I fell from the arms of my love of my life, into the arms of the next.

The Incident

Today started out well, enough. I woke up with the lingering effects of a cold (and a slightly dryer spell) around seven. My boyfriend had already been up for a few hours fiddling around on-line, pampering the dog, doing just about everything in his power to rouse me. I was a little grumpy because he was so damn chipper (I'm not a real morning person, I wake up early, but I take it easy). I made the conscious effort to shake it off because I was heading to visit my family for a couple days and I wouldn't see him until Sunday. We flirted and poked fun at each other to get rid of the tension, and it seemed to work. He left to run to the store and I readied myself to meet a friend for coffee before I caught the bus north. I had the bags packed for the dog and me by the time he came home. We kissed and said our goodbyes and I was out the door with my bag, and dog (and dog carrier) in tow. Just as I left the building I realized I had left the house keys in my pocket. So I ran back up to give them to him...by doing so...I missed my bus. 'No big deal' I thought 'It's not raining; I'll just walk' I called my friend who I was supposed to meet to break the news that I would be (as ever) late. He in turn offered to come pick me up. And he brought coffee. 'Wow' I thought to myself 'things just keep working out'. He drives past where we were going to have coffee and goes to his house. I don't mind, he has better snacks than the coffee shop, anyway. I felt it might actually be a better venue for our meet. I wanted to talk to him about something that was a bit, sensitive (read: wretchingly personal). *skip skip skip skip* *argue*argue*(I'll write about this later....) AND then I left. I walked down to say hello to some friends at my neighborhood watering hole up the street. It was close to the bus stop that I needed to catch in roughly 35 minutes. I make it to the bus with about five minutes to spare, I skim over the paper, making a mental note of the articles I want to read and in what order. How they would fill the 45 minute bus ride. The bus shows, as I board I realize that this bus is MASSIVELY fucking full, and here I am with a rolling (pink with silver-chain) suitcase, a large purse, and a dog in a bag. I push my way almost all the way to the back, where a teenage fella is sprawled out over two seats. I tap him on the leg and say "May I?" His response was "Sheeit. Girl." and my response was to shove my ass in the seat next to him. I crammed the suitcase where my legs were to go, put the purse on the bag and the dog was somehow hovering above those two things and my legs, which were in the aisle. I resigned myself to the fact that I was NOT going to be reading any of the paper, since it was barely possible for me to do a kegel let alone flip through the paper. I thought to myself 'Bree, it's fine. It's only 45 minutes.'. . . . . . . . We had made it out of the city about 15 minutes when the dog bag started moving. Usually, Stella is a master traveler. She naps out in the bag and when we get to the destination I a have to wake her up to get her out. So, this was strange behavior. I un-zipped the top of the bag and her head popped up, I could tell by the look on her face, that something wasn't right. I tried cooing to her and petting her head, when, all of the sudden a foul, vile, stench started emitting from the bag, and something wet, and quite warm, started seeping down my leg. I look straight up to the ceiling, purse my lips, close my eyes. I know what just happened. My dog just had a sloppy, diarrhea, crap IN the carrier, ON my lap on the bus! Teen America next to my instantly pipes up and rats me off to the driver. The driver looks at me in the rear view mirror, nay, judges me, backwards in that damn mirror, shaking his head. He pulls off the freeway at the VERY next exit and instructs me to get off. No words were passed. It was all understood. I gather my things and I carry this seepy, stenchy, raunchy, dog bag up the aisle, trying really hard to not get it on anyone, and trying really hard not to cry. I look at the pay meter as I am getting off, and the driver shrugs a shrug that means "On the house, toots", and I get off. At this point it turns into the scene in the runaway movie where the camera pans to a bus taking off, and there, which was once hid behind the bus, is a woman and her luggage. Standing wide legged and tired, looking straight ahead. I fall into this role perfectly, because then the tears really start a flowing. 'okay' I think, 'no big deal. you got this. Okay. Get the dog out. Oh god, poor Stella!'. I drop my purse to the ground and I un-zip the carrier. She comes flying out, covered in her own shit, of course, and is in a fit. She is afraid she is going to be punished, but she also really has to take another monster ass piss, I soon learn. I calm her down and I set to work on figuring out where in the HELL I am. I know I'm off some freeway exit, but I am under the overpass, and I can't see any street signs. I pick the dog up, roll the bags on top of each other and climb the embankment up to what looks like a main road. N.E. 145th St. It says. I'm saved! That sounds like a pretty main road, and like I'd seen the signs from the freeway before. I start making phone calls to get picked up (after of course making the customary freak out call to the boyfriend--who has his phone turned off because he his having his time to himself. You can imagine the internal(and somewhat external dialog) I was having over that fact.). This is where it all just steps up another notch. Stella starts retching. She is going to hurl. My hands are full of the bags and her and I wasn't about to just drop her on the ground to avoid her puke, so, she pukes on me. There's nothing I can do for her, or me, I don't have a bottle of water, or a napkin, or even a friggin tampon to soak up any of the vile juices that are covering the two of us. All I can do, is get a hold of someone to pick our sorry assess up. Having very few people in my life with cars (oh, enchanted city life), the list is short. I get a hold of the friend from a few paragraphs back, yes the one whose company I left under not such good terms, and I explain the sitch. He,wanting to barrage me with more pointed questions about my choices and judgement that he couldn't fit into our previous engagement, offers to pick me up. All I need to do now is get to a point where he can find me right off of the exit. I see a chiropractor and their parking lot and I figure, what better place. I have my eyes fixed on the lot. I'm carrying my crap covered dog under one arm, her feces, and vomit drying to my yellow trench coat, and I drag my bags toward it. I make it about five steps and the temperature in the air drops considerably. In less than a minute the sky is dark and it starts to sprinkle, but, big drops. In about another minute it is dumping. I catch myself start to laugh, and I go with it. What else can I do? I belly laugh. I look like a crazy person. I'm covered in crap, and vomit, in the rain, and I am laughing my ass off. I slowly walk over to the lot, plop on my ass in the rain, with my dog, and my bags, and I wait.

Leftovers

The leftover emotions of a day when neither of you are saying all there is to say, are massive. You both think you are sparing the other, and yourself, by not going through every motion, but the truth is, and remains, that you do nothing outside of building a wall of tacit disdain.

Bring it on Spring, You Bitch.

