Comments Off on i don’t want to talk about politics
I don’t want to talk about politics.
I don’t want to talk about politics.
No, I don’t want to talk about politics.
I didn’t see the article on whatever about not dictator and his new regime.
Really.
No, Really.
Fucking Really… I’m a woman, my opinion doesn’t matter right? I am just a vessel, a container. I am just an incubator for the seed you germinate within me right? You don’t need my brain… or do you?
Do you? Oh, yeah, you need my brain and my womb… the 23 pairs that make the other half of your spawn. Because it takes two pair to make a human. You can’t do it with one pair.
So maybe you don’t care about me. Maybe you don’t like my opinion. Maybe you think I’m a useless piece of waste. But you and your politics should pay attention. Because my womb, and my pair are important. We are a part of one another. We are written on each other’s DNA. You can’t separate me from that which I create. Take me from my home, take me from my family, take away my ability to choose… that will be your downfall.
Comments Off on Letters Unsent… But maybe they should be
I often struggle between my inner dialog and the one that goes through my lengthy filtering process. When friends ask for my opinion or advice, which happens way more often than I care to say, I often ask myself repeatedly ‘should I really give it??’ ‘do they really want it, or are they just asking so I will reassure them that their decision is perfect and I am their minion?’ ‘Don’t they know by now I’m gonna be honest??’ ‘Why the fuck are they asking me??’ Then I give a kindly worded, much pondered, answer that may not be what they wanted to hear. But oh well, you asked. However, there have been a few things since my last post that I haven’t addressed. Frankly, this shit is tiring. Buddha (or whoever writes cool quotes and says they are from Buddha- either way, I like it) said that carrying around anger (or resentment or frustration or unaddressed hurt- those mine) is like holding a burning coal in your hands and expecting the other person to get burned. Smart guy this Buddha. So I’m gonna drop some hot rocks. Prepare yourselves bitches…
*****************
Dearest Friend,
Please stop apologizing for the things that happened almost ten years ago. We both made mistakes and we both did stupid things. We let pride and ego and self come between us and now… We don’t. We’ve grown, we’ve changed, we’ve suffer losses without each other to wipe tears. We’ve had wins without each other to celebrate. We’ve seen the people that we drifted toward drift from us and we’ve made our way back to each other. Yes it’s different. No, we are not the inseparable pair we were then… But we wouldn’t have the amazing men in each of our lives. Now we are friends. Not just friends, but true friends. Friends with history and shared heartache and shared love and shared laughs and shared jokes that no one else understands. We can be three but cycle and the other one will always get it. So move forward, because we can’t finish the movie if we keep rewatching in the last scene.
I love you princess. More than my shoes… Even the ones I don’t wear anymore.
Less than three.
*****************
Dear Friend (are we still?),
Thank you for finally articulating your feelings after simply dropping off my radar for three weeks. I really thought we had the kind of friendship where you could drop by and say ‘hey friend, we need to hash something out’, but I guess we don’t. To be honest, it wasn’t so much the content of what you said texted that hurt most, but that you couldn’t talk to me… That you still can’t talk to me. Don’t get me wrong, what you said affected me too… In a what the actual fuck? Am I really reading this right now? Noooo, really?? Kind of way. I have been the same person since well, always. I think what’s really changed is the message. You don’t like what you are hearing now. A few years ago the message was supportive, because that was my truth to you then. Now the message isn’t as supportive, it’s more questioning, more of a devils advocate. It’s still given with kindness and in my voice, but I am not towing your party line. I’m not sorry. I think you are making some horrible decisions. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the decisions you are making are good and I’m wrong. Or maybe I’m the enabler. Maybe these couple months without hangin out with me have been good. No one is helping you spend time self destructing. If it took my “hurting your feelings” to get you to pull your shit together then I’m not sorry, not that I was anyway. I don’t hold on to those coals. It doesn’t help anyone, least of all me.
I hope the last couple months have been really good for you. I hope the kids are well and if they ever want to come over for Mac n cheese and minions, I always have time for them. And when you are ready to have a conversation, with words… Through your mouth, I’ll be here. Same as always. Because unconditional is the only way I know how.
