Loosening Fingers

I need a J.O.B. I've theoretically needed one for quite some time, but now I really need one. I've decided I'll do some sort of online writing crap first because I only need $800-$1000 a month. I haven't written more than a Facebook status or long message in quite some time. I'm also not too sure I can write about stuff other people want me to write about without swearing or adding my own personal brand of quirk to the writing. I'm pretty sure I have a strong voice, which technically should be a good thing, right? No matter, I'm just going to give myself another few days to research and then I'll pick some crap place to try and see how it goes. I don't even care about soulless content mill work, I just care that my kid get something for Christmas this year.

A few months ago, when I had some spare money, I bought an album by a band Patrick loved. I liked them too, but only the songs I'd heard through him. I'd never searched for their music on my own. Their new release was featured on i.tunes, so I decided to try it.

At first, I loved/hated listening to something I know he would have been listening to if he was still alive. I could feel the melancholy rolling off my Mac.book as the singer lamented his awful, rotten, directionless life. I wallowed with him for about two, maybe three songs. Then I started to wallow on my own, for different reasons.

I realized that I'm not in a spot where I enjoyed listening to despair anymore. I can't bear to hear it, in fact. It's not fun to get caught in the mire of how soul sucking life can be. I don't need to listen to someone else's loneliness and depression. I'd prefer to hear something that helps alleviate pain, rather than repeats it.

Realizing this made me feel horrible. I wanted to cry for a whole new reason -- Patrick never had the chance to get out of that stage. Sure, he may have chosen not to, but he didn't have that choice. He didn't get the choice to move on or stay sinking, because someone else decided he'd never again choose anything. Someone who hated him made sure he never got to grow in subtle ways. I doubt he'd have ever turned into the sunny disposition kind of guy acquaintances thought he was, but he should have had the chance to crawl out of the muck. Or the mulch that suffocated him. I guess all I can do is appreciate that the things that once attracted me because of their obvious pain no longer do.

4 years

Four years is a long time. Or it can feel like four seconds. Strange how things work out that way. Of course, eight or ten or however many years I went without seeing him the last time completely dissolved when I met his eyes. Too bad this time he has no eyes to meet. They've been extinguished, burned to ash and buried. I probably wouldn't want to see them anymore. I told myself that this loss wasn't going to be the same as when my friend died. I wasn't going to drink until I couldn't see or remember anything. I, in fact, was going to avoid drinking because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop, and because I knew the loss of his life would just come pouring out. I'd find myself in trouble and possibly homeless after the type of outburst I could feel welling up inside me. I stopped fighting with people who never cared to make me happy, yet insisted upon being around to watch me be miserable. I let obvious lies go unchallenged, I didn't ask questions when I didn't feel like hearing a lie. I made life easier for my son in the process because I knew Patrick would've given anything to be there for his daughter, to make her life easier. So I sucked up a lot of shit I never imagined sucking up in order to keep some calm around me. I ate instead of drank. I bit my tongue until I got so tired of the taste of blood, I didn't even have to bite anymore. I just shrugged, said, "OK" and popped a soda or some junk food. I, of course, gained weight and an odd complacency that never fit quite right, but, really, nothing else fit quite right either, so it was just one of many ways my skin felt wrong. I tried exercising, but leaving the house and interacting with people who were funny and thought I said things worth listening to depressed me more because it reminded me of what I'd given up. So I ate more junk for comfort. It wasn't really more comforting than getting loaded would have been, but it was a lot more safe. Mostly. Anyway, so I don't recognize very much of myself these days. I'm not sure I'm ever going to. I'm not sure if it matters if I do. Yeah, uh, that's what I've been up to since you've been gone. Maybe I should try to remember which one of us lived.