It had been a long winter, at least by the looks of my legs it had.I had gone a hefty while without giving them any...tending to. I sat in the bath being stared in the face by these awkward fuzzy monsters. I tried to think of the last time they had been...addressed, and by my nearest guess, a couple months, though in my minor defense, I had gotten them waxed that time, so you know, it slowed the regrowth a bit. STILL, what I was seeing was pretty pathetic. It's not like I was single either, my boyfriend had been subject to these woolly twigs the whole time. He never made a peep about it. I figured it was because he slept with women throughout the 60s and 70s, so my grooming habits probably seemed up to snuff. Or maybe he had been biting his tongue this whole time, hoping that I would come to my senses. At least make an effort. I'm sure when he started dating someone 30 years younger than him that he thought it would be a lot more glamorous, but he's not dating a Kardashian, he's dating me. This mess.

Anyway, I whacked my way through with a new razor, came out basically unscathed. The only real gash was to my vanity and ego. There is nothing attractive about the contortions and contractions you have to mold your body into to reach all of the leg. The way your gut just sits itself on top of the pubic bone as you lift a leg to reach the back of your ankle. Staring smack on into your vagina. I felt like saying I was sorry for all I had put her through and thank her for being such a trooper all of these years. Thankfully I was done shaving the back of my ankles before I made that awkward misstep. I remembered watching a Celine Dion music video where she is in the bathtub shaving her legs soooo elegantly and beautiful with a healthy glow and smooth feminine motions, like she is directing a symphony, and here I am sweating like a junkie, trying not to tumble against one wall or the other and I'm missing spots left and right, had to go over everything more than once because of the sheer thickness of the leg warmers I had produced for myself over the past couple of months. After about 45 minutes of wrestling with myself I emerged from the bathroom on the brink of tears. Frustrated, and exhausted I mumbled to myself "Spring better hurry the fuck up, because I do not want to have done that for nothing." Also, next time I'm waxing. And tipping VERY well.

When I stumbled across this picture, It made me very VERY pleased.

Well, This Happened...

Shrapnel

Though my mind and heart were at ease with the absence of him. Relieved, even. But the familiarity built inside of me from the previous year and a half was taking its time leaving. It felt as though I was having to pull parts of him out of every cell, like a surgeon removing shrapnel. The ones in my eyes were being the most troublesome. They played tricks on my understanding. Seeing him in people that after a moment passed were proved not to be. I had ran into him, the real him, a few times since the removal, and I always seemed to get knocked on my ass by the impact.

The Un-Welcoming

Constant bickery had slithered and seeped into our home; as makeshift and tentative as that home was. The mania and meanness that would manifest with a regularity that was difficult to time or track had left me wan and weak. I tried to keep to my usual stoic sense of myself, but months of consistent, constant, paroxysm and pain were taking a plainly perceptible toll.

Through continued turmoil I was left with an overwhelming sense of despair and dread of the future. Waking in cold sweats, with my heart pounding too loudly in my ears. The sense that I was barely hanging on was constant, though still beyond a grasp, I was easily knocked out of even the pensive comfort I existed in. My mind was always a stir, my thoughts were louder than the words in the air around me.

Ending a Beginning

Every step away from there I felt a pound or so lighter in my chest. My mind was racing, My hands were shaking, my legs and arms were sore, and assaulted. I knew where I needed to get to but the idea of getting there was confusing because of the intense fog in my mind. I felt crazy, literally, a feeling I had managed to dodge for a while. I had been having the anxiety and stress but I hadn't been waking in the middle of the night afraid that I was having, or would be having a heart attack soon. I breathed through it. I calmed whatever nerves were left, but I was scared. I was scared of love and loss and the loss of what I loved. I counted my steps 10 at a time. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten...over and over. My gate was pigeon towed and timid but I was making progress.　Ｉfound the bus terminal, I counted my fare and I waited. I waited, I knew it was no good checking the time because the idea of time was beyond my facilities at that...time

Omlette

Hey,

Here is how you make an omlette easy like.

Heat an oiled pan for on med heat.

Whip 4 to 6 eggs with a dash of milk.

Add eggs to heated pan.

Let sit for about 30 seconds.

Add desired fillings.

Cook for 3 to 5 minutes.

Fold and serve.

Blamo!

Inching Back Towards the Saddle...

Maayyyyyybe...

Inching Back Towards the Saddle...

Maayyyyyybe...

Adventures on the 8...or the 43

Yesterday morning was a specific display of how bad I am at riding the bus. I know, I know, it really shouldn't be that difficult, but I'm kind of a dip. My phone had died overnight, and I didn't bother to charge it; figuring I could easily wait until I got to work to do it. I didn't NEED to use OneBusAway, right? Wrong. I got to the stop and noticed that I had about 15 minutes to kill. So I went into the store to get something for lunch. Chips were BOGO (BLAMO!) so I got two bags and some cottage cheese. Got a reusable bag and headed back outside. I noticed I still had a few minutes so I walked on down to another stop. I waited (impatiently) for the bus to show. I walked up and down the stop, listened in on my fellow bus riders' conversations.I saw the bus coming down the hill and took to making sure that my bus fare was ready. The bus stopped, I hopped on, strangely proud of getting so much done without relying on my electronic tether. I quickly noticed that the route was not correct. "Shit SHIT! Dammit. AGAIN?" I thought, and got off on the next stop. The routes were close so I started running back to the stop hoping to catch the number 8 (I had gotten on the 43) I was less than a block away and I see the green chariot that is the 8 zoom by. "Son of a BITCH!" I said. Channeling dear Gene Wilder in Silverstreak. I resigned myself to my fate. I was walking today. I had spent $2.25 on a waste of time.

A Night Not Un-like Many Others.

I fought for every second of sleep that managed to occur the night before. Talking myself into a tepid slumber then coaxing my way back after I sat straight up over-breathing only an hour or so later. Mind racing and tears pressing up against the back of my eyes. None fell, though. I pulled myself out of bed after agonizing through the last moments of sleep. Walked heavy footed into the bathroom and washed my face, first with cold water. I scrubbed vigorously when I turned the water to hot like I could scrub off what had happened the night before. I spent a long time staring at my face in the mirror. The torment of the previous nights sleep was wiped and spread all over it. Thankfully, my eyes were still there, and still the same: Intense, sad, and blue gray.

Sadness Beyond Tears

It felt as though the day was sitting with its full weight on my chest. Making every movement and breath a struggle. The sun was shining harshly into my skull. I wanted to enjoy it, but I wasn't up for it. All the memories of times together, and times apart, descended at once; filling my head beyond it's brim.

Today's Departure

With every mile I got away from the town that housed my demise; my heart rate slowed, my breathing mellowed, my fingers loosened on the wheel, and the music began to penetrate my ears and thoughts again. By mile 20 of my escape, I began to feel real again.