****************
Units,
Fucking figure it out because we didn’t choose, you did. So fucking act like it. Act like you give a shit, because frankly, I don’t. Others do, but I don’t. And do you have any idea how much it takes for someone like me to stop caring??? Ask around, ask my friends, ask other people that know me, ask people on the street. It is known. But I am done and over it. The fucks are gone, the shits have done been given. The love that remains falls under the obligation category but the like… There is no requirement for like that in the handbook. I checked. For fuck sake. This isn’t even about me, it’s about them, the ones that still have something left to give.
I can’t even. Words are failing me and words are what I do. I just can’t.
****************
Yang,
You have put the knees on my bees. You are the grammar nazi to my writers journal. I have had best friends that are forever friends (you have met the princess) but you are somehow a part of me I didn’t know I needed. You give voice to things I can’t and help me rein in the compassion that seems to flow unimpeded when you aren’t around. At the same time, I think I lend a chisel to your edge and a filter to your outer voice that you may have been looking for… The chisel and filter that have been sitting there in their pretty boxes just waiting for their home. Plus, you get the parts of my favorites that I don’t, and you eat the centers of my cinnamon rolls and you smoke when you aren’t on fire giving me a chance to take a break when I need it.
I love you too, more than my shoes… enough to let you borrow them and give them to you if you want them. Or find a better pair made by ALDO and send them to you as a gift.
***************
Dear Country,
I knew some of you were not that bright. I knew some of you would believe anything the channel you watch most told you. I even knew some of you were such fucking sheep that you would listen to the loudest one in the room even if he was telling you that you were on fire, while you were wading in a swimming pool. I did not think enough of you were were so blind and ignorant that you would allow such an obvious piece of shit to leave his mark on your door. I did not think you would lay back and open your legs to what is obviously the smallest dick of them all, while he tells you how huge it is… And then tell him how huge his centimeter feels. Haven’t you had enough of this nonsense? Haven’t you felt sufficiently reemed? Must you allow this to continue so the rest of us have to endure your shame? Once again I find myself struggling to find words to properly describe the disgust I feel at the people I have to share citizenship with.
Wake the fuck up! You think we have issues with “terrorists” now? What the fuck do you think will happen if you right wing nut jobs succeed at putting this idiot in office? You know, the guy that has insulted every race, creed and culture I can think of. Do you think we’ll be fine? Do you think it will be okay, that his GIANT centimeter cock will protect you?? Think again motherfuckers… All the “terrorists” that hate each other may stop for a minute and get together to decide- hey, wait… We need to go show the giant, entitled, overinflated, American wack-job that he fucked with too many of us. You can fuck with the people that guy hates, or the guy over there, but not everyone, that’s just greed. Terrorists hate American greed. And who is a bigger poster boy for American greed than our Republi-cock candidate? NO ONE.
So sort yourselves out. This has gone way past funny to, again ridiculous.For fuck sake people.
For. Fuck. Sake.
I can’t even. Again the words are failing me and words are what I do. I just can’t.
So I will let someone else… (It’s not new… But it will work)
Our lives are like treasure chests, each one different, much like we are. Each life, each collection of treasures, is as amazing as the person who collected it. Some of those chests look like they have been pulled out of the deep dark. There are some serious battle wounds on those bitches but their owners are the most amazing, beautiful, loving, caring humans. They are the people you hope will cross your path and teach you some thread of knowledge they keep inside that vault. On the other hand, some of those owners are as black as the scars that mar the exterior of the burdens they bear. Life affects us all differently. As humans we get to choose how. We can decide whether we take life’s beating or if life’s beating takes us. Unfortunately we don’t get to choose who gives it. And the beating will always hurt, but learning usually does. Because, no really good lesson has ever come easily or at little cost. If we are lucky we learn this lesson young, but luck (like so many things) is a tiny spec in the sky that we grasp at.