Here Ya Go, P

I've been getting lots of little "messages" reminding me of a dearly departed someone. I think the most ostentatious was a pair of glasses for alcohol (I'm not sure if they were for beer or what. No, I guess it doesn't matter.) bearing his full name. Apparently he's a restaurant in New Orleans. Or was. Anyway, I'm not up for writing, but I thought of this piece that I wrote for him back when he read my stuff on The Space. The date it was last edited? Exactly two years before his murder four years ago. I can't even bring myself to read it, but here it is. You come to me in the night, silently waiting outside my door.  I feel your presence and step out into the full moon-lit air.  The night is hot and still.  The dew is on the grass and my bare feet get wet as I reach out to grab your hand.  Shyly, I raise my eyes to meet yours.  I can see my intentions mirrored in your eyes. You are holding a blanket, and we walk with you leading the way, but only barely.  The meadow is empty except for the fireflies.  Most have gone to sleep, but a few still flicker here and there in the air.  The small stream running through the meadow provides the only noise besides the sounds of our feet.  You spread the blanket, and sit, silently inviting me to join you.  Gingerly, I sit next to you.  Close, but not too close.  http://starmatt.com/gallery/astro/fireflies.jpg You lean over to kiss me and the slow sweet pace of the kiss barely masks the intensity behind it.  We recline in each other's arms, still kissing.  Our passion builds, as slowly, we begin to undress.  Our eyes never leave each other as we spend the rest of the night giving into our passion, until the birds begin to chirp. Slowly, reluctantly we dress, fold the blanket, and give a few lingering kisses.  We walk back to my door, where you slip away unwillingly, my eyes following you until you are out of sight.  Softly, I go inside, lean on the door and begin to cry.

Finish the Sentence

Hi! Trifextratime again! As of the time of writing, 61 posts were linked, but none included what I thought immediately upon reading the challenge, so, here goes:


In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life -- shit always happens.

Interwoven Threads

While trying on my investigative hat again this evening I realized that John may have used a vacation rental address for the form I found. It's a ham radio license, and it was originally issued with the last known address I have. I'm going to guess he uses the radio for sailing and not much else. The town with the updated address is on the water. It also seems to be something of an old talk show host mecca, as I found two who currently live there. And that was without trying, with the prices homes were commanding, ($35,000 a month rentals) and it's proximity to NYC, I'm sure many other famous rich people live there. I'm still searching for a number, and I'm still going to send something, but, honestly, ... I don't expect a reply.

I also realized that the same friend who introduced me to my son's father was instrumental in my talking to John.

I dumped a drink on the head of a girl I knew through my ex that night. Don't worry, I made it look like an accident by taking a drink from the guy behind the bar (who was a very recent ex), reaching over the girl's head and tilting. I got away with it the first time. The second time I got a little overzealous and someone noticed. The girl's friend towered over me, slurring and screaming about me dumping a drink on her friend's head. I caught some looks from the guys that let me know I wouldn't be winning any friends if I started shit, so I did what any good asshole drunk without backup would do -- I lied my fucking ass off. I didn't just say I didn't do it, oh no, that wasn't good enough for me. I had to throw in there that if I had wanted to pour a drink on her head, I would have just done it cuz I didn't give a fuck what those bitches thought about me. It worked. (We actually all ended up being friends and we're all Facebook friends today, but I never admitted I purposely dumped my drink on her head.)

After that spectacle, I went to talk to my friend Josh, who was talking to John, who had just returned to school (and his fraternity) for his Master's degree after two years working. They were in the doorway to the bar room, wedged into the space to get behind the bar. I decided John was mine. He decided no such thing was going to happen. Being the charming asshole that I was, I didn't go away when he refused to dance with me, multiple times. He was laughing as he refused, so I didn't give up. When Josh got tired of me being a pain in the ass, he came up with a plan. If I could walk across the bar, which was shoulder to shoulder drunks, and back with a full, open can of beer on my head, John would dance with me.

I fall over standing still. People think I'm invisible or something, because I always get knocked around. I was wasted.

Of course I agreed.

Josh made a big show of opening the can of Black Label for my head, and I set off, head rigid, hands raised, hoping to minimize the beer spill to come. Except it never came. I have no idea how I did it, other than slowly and screaming for people to get out of my way, but I did it.

