Sometimes wishes come true.

Saturday night at work I was outside in the corner smoking and I had a crystal clear thought “I wish Oscar would come by, I would feel a lot better if he did.”

To be clear, Oscar is a rescue Greyhound from Florida. His nightly walks take him by the bar and we have bonded. He feels like warm silk and puts his head on my shoulder and sighs.

30 seconds later, Oscar!

I saw them coming 30 feet away and his owner did something he’d never done before, dropped the leash and let Oscar run to me, full derpy Greyhound tilt.

He has become one of the only things I love about my job. It’s time for a new job. We will get to that another day.

I did feel a lot better. Put a cramp in my night of wallowing, or lessened the cramp.
But I had such grand plans.

Walked in the door issuing storm warnings.

Then someone put on Jeopardy and the tequila started flowing. I got fed. Everyone danced to music I liked. I only did three shows they went well.
What the fuck guys?
I wanted to be sad girl.

“I’m tellin’ all y’all its a sabotage.” Beastie Boys

No it isn’t. Well it is, but I did it to myself.

You see dear readers…

I fucked up.

There is gold in them there words.

There is magic in all words, that’s why they call it spelling.

Life becomes a little less magical when I fuck up the same way every fucking time, and my mantra becomes ‘why do I always get thrown away?’

The waitress called me beautiful and I cried at the bar. “Obviously I’m not pretty enough.”

Oh, god, I have said this before.

This is all just a little bit of history repeating.
Second verse same as the first.
Saturn/Cronos is up there laughing at me. I can hear him loud and clear.

The gods don’t abide whining, especially not Cronos the Titan, father of all Gods, time and lessons. He always answers with a great thundering “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I know exactly why I get thrown, because they know if they drop me I have soft places to land.

BECAUSE I FUCKING TELL THEM I HAVE SOFT PLACES TO LAND.

What the fuck is wrong with me? (See above)

How many times are we going to do this Sarah?

Once too many.

But not again.

You can become deathly allergic to bee stings if you get stung enough. The venom builds up and one day your heart just says ‘fuck this shit’ and stops.

They also use bee venom to treat MS. So there is that then. Controlled stinging reactivating atrophied musculature.

Same sting that stopped me in my tracks and got me moving again, different trajectory. Thanks honey.

I have been lied to so often that it is abhorrent to me. It physically hurts me to be lied to and I can spot a falsehood a million miles away. Addendum, I can spot a lie as long as the person telling it is not so mentally ill and pathological that they actually believe what they are saying. But I am done turning that one over. Let’s put that one in a pine box and move on. So mote it be.

I can’t lie now. I spent years training myself not to and I just can’t, makes me feel sick to even think of one.

Leah screamed at me this morning “do not to tell the new ones about the others”, my collection of lost boys. The Hulk told me that too. Should have asked the colossus about the giant instead of a lost boy.

But omission is the kissing cousin to lying. So what do I do?

Stop.

For a girl who believes so deeply in free will and natural order and everything is as it should be I say a lot of stupid shit.

Out of fear.

I realized a few days ago that my adamant non monogamy is not as adamant as I thought it was.
It’s a self-defence mechanism/bullshit posturing and it backfired.
On a long enough timeline all weapons become outdated and dangerous really.
This blew up in my face.
The realization came a little too late.

I also chose advice from others over my own intuition. The one I leaned on was the wrong one. Chosen for his age, not how things went. He dated the one AFTER me, not me.
How many times can I ask what is wrong with me before I fix it?

242

For a psychic witch of a girl, my foresight sucks.

I’m lying now. I knew. I knew right away. I always know. I even said it to him, told him I wanted to keep him, but not until a week after that crystal clear thought manifested itself. And after the damage had already been done.

“My stupid mouth has got me in trouble again”. John Mayer

I know I fucked up. I cannot fix the past.

But I can do better next time.

The Gods smile when you smile and say ‘please sir can I have some more.’

“Accepting all I’ve done and said,
I want to stand and stare again,
Until there’s nothing left out.”
Peter Gabriel

More. Please. Thank you.