When you sit and try to write to old friends after a really long time it’s a daunting task. And you are friends of a sort. I’ve shared my darkest moments and my triumphs with you and I’ve shared some of your darks and dawns as well. And we’ve all fallen off the radar at one time or another. Some of us because we had real life happening- we had adulting to do and adulting gets in the way every time. Some of us were opening new chapters in our lives, and that chapter didn’t include the space that was created here. Maybe it was a new space, maybe there was no space for “us” at all. That’s okay. Who am I to judge your lives? I hope you aren’t judging mine. I’ve sat at this keyboard (a totally different iteration than the little netbook at the beer bar of old) a good 25 times and tried to write a love letter or a holiday update or just a funny postcard and gotten no where. It’s too late for a New Years update… That would be forced and awkward. A ketsup post would just drone on and on and insult you. Frankly I don’t think either of us wants that. So where do I start? What do I say to tell you I’ve missed you and I want you and I have things to say that you want to hear…
Do I just launch into a tirade about the current political bullshit (and by bullshit I mean Trump, in case you forgot who I was) or do I talk about the retarded zealous parents who think they are making informed decisions by are not vaccinating their children (yes, this is still relevant)? Do I give in to the desire to throw verbal shitbags at the fucktards and their ridiculous over the top 2nd Amendment insanity? Do I go postal on the wing nuts that are literally shortening our collective lifespan as a species by plowing through acres and acres of rain forest a day? Hell not just our species but all the species! Or do I forget for a moment that human beings are completely fucked and talk about how awesome my life is. After several years in a hole of crazy coworkers (we are talkin batshit, not just “a bit off” but completely fucking nutter) and under appreciation, bad meds, weight gain and loss (let’s be real, mostly gain), and a lot of uncertainty to be sure… I am in a good place. I am more happy than sad, more loved than lost, more up than down. I think this has definitely caused some creative frustration. Let’s be real, wait… I hate that phrase… I’m calling myself out on using it because if I’m not being real what the fuck am I doing???? So let me restart that: It’s pretty clear from studies by actual doctors and observation of my own past practices (you miss me talkin out my ass.. admit it!!) that depression and trauma breed creativity. At least they do in my case. So I’ve been stunted. Add to that the fact that people I sometimes write about in a not so favorable way have figured out that I sometimes write about them… in a not so favorable way, and you have a constantly blank screen.
So here I sit with words words words. After weeks of pondering how to start, fuck it. I am just going to. I’ll start with a short list of things that I’m pretty sure of. Some of them may be different than the last time I listed things and some may be the same, I’ll leave it to you to do the homework.
I’m pretty sure that…
… I love my nephew more every time I see him and I didn’t think that was possible
… As Aunt’s go, I am the best.
… I didn’t realize how life changing It would be to have met my female soulmate, my yang, my forever friend
… for the first time in my life my ratio of friends tips more to the female than the male side
… I don’t know how I feel about that
… Turning 40 has had more positives than negatives, especially the wine thing, I love the wine thing
… Beer is proof that Gus loves us and wants us to be happy
… adult coloring books have always been around, we just didn’t like crayons, so someone decided to sell one with colored pencils or markers and now… $$$$
… Uggs with a skirt is still not okay
… My job is kick ass and I am awesome at it… I may talk about that a lot more, as I’m trying to decide whether Bourbon or Vodka is better
… I can’t decide if I like Bourbon or Vodka better so I just bring both to the party… It’s one of the many Gemini perks
… Bacon still wins
… yep, still not okay
… Donald Trump is a fucking idiot
… Pot should be legal. I don’t use it (smoke it, whatever) but I think it would help in so many ways
… Technology has made us retarded for real and shortened our attention- LOOK! A Squirrel!
… I love any kind of music except, poppy country, something that tells me to rape my sister (cringe) and fucking Nickelback. I will take Creed over Nickelback, maybe, shit. Can I stab my eardrums out?
… anyone that would vote for Donald Trump is a bigger fucking idiot
…. I have a lot to say about a lot of things and I will
… Clowns are creepy
… anyone that reads my posts and would vote for Trump should send me a very detailed email about why and expect a very expletive filled response about why those reasons are so not enough
… I should post this shit already so I can move on to the next topic
Comments Off on Letters, Therapy and Music to Heal the Soul
Sometimes its just like that… you start out writing a letter to a friends kid and it ends up being to you.. and your friend and her kid… and maybe a few other people you know. Hell maybe a lot of people need it. But mostly it was about my struggle with resentment toward my dad, my inability to get past some shit I fully blame on him.
My missive started as a note about how we, as children, like many of the most amazing things in science, are not only what we appear to be. We are an amalgamation of intricate detail. We are made up of so many things. Some good, some beautiful, some complex, some completely incomprehensible, some ugly, some insincere, some repulsive and some that want to admit is part of us. But all those tids and bits are what makes us who we are. And we as a whole are greater than than the individual bits that make us. What does this have to do with anything and why am I writing this to someone elses child? She doesn’t like her dad. (I don’t blame her, he is a piece of shit and I know a bit about dads that are pieces of shit). He isn’t a good person. She and her siblings struggle with the same self loathing I and my siblings struggle with because our whole is made up of some bad parts.
