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I tried that whiskey. Didn’t like it, way too watery with a smack of angst.

Did I miss the memo wherein it explained that my part of the world was supposed to go crazy for a bit?

Just one by one flying or sliding off the rails depending.

Full moon is well over and Gemini season has yet to begin. Mercury has stationed direct too, Venus is where she should be. What cosmic fuckery is this? I know it rained for a week straight and we all went a little stir crazy but the sun has been out for days now.

Fuck, I did it too. Drank way too much and ended up doing a few bumps.
I fucking hate cocaine…who am I right now?

Right now right now? A girl with regrets and a stuffy nose.

And determination to not do that again. Truth is, I might. I would rather not but I am fallible.

Who am I usually? The girl who asks why.

I am sitting here, listening to Panda snore over my ultra-quiet John Mayer playlist, typing away for you nice folks and I think I know why I derailed.

I was temporarily and fundamentally unhappy for a bit there. Kept trying to plug away and make it okay, but it wasn’t. The stress wore at me like some low grade acid and ya…whoops. I didn’t hit rock bottom, but wherever I landed was adjacent to rock bottom. Like a gravelly mezzanine.

I am currently in some weird limbo with a relationship I thought I wanted out of but I really want to be in.
I have some penance to do and that is okay.

“If it’s time for recompense for what’s done, come sit down on a bench in the sun” Nick Drake

I love that song, that line and that idea.

If you would be forgiven, be forgiving and forgivable.

Don’t play the blame game.

I am perfectly find standing here and saying, yes…this is my fault. I could go on and on and on about how ‘well he did this and that and the other fucking thing’, but I don’t. I rarely do in here. I have no control over anyone’s actions but my own. My life, good or bad, is my responsibility.

Have I bad mouthed my exes? Yep. Nowhere did I ever claim to have a halo or wings. I am not perfect and after getting pimped out, cheated on and finding out the Poet was collecting pretty female writers like trophies, I think it’s fair to get those things out so they don’t fester.

There are a few schools of thought when it comes to writing.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”― Anne Lamott

Yep. I agree. People do shitty shit to each other. I have been hurt and in working through it I have realized that baggage doesn’t belong to me, something was hurting or missing in them and that is why they did what they did. I don’t need to own it or carry it. I also don’t need to wax poetic about it either. Much better to let it go rather than have it fester and require amputation. I like my limbs as is thank you very much.

Some writers have built their brand on heartache. See above where I dated a poet who collected pretty girl writers to feed his ego and his work. I fell for it. My bad. I get it, its angst driven and relatable, it draws forth rousing choruses of ‘me too’.

But ‘she who fights the monsters should see to it that she herself does not become one’ Nietzsche

Again, what if you are the one holding the knife, cutting yourself (and others in the process) and writing in your own blood?

Just fucking staaaaaahp.

The most popular gladiators were not the ones who killed quickly and mercifully. People want a show blood, guts, pain…a gory spectacle. Not ‘we tried but I’m not over my ex so…sorry’. Or ‘shit, I really fucked this up.’ Although, that is how and what I write now and I too hear the words ‘me too’. Apparently those are my people. The ones outside of the arena.

I used to eat drama for breakfast, poured over a big bowl of crazy cornflakes.

Now I find it basic and boorish.

Throwing around the word narcissist like they actually know what it means. I pray for their delicate little souls they never meet a real one. Or perhaps, you need to look in the mirror.

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Face it, all the rocks can forever stay on the ground, we have all fucked up at one time or another. But please, do make sure your hands are clean before you go pointing fingers. Don’t call the kettle black if you are the one who did the leaving.

You can’t nail yourself to a cross and still call yourself a martyr. Come down now, we can build a fire with the wood and warm your chilled little broken bird heart.

You’re talking shit again
It’s heartbreak warfare
Good to know it’s all a game
Disappointment has a name…
It’s heartbreak warfare

Jon Mayer

Before I knew that water and music were two of my favorite things, my dad knew it.

And he made sure I had as much of both as possible.

He would take us to this little lake in the middle of nowhere. Trying to keep up with his giant strides down a gravel driveway, through a path canopied in trees and we would sit on the dock and fish for sunfish. Squealing with delight at the tiny things made of scales and rainbows gasped for air on the dock until my dad set them free to be caught another day. He baited our hooks until it was time to teach us how. He let me bring a snail home and keep it in a Skippy peanut butter jar with holes in the lid. I probably named it Joey, I named everything Joey. I loved sitting on that dock, it was so decrepit but it floated in a soothing way, the wood always held the warmth of the sun shimmering on the lake’s surface like diamonds, the water so clear you could watch the fish nibble at the worms.