I am mutable. Everything changes, even me, eventually.

Today’s titanic lesson?

If I meet the right kind of man, I don’t want anyone else.

Time for my lost boys to stay lost. Go on now, git.

Moving forward I am not going to start something new in a place where I have safety nets manifesting as arms and beds belonging to other men that I can climb into. If I wanted to date any of my lost boys I would be, instead of just fucking them from time to time.

It makes me seem disposable, having disposables.

I haven’t been fair to any of us.

The last (now lost) boy kept saying over and over “You aren’t a booty call.”

He is right, I’m not.

I have enough grace to walk alone. No nets.

I’m not afraid anymore.

Falling isn’t so bad. Feels kind of like flying actually, unencumbered.

The next time I meet someone I’ll be able to say truthfully “I’m not seeing anyone right now. I would love to have dinner and see what happens.”

Then we can have dinner and see what happens.

I’ve never had a good relationship, but I hear that’s how they start.

Spring is coming. Feels like a good time to begin again.

“So shed your skin and let’s get started.” Hunters & Collectors

https://www.facebook.com/535561503197871/photos/a.535566276530727.1073741828.535561503197871/1113796618707687/?type=3&theater

This is what I intended to write for today.
Life happened and I posted yesterday.

This is the worst diary ever. Worse than Memento.
Past, present and future all jumbled up in tattoos, Polaroids and post-it notes. No cohesion. Not surprising, my life has no cohesion. I am not chronological girl. Not terribly logical either.
The center doesn’t hold. I believe everything spirals out just to spiral back in again.
S’okay, I love amends and open ends.

Wednesday was unpleasant. Thursday was incredible. Friday sucked the devil’s balls.

Midweek haboob. One of those desert storms, cover your eyes and ears and just try to keep breathing. I hate the desert. Nothing grows there, just void of everything. I dislike beige. Give me pale greens and blues, oceans and seaglass. Give me storm clouds all black and grey. Give me green grass, blue skies and lemon yellow suns.

Haboob is the word I use for when all the magic goes out of the world and I feel like a sad, weird girl, but not in a good way.

Carried over to Thursday. 4pm I was still in writing/sleeping clothes, hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t written really. Watching The Office allowing Jim and Pam to give me false hope (fuckers). Coupled with a sense of foreboding I just felt decidedly blah. Something bad did come, surprise. Being psychic sucks some days.

I had plans in the city. Made them before Christmas. I was invited to see Golden Boy play with his band. He said the words ‘guest list’. I wasn’t sure if we would even have a chance to talk, and there was the whole having to take the bus thing, and dressing myself and everything just seemed so hard.

And like that white girl who can’t even, my motivation was sorely lacking.

Also, I was secretly hoping the Giant would materialize.

He didn’t.

I showered. Got on the bus and wrote.

A girl walks into a bar…

No joke here. I just did. I was outside smoking and I saw Bad Kitty on the sidewalk. Bar was safer.

Ordered a whisky and settled in to wait, I was early. Wrote a bit more while watching the door.
Looked up and saw Golden Boy walking towards me.

He hugs like I remember.

We chatted briefly, he mentioned his parents were waiting, I asked him to say hello for me.

I went back to whiskey and writing.

I heard my name called out in the thickest of Scottish accents. Spun around on my bar stool. Eric and June, parents of Golden Boy, looking just like I remembered. And they were…smiling at me?

I never know how heavy a thing is that I carry until it’s lifted and I float.

Once upon a time I had no friends, save one. Sessily. I didn’t know it at the time (I was 17, I knew very little) but she was clinically insane. Vicious, toxic, manipulative, just awful. But when you have no one and nothing, something seems better. Even a narcissist of epic proportions.

She dated Golden Boy’s brother. She pitted us against each other because I knew all the dirty shit she did. She made him believe I was the crazy liar to keep her crazy lying self safe. It worked. Until it didn’t. He and I now have this weird, unbreakable bond that comes from two people surviving the same disaster. We made peace years ago and he treats me with incredible kindness now. Still shocks me how little I feel I deserve this. I was a rotten kid. Self-esteem still fluxuates down to those painful lows. But I don’t live there anymore.