When I got back to the guys, John was laughing in open mouthed disbelief, poking Josh, yelling that Josh had made the deal and not him. Josh was just open mouthed and shrugging, insisting that he thought he'd found a way to get me to go away. I was grinning wildly, drinking the beer that had been on my head. John put another qualifier on the deal, and off I went to complete part two of my impossible quest. The song he required started playing within minutes. :D He was a good sport and followed me to the dance floor.

Later, we sat at a dining room table talking for hours, until I got a phone call. Yeah, I got a phone call on the lobby phone of his fraternity, and someone I didn't know at the time, but clearly knew who I was, came looking for me. After that, John lied and said his sister was visiting so he had to go home. I have no idea what happened next, I know the phone call I got was the start of some very psychotic behavior on the part of my friend's girlfriend, but I think I just passed out somewhere, sure that John would eventually see my charms.

Does Googling People Ever Pay Off?

After some not-very-obsessive searching for this guy, I finally found a recent address. (I lied, it was slightly obsessive. Other people paid to find the info and couldn't. OK, maybe slightly is understatement too, but I did often go months without trying.) Of course, the address alone tells me very little about his life. Sure, I know he's got an exclusive zipcode and lives only slightly over 2 hours away, near an area I hated when I visited him before, but what does that really tell me? I don't know if he's married to his job, or his boat, or waiting for same sex marriage to be legal in his state. (I hope he's not holding his breath if that's the case.)

Basically, now that I have an address, I'm scared to use it. I want to send something that shows some effort, doesn't look creepy, and most of all, something that makes him smile and hopefully want to contact me. Of course I want him to see it, and decide he can't waste another minute, he has to call me, but I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen. And what if it did? What do I have to offer, even by way of a decent conversation? Not much. I don't want to tell him the truth about my life now. I don't want to skirt around any questions aimed my way, or just start crying about how much I miss him.

And what if he doesn't respond? Could I handle that? I'm not so sure any amount of bracing myself would soften that blow. So I don't know what I'd do if he does or doesn't respond. Awesome.

I just know I need to decide soon, in case he moves again.

I was going to send an anonymous card cuz I'm a fat loser. That just seems dumb though, because if he knows it's me and wants to contact me, he wouldn't be able to. I could give my last name and any zipcode within a 60 mile radius and I wouldn't be easily found. All three colleges I attended had someone with the same name, the same years I was there. I worked with one of them for a few weeks. So, then I considered sending something with my name, but no address -- same dumb dilemma. I want to send everything and have him try every single way to contact me as soon as he gets it. I want to tell him I'm a big fat loser who doesn't deserve a moment of his time, but I'd love to have it. Maybe I'll try that mythical magic ground and send some funny reminder of our past and put a return address on the envelope and hope for the best.

Insomniac Snippets

I've got horrible insomnia and can't complete a thought to save my life. There's more to these stories, but I figured I'd put the snippets out there in case I never finish the thoughts behind them.

------------------
These days that blend together in a neverending cycle of sleeping when I should be waking and vice versa are wearing me down. They remind me of when I was lonely and kinda shattered, but not quite, like the shell on a hardboiled egg that has been pounded, and you can see all the cracks, and know that the inside is suffering the effects and rotting as you watch, but it's still on the egg, and the egg, obviously, does nothing to remove or repair the damage. It just sits there, being an inanimate object that once had a shot at being a living creature. I guess that's kinda how I feel.


--------------------
One of the bouncers I was friendly with, upon seeing me seated alone at the bar, asked, "Where is your royal court tonight?" I was confused, he mentioned me always having a different group of people following me around, and I laughed dismissively, saying my friend would be there in a few minutes. I had many people comment on my ever changing bar companions. Most people said it in awe, and added things along the lines of, "Do you know everyone?"

My reaction to these comments was always the same, superficially dismissive, secretly wondering why they didn't realize it just meant no one could put up with me that often.