The Wall That Sees What I Write

Components: a painting by my dear friend Marissa, a page of how to build a character in fiction, a list of names that I made when I wrote the first short story I was not ashamed of, my favorite picture of Elton John that I printed out 5 years ago, and have put on the wall in every new place I've moved, a picture of Lincoln from Marika and her son duct taped below the most recent picture of the boy, a framed picture from a Ricky Gervais cd collection from Sean. The love put into each piece always remind me how lucky I am. Thanks dudes.

When The Contempt Creeps In

He laid there mothbreathing next me. My alarm, set for 5:00 am had yet to sound, but I was, emphatically, awake and staring at his gaping maw. The sound from my childhood of my aunt saying "Close your mouth, or something will get in, or come out, that you don't want." was playing on loop in my mind. I had turned the light stand light on to get a better view, it seemed, of the face that I woke to despise. The film, on his teeth, the pale gray color of his dehydrated tongue, the way his chin had weakly succumbed to his neck, and the smell. The smell. I could move back, or turn away, but instead I sat with my body turned towards him and my face close to his. My alarm found its voice. Dean Martin Goodmorning Life became the only non-silent partner in this exchange. One tear escaped my left eye and drizzled unchallenged down my cheek. I pulled myself out of the covers and slumped into the bathroom. "It should have been Ain't That a Kick to the Head."

I began taking showers nearly hot enough to scald. My body would be raging red in streaks when I was finished. I had had him turn the water heater up twice in as many months. The last time he came in from the garage he said with all the disdain he could keep behind his teeth "There. Are you happy now?". I didn't respond. I barely looked up from my book, but in my head I was screaming "NO!". These showers were the only way I could feel clean of him. Even if he hadn't touched me; just being in the same room as him made me want to instantly wash it away. Every interaction had become an opportunity to place blame. We started talking in phrases like "Your dog..." "Your son..." "Your Mother/Sister/Father/Friend..." Everything and everyone was put in place.

I sat down on the floor of the bathtub letting the water fall harder on my back, I couldn't see myself getting up, yet. I sat for a long while over-thinking the tear that I had let fall upon my departure of the conjugal bed.

I had gotten off early from work, gone to the store, with a specific list, only enough for one meal. I found everything easily and before the baby started to fuss. He didn't like fluorescent lights or intercom systems, in fact, he still doesn't.

Upon getting home, I went straight to work building the meal I had been planning for weeks. It was his birthday. For the previous five years of my life that meant that I would spend dinner at the (god DAMN) Olive Garden. He loved their chicken scampi. A chicken scampi that I thought was a tasteless pile of vomit--much like most everything on the menu. I had attempted a scampi at home to ignite his palette before, but was always met with a-- less than enthusiastic response. This time I did my homework. I even bought a bottle of Oliver Garden salad dressing! I couldn't stand another dinner at that shit hole full of uncultured swine and cheap wine. Also, I wanted him to love my scampi. At this point, it would maybe mean he still loved something about me. He was still under the impression that the Olive Garden party was still on, but instead all of the friends and family were coming over to share our table. I breaded and fried tha chicken to the O.G. recipe. The sauce was simple and I made sure to mind the amount of garlic because, inevitably, if more than a slight tickle of it passed into his mouth he would push the plate away with a mumble an retreat into his office. I had everything prepared and warming when he came home.

"Happy Birthday Baby!! I made your favorite-- and you don't have to settle for a Coors Light to accompany!" He remained, as ever, blank. "Okay." I kept smiling. I felt like I was still sort of happy in the moment. Maybe he would snap. "Everyone's on their way." I pushed myself into him. His arms didn't leave his sides, so i squirmed mine through. I pushed myself in and up to ty and kiss him, but he was too tall. He slowly tilted his head toward mind and paused. "Did you have garlic?" Ain't that a kick in the head.

Cripple Creek Ferry

The time wasted was insignificant when put against the unreckonable amount of energy wasted, and the misery it created. My sub conscience had even joined in the assault. My dreams were plagued with memory and fantasy of him. I would wake sure that it had happened; then find that it hadn't. A cruel joke had been played. Then I would wonder if he was aware of what transpired in my twilight sub conscience. Being plagued by a memory was like being plagued by a ghost that knew everything about you. It knew what it was to you and every thought you attached to it. The mind is a wicked, vile, tormentor when it's not getting what it wants. Now, every interaction was an offense to the ego, a blow to the heart, a stab to the soul.

Ringing All The Bells

Fall is when we fell, apart. The season held a lot of me. The turning of the leaves like the change of heart. Leaving naked trees like my soul laid bare, and everything that we had grown being stripped away. Piece by piece. leaf by leaf. I have re-built some, and fertilized my newly laid soil in preparation for more growth. Still, I can't help but let the memories of the barren times fill the front of my thoughts.

The Boy With a Thorn in His Side

The eyes were still his, but the light behind them had gone out. I didn't know if I could replace the bulb, or how. He spoke in sickening circles and dialects that he absorbed from t.v., movies, and whatever was left of his imagination. I didn't know how long I could continue to do it alone. I also couldn't fathom how anyone else ever had. There was something more than wrong with being alone in this leg of the race. He was alone and fighting a battle that only he could fight and I was alone with what felt like death gripping my chest as I watched.

At times even hearing your own name can make no sense.

Indeed

Okay, okay, I get it. Sort of.

I have never really taken much interest in sports. I've even had a hard time respecting that they exist and people put so much stock in them. The last few years I've starting peaking around at them, again. Giving things a try, an'that. I've learned these things: I like basketball. I like soccer. I like Tennis. And I like the food at baseball games. I also enjoy the hell out of watching Oliver try something physically demanding, and nailing it. Here are some pictures of him from this weekend. In the first few my friend Christen is showing him how to shoot a basketball and the last is of him playing dodge-ball (DODGEBALL!) with about 70 adults and holding his own. When I looked over and saw him in the ring my first thought was ohshitohshitohshit. smear the queer. he's fucked. and I ran over and told him to hide behind a pole until everyone was out. I mean, I've got a lot riding on this kid. He did awesome, though, and played until 10:30 at night. He was really proud of himself. Which is a big step for the boy with the thorn in his side.

Putting it all Away

I shuffled around the living room. Remembering a bulk of every minute from the last four days. I always made myself put the pieces of him away. Into closets, bins, onto shelves, but this time I was putting them in boxes. I left the tops open. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were breathing.

