My desk looks like a scene from Signs, and I am grateful for the excess of water. I am drunk. Water won’t hurt me.
I had such a fun time at Rock Bottom with my OSF friends. I’m amazing at my ability to embed links at this point in time and sobriety. Yay for me.
Most people might not have their dead father following them, screaming, almost all the time. I should not share that as my reality, lest I appear less normal than the norm. Right? Good call, self.
Steve might move, in which case our friendship would radically change, if not end. I think of Max and I feel slightly doomed. If Max can’t inspire a long distance friendship, I have no hope.
I am making new friends, though. Strong, female friends. Mostly younger than me, but women like JJ and Patty form my older friend spectrum, and thus I am balanced. My Ma-Ma gives a black/white to the extreme of the spectrum, and Madison and Aubrey give the white/black to the other end of the spectrum. If I flux between 20-50, that’s not bad at all. Not that “bad” had the meaning it had six years ago, anyways.
Bedtime. So much bedtime and so very soon. But first an attempt to find the words that may well set me free. If freedom does, in fact, get issued at points of truth released. Given our economy, it might not.
At least I have my swamp cooler to cling to a piece of cool air, feeling the lack of hairs on my leg, and the smooth sea of sheets that engulf my mind, nightmares rolling in like waves to the sea, never noticed for long but always so monumental in the moment. I’ll roll through the ocean of my mind and find rest elsewhere, if such a phenomenon exists. I reckon rest is like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Cartman may be able to draw it out, but only with all the neighborhood kids, and I’m still new at friends above the Mason-Dixon line.
I could’ve used about 3 links above, but sleep wears me down. My hands are heavy, but my mind is bursting.
I must circle myself in, hemmed behind and before, and seek out grounding in the arms of my lover.
I hope tomorrow goes well. I hope Jim stays dead. I hope Matt forgives my drunken flashbacks and inability to articulate. I hope I keep my new job and don’t have to wait tables until I’m thirty. I hope. Radical though it may be, I hope. When really I should be sleeping.