-------------------
I got kicked off the drunk bus that night. We were in a beach party town, he had driven us to a condo procured by my friend's friends. I knew the people who had paid for the place from going to their bar. I don't really know how I ended up semi-invited there, but I do know Matt was the one who drove us there, despite the fact that no one but me knew him at all. By the time I got back to the condo with Matt, I was only wearing a bra and thong. That was highly unusual for me. Under the guise of taking care of me, or getting me to calm down, pass out, whatever, Matt took me to the balcony, where I know I told him "No" many, many times. I also know that I did eventually cave in, saying, "Jesus Christ, just shut up and do it already, you're getting on my nerves." To his credit, he did ask if I was sure. I don't remember exactly how I replied, but I know I displayed general annoyance of the situation.

As he pushed my underwear out of the way and entered me, he made a noise of such sheer and utter satisfaction, from waiting for over a year for that moment, that just what was happening sunk into my drink addled mind. To his credit, his first stroke was his only one, because he stopped as soon as I realized what we were doing and started freaking out. I was angry and wouldn't speak to him after that. I remember him telling me angrily that he was wasted too and that maybe if I'd talk to him, I'd find out that he was sorry. I wouldn't talk to him. It was an uncomfortable day or two at the beach and a hellish four hours home.

Several years later I saw him at my oldest bar hangout. My friend had just died, and I was feeling nostalgic (and a little generous -- I know, how kind of me), so I said hello. The look of joy at my acknowledgment of his existence struck me like a backhand. I sneered at him, snarled about how I couldn't believe he was still in love with me and stalked away, leaving him open mouthed and gasping, near tears in the bar. I haven't seen him since.

13 years

If I could go back to relive that day and night exactly 13 years ago, sometimes I think I'd do it in a second. Other days, I'm not so sure I could live through the "after" part again. Yet another idea surges through my brain, this time about going back with the knowledge of what is to come, trying to convince him to live while he still can. I could only save him once, please make it count, please make every second count. I'd tell him I really never could get angry with him, not really, and that I always really did forgive him, often before I knew I should be forgiving something.

I'd also tell him that while I accepted him wholeheartedly as he was, I couldn't always open myself up to the pain of his rejection. That he should think about whether he really wanted to push me away or not. That I'd still feel the same way about him if he made the same choices he had the first time I lived through this, but I really hoped I had a chance to make some better choices myself. I'd tell him that I was broken too, and that maybe together we could chip off all the sharp parts, all the pieces that made us bleed, and become well worn and softer around the edges together.

I'd tell him that I don't know if I could stop the jealous rage that ended his life, those seeds were sown before I had a chance to pluck them from the ground, but I'd make damn sure to try.

I'd tell him that I was right, he will always feel perfect next to me. I will always feel like I am where I belong in his arms. It just wasn't as often as I'd have liked it to be, or even as often as I had the chance. I'd tell him that even if he didn't listen the first time, I'd try harder the second. I'd forget pride and do what my heart urged me to do when we met again. I'd say fuck it and not worry about how I needed a shower, or wanted him to say this or that, and just fucking jump, not caring where I landed because then at least I'd have been closer to him for even a day extra.

There are so many things I'd like to do differently, or again. The only thing I can't consider changing is being able to control myself and stay away from him that night, 13 years ago, when he was my friend's date to the wedding she and I were both in.

The three year anniversary of the murder of someone I love is coming up. I wrote this around a week or so after his death, originally posted as two, but, fuck it. The day he died, I happened to go to a bizarro boulder field, and I was thinking about him even more than usual that day, and singing Tool in my head. Not sure if I can add a video properly, but Tool's Sober is most definitely the soundtrack.



He can tell it is sunny, although no light reaches the forest floor, still damp and cool beneath his feet. Birds twittering and singing above cover the sound of his soft, slow footsteps. He plods on, with no destination in mind. Looking up, he notices a larger chunk of blue than was previously visible. The sounds of the birds seem to have lessened. Sunlight begins to reach the ground around him, which has grown rocky.