Hurricane Sessily. Wait, too much poison and human error and lands that can never be lived on again. More like Chernobyl.

I watched her flush her birth control pills. She wanted to get pregnant to keep a man.

That man happens to be Golden Boy’s brother. She did manage to get knocked up eventually and proceeded to drag his whole family through hell and back. I was there at the beginning.
I watched it. She went that extra batshit mile. I couldn’t abide. Then slept with my baby daddy just to drive the wedge all the way through.

Golden Boy and I had our own thing. “You really did look after me when we were kids.” We reminisced a bit.

I was protective of him. Not for lack of friends but because he needed it and he let me.

His family welcomed me into their home. Fed me. I slept there.

When I cut strings with Sessily I lost everything and everyone, or so I thought.
Went on a walkabout trying to find me. Still walking. Always will be.

The amount of shit she said about me and did to me could fertilize the aforementioned desert and she could irrigate it with her overly dramatic crocodile tears.

When Greg died, she made sure I couldn’t go to his funeral.

I haven’t forgiven her for that. Mayhap I should. I was the last person he saw before he died, holding him, smiling and something is telling me that is more than enough.

Back in the bar, Eric and June hugged me. Golden Boy grabbed us a table and more drinks, and I was transported back to a floral print couch, smiling talking, laughing.
I tried so hard to dance around the subject of her and failed.

I braced for the fallout.

Instead June said “Oh Sarah, we always knew that had nothing to do with you. We always knew she lied. We always knew you were a good girl.”

You know that moment in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams says over and over “it’s not your fault” until Matt Damon ugly cries?

I almost cried like that at the bar, I am crying like that now.

I carry a world of guilt and shame about how I used to be. I don’t try to rationalize it. I was awful and I know it. I knew what she was doing was wrong and I didn’t stop her. Not sure if I could have, I never tried except that once when she tried to lie about rape. Add that to all the dumb shit I did of my own volition and it is a fucking heavy burden to bear.

Every time someone who knew me then opens their home and lets me in I get to leave some of that weight at the door.

Everything ebbs and flows.
Nothing good is ever truly lost.
Everyone comes back at the right time.
I’m reminded why I MUST  forgive everyone, because it feels so incredible to be forgiven.

Crushing? Yes. Crushed? Not yet. Wait for it.

Once upon a time my finger hovered over the publish button.

It took strength of will to touch it.

I had allowed my feelings to spill out on the internet before where people could see it, but this was bigger than that.

And I was scared my mom would read it.

She threw everything I had ever written into the fire when I was a teenager. She had read a few things and deemed them pornographic. Ironically I hadn’t had sex yet, but I wanted to.

I am sorry Mom.

This cannot possibly be what you wanted for me.

But it’s what I want. Mostly.

Consolation prize? I am happy. Mostly.

Except right now. I’m contemplating an Aleve/whiskey combo to keep my head from being torn in two.

I have this paranoia about my words looking like verbal vomit on a white blank page.

It’s happening again.

Michael Xavier read something I consider to be subpar and he liked it. Later went on to tell me I have ‘the gift’ I just need discipline. I am trying honey. I am holding onto his words and the rousing choruses of ‘me too’ that occur when I hit the publish button now.

I am a soothsayer, daydreamer and storyteller.

It’s easy to let my mind wander to the past, exhume what I find there and dress it up for viewing.

I gloss over everything with high gloss primer, shellac the shit out of my exes until they shine like diamonds, sand down the edges that used to leave splinters in my fingertips.

“Your past is just a story. And once you realize this it has no power over you.” Chuck Palahniuk

They are just stories, with window dressing and pretty quotes to hide the smell.
It’s easy. But it isn’t safe.

I know what I look like making them look good.

A paint-splattered whore of a girl with a distinct red blood trail from sternum to sleeve. Hearts chosen residence. We’ve talked about this dear heart, it’s not safe. And I look a frightful, flaky mess. Because I am.