Worms we had dug up in his garden. My dad always planted the best gardens. We helped, walking behind him dropping seeds into the well tilled soil. Making mounds for zucchini and cucumbers, picking fat, green, horned caterpillars off the tomato plants once they had grown. Watching the seeds we held in our tiny hands spring to life. We didn’t plant the corn, it had a pink coating to keep the deer away and it was poison, he planted the corn himself. I still don’t plant corn in my gardens, I don’t want to hurt the deer.

We would drive to the lake some weekends, the lake which was to become mine. We had to cross a footbridge and there was a rock shaped like a turtle under it. He let me believe for years that it really was a turtle and humored my ideas of rescuing it before it drowned and my fascination that it was always there when we were, like it was waiting for us.

Imaginary turtles. My sister’s imaginary friend. Me not liking getting syrup on my eggs or yolk on my pancakes so my sunny side up Sunday breakfast always arrived at the table on two plates. A luxury really. Squasha (the imaginary friend) had a place setting for a while too.

Putting up the old musty canvas tent with a thousand pole pieces and strings so we could sleep outside. Then fussing because it killed a patch of his perfect lawn. But he did it anyways. I always sleep better outside.

Him buying me a tape deck and copying albums I liked to cassette because I needed music to sleep inside. Still do.

Sitting with me for hours on end going over times tables till I cried because my brain didn’t work that way. I still can’t do them the way normal people can, but I am better.

I really do have the best dad. He had no sons so we stacked the wood with him, went to baseball games and tug-o-war when we had to move away for the summer.

I think kids take for granted how much our fathers bend and almost break trying to keep us shielded from the world while still letting us explore it and preparing us to go out in it. He had that perfect balance of supporting and letting us figure out how to do things on our own. Infinite patience.

Then there are those who didn’t have good fathers, or fathers at all. My son is one, his father took no interest, spent no time. He “didn’t want kids anyways’” (direct quote). He was never around, there was hours and days of therapy too ease my child’s mind. Lengthy discussions about how some people are just in different places in their life, that he was MY decision and the best one I ever made. We made it. I raised my son to not believe that father was a synonym for god, even though it is to me. And as deities do, my dad stepped up and made up for everything lacking.

But what happens when a man fathers a child that he doesn’t want and he sticks around, sorta. Fair weather fathers are worse than fair weather friends by far. Friends are a choice. They can be dismissed when they no longer bring us joy. Parents we are stuck with. Biological imperatives being what they are. “I love you as much as I am genetically obligated to and not one drop more.”

What if they don’t know love at all? Are not capable of it is what I mean.

Emancipation is an option but it is a hard thing to give up on the one person who isn’t supposed to give up on you. It isn’t simply cutting a thread, its hacking through flesh and bone and sinew with a butter knife. Because they never taught you what a good knife was, how to care for it or use it. Not a good life either. They didn’t know.

Their children become puppets. Strings yanking this way and that or worse, slumped over and tangled because the puppeteer had better things to do.

I’ve seen these gruff, rough manly men lend their DNA to artists and the pain in the boy’s eyes knowing he is never going to match up to some ideal that was born at the same time as he, the second the doctor said ‘it’s a boy!’. Artists are the lucky ones, they have an outlet for their pain. Some of the fathers even come around to a new definition of pride.

And it goes the other way too. Useless narcissistic men with no talent or masculinity in them at all somehow being blessed with warrior sons. Where nature is stronger than nurture and these poor boys have raw power and no guidance. It becomes a scenario like the war boys in Max Mad Fury Road. These boys with their own talent and merit worshipping a false idol that sits on high with his harem and gives them no thought other than “what can they do for me with the half-life they’ve been given?”

Or worse. Jealousy. Misplaced angst and anger over a life badly spent. Blame the kids. Everything woulda been fine if your mother kept her legs closed. Sons that are twice the man they could ever hope to be with their whole life ahead of them. The only examples given are what not to do. That leaves a lot of room for error, self-doubt and self-loathing. The sins of the father visited on the sons.

So what can be done?

Separation of the church of dad and that state of mind.

The realization that not all fathers are holy, sometimes they just ghost.

“Maybe he had never forgotten, or never that little boys grow up remembering every blow and word of scorn, that they grow up wanting to eat their fathers alive.” Stephen King, Rage

To me living well is the best revenge, I have years of practice with narcissistic men.

Silence and distance are the answer. But I am my father’s daughter and he taught me well.

https://www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com/who-puts-vodka-in-a-wine-spritzer.html

I sat on that article for the better part of a year.