Space and Change

He had at least always been sweet and dear, to me. Even when he couldn't manage it for anyone else. Even through the times of absolute dispair that he had, unfortunately, experienced that took him to the edge of his will, I remained in his favor. This was the first time when he was cold, and even mean to me. I had to internalize all of the feeligs this ripped into me. I knew I was doing the right thing, for him, and for me, and that his reaction was probably a good sign, it just hurt. A different hurt.I had been left behind and pushed away a lot and I knew how to handle it when it was someone else, anyone else. Now it was was coming at me from two sides. Two sides that are connected. They were running into eachother and onto emotional ground that I had a hard time protecting in myself. Enduring them together was a definite challange. A heartbreakng chore. I wanted to push all of my reaction to both of them on the one that I could react to. Which wasn't fair. The only thing I could do with both of them is what I was doing. Giving them what they needed from me. Space, and change.

Boom Boom B-Awwww...

To celebrate Independence day, or "Independins" day which is what Oliver wished someone via text message-- Yes, he text messages- a lot (ulot), we joined a gaggle of friends and strangers in Lynwood who were celebrating America, sort of, but mostly they were convening for my dear Tim's birthday. Tim being my mainest gay and dearest friend and also Oliver's big gay uncle buying his way into O's heart with piles of G.I. Joes, we couldn't miss it.

Some things I would have liked to miss:

1. This conversation:

* squeaky firework *

Oliver: “That one sounds like a wet fart.”

Tommy: “A FOOP!”

Stranger: “What’s a foop?”

Oliver: *pensive-thoughtful pause* “A fart with a re-fill”

Me: *die*die*die*die*

2. Fireworks. They are fucking scary.

4. My ass in the mirror when I walked by in my swim suit.

Some things I was supremely happy to be a part of and see:

1. My bestie having a great birthday. However drunk and messy he gets, he's still one of my favorite things on this planet. And he smells wicked nice. Always.

2. The FOOD! Tables and tables of goodies. Sweet and savory. Hot and cold. CUP-CAKES!

3.Oliver being accepted and encouraged by a group of adults not accustomed to kids. I was really touched by them and so proud of him. He's the light of my life and it is rare for me to see people respond to the light he brings into theirs in such a positive way.

I'm sure pictures of the event will surface soon. I really can wait.

Sons of The Silent Age

I'm haunted by his ghost even when he is in the flesh before me. I put my arms around him and he is stiff. I can't comfort or take the pain away. I try to look in his eyes and he won't focus on mine. I try to hear him speak and his voice is wrong, and cold. I can't shake the gripping fear that I am losing him which smashes into the fact that that is not an option, for me. Knowing the source, or at least having an idea of it, is maddening. Being so close after so long makes every victory seem like a hindrance. I almost have gotten us out but I feel like I'm dragging my wounded fellow soldier across the line and he's almost bleeding out. I don't know if the best course is to stop and manage the bleeding or if I should be running faster to safety.

An Optimist's Descent to Elsewhere

--The strife and pain that happens, and continues to happen, to you [me] is either a lie or beyond my scope of care, right now.-- This idea, followed close behind, by a doctor offering bad news (again) closing with a non-reverent "You saw the new penny, right? Got one today."

Not Moving on, but Still Moving. Up, Hopefully.

Reading about the fictional desperation of others dulled the sting of mine. Babies dying, whores hooking, deranged druggies making their way to another shore of their mind-- all this would fill the minutes of my nights with a, sort of, comfort. The idea being that if I could keep on I eventually would survive and be. Be present. Be important. Not defined by the past and what happened, but rather, build on what is there. Build the greatness that I [we] deserve.

Pillows

Does it count as a stain if it never dries?

785

Seeing the images sharing, for the first time, a single screen was altering, to say the least. They could no longer be separated by date, or idea. They were part of a whole. They needed to be dealt with as such. Maybe this notion had been the right one for some time, but I was just now seeing it.

A sobering shower to wash away the emotional drunk sickness of the moment. That was built of many other moments passed.

If He Weren't Oliver...

He would have been one of the following:


Charles (Nixed because Chuck is unforgivable)
Agnus (Nixed because everyone else on the planet sucks.)
Kingsley (Front runner, nixed because, I guess, It wasn't completely my decision.)
Tavi
Lincoln
Harry
Gus
Adison
Oakes
Philip
Roth (Shut up, I was wicked hormonal)
Reeve
Leonard (NOT Leo)
Andy
Dickens (I couldn't do it to him: Dickie)


This was the short list. You don't want to see the long.

My Refrigerator.

Contents (Pictured):
Apple Sauce
Mayo (light)
Rice (jasmine)
V8
Pickled Asparagus
Pickles
Orange Tea
Rooster Sauce
Two types of Balogna. TWO!
Two types of cheddar
Half an apple
Leftover bacon
Bread
Hummus
Weird German wine
Eggs

Not Pictured:

3 types of mustard
2 lbs of butter
Blackberry Jam
Straws (I like them cold)


For your information.

Dude, Where's the Storm?

In a forgotten corner of a familiar room I sat. Trying to find a new perspective on the day. Today. A rare day. In that it was quiet. It had no new adversities injected into it. It was what a day should be. I wanted to find comfort in it. I wanted to not worry about the next step, the next problem, the next something. The feeling of calm had become uncomfortable.

Common People

A large portion of my time is spent away from people that I fully understand. That is to say that a good amount of my time is spent observing, at least audibly, strangers. So whatever I hear fall from their face is subject to nothing except my experience with that combination of those words. I wonder a lot about where they are coming from, but find only where I am.

Nothing Isn't

Things I've had to argue/reconsider today:

That newspaper blowing in the wind is not weather.

That recycling is not just clean garbage.

That asteroids are not planets.

That all clear things are not primarily composed of water(this one got deep!).

That sugar is not just sweet salt.

That pink is a color and doesn't really sound like anything.

That last names aren't really that random.

What air tastes like.

That all dogs are NOT cute.

and, last but not least, cable T.V.


Now we are six, indeed.

Getting Away

Having just surmounted another of the many, thought unsurmountable, emotional mountains, I sat listless and nearly breathless behind the wheel. My breathing was shallow and forced. My mind was so full it felt empty. I literally couldn't pull a thought from it. I wanted to reach out. I needed someone to know. I made a call. I really just wanted to say out-loud “I did it. This part's done.” to a face or, in an ear, to somebody, but I was greeted with voice mail; which is always difficult for me. I said part of it, most of it, I think, It's hard to remember. I hung up and started the car. After a few minutes I could get it moving. With every inch I got away from the building that housed 5 hours of my most recent, and acute, misery I could breathe deeper. I could calm. I was doing more than just making it, and keeping it together. I was accomplished and I felt virile. Knowing it would be short lived, when I hit the freeway I put down the windows, turned up the tunes and hit the gas. The rest of reality showed back up when the car slowed and then stopped in my parking spot, but the reprieve was nice.