In my 42 years on this plane one would think I’d have learned the only thing more dangerous than fluffing up the past. Daydreaming about things yet to come.

I knew it before and I forgot.

Those are the stories trying to split my skull right now. They want out and gone. The plug has been pulled and they can’t live anymore.

Hope sucks.

When someone leaves you experience a loss. Can’t be helped. Connections severed. Conversations lost. The memory of how it felt to be around them starts to fade with no hope of renewal. They occupied a space and it is tangibly empty. There are things left unsaid and undone. It’s messy. And the hardest thing to scrub out is the thing I knew I shouldn’t be doing. Thinking ahead.

“If you are depressed you are living in the past.
If you are anxious you are living in the future.
If you are at peace you are living in the present.” Lao Tzu

Today was supposed to be duck and collard greens. Snuggles and a cd I made him. Coconut oil and massages. Lightning sex and more touching and talking. Didn’t seem dangerous at the time to think ahead to Saturday.

Everything felt natural and good.
I didn’t know.

Everyone else fell away.
I let them.

No search parties. Didn’t need anyone else. I felt safe where I was standing.
I wasn’t.

Do you remember the game with the pieces that would pop up and make a mess if you didn’t put them away fast enough?
That was my platform and the timer ran out. In my defense I didn’t hear the ticking, I was too busy listening to music and the things he said. Now there is a mess of plastic shrapnel. I’ll put it away here. Tidy up.

I have that fear gnawing at the pit of my stomach again. Past says it is akin to the fear of my mom reading this. I know the Giant is. He told me.

Over before it started.

He made a choice yesterday, and surprise. It wasn’t me.

In retrospect it would have been easier to sugar coat and swallow had we both stayed in a state of blissful ignorance. But I told him how I felt, deeper than I had let on. I extrapolated how he felt about her, deeper than he let on. The edges are jagged.

Past popped up around midnight, whispered in my ear it was ex-hubby and sisterwife all over again.
One man, two relationships. That’s not how this works.
That, and the whiskey/Aleve combo allowed me to drift off finally.

Real funny Universe.

He made a choice before he asked me, papercut.
Stuck with it when I told him the truth about how I felt about him, flesh wound.

And now he is in here. Navigating my guts.

This is infinitely worse.

He said he would have loved hearing how I felt a week ago.

I said it, here, in this blog. I sent him the link but not until last night. Hazard of being a writer I guess, walking around with all these feelings, getting them out and not putting them where they ought to be. In my defense the last time I tried to tell someone how I felt they ran, and the one before.

It’s only been a month, a week, 3 dates, countless conversations. I said things here I didn’t say to him.

Past dictated it wasn’t time yet. Past also is screaming that it didn’t matter. I didn’t have all the information either, there was more to ‘her’ than he let on. It is the only reasonable explanation. He told me he knows what he is giving up. He doesn’t. He might yet figure it out and that is terrifying.
I think it’s infinitely better to get left by someone who doesn’t know anything. Ego says so anyways. Papercuts versus sucking chest wounds.

I told him he wouldn’t even want to say hi to me after he wandered around in here.

He said challenge accepted.

This isn’t a challenge, this is my life. He scratched the surface and walked.

I am 15 again. I am the culmination of romantic ramblings and musings, pornographic pieces of paper that keep getting misunderstood and thrown away.

I have a whole magical kingdom inside me, a universe barely contained. And wearing the crown is that teenage girl with a head full of stars, who still believes in love and doesn’t have a clue about anything but keeps writing and trying regardless.

Oh some days I do need saving. Not from any outside forces, just from myself.

Yesterday was that day.

Had a wonderful date planned with the Giant and work got in the way.
Not the end of the world by any means, just made me feel like someone cancelled spring.

February is happening in fits and starts and weird little backslides of time. I feel like it should be both earlier and later in the month. And like it’s always supposed to be better or warmer tomorrow and then tomorrow doesn’t come. It will be warmer tomorrow.

I have always been of the mindset that even if the groundhog sees his shadow, it’s only six more weeks. 42 days. My inner Little Engine that Could awakens and I really think I can.