Had my little flashback a few days ago and pulled it from the earth, gave it life, breath and post script.

I didn’t publish it at the time because, well, Giant cheated, and I kinda did too.

I was super fresh into things with someone.

So um ya, he read it.

Hello karma my old friend.

I was just about to type the words ‘in my defense’ but nah. I’ll own it.

Panda did spike her wine spritzer with 3 ounces of vodka but, Giant never should have stepped one foot in this house.
He was dating someone and that someone wasn’t me and had been for months by then.

I was dating someone, no matter how fresh out of the gate it was.
Fuck I just realized I am that racehorse that gets all revved up and ready to go and then backs up into the barn at the sound of the starter’s pistol. Dammit.

I’m telling all y’all it’s a sabotage. Beastie Boys

Except I am my own saboteur. I thought I was over that.

Survey says, not this time mama. Well, not that time. I managed to get it together after the fact.

I do that. Find something good and fuck it up.

I mean in the grand scheme of things I think I had been out with this guy once or twice, hadn’t slept with him yet but still. Bad manners at best. Giant too. It’s not like 130 pound me could really have held him down and had my way, the nickname Giant was anything but ironic. I said I felt drunk and wanted to stop drinking but he encouraged me to keep going. Also in the grand scheme of things I have lived with Panda for a good long while now, I know what she is capable of. I also know what I am capable of.

See there I go.

Justifying shit.

It’s still shit, it was stupid.

I didn’t publish it back then because I knew it was wrong and I didn’t want the guy I was dating to know.

Oh karma, you funny fucker.

He read it, yesterday.

No word for months. Thought I was blocked on everything, I wasn’t. Believed it to be so much truth I never tried to contact him. I don’t know where dead messages go and I had no desire to find out.

I honest to god with all of my being really believed he would be the ONE guy out of all the guys that went away and stayed there. Ain’t nobody got time for that. He doesn’t anyways. He is strong, super independent, busy and we really didn’t spend enough time together for me to be irreplaceable or anything even close to it. I mean I know he could pick me out of a line up but other than the fact that I like tacos, he doesn’t know much about me, nor I him.

I thought he was actually over it. I mean he said he was. As far as I know he never said one damned thing he didn’t mean. He isn’t a liar by any stretch of the imagination.

Speaking of lies.

Fuck am I ever glad he read it. It wasn’t really important. But I had the same relief as one gets when pulling out the tiniest of splinters, didn’t know it was bothering me until it was out.

It all seems so appropriate right now. We’re moving which in itself denotes change, lends itself quite nicely with catharsis, cleansing and purging of the old.

Everything that goes around comes around and the truth always comes out, exactly when it’s time and not a minute sooner.

Me – I blew the giant last night after someone (Panda) spiked her own wine spritzer with vodka and I thought I was drinking responsibly, sipping on wine and juice. Laid back. I didn’t get laid.

J – I love how your stories start out

Me – And now I find myself apologizing for one of my better blow jays

J- I’m sure he isn’t sorry

Me – He ‘doesn’t know how he feels about it’

J- Of course he doesn’t
Well did you at least have fun?

Me- honestly not sure, other than I give spectacular head when I am drunk.
And he tasted like spun sugar

J- I can honestly see that….you give great head regardless, I mean if you’re okay being the other woman….why not.

Me- I remember reaching over to turn a song up then a lap dance type thing and then he became my extra-large Slurpee

J- And who doesn’t love a Slurpee lol

Me- Giants apparently

J- You deserve more from someone than hey!….I miss you!….oh gotta go my gf is coming….but can’t wait to see you when I get back and she’s gone!….I think I may love you…no I do….but I can’t be with you….but I want to….but I’m gonna stick my dick in my gf real quick…..oh but I wish it was you….but I can’t….but I’ll string you along just enough cause I know you love me and will occasionally play with my penis.

Me- You just summed that up right nice. Add ‘if I do accidentally trip and stick my dick in your mouth that is totally your fault. Coo coo ka choo Mrs. Robinson’

So that happened, last year. It was a beautifully warm night in July maybe? August? We hadn’t been here long, but the porch was squared away, comfortable and twinkling with fairy lights and music. I think that was the first room we fixed up, I needed sanctuary, I don’t move well.

It’s 0 degrees Celsius today and the wind is wreaking havoc on my porch ripping curtains and toppling plants. Ya, that very same porch. I was having a smoke just now and somehow, despite the daylight and the absence of 30 degrees, my mind wandered back there. The song that started the whole thing came on…I knew I’d started writing an article about it way back when it happened, of course the working title was ‘who puts vodka in a wine spritzer’. Found it. My middle name is Archives after all.