Alone in a Crowd

Being in public is often this way for me. It happened when I needed to be alone but also needed to be around people. Not bothered, though. Or even noticed. There were around 5 or so places that I could, comfortably, go when I needed people, at least in my peripheral. It was almost like all I needed was the knowledge that they were still there. I needed the energy of their beating hearts, and the heat of their blood. It worked to remind me that I was still living. I had a heart, it was beating. I had blood, and it was flowing. Our propinquity was enough of a connection for now.

I huddled over a notebook in a darkened corner of a large room. I was getting chafed by the fact (or feeling) that every time I finished a page there was just another blank one needing for me to fill it.

“Please please please please let me get what I want , this time.”

It came over the speakers and wrapped itself around me. The song was as familiar as a lover to me. But what do I want?

SERIOUSLY, look!

Puh-Puh is BEGGING. Reflective eye begging.

To make me cry AND give you money...

just have half a dog's face in the picture of the kitchen in the house you are trying to rent. I will pay first, last, pet, and double deposit to stop this emoting.

My Dirty Laundry

In lieu of recent, retardedly large, expenses I decided it would be a good idea, and maybe even fun, to cut corners here and there to expedite the replenishing process for my comfort money cushion. I canceled a magazine subscription, I can just read it on-line anyway right? Did not renew my Celine Dion fan club membership. I mean, I'm not going to go see her in Vegas AGAIN, right? (this one kind of hurt, a little. okay, a lot). Started packing lunches and bringing them to work. I would allow 3 work induced stress meals a week, because, like, I know my limits! AND I would start doing my own laundry, instead of dropping it off at the Fluff N' Folders, or EffinEffers as I liked to call them . The breakdown:
Magazine: $26.00/Year
Team Celine Membership: $55.00/year.
Lunches: $30.00/week
Laundry: $12.00/ week

I felt good about this. I felt proactive! I felt in control. I even made up a little graph and spreadsheet to monitor my progress.

Today was the first day of doing my own laundry in over a year. I had let it pile up to where I was on my last pair of underwear and on about the 6th run of each pair of pants. Not pretty, I know,but being someone who really doesn't like change, and who has a pretty severe case of social anxiety made it a bit difficult to talk myself through that laundromat door. I have had the clothes separated into colors/whites/delicates/ and perm press for weeks. Literally weeks. I wrestle the overflowing bags and baskets into the car, take a deep breath and climb in the driver's seat. I do a mental checklist of supplies. Laundry? Duh. Detergent? Yep. OxyClean? Yes. Fabric softener? Check. Quarters? $20.00 worth. Okay. I drive the few blocks to the mat and psych myself up on the way. This is going to be a good change. Bree, you can do this. Everyone you know does this. I find close parking. See, already blessed. Maybe it was the pennies that Oliver had left in my shoes, I think. He had heard somewhere that it was good luck to put pennies in your shoes. Now all of my shoes (and his) had pennies flopping around in them, but I felt bad taking them out. ANWYWAY, close spot, good, I've got a lot to pull inside. I drag one of the biggest bags with me to the door. I look through the glass, not too packed, good. A well mannered gay man opened the door for me. WOW, I think, nothing to be nervous about. They're normal and nice. I realize then that he has a peg leg. Still, pretty normal, I guess, and still definitely nice. I walk to a back corner where there are 5 machines together that are open and I fill 'em up. I picked these five because there was little chance anyone would come around. There were 5 washers and 5 dryers all together, and away from the rest. I get the last garment into its respective tub and I look to the next step. “Okaayyyy. Now to get these puppies purring.” I mumble to myself. (Puppies purring?! Seriously. WTF.) I don't catch myself because before I'm done saying/ it I realize that I have nearly no idea how to start these damn things. There are coin slots, rubber flaps, levers, buttons, and yet the display screen is only big enough to display the cost per load or the number of minutes remaining in your wash. I take a guess at where and when to throw the soap in after I pay the $2.00 per load (Where do they get OFF?). Water comes shooting out of the hole the second I lift the flap. Apparently I got the timing wrong. The attendant (the man who opened the door) sees my trouble and comes over. He tells me I should have put the detergent in BEFORE starting it and that it is on the instructions (located on the far wall!!) I no longer think him nice. Well, there. The clothes were washing. Which is what I need. I have 35 minutes to wait before tackling how in the hell to use those dryers. I sit down on a piece of plastic lawn furniture that they have so thoughtfully set out and open my book. I look up nearly every minute to make sure something isn't blinking, or beeping, or shooting, or burning. I feel like I've done it all wrong and Peggy is going to have my ass. About 15 minutes in, and after reading the same paragraph about as many times, I put the book away. I turn my attention to my fellow launderers. I notice in the other far off corner there is a man, i guess he is probably homeless, it's bordering on a hope, sitting in not much more than an A shirt and boxer briefs. And by not much more, i mean, he was also wearing a big necklace and a pair of flip flops. Hmm, I think. I guess that makes sense. There is a little boy who is running the length of the mat with a bag of cheetos and a full pepsi can. It was getting less full by the second because he was spilling with every stride. I then notice just how FILTHY this place is. There are dirty bandaids on the floor, toilet paper in the corners, Lint stuck everywhere and to everything, Ehhhhlllll. I came HERE to clean something. My CLOTHING. Christ. I am regretting this idea. I'm pulled from this thought by a beeping sound coming from one of my ephemeral washing machines; I look and the screen is blinking a 1. I jump up thinking that means it's either done or about to explode. I run over and I open the top, my clothes are still in a high speed spin. The Peg-gay(yeah I said it, well thought it.) comes over, faster than I would suspect him to move, and says “Don't open the washers during a SPIN!!!” “But It was beeping and blinking!, I thought that meant it was done!” “No, SU-GAR, it is just telling you there is a minute left!” “Oh, well, wouldn't just the 1 on the screen tell me the same thing?” He lets out a sigh of obvious irritation and walks back behind his perch. Hrumph. Blerg. OKAY! Moving on. I need to dry this shit. The dryers seem much easier. There are just buttons and slots, SWEET! I Transfer the loads, pay, guess at the appropriate cycles and stand there for, probably a couple of minutes just watching the clothes circle themselves, waiting for something to go awry. All seems well so I start nervously pacing around a bit. You know, just passing the time. I check each dryer every 5 minutes or so to monitor progress (Why?? Fuck if I know). I spend the next 45 minutes checking and pulling garments out that seem done. Adding more quarters, and with them, 9 minute increments of hot air and folding. The homeless man moves closer when he sees me pull out clothes, I realize, because he wants to watch me fold my underwear. Yes, I fold my underwear. When they are as cumbersome as mine, you simply must. I start blocking his view with my body, which feels wrong because now my back is to the creep who is trying to see my underwear. GOD THIS IS SO STRESSFUL! I make it through secretively folding all of mine and Oliver's clothes and I fit them back into the totes and baskets. I start walking out the door and Peg-gay grabs it for me, just like old, and better times, and I walk to the car.