Larger stones, more blue and fewer birds greet his every step. He experiences no sense of foreboding, but finds his senses heightened. The weariness that had hunched his shoulders lessens somewhat, as he finds himself warily looking forward.

What greets him is wholly unexpected: a field of boulders, completely free of vegetation. This is no mere stone outcropping. The vegetation is missing in a huge chunk, slightly below the outlining trees, likethebottom of a humongous rectangular basin. As he reaches the border, he looks out and wonders if the gods had been fighting in this spot. Nothing else seems to explain the immense space seemingly devoid of all life, occupied instead by rocks.

Confused, he seats himself on an edging boulder, fairly near the massive trees. Water has run over these rocks and left its circular mark apparent. The next thing that catches his eye is a vast assortment of large black spiders, creeping between and over boulders, two and three to a stone. Flies buzz hungrily above. He pauses and considers what the flies eat, as there isno obvious decay or growth. Even the birds seem to have abandoned this clearing.

Fascination draws him into the field. Walking seems to take forever. The sun has moved, but his progress is barely visible. Spiders are everywhere. The feelings of emptiness and awe mingle in his soul. He finds his pace slowing, shoulders hunching once again, an unconscious effort to lessen the pain in his back. He has grown hot in the midst of these rocks, and begins to strip himself bare.

Hunched shoulders are not the only sign of his decaying body. What was once his muscular abdomen was now shriveled yet fleshy. Arms had lost their muscle tone, and the legs were soon to follow. That was barely noticeable to him, but the gray that was beginning to show amidst his pubic hair mocked him In fact, his penis mocked him too. It had long ago abandoned him, refusing to participate in any activities that didn’t strictly involve pissing.

As he picks his way slowly across the field, the reek of cigarettes, pot and last night’s beer runs from his pores, cleansing, while simultaneously reminding him of his vices. His fingers itch to hold something to his lips, something, anything that will soothe his cravings. Absently, he lifts his right arm in front of his face and runs his fingers through sweaty hair. The gray there mocks him almost as much as the pubic hair, but just almost. Somehow the hair on his head defying him seems less insulting. He won’t allow himself to touch empty fingers to his lips. His eyes begin flitting back and forth, thinking too many thoughts to process at once. He closes them and takes a deep breath.

He wishes his brain would quiet down again. When he first reached this strange barren arena, the sense of calmness that overcame him was welcome. Now, doubting his sanity for crossing the expanseof rock, among other things, all calmness has fled his weakened body.

He is nearing the center and not sure he can reach an edge in any direction before exhaustion overtakes him. Lying on the boulders seems to be the only reasonable option for rest. Those damn spiders still lurk in almost every crevice. Ignoring them, he painfully eases his body on top of and between the formations. He welcomes the pain almost as much as he welcomes the stillness.

Despite the sun, the crevices between rocks are cool. As he reclines his head on the bundle of malodorous clothes, he notices the sound of running water beneath him. Unclear as how this could possibly be, he presses his ear as far into a gap as possible. His nose touches an ancient water etching while the sound of the improbable repeats in his ear. A spider tickles his bare ass.

Finally, after brushing away the spider, he poses himself on the boulders once more. This time he positions himself with arms outstretched, face looking toward the broad expanse of blue above. He wishes for the water to rise to the surface and wash his soul of pain. After a few minutes reviewing his aching heart, he wishes for the water to surge forward, only to retreat quickly, dragging his body with it, back beneath the stones.