Leah asked me how I do it. How I keep loving/living/trying/staying open after what I have been through with men.

Fall down seven times, stand up eight. (Buddha)

Even when my knees are still bleeding and throbbing from last time.

Oh I bleed, red like everyone else.

Gravel in my palms, wind knocked outta me.

It’s almost compulsive to get up and keep going.

I know this too shall pass and something better always comes. Not always better per say, but different, shiny and new. I also know on a long enough timeline everything makes sense and we go back to being friends, except him and him and that other guy.

Some I keep close. Sometimes we need each other. I could have called on any number of exes yesterday. Young ‘Un drew the black marble and did right by me yet again. He said “Hush. People that get to keep your company are fortunate indeed.” Bless him. I sent him a thank you today…”I am wise enough (now) to know when to keep my mouth shut, but I am grateful for you helping keep my crazy contained.”

(I walk slow, I walk slow, take my hand, help me on my way. Mumford & Sons, Lover’s Eyes)

I don’t want to blame the moon, but it’s the moon.

Shark week cometh and bringeth forth all the self-doubts, old fears, insecurities and a dash of crazy for flavour.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I think William Butler Yeats described my yesterday with poetic perfection.

I know everything is coming up blood red roses.  I had the girl I call ‘my sunrise’ waving crimson pompoms trying to get me through the night and it worked.

This morning Rob Brezsney told me “The poet Muriel Rukeyser said the universe is composed of stories, not of atoms. The physicist Werner Heisenberg declared that the universe is made of music, not of matter.”
…” That’s why we implore you to nourish yourself with delicious, nutritious tales and tunes that inspire you to exercise your willpower for your highest good.”

I’ll abide.

Sorry Mr. Yeats…sometimes the center does hold.

This story I’m telling is a good story, I’m self-aware. I know I’m stuck on a page and it will turn. This chapter isn’t done yet and everything gets better. I know because I get to write it myself. I know nothing ever ends, it just evolves and changes and it’s bliss.

Soundtrack for today?

Somewhere out there on the horizon
Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope
Maybe it’s just a mirage
‘Cause you never know
And maybe things have changed

Storm clouds pass take their rains

And I wait for spring to come
But how long, tell me how long
‘Cause I wither at my post
I’m walking like a ghost, alone
How long tell me how long, how long

Out of the darkness, only light can come
After a lonely long night comes the sun.

(Spring to Come. John Butler Trio)

See, gets a little angsty in the middle but spring always comes and the sun is shining bright and warm this morning.

I love that feeling when you hear a new piece of music for the first time and it is just so beautiful you get overwhelmed with joy.

I see/feel/hear beauty everywhere. “But it helps me remember – I need to remember. Sometimes, there’s so much beauty in the world – I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart is just going to cave in.” Ricky Fitz, American Beauty

I don’t know if my heart caves in or just grows. With me it’s more like being in the ocean, feeling tiny and overwhelmed, being lifted by something so much more powerful than I can fathom.

Just had one of those moments.

The universe is sending messages again. The kind that raise gooseflesh and make my eyes leak a little (alotta) bit.

Two moments truth be told, 12 hours apart.

Melodious messages.

I have lisztomania, the compulsion to have music playing always.
I find myself uncomfortable in environments without it.
My happy place is a summer drive with the music down and the music cranked. My old jeep used to sound like the Budokan and it was bliss. I remember listening to Radiohead “Let Down” and floating.

That is what music does to me, crashes into me in waves, knocking me over and lifting me up, sometimes making me fight for air. But mostly it makes me feel buoyant, floating, content.

First time in the new boy’s house he walks in the kitchen and hits play on the iPod, an old Blind Melon album I hadn’t heard in ages. I smiled. Haven’t stopped really.

That was a good smirk inducing moment but not the aforementioned notes from above.

We were lying in bed just holding onto each other, the Neighborhood was playing and had been for a while. He said he didn’t want to move but he wanted to hear a particular song. I pulled away and was confronted by a rush of cold air.

The only good thing about moving when you are incredibly comfortable nestled naked with someone is the act of touching and shifting whilst getting comfortable again.

