hi. it's that time again where i let my judgment take the backseat to my desire to share that which should likely remain unshared. what tantalizing tidbits am i about to share with you, my darling poultries? why, i haven't a clue! this is just as exciting for me as it is for you, except for the fact that i bet you 2$* you're not the one crying right now. well, actually, to be perfectly honest, i'm not crying right now either, which is a marked change from the rest of today. but you know what? crying isn't that bad. it clears the fluids from your sinuses, cleanses the humours, engages the soul in stuff, makes you feel fucking ALIVE**.
so, what shall we talk about today? well, let's begin at the beginning, pass through a middle, and, if we're lucky, end at the end. does that sound fair? exciting? marginally compelling? listen. i can only do so much for you. you're a big boy/girl. i think the world is an interesting enough place, if you only take the time to look, listen and feel... or whatnot.
so here it is. haikus about the perineum notwithstanding, there is a certain degree of literary freedom that comes from inebriation. sad thing about drinking is that it most certainly works as a highly successful means to an end, if the end is numbness, stupidity and a general feeling of being at peace with things one should most certainly not be at peace with. hell, i totally get the temptation to jump headfirst into a pool of merlot; the only reason i don't do it more regularly, is that i am a responsible, balanced, thinking individual***.
so, things. stuff. let's talk about it, shall we? because, let's be honest, that's the real reason you're here. yes, you care about me. yes, you're friends of mine. but really, you're hoping i'll slip and feed you some good dirt. well, sorry to be a party pooper, but my fences are so fucking well constructed that the best you can hope for is 1. hints and nudges and winks and my admission that i am 2. inebriated and 3. very very sad.
why are you sad, you ask. why, i am sad, quoth i, because sometimes when one makes decisions, they take you to unexpected places and then sadness happens. sometimes, if you're lucky, happiness happens as well. it's not a cynical sort of declaration. i'm not really a cynic, despite my wholehearted attempts to make you believe that i am one. no. i am actually a realist with a sweet soupçon of romanticism thrown in. you know, i am me. i think you're good with that.
life = things + sadness + happiness + wine + music that makes you sad and/or happy**** + people coming and going (and if you're really lucky, coming again, because it's all an oceanic ebb and flow and shit).
life = things that hurt and elate***** and surprise and make you feel things and do things and say things and... stuff.
whoa. this is exhausting, innit? all that talking in code, throwing enigmatic tidbits in your general direction... all those FUCKING asterisks! so sorry. and really, this is a strange form of therapy that i am more than likely to delete tomorrow (actually, i'm really curious to see what i think of this when sobriety wipes the vaseline off the lens of my perception).
so, thanks for coming, but, like the passersby in a train-wreck, i think it's time to move on. go read the paper. there's some good stuff happening in your local arts scene, i'm certain. i'm fairly sure there's a book you've been neglecting on your bedside table. hell, go talk to someone. go hug a child, pet a dog, talk to an old person. really, there's nothing to see here. just me. having a september. as per usual...
*i'm not a betting woman. 2$ is as far as i'm willing to go. because what do i know? you might be having a september too! it's statistically highly likely, i'm told.
**in a way highly similar to the way a hammer on your thumb makes you feel ALIVE.
***you have no idea, but i am now slurring my words. retyping "individual" five times black-on-white with a 100% final success rate does not have the same effect as muttering "innividuelle...indiveedool...innivindoel..individual." but see how i'm working on giving you a fairly accurate representation of what will likely be an entry erased on the morrow? you're welcome.
**** what can i say? i'm a minor key junkie. very little of what i love, musically, can be described as happy, or even marginally unlikely to render you suicidal within 5 minutes. that's the way i work. can't even say i'm sorry. sorry.
*****oh, hello tears. welcome back. i'd been wondering when you'd make another appearance. please stay off the mousepad; you make it hard to use.