Perhaps that was the original purpose of this place, he muses. Maybe all who entered to be cleansed drowned instead, and the sympathetic gods covered it in such a manner as to assure no one would be misled and lost again. Then again, maybe the water WAS cleansing and freed man from all pain and a malevolent god decided suffering should continue there on earth. In any case, it is covered now, and he is left lying there, waiting for release.

jason

Before I partied and flunked out of an expensive collegeuniversity, I went to a cheap college. There, I actually made Dean's List and did things like attend classes. Weird, I know. My second semester at that college, which happened to be a Fall semester, I met my first college crush. He was in my chemistry class, (convenient) which met four days a week. He was older than I, and he was finishing his Associate's Degree that semester. He was tall and kind of gangly looking, with beautiful hair. His hair was shoulder length with corkscrew curls. I loved his hair.

During the first few classes we ended up sitting in the same general area of the room. After a week or so, we started chatting. We moved a little closer to each other, seat wise. Then we moved to adjacent seats at a long table, but kept more than the usual amount of distance between the seats. Slowly, arms and legs would reach toward the other, and by the end of the semester, we sat huddled together, cozily ignoring the stupid bitch who couldn't teach to save her life. Well, I felt that way anyway. For all I know, he was pissed off that I was ruining his concentration.

The catty girls in class had a field day with us. Jason's lab partner was the first person in the class to speak to me. He was a pretty blond, athletic guy, and apparently the girls had a crush on him. He was also not so bright, so I helped him with some stuff. The girls were pissed that he was speaking to me instead of them. When I showed no interest whatsoever in pretty boy, but got closer and closer to the older hippie looking guy, they had some nice things to say. "I can't believe he still talks to her, and she talks to that other guy instead." was one of the nicer things I remember hearing. *shrugs*

The class was finished at the beginning of a school-wide lunch break. Eventually Jason and I spent this hour together almost every week. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure he just stuck around to spend time with me. I remember feeling rather like a puppy following him at first. I also remember the event that changed our connection somehow, and made me feel like he wanted me there.

My great grandmother died that semester. She was one of the few people in my family whose company I have ever enjoyed. We were very close when I was younger, but as I became a teenager, I saw her less often. Instead of staying home the day she died, I went to class. I wasn't really aware of any other options, I guess. I was very quiet and distant during chemistry, and instead of following Jason outside for lunch, I went to a rarely used hallway and sat down against the wall. Jason followed me, and sat down next to me. He asked what was wrong. I couldn't respond, other than to give him a tight, closed-lipped shake of my head. I wasn't going to cry in general. I was certainly not going to do it in front of him.

He put his book bag on the floor near me, and motioned for me to lie down and put my head on it. I did. He put his face on the floor next to mine, but with his body stretched in the opposite direction, saying nothing. Still fighting the tears, I eventually choked out that she had died. As I was lying there on the stained gray indoor/outdoor carpeting in a dimly lit hallway, a tear escaped. I furiously tried to hide it. He looked at me, and a few more leaked out, unbidden. I was starting to get frantic. He reached over, and gently wiped the tears from my face with his thumb, quietly telling me that it was OK to cry. I remember looking in his eyes, initially wanting to argue that it was not OK, but instead I thanked him quietly.

I went to the college about six months ago and was sad to see that hallway has been transformed. It's now surely well traveled, for a cafe has been installed, and the dank dark carpeting and bad lighting have been replaced by mauve and cream decorative tiles and bright lights.

************************

I wrote this nearly five years ago. (I revised it tonight slightly so some spots made more sense and I fixed verb tense a few times.) The guy in my house with a job has been ill for nearly a month now, with one of those things that makes Western medicine doctors kinda throw their hands in the air and concede defeat. I looked up acupuncture in my area, and guess who is one of two practitioners? Yup. Jason.

Tactile

Funny how memory works, isn't it? I've showered far more often than not over the past 13 years, opening and closing a shower curtain the vast majority of those times. Last week, however, as my fingers touched the shiny side of my shower curtain, I got a glimpse of John's old shower curtain instead of my usual mindless routine, and found myself momentarily transported back in time.

"Why do you have the map on your shower curtain facing inside the shower instead of out?"
"Why not?? I can see it when I'm in the shower that way."