I am not even sure what happened. He popped by with a bottle of wine maybe? One minute I was sipping and we were chatting, the next minute that song came on and I was in his lap then I was on my knees. He was sitting in the ‘daddy’ chair, time to throw that thing out methinks.

We are leaving this apartment. I know, I keep saying it. Still mentally preparing myself, like I do when I’m about to get a year older, I’ve been saying ‘almost 43’ starting in January. 42 was so good though, even with the accidental guilt trip laden blow jays and a lot of crying. So much crying.

We haven’t had consistent heat or hot water since the first week of March, my hands are freezing right now, I have two space heaters barely taking a dent out of the frosty air and I am wrapped in a blanket. My dog refuses to leave the cocoon she has made herself in my bed and I don’t blame her. I wish I was still there too.

I’m looking around the apartment thinking about all the things that have gone wrong and all the things that have gone right.

Panda and I have realized we are hetero life partners. We have plans to do a YouTube channel dedicated to our shenanigans with some make up tutorials and spoken word poetry thrown in for fun. We can’t do that here, it’s too small. Besides, I don’t even have a real closet. Me, the girl with the most clothes.

Hot Neighbor used to come by when we first moved from the back of the building to the front. He and my son got giggly stoned and built the bookshelf that sits to my left. But he has moved, no longer my neighbor, just some hot guy that used to pop by at the best moments. He left my movies by the back door and I haven’t seen him since.

The Giant was here quite often too, until the above happened. He then deemed me unsafe. Actually, truth be told, he never thought I was safe at all and since he is Safety Joe…that’d be why that never worked out. He was actually here more than the guy I dated after I moved into this place, strange but true. I will leave all those memories here.

I’ll keep the belly laughs, reaching a quarter million on ye olde blog. My inability to cook rice and the joke it became, Panda having a religious experience naked and drunk worshiping Beyoncé on the big screen. Clothing swaps, bottles and bottle and bottle of wine, days and days and days at the beach

Those things don’t take up room in boxes and make me feel light as a feather.

Ya, that right there.

Fuck, how many times have my knees hit the floor?

So many. I have crawled through life more than I have stood on my own two feet and walked.

I remember one night with the Giant, up in the attic of his double bricked house. It was crazy negative 30 Celsius freezing outside and I needed a smoke so he took me on high and lo I had a smoke and it was good, until it wasn’t. My knees were not hidden by the shirt of his that I had picked up off the floor to cover my nakedness with.

I told my girl the next morning, “he looked at me differently after he saw my banged up knees”.

She called me a performing pony and said I had the joints to match, and I do.

My knees are always bruised, swollen, scarred, knicked.

Bygones are bygones and just boy bye. He couldn’t handle me at my best, my most well behaved.

“Fall down seven times, get up eight” ~ Japanese proverb…
“then run like hell away from whatever keeps tripping you and find some level ground to walk on” ~ me

The alternative is learning to fly. But that holds its own dangers, just ask Lazarus.

I have often been humbled before god.
The penitent man shall pass, and I have passed through, never over, always through.
It’s the only way out.

And sometimes we just have to let our knees hit the floor and crawl.

Jim Morrison chanted “Break on through to the other side”.

What if I told you being bored wouldn’t kill you, neither would being sad or being alone.

I know it feels that way sometimes, I have felt that way.

A sadness so profound and crushing in the sheer weight of it that I thought I wouldn’t ever be able to breathe again, much less live or experience contentment let alone happiness and joy.

Alone isn’t the terrifying part, its loneliness that is the scary monster in the middle of the night.

It’s dealing with the loss of the way things were.

“It’s having a thing and losing it that’ll kill ya” Cold Mountain

Inman asked a blind man what he would give for 5 minutes of sight. The answer was nothing.

Loneliness and it’s kissing cousin, nostalgia. When we forget that the past has passed and we cling to the phantom limbs of what was because it was so much better than the here and now. But it ain’t, thinking that way is gonna kill you too.

I spent a lot of time drunk and high as a teenager. Dealing with loneliness, isolation, abandonment and I was a shitty person because of it. I earned my loneliness. I made myself a pariah with my shitty behavior and I poured substances into the chasm left and so it went. And like any shitty cycle, it had to be broken. I had to be broken, my knees had to hit the floor and I had to crawl out of there. And I did.

I know now that I was denied alone time for so long that it became something I crave and covet.

Equal and opposite reactions.

Besides, with the internet, I know if it gets bad, and it does, a voice is not far off.

Like the panic button in a sensory deprivation tank.

And with this knowledge, I float.

We all float down here.

You can float too.