Fortunately we are not our parts. Without an arm, we are still human. But we are not the same human we were with that arm. That specific arm, no matter its state, formed part of who we are. So I wouldn’t be who I am without the contribution of my dad, however bad I may think it, and my friends daughter wouldn’t be the amazing person she is without all her components either.
My last therapy session started with a song… My therapist was rather speachless for a bit then reminded me I dedn’t really need to see him. I have a penchant for self analysis. I know this, yet I can’t fix the resentment and anger. So we talked about the words and the song and the singer. I’ve written about Austin Lucas before and how his songs have helped me through other things in my life. At the time I played this and talked about it with the shrikydink I hadn’t come to the realization I did when writing this. Nothing he did, said, or didn’t do or say can make me who I am… but it contributes to my whole. I like the whole. It is rough and needs constant work to keep from becoming a bag of shitty parts.
Easy there, old man
I’ll drop you where you stand
You wear wings of white but I smell your hellfire
Cause I know who you are, a racist and a coward
And all you’ve got to show for life is dust
Cause you lay roses on the ground
And turn lies to common wisdom
You’re a good man when it suits you
Yes I know
But whatever good you’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And your savior may forgive you but I won’t
Oh but somebody loves you
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you
Oh yeah somebody loves you
And how can it be true
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you
It was from you I learned some men cannot be trusted
And from you I learned some friends do not inspire
Cause you were like my brother
But you filled my heart with anger
And I’ll thank you when those lessons have helped at all
Oh your stories gave me life and they flowed through me like wine
But they were darkest pitch-black arrows to my soul
Yes I was your true believer now my bones do shake and shiver
With a poison that does rot me to the core
Oh but I did once love you
I guess I knew no better
Yes I was once that fool
And I did love you
Oh yes I did once love you
And how can it be true
That I was once that fool
And I did love you
And like some ghastly phantom voice, lifelong companion
Or a devil on left shoulder, lashing tongue
I spit crescents, spite filled language like some drunkard
To the heavens, when to hell he knows his spirit’s surely bound
Yes I lay roses on the ground and deceive you beyond wisdom
There’s a good man in the shadows, so I’m told
But whatever good I’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And that truth comes cold to blacken out the sun
Oh but somebody loves me
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves me
Oh yeah somebody loves me
And how can it be true
That somebody loves me
Somebody loves you
Maybe I’m still resentful. Not as much as yesterday. And not nearly as much as when I last met with the shrinky dink. I still think this song speaks more about my relationship with my dad than I could ever write on my own, At least for now. But I’m working on that.
And sometimes it’s just like that… you walk through a shadow and notice your own, and it isn’t as bad as you once thought it was.
I started writing a re-cap of 2014. Then I started writing a letter to 2014. Then I decided that all the self censoring is making it difficult to know where to start. So…. fuck it. I have closed the lid on 2014. I have given myself permission to let last year go. I have decided that I will not look back and rehash all the mistakes I made, even though some of them are super funny and blog worthy. I will not give in to the temptation to dwell in the negativity pool, even though its water is just the right temperature and they let you have tasty-fruity-boozy drinks, with little umbrellas, on your raft.
Instead I will welcome 2015. I will ride the express along it’s unknown path, but I will probably fasten my seatbelt for safety. I will not be making any silly resolutions. (my fear of failure will only allow those I can keep with certainty anyway.) But I will make some plans. I will have some goals. And they will result in prizes that make achieving them a worth while endeavor. (I have not yet chosen the prizes but they will be awesome.) I will ride my bipolar express right in to 40’s inner circle and I will make it my bitch. (Why doesn’t 40 have a catchy rhyme, like dirty-thirty? Sporty-Forty doesn’t sound as fun to me… it sounds like work, and sweating and a spicegirl in business) I will embrace the gray hair and the wrinkles. I will embrace my inner cougar and the animal print accessories she forces upon me. Okay, to be honest, I probably won’t “embrace” the gray hair, I will continue to color it… But, not because I have gray hair. I will color it because I like my hair red, or plumb or stripey. But… I will not be upset when I see a new gray hair because frankly, I earned that shit.
This year, I will grow as a person. I will recognize that I have no control over the express train’s path, but I do have control over my reactions to the ride. I cannot control what other people think of me. But I can control how I treat other people. I cannot make my family understand me or my choices. I can’t make everyone happy. The only thing I can control is myself. If I want to be better in any way, I have to make it happen. And I will make things happen.