The Last Thanksgiving

I had spent the day bitterly cooking in the kitchen of our fractured home. It was one of my favorite holidays (because it was all about food, duh) but I had barely kept from crying in the mashed potatoes. My best friends were here, they lived with us, in fact. But I was feeling outrageously alone. Finally, we all sat down for dinner. I felt like it was an outrageous accomplishment for us all. When I assed the overly tall chair and pulled myself into the table I let a sigh escape. "Ahhhhhhh...!" It sounded a bit more desperate than I had intended. I hoped no one noticed. The meal started off fine, great, even. Everyones plates were filled. The wine glasses were too. The conversation started off effortlessly, it seemed, and bounced around the table. A table surrounded by people familiar to each other, having familiar conversation, and familiar enough to take ticklish jabs at one another. There were laughs and frowns, but the frowns hadn't lasted. Around about the last few bites on everyone's plate a conversational wrecking ball came barreling through the dining room. My dearest friend piped up with a feigned loud laughter dropped his fists with silverware to the table and said "OOOH-KAY! When are you two crazy kids going to throw in the fucking towel? Because THIS is outrageous to watch and I imagine fucking miserable to keep up." Some more feigned laughter and he looked back down at his plate. Obviously wishing he could be as gone as the green beans.

Nerves

I hung up the phone and that familiar feeling crept in. Shame. I thought back over the last few minutes and wondered if anyone had been able to over hear the conversation I had just scaled. I hoped they hadn't, but I somewhere very close to the surface wished someone had, and would offer a shoulder or a smile. Even just an acknowledgment of “Yeah, that was probably pretty tough, man.”

This was a step that needed to happen. It needed to happen years ago. Still its impending approach was activating every ounce of nervous energy I could produce. I tried not to leave myself to it. I had read more, moved more, and thought more in the past few weeks than ever before. It was all still barely enclosed in my skin. I felt like I was exuding it like a foul oder.

Fer-reals.

On Sunday I took Oliver to Value Village. To spite his father, and also to look for a soccer ball. Oliver went to leave his scooter outside the door, as is usually appropriate scooter etiquette, FYI, when the security guard who works in Value Village came out and informed him that he "better not leave that bike out there. Some asshole will steal it." (bike. ASSHOLE.) Oliver had a moment of panic thinking of what to do and the guard offered to keep an eye on it for him. Oliver introduced himself (good boy) and asked his name. Darrell. Yes, Darrell. This is only the second time I have been in this Value Village and I already couldn't wait to be done. Oliver sees it as a treasure grove full of wonder. I just saw smelly junk. I took him over to the toy section, which is where I figured a ball to be. He runs over and almost INSTANTLY finds a pink stick thing with bells on it. Which he has since named "a jingle tap stick". It is PINK. Covered in JINGLE BELLS, and has light and dark pink ribbons wrapped around it. I'm trying to talk him out of the jingle stick when he finds a felt neon pink panther with a patent. leather. collar. Collectively, the two items cost less than a dollar, and he knew that, so I really have no ammo. I pull him away from the wall of misfit gay toys and downstairs in search for a soccer ball. A basketball. ANY ball. On the way towards the steps I see a polka-dotted purse that looks like it will fit my new laptop! I grab it without much more than a thought. We arrive at the bottom of the stairs and there is a wall of little kid backpacks and totes. Oliver spots a (godDAMN) Hannah Montana tote bag and bolts for it. I literally slap my forehead. He has a tote bag hanging from his shoulder that he drops and flings the HM one around his arm and starts with the "PleasePleasePleasePLEASE!" by some stroke of obvious genius I think to point out that there are pieces of her FACE missing. It looked like the previous possessor was a picker. He looks, judges, and puts it back. Close call. Then, on the far wall, I see it! SOCCER BALLS!　I walk directly to the first one I can reach grab it and turn back up the stairs. Leaving Ollie with not much of a choice beyond following. Upstairs, register, grab the scooter from Darrell, shake hands with Darrell(while making direct eye contact) and we are out the door and back over to the park to kick this ball. I stash the toys of queer in his old tote, hoping he will forget about theｍ（ｆａｔ　ｃｈａｎｃｅ）．He dudes out with the soccer ball for a spell. *Whew*

He gets picked up by his dad and I go about the chore of putting him away. I pick up the G.I. Joes, put away the crayons, stash the Unicorns, and I remembered the Value Village Run.Ｉpull his tote out and look at his pink collection. Then I remember my new purse! I pull it out and I start to check out the pockets to see what I can fit where and I came upon these three things, all in different pockets:

1.Tampons
2.Condom
3. Planned Parenthood appointment card

Getting There

"Did you figure it out yet?" His voice startled me and ripped me out of my thoughts.
"Oh, um, no. Let's just get a cab. Did that flight seem longer than six hours to you I'm wiped?" I said.
"Why, are you hungry again or something?" I dropped it. I moved to the part of the sidewalk set aside to hail cabs. One was almost instantly availabble to us. We climb in, unsuspecting tourists. The cab smells terrible! It's worse for me with my over sensitive pregnancy sense of smell. The music is on, too loud. The seats are sticky, and felt wet. WET. In addition to being loud, the music is bad. I have always been sensitive to noise, but in this moment it was made worse by the clammy heat, the smell, a roaring headache and sporadic nausea. I don't complain. I didn't want to seem fussy. I clearly speak the address of the hotel. The cab driver makes absolutely no acknowledgment. He just hits the gas, hard. The shock sent a shooting pain deep into my pelvis. I wrapped myself around my bulging stomach until it passed about 10 seconds later. The cab is now speeding down the road and it pushes itself between S.U.Vs and shuttles with hotel names scrawled over every inch of their exterior. It weaves around, and honks at, rental cars filled with nervous drivers. His driving gets, slightly, better as he begins talking. Though, not to us. He has a wired headset attached to his ear, and clipped to the collar of his orange stained polo shirt (seriously. Ew). He doesn't do any of us the favor of turning off, or even down, the music. Stillmatic bas Nas is playing over the speakers, half of them blown. I'm angered by his obvious lack of musical taste, by his broken English, the shirt, the headset, him in general. I look to my backseat companion to try and see if I have a companion in this feeling as well. Per the usual, he seems wholly unaffected. Genuinely unconcerned with anything that is going on. His indifference was inching up on my breaking point.

