong, ok? This isn't to say that I don't *care* about you. Because I do. I just know that in times of need or reciprocation, I can't count on you - so I won't expect it. You know what I mean?

There was a moment, crying in my hallway, I didn't think I could stand up - nor did I want to - ever again. Decomposing in my hallway in July was exactly what I wanted to do. Sobbing paralleled to a grief untouched by daylight. A few of you came in with your flashlights -- everyone else walked around, barely glancing my way.

Those of you with flashlights: holy shit, I am the luckiest. And you know who you are.

Far more aware than I have been

Today it was mostly eating the small moments with a delicate fork and well poised knife. "The sun really showed up and is doing it's job" was a good salutation to a really weird morning - but it's true what he said. The sun had armies. They blew my face off.

With unsteady steps I walked up my stairs in someone else's purple sweatpants and fancy blue shoes, nearly my burial shroud, or so it felt. The only longing was for my empty bed- dried wine in the cuts on my lips. A bruise on my chin. Arms that smelled like vomit.

Let's get one thing straight, I don't ever mean to binge drink. I don't ever mean to nearly die in my friends' new home. I don't ever mean to make other people's husbands carry me to their homes. Last night, I fucked up. And I'm embarrassed. And I'm sorry. But, in a very serious way, I'm grateful.

And way scared.

I'm blood and carbon and magic. And these ribs and this heart - I've only been given this. And I'm sorry I'm not a better steward. And I'm sorry that I'm falling into a stereotype. And I'm so goddamned sorry that I have to keep saying sorry.

But like I said before, the sun showed up. Thank goodness. And the moments today, even the ones where I felt heavy with a coat of guilt, were welcomed. If I would have felt better, I would have thrown each minute today a fucking party. Hugged them like I'm picking them up at the airport.

Come away with me on a bus

How can I tell you about a day off that is so perfect it doesn't have words? Not sure I can. It's impossible, because as I've already said, no. words. None. A rest. A day like oatmeal, but with sugar. Oatmeal with laundry. Does that make sense to you? Because I've had 3 whiskeys and one wine. But that doesn't take away from a good day off and a good evening with friends who are good at laughing and making me laugh.

I don't know. My blog is sometimes so pretentious, don't you think? It's all "feelings" and "sadness" and sometimes I feel like I segregate people.. and honestly, if we are serious, I'm so sorry that I do that. I just don't know how to separate myself from how I feel. But honestly, isn't that okay? Who fucking knows.

I don't know what I'm saying. I've had too much alcohol, I feel like it's a summer's night. But, let me assure you, it's not. I'm like, super cold. It's still winter, with a seriousness.

Life is a little bit nuts.

Life is like a never ending thing, except, if we are honest, it's the most temporary thing ever. And how beautiful. And how devastating. Do you get that art is so like that? and if we are all philosophical, if a+b=c and b+c=d then a=d, temporary is beautiful. That means life is. And if life is temporary, shouldn't I just quit the shit that makes me miserable? Who fucking cares? All this shit is so short term.

Which brings me to my next point... and be prepared. It's fucking serious:

YOLO.

Just: YOLO.

ole sweet song (Guilt, shame and pain)

I don't really want to talk about the summer my best friend died in my lap. After all, it was all my fault.

She was a tiny little fucker - gray hair, runt status and sharp little teeth she used on everybody who got in our way. She curled her little flea-ridden body up on my pillow every single night for six solid years, until the day she died in a stranger's yard, my tears falling in her beard.
I need you to know, I can't really go into much detail. This really fucks me up like no body's business, so I'll tell you bare bones.

The divorce was final. We were living in the country where she chased mice, ran like wild fire after the horses and acted like she was the biggest dog ever to be born. She helped me through 6th grade at a rural school where people hadn't even heard of the Violent Femmes. She reminded me of my dad and my old house and that one time my drunk dad kicked her the length of the dining room. I held her - well, no that's not right. She was an extension of who I was. She was a tiny part of my soul running around.

One day we brought 2 strays home. They infected our land with Canine parvovirus type 2, or parvo for short.

Little goddamned, lonely dicks. They just needed love, too. But instead, they infected her. Right before a big trip to Michigan to visit my mom's boyfriend's family.

She got really sick right before we left. My mom made me decide: take her to the vet or take her with us. Either way she'll probably die. I chose to take her. Guess what? She died. In misery. In pain. Vomiting blood, shitting blood, but still remaining my best friend.

We put her in a box then put that box in a garbage bag and put her little, tiny, beautiful body in the trunk.

I died with her.

Spaceboy, I miss you

I once had a friend, who travels around like a maniac, say to me, "It just sucks because I miss people where ever I am." And, I guess, that's a terrible way to feel all your life, but also, it's kind of a sweet thing, too, right?

Loving people is never bad. And people loving you is good, too. It's probably just a design of grown-up life. That's just what it looks like. Which, I guess, can be stupid. The thing is: what's it like when the reunion occurs? You know, that's the important part.

My weekend was full of good reunion, good beer and good food. And for that, I'm grateful.