The bi-polar express is ready to roll. Please keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times for your own safety. Clothing is optional, however shoes are not.
Tonight I’m trying to get the thoughts to flow onto the page. I’m sitting at the pub, listening to my favorite DJ’s The Ideals spin sixties vinyl. The pub has overwhelming amounts of inspiration but nothing I can fit into a lovely little flow. Maybe my expectations are too high and I shouldn’t expect my first real post in more than a year to be some epic soliloquy. I shouldn’t expect myself to be able to capture all that’s happened in my life the first time I sit down.
But I want to. I want all the ridiculously funny shit that has happened in the last howeverlong to just spill out as if I had never been blocked. Speaking of blocked… what the eff yo? I feel like my creative process is as dry as the sahara. Though it is not for lack of material… I have spent the last year and a half herding cats, I mean babysitting, I mean playing mom working with truckers. actual truckers.
Before you say ‘oh that sounds like fun’ bite your fucking tongue. really. Being responsible for let’s see… 40 tons x 12… um a lot, no a shitload, no a metric shit ton… as it rolls along at 7mpg (maybe, if we’re having a good day) is stressful. Making sure the drivers trips can be done within their D.O.T. regulated hours and that they are not exhausted is stressful. Taking their eleventeen hundred phone calls a day because they had to sit at a dock for two hours or someone cut in front of them on the 405 while they were doing 45 is stressful. It is like being mother to 12 grown-ass-men who all need your attention but, like most children, don’t simply say ‘hey I’m a little stressed here, can we talk for a few?’ they call and complain. But… I loved it. I loved my job. I loved my truckers. I loved that they respected me and counted on me and needed me. I miss them terribly. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to let the horrible, awesome, funny, ridiculous stories flow. Maybe it’s why I am sitting at the pub on a Thursday night writing about them. And maybe it’s why I am not ready to move forward to the next step. I need time. I need to grieve. I need to decide if I want to go through all that comes with the responsibility of caring as much as I do.
Sometimes, it’s just like that… you have a stressful, crazy job that you think is gonna be the death of you until it’s gone. And you miss the stressful craziness of it all.
Is it just me or do the holidays start earlier and earlier every year? It seems to me that if Samhain has not yet passed, then stores should not be allowed to put up decorations for magic baby day. If I haven’t even given thanks for the pilgrims giving smallpox to the indigenous peoples yet, then that shit ain’t right. Maybe if it were Fear’s Fuck Christmas, I wouldn’t be so offended. But i’m not likely to hear that while picking up diabetes in a bag for the neighborhood ghouls. Why don’t stations play a better selection of holiday shit? Why must they always go with ye olde golden christmas oldies a la bing? Why can’t we get some hard rock or punk or ska or Queen???
So faithful friends I present a challenge. Most specifically to my favorite diverse type music loving friends; DJ joshpsmsc; The Social Assasian, Mr Atomic, Miss “Jen” e sais quoi, Mr (I use that loosely) Jody Neil Ruth, Miss (morethana) ShoeWhore, TravisISivart and the original mini (t)hug Liz aka FloRich… Don’t be offended if you weren’t named by name. I love you none the less and will happily listen to your crap selections as well.
Make a list, or better yet, a youtube playlist of your favorite holiday tuneage. It can be traditional if that’s your bag but the angrier, the louder the harder…. the better!! I expect a shitload of variety. A minimum of 5 songs would be appreciated but knock yourselves out… Go big. Give me a playlist that will make me the shame most awesome ever of my office when I “accidentally” play it at the company holiday party.
In fact let’s make a contest out of it. I shall challenge myself as well and have mine up within a week. I know my friends don’t like to pass up a chance for free shit so here goes.
My favorite list/playlist will get a shiney gift wrapped goodie from me. Sent directly to your door. Go forth, play music and be merry bitches!!!
Comments Off on blame it on Nickelback. Or Creed. No, Nickelback.
As I sat here berating myself over how much I haven’t written I started to think about the why’s. There are probably many actual reasons that aren’t complete bullshit but the bottom line is pressure. I started putting all this pressure on myself to write things that were meaningful or had merit or even just made sense. I pressured myself to censor things because family or friends might read them and think that I was talking shit about them. They’d probably be right but I didn’t want to deal with it. I felt pressured to make sense and write coherently. I felt pressured to come up with new and exciting things. Al this is the opposite of why I started writing. I started writing because everyday little things were funny. I started writing because people around me do some really retarded shit and I can’t deflect people away from my retarded shit if I don’t write about some other person’s.