I put my head back against his chest for the briefest of seconds. The music began to play and I had to raise my head so I could hear with both ears.

Postcard from 1952 by Explosions in the Sky.

This one has no words, just slowly building cadence then crashing, pushing, pulling like storm swells.

It was so beautiful I cried. Couldn’t help it.

When it was done I wiped my eyes and said “What was that?” I wanted to add “and what are you and where did you come from.” But I didn’t.

Instead these words slipped out of my mouth.

“The first time we were together I had one crystal clear thought, ‘can I please keep him for a bit’.”
I had to correct myself, I don’t keep people. So I said…

Wait a minute (baby)
(just) Stay with me a while.

In my defense I was sex drunk, high on harmonies and the scotchy scotch scotch warming my belly didn’t help either.

He tilted his head to look at me, smiled, kissed my forehead and said ‘yes’.

We touched and talked for a little bit longer. I had the hardest time drifting off. The rest of the album was still playing I fought sleep to hear it.
I had the loveliest of dreams, carousel horses, leaving my job et al.

It was ringing in my ears the next day. The song he played, the words I said and his answer.

I found myself overthinking things, this isn’t what you say to a new one, a young ‘un. I was beating myself up a bit disregarding his response, my words playing on a loop. I started singing it in my head…

What the actual fuck now, to Google…ah I have heard it before.

Sara by Fleetwood Mac. I heard the rest of the lyrics and re-teared up.

“…when you build your house

Then call me home.”

“You think it’s not magic that keeps you alive?
Just because you understand the mechanics of how something works doesn’t make it any less of a miracle, which is just another word for magic.
We are all kept alive by magic, mine just happens to be different from yours.” ~True Blood

The above statement is mostly true.

Some people have so little magic in them it creates a black hole from the void of it and it sucks the light out of the rest of us.

Some have dark magic, some light with 50 shades of grey in between.

I have said it before and I will say it again. People ought to come with warning labels.

I am thinking of one specifically right now. I call it…

“She/he won’t go down now.” *

My poor baby Scorpios aren’t getting head. My older one wouldn’t give it.

Hardly seems fair considering.

I remember the first time I won the Cougar Olympics.

The house was clean, I was clean.
He had my address. Music was playing, whiskey was poured, beer in the fridge and I was making tacos with butterflies in my belly.

He knocked and the dogs barked, I opened the door and the butterflies went insane.

We were both nervous, you could feel it crackling in the air like lightning about to strike.

I looked at him across the kitchen island, knife in hand chopping something or other…took a big ‘ole swallow of whiskey and said “Do you want to just fuck before dinner so we can stop feeling so twitchy?”

Lightning.

He just about choked on his beer but he managed to utter a gruff ‘yes’.

Whenever I sleep with someone new there is always that (hopefully) grace(ful) period where you figure each other out. Easiest way, in my humble yet slutty opinion is to give them head and assess what they like. Like reading braille, with your tongue I guess.

So I did that.

When it was time, he reciprocated. He had previously mentioned that he was ‘pretty good at it’. I smirked, inwardly and just thought “ya, ya…sure young un’. Show me what you got.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnd my head exploded.

I am sometimes blissfully wrong.

I asked him after, mouth still slightly agape and ‘gina still more than slightly tingling “How did you get so good at that?”

“I wanted to be good at it so I read about it.”

Never underestimate the power of a sexually determined Scorpio.

Another Scorpio from waaaaaay back when refused to go down on me because the girl before me ‘tasted gross’. But I don’t taste gross…fucking Scorpios and their baggage.

Two sides to every coin.

Ima digress and wander out of the past now, into the recent past.

Had lunch with yet another Scorpio young un’. He can’t seem to get head either even though he LOVES going down. He asked me how to ask for it.

I sat across from him and tried to recall ever having to be asked and truth be told, I never have. It’s just what I do. I like doing it, sometimes I love doing it.

So I put up a poll on Facebook. There was no clear answer other than ‘don’t beg’, and ‘do the dishes’.