Goodbyes

Looking at him was like looking in a mirror. I didn't like identifying the parts of myself in him that I was noticing. I could see through what he was desperately trying to portray. He wasn't trying to seem rude or indifferent; he was trying to seem strong. I felt judged, if only by myself. This behavior was learned, and it was learned from me. The hyper emotional cycles. The infectious joy closely followed by sadness beyond his circumstances. Beyond what he should be able to process and comprehend. I wondered if he did fully comprehend or if he was a slave to the cycle and the feelings.


Goodbyes had always been hard for me. I didn't know how to approach them. I had developed at an early age a fear of letting people know how much I cared for them. It stemmed from a fear of embarrassment. I was terrified of someone feeling like I cared more for them than they did for me. I thought it a weak position. Also I would care deeply for people really quickly, and still do, and I felt unworthy of someone feeling the same for me. Somewhere I had learned to be a martyr. He
had begun to develop the same uncertainty and awkwardness about goodbyes.

“Okay, it's time to go.” I said. It hurt to say it. Even though it was everything I wanted at that moment. I wanted to be away from this. From what was happening. I was having sympathetic responses for the boy. My chest was as tight as I imagined his was with trying not cry. My eyes filled and burned.I saw the goodbye happen and I pulled him out the door. He made it through the door closing behind us and about a half of a block before the first tear fell. I left him to process a bit on his own (mostly, because I needed to form SOMETHING to say). I finally approached that tear about a block or so from where it fell.

Lookin P'nub

The cold breath of a city wrapped in winter danced and whirled around me as I walked alone. these late night walks did a lot to settle my mind. I could get things to seem so clear by the time I got back to the house around 3 am. All would be lost by the time I woke up in the morning.

I misread this the first time.

We built this city

the loss of an idea like a limb

The memories still hold fire and keep their own sort of promise. Even after all the time and all of the things since. I still can be gripped and then ripped apart by the memory of even one of the most benign moments. Those moments that were so common and comfortable once. They find me and make me wonder. While bringing me blinding and absolute pain. They are phantom pains like those of a lost limb. it's the loss of the idea behind those moments that still hold me. I have loved and I have lost, there is beauty in both. I'm scarred, scared and changed but where would I be--how would I be--who? Had those two not transpired against eachother. The idea of love now growing once again in my chest is testimony to my healing. Albeit unrequited, it is there, and it is real. Perhaps that is enough, for now.

Mount Plushmore

Ollie's Pict-fers

I'm not usually impressed with little kid art, mostly because it sucks, but Ollie's stuff is pretty kick ass. By that I obviously mean REALLY kick ass!

This is a t.v. watching a t.v. watching a t.v watching a t.v... with legs:

This is a jelly fish--renamed a j-ollie fish:
* The title of J-ollie fish was not actually added by Ollie. It was the brain baby of Sean The Clam.
This is a clam named Sean on a beach, spitting:

Nice.

Revoke my Freedom, Francis Baker

I had taken too much, or not enough, depending on how I looked at it. I crawled into the bathroom after a swirling moment of muscular dejection in my legs; to try and offer my body a reprieve from the battle happening inside of it. The violent vomiting seemed appropriate but did nothing to calm any of my distresses. My mind was swirled with defeat. Perverting memories inside of itself. I was villainizing my every decision. I was here, like this, alone, because I deserved it. My mind was the enemy and it was winning.

Fear in a Handful of Dust

I had fallen asleep amid a heaving, wrenching and absolute sob. Just minutes after ingesting a dubitable dose of this and that. I had sat half an hour or so staring at the the bottles; over thinking the amounts I would allow to pass through my lips. All the while nearly hyper ventilating and convulsing with the emotional agony that had given itself to physical turmoil. I didn't feel sleep coming on. It just came. It interrupted, finally. I awoke engaged in the other end of, what seemed, that same sob. I wondered if I had cried continuously in my sleep. My physical exhaustion was such that I could easily believe I had. I remembered though the slightly inflated doses of downers and sleep aids I had desperately swallowed. My despair was still raging. My ears were full of it and my eyes blinded with it. All I had in this moment, it seemed, was this severe heartbreak. It had a pulse and a fever. It was corporeal. I was wrapped in it, like the comforter that was contorted around me. I pulled myself out of bed. Knowing that I needed to step away from the pill bottles and pad of paper that were taunting me from the bedside table. I was upright, mostly, and walking, but I felt immobile. This sadness was a brick pillar built up around me and I stumbled languidly against its sides.

No Words

The Nutty Pru-fessor

What's Left to Rema

Her eyes pulled themselves apart, reluctantly, for the first time of the day. A soft coo and a tight scrunch/squint kept the bright morning light from pushing itself past her eyes. The light aided in pulling her fully out of the restless sleep that had so briefly visited. Her right hand was waking as well. Cramped and crumbled around a pen. The paper it had been wedded to had been pushed into the comforter with her sleep writhing. The tip of the gel inked utensil had laid itself directly into the flat sheet. leaving a 2 inch by 2 inch spot of dark blue ink. "FUCK! Not again!" flew out of her tired mouth. This would not be the first set of sheets to get dropped off at the fluff n' folders with this distinct affliction. She was easily shamed so actual dread formed and tightened in her chest when she thought of the interaction. She retracted the pan and sat it on her bedside table. She squirmed herself out of the blankets and reached with her legs to try and find the floor. That movement produced a sound of paper crumpling which prompted her to look for the page that she had been writing on. She found it quickly. She had made it through the piece and had succumbed to her absolute exhaustion just two letters from completing the title. It read What's Left to Rema Her chest clenched and her eyes burnt worse than from the harsh morning light when she instantly and fully remembered what the piece was about. She left the title unfinished and put herself in the shower to try and wash it off.

Doin' a Tad Bit of Livin'

Slip Sliding Away

I had been laying on the couch continuously for the better part of a week. My only gauge of time was the light shining, or not shining, on the building across the street. My curtains were half open. I could see into two windows in that building across the street. I could see people in their apartments. They were doing dishes, aimlessly wandering around in thought, talking on the phone, eating at the table. They were going about their lives, which was life enough for me.