So Fuck It. Why should I fee pressure to keep the shit to myself when I’m pretty sure others (and by others I mean Mr. Social Assassin) will laugh at the shit that happens in my world. Or maybe they will cry. But either way there will be no hatred or accusing me of outing people. And if someone does want to give me shit then well, well… truth strike a chord? If you don’t like it – don’t read it. If you do read it and still feel the need, bitch in a comment. My friend is a sniper with words. I’ll give him permission to take people out.
So I will work on some amazing stories, or at least stories I find funny to captivate. If they suck – I will blame Nickelback. All shit is Nickelback’s fault. Test me. I thought it might have been Creed’s fault but decided they just don’t suck as much as Nickelback.
When I was Eighteen (and two weeks) I packed what little shit I had, plus some shit I may not have had, and left. I didn’t leave the country or anything (I may currently be regretting that choice but, not the point) but I did leave home. I may not have been born in this town, but I went to school there for 12 years, so for all intents and purposes, I am from there.
Packed in those bags were the few things that meant something to me. Mostly clothes and basics one needs to live. I hadn’t yet become the shoe whore I currently am, so the bags were light. Conspicuously missing… those vestiges of friendship you amass during your high school years. Sure I had a few friends I was close to, but I didn’t weep for the loss of proximity… to anyone. I wasn’t sad that seeing so-and-so would take planning or forethought. I didn’t miss her or him or that guy or my bff. I just left. After several years I finally ran into someone “I grew up with”. It was awkward to say the least. They acted like I was one of the cool kids they remembered (though I was never a cool kid), and I was the same as I ever was trying to figure out if they actually knew who I was or were really remembering my brother but seeing me instead. I had always just been there. That person no one really loved or hated (well there was that one girl, but that is another story completely), I wasn’t invited but I wasn’t excluded either, I was just me. In a time where all of life is measured by who you hang out with or sleep with or refuse… I just wasn’t. Lest you think I am waxing sentimental and sad, think again. Leaving town with what little I did and going to start a new life was the best thing I could have done. And over the years I have rarely returned. I don’t think I have been back enough to average out to once every couple years.
Then I got a message from my single remaining high school friend a couple days ago that our 20th reunion is this Saturday…. Wait, this Saturday? Yeah… and he and wifey would like me to go with them because they aren’t going to the whole shin-dig, just the after party. While the after party only sounded a bit better, than goin full early 90’s…
I don’t know this person… but this was what the popular girls did to their hair back then.
I was not convinced. It took the nh and the besty a long while to get me to see why this could be good. First, I haven’t aged much. No really, I haven’t. I used to deny it and have a hard time taking the compliment then I realized that I really haven’t. I did find my first gray hair a month ago (finally, I earned that shit!) and have a hint of aging around my eyes. And by aging I mean bags, dark bags (have I mentioned I don’t sleep??). But for the most part I haven’t changed much except the length of my hair and it’s color. Second, I am not fat. Yes I have gained a few pounds over the years but not an excessive amount. And really, I gained most of it the last year because forty is a whore that hates you approaching her sanctum. Also, I have lived my life on my terms. I have fucked up and been in the best of places, but I chose. I fled what I could see becoming my life for somewhere new that held no preconceived notions. I chose to marry young and I chose to leave that marriage that I built with my tears and work, with nothing. I chose (actively) to be childless. I chose to stop going to school and live with the consequences of that choice. I chose to leave a job that was breaking me but stable for something uncertain. I chose to love unconditionally and am learning how truly freeing that choice is. I chose to leave my family and face the world and found out that while it may not be the easy choice it was the best choice. I love my life. I live where people vacation and I am surrounded by friends that love me and I love them because they are awesome humans. I ditch the shitty people because life is too short.
So, I am going to face the past and people I really don’t know but I have back-up. I am going with people I really enjoy and there is an agreement, an understanding… we are each other’s exit buddies. If one is miserable, all are and we bail the fuck out before permanent damage happens. Isn’t that what friends are for? I think so.
on my way to my reunion… any wonder why I never return???
Here’s a treat, the top songs from the year I graduated…