Which leads credence to my earlier and repeatedly repeated theory.

We cannot and should not fuck outside of our kind.

This is now my divine law and I have followers. I need to make t-shirts and write it in the sky.

There is a spark that exists inside of some of us. If we open ourselves up sexually to ‘the others’ (aka the spark-less) ours dims.
If they are the void kind of humanoid we can literally get sick from it, sad, lost and weakened. They steal our light.

The equal and opposite is therefore true, if you can find someone whose fire and lightning feeds your own that is how stars are born.

*From an Absolutely Fabulous episode that is burned into my brain.

https://www.facebook.com/Alfawrites/photos/a.2264284423710295.1073741829.2250573485081389/2411693132302756/?type=3&theater

I want to shake this foreboding and anticipation of the alternate piece of footwear succumbing to gravity.

Shoes drop sometimes, and so do I.

Last night I said to my bartender “This one is so close to perfect, he probably has dead hookers in his basement. I am scared and I don’t like it.”

Bartender replied “if you let the last one fuck this one up, he wins and we can’t have that.”

“Suck it up buttercup. Everyone makes mistakes.”

Bartender is also poised and ready to put me on a plane to California, he knows me. He knows a lot.

He knows I met a boy. He saw the whole thing.

T’was a few nights before Christmas when it was busy as hell at work, creatures were stirring.
He cut through the crowd, waltzed right up to me, in all of his giant, towering glory and asked me incredibly politely how much it would cost to spend an hour with me.
I looked waaaaaaaaay up at his beardiness, his wicked grin and into his smiling, navy blue eyes and just about said “Nothing, just take me out of here.”
I wasn’t drunk enough to be quite that brave. Also I was not wearing pants, occupational hazard.

For the next 60 minutes we talked about the universe and religion, life and death. He touched me exactly enough and I touched him more. Just the way I like it. It was pretty amazing. He was chivalrous and respectful, clever and kind…and he smelled nice.

I felt like a geisha. I forgot where I was and what I am supposed to be.

I wandered back to his table when time was up so I could read his palm in the low glow of the bar lights. And for the second time in a calendar year, I gave a cute boy my number at work.

Didn’t go so well the first time. As the reigning queen of Fuckittryagainland, fuck it, let’s try again.

My tenacity and penchant for living and loving might well be my downfall someday, but for now it’s my only reason to be alive, and it’s a good one. Of course I get knocked down but I get back up.
Thank you for playing, please try again. I do.

You can’t win the lottery if you do not buy a ticket.

I try so hard not to blame the ones that come for the actions of the ones that came before.

So why do I think my Friendly Giant is Jack the Ripper in disguise?

Because of the one that came before.

The one that lied as a first language.

I explained to him that I am not monogamous, but I was auditioning for the role of Primary. He acquiesced and then did the exact polar opposite of what he said he would do. I listened to his words and ignored his actions until I couldn’t anymore.

I had a date with the Friendly Giant for Christmas Day, had to skip it when he-who-shall-not-be-named (because he gave me so many different names I don’t know who he is) threw a dramatic temper tantrum of epic proportions. See if you can follow here, he lied about a girl lying about accusing him of rape. I think we finally have an answer to ‘what is worse than rape’.

I lost a day there, and a few more. I nearly lost this new one. Over a bad decision, one of my worst to date, and I have made some bad fucking decisions.

This new one, the Friendly Giant is the same one who messaged me before our first date to tell me he had been seeing someone while I was away. We talked it out, I commended his honesty and he waited until she returned from away to have ‘the talk’. We three all came up with the same ‘casual is fine’ answer.

I will be playing the role of good karma for the time being.

I don’t want to get my hopes up, but here they float, little heart-shaped helium balloons dancing on a whim. They are navy blue for the record.

He is sweet to me and says AND does all the right things.

I’ve read his future, I know he gets married, I will still be around when he meets her. He will tell me about her with his eyes shining like they do when he looks at me, like he won the lottery. He made me promise that if he ever said that about a girl who wasn’t ‘the one’ that I would just take him upstairs and fuck him until the moment passed.

I promise.