Now We Are Six

Seriously

The Happiest of the Happy Times

Not Titler, but Close

After All, He's Just a Man

His expression would change seam-fully and awkwardly. he was always forming what to say next. Listening just enough to follow. His expression would always be of surprise when he would realize what you had said. It took him a few beats to recover and transition to a more at ease, appropriate and more fitting expression. His interactions with friends were always overly comfortable. Impenetrable. If you weren't in the circle when it began, good luck getting in. When he was happy, he was giddy. When he was sad, he was desperately so. Content was a rare pony for him ever to mount. It wasn't comfortable when he did. Always waiting for one extreme or the other to come back. His ego was profound but also was his interest and wonder about things that he felt edified his character. Everything else fell into his pit of disdain He would commonly write off and tear apart limb for limb things or ideas that he had absolutely no interaction with. There was no convincing him either. Ever. He would employ every one of his devices. Vocabulary, down tone, complete confidence in his decision, or his misconception. His fingers seemed to never touch each other. Constantly open palmed and slightly fanned. He used his hands to punctuate almost every sentence that passed through his mouth. Commas, semi-colons, periods-- the lot. All were formed into some sort of point or swooping gesture. Everything about him was exaggerated, and his hands were no exception. His walk was never hurried. He sauntered. He rode his heels hard. Always leaning far back. It seemed like it would be difficult to manage but the fact remained that he did not do anything that was difficult. When he stood he was precariously involved in a sway. He would catch himself just short of the point where you were sure he would fall. He was constantly in thought. His eyes showed it with their frequent flicker and severe depth. One obvious problem was that he didn't always think through, but he was always thinking.

Cuddly Toy

"I'm cold for goodness sakes!" he nearly yelled at the pestering youngsters. They weren't younger than him, most of them at least, but him being the tallest and largest they looked up to him. Not just literally. They were wanting him to pull them through the deepest part of the wading pool. He was the only one tall enough to crawl through on his knees. It was no easy feat. This pool was formed out of uneven pebbled concrete. It was harsh on the bottom of your feet, I gathered it wouldn't have been any easier on the knees. He had been talked into doing it once. Which he did for everyone, to be fair. Even though after the first go with the first fair weather friend the chore in this game had to have become obvious. When they asked, then begged, then downright demanded another trip across he rose his voice above the rest and said an uneasy lie. "I'm cold for goodness sakes!" They instantly grew tired of him and left. Like a puppy in the rain he sat there soaked and alone. He eventually found it in himself to slink out of the pool sad and defeated. He came and sat next to me. I could see the marks the concrete had left on his knees. I touched his knee gently and gave him a look full of every ounce of understanding I could muster. He looked up at me and calmly asked for his towel.

Watch Out Alan Light

Look at his li'l face!

Stranger the Revelator

On my walk into the office today I was offered a strange compliment (??). I was waiting for the light to change while having what can only be described as a depeche mode mo-ment (master and servant indeed). When a woman standing next to me motioned for me to remove my ear buds. I did so, timidly, and raised an eyebrow for her to go ahead. "Your hair looks so comfortable!" She spouted. My mind was turbid with confusion. Comfortable? What is comfortable hair? When is hair uncomfortable? Is she uncomfortable right now? I realized that were were still standing there in an uncomfortable proximity, for me at least, engaged in an interaction that I was unsure how to bring to a close. I took a cue from Gervais and said only "Cheers, mate." The light turned, interaction over, but I was set to wonder.

Don't Dump Your Pride

Elton, Why?

Ollie-G

This was taken this last weekend. It was Oliver's second gay camping trip. He had a really great time. I hadn't seen him be so excited and happy about anything in a long time. He was constantly laughing and nearly giddy the entire trip. He lifted all of our spirits by allowing his to be lifted.

Sweet [Facial] Freedom, Indeed.

This album came up in my Itunes just now. I don't know why I have it. I don't know why I have a lot of things. Like, the other day Leann Rimes singing Purple Rain came on. What the Huuhhggh? Which I instantly added to my running list of worst covers in the history of history. It joined the likes of Hootie and the Blowfish singing Please,Please,Please Let me Get What I Want, Celine Dion singing Here, There and Everywhere, Bono doing I am the Walrus, and yes, Celine Dion doing You Shook me All Night Long; which is somewhat officially the worst cover ever says these guys.

Wait, back to what I was originally saying; the album is reprehensibly bad, every song is a nightmare, but his facial hair is some of the most commendable I've ever seen. At lease since this. I'm just saying, I tip my proverbial hat to you Michael McDonald.

Oh and, this rules:

Facial hair is a secondary sex characteristic in human males. Directly above a picture of my dearest Abe.

It Don't Come Easy

"I love you!" She screamed. Her tone was frantic and confident. Two traits not usually present anywhere in her. Her arms were up. They hung there along with the statement. Her gaze was directly on and cut through him. Another rarity for her; eye contact. Her chest was tight and she was already beyond tears in this. "That is not my fault," His tone was flat and honest. He was not trying to be cruel, though, he knew that when she spread this story around like a secret he would be the villain. He will have done all the offense. He had an overwhelming urge to comfort her but knew that was a lot of how they found themselves here. Like this. He was always pleased with her and wanted to please her. As impossible a task as that was for both of them. He was not known for being pleasing and her not known for being pleased.

Still the Haps...

G

There are so many shades of green here that it is hard to believe that they all fall under the same color.

If a Disco Ball Falls in the Woods...

How It Goes

Just wow.

He insisted.

The We, Myself and I

Maybe it was time for a change. The thought had been playing louder and more often inside my head lately. I wasn't angry at where I was or who I had around, but I was feeling more discontented with what we, being nearly every important person in my life, were to each other and what I had become to myself. I was finding more comfort in being alone. I wanted to find something new to make me feel productive and useful. I had a sort of idealism growing in my chest. I wanted to leave a mark. Alone. Contentedly alone. It was an idea that I had discussed a couple of months back with a friend and it seemed like a distant fairy tale. A complete farce. Made up and useless. I couldn't see it ever showing up. I didn't believe when people would talk about it. I thought it was just a sign that they had given up and were talking themselves into existing empty. But here I am. Feeling it. Thinking that it's true. Maybe I gave up, but it feels pretty real to me.

Oliver Being Oll-ie Can Be

All taken by Snotty, and taken from here.

Good Things Come in Pink Boxes

Voo Doo Doughnuts-- PDX

The Final Round

I'm smiling so nicely because this was the guy taking the picture. Let's just employ the word dreamy, shall we?


Last night Michelle's dress was in the AIGA Ready to Wear
Recycled Paper Fashion Show at the Seattle Center.

a shark watches me sleep

!!!!!!

You're Something I Can't Need.

I always knew that I was on borrowed time with you. There's no need to avoid it. Let's just call it a day. I'll tell you what, I'll save you the trouble of running away. I'm already gone. Just save a moment for me when the rest fall away to remember when I was there. Remember my shoulder and remember my touch. Until then, carry on. Carry on.

You're something I can't need, and I something you don't want to.

the great debate: pirates or ninjas.

on live journal they have a button called 'writer's block' which prompts you to answer a question and post the answer. yesterday the question was "pirates or ninjas?". i composed a venn diagram to try and work it out. though, i still don't know where my pre-fer-ence lies.