I laughed and mentioned that I thought shower curtains were printed as decoration, rather than for personal amusement while showering. John resolutely rejected my argument. His opinion was that if he had picked out a shower curtain that he liked, why the fuck wouldn't he look at it while he showered? Didn't what he want to see on a daily basis matter more than what a possible visitor might see on rare occasion?

He was right.

I was lying with my head in his lap on his beige and white striped sofa bearing a rip with three inch-long sides of a square on one arm. I had always played with the rip. John never noticed it, but I just couldn't keep my fingers off the imperfection. For three years, without fail, when I sat on his sofa, I sat next to the hole, feeling and poking along the fraying edges of the inconsequential cosmetic imperfection. The day we were discussing shower curtains, I was either newly pregnant, or newly not, and I needed him. I needed his perspective, his practical approach to life that was mirrored in seemingly silly things like facing the shower curtain toward himself, and keeping his fingers from creating a bigger hole on his sofa.

While I don't know where he is right now, I find I still need John's acceptance and perspective. He quieted a part of my soul that needed soothing, and sometimes still needs soothing today. I still need quiet reminders to stop picking at imperfections and to enjoy what I like in my own way. I hope he is still doing those things for himself.

Dealbreaker

You can never tell what will push someone over the edge between "acceptable" and "I've had enough of this shit". Sometimes you just assume that if someone has put up with ridiculous stuff, just about anything will be OK. Sometimes life reminds you of that whole saying about assuming making an ass out of you and me.

David was able to overlook the fact that I didn't want to leave the bar with him the first night we spoke until I finished doing dishes, even though I didn't work there. He was able to overlook the fact that when we got to the hotel room that magically appeared for us, I forgot to remove my tampon before sex and screeched and screamed at the top of my lungs about how much it hurt. He didn't seem too put out by the fact that I was pissed off to learn the next morning that I had apparently offered to drive him somewhere and I kept muttering about how I hadn't wanted to sleep with anyone I just met ever again.

On the contrary, he was exceedingly polite and inviting. I often visited him at his mother's apartment, where he was staying for a month or so in between races. When I sucked his dick in the living room where a two foot pace would've enabled his mother or grandfather to see us, swallowed, choked, ran to the sink and then spit, sputtering "My Gawd! What the hell do you eat?? That tasted HORRIBLE!!! I've never tasted anything LIKE it!!" he actually seemed rather amused.

He more than tolerated a drunken night visiting his friends in a town five and a half hours away that resulted in me saying the wrong name when his friend asked if I even knew who I was there with. He started forgiving me rather quickly after he realized I had no memory of accusing him of taking advantage of me. He didn't even get too annoyed when his grandfather fell ill on Christmas Eve and instead of being alone in the apartment we had to go to the bar bathroom.

He was rather good natured about my little rant on New Year's Eve concerning sex in a car, especially in the fucking cold. He even laughed the next night when his friend's dog knocked open the door and started licking my tit and I freaked out.

The next night, however, was the last night. What the fuck else could I have done to this guy?

I tickled his butt in the bar.

OK, so it was repeatedly and in front of his friends and he asked me nicely to stop about ten times, but hey, who would've known he had limits?

******Ahhhh, I wrote this years ago for that other place I used to blog. Today, while chatting with one of the mothers at homeschool co-op, we realized that her husband's best friend is the guy in this piece. Awkward.

fluffy undies

Yeah, yeah, got sucked in again. Read all about undies here.

Underwear Survey from Quizopolis.com

What's your favorite underwear you own?

None. I don't give a fuck about underwear. There were a few pairs that actually got me laid a few times, but they also gave me crotch rot, so ... I have sensitive junk, like I can't switch toilet paper or soap without issues, so all cotton, white, boring ass shit keeps me smelling better. I can pretend I look fuckable and stink and scratch, or be boring. *shrugs*


What's the worst pair of underwear you own?

Hmm, I think I tossed the flowered granny panties I accidentally bought once. My ex thought my left behind cartoon character underwear were going to get him arrested for being a pedo if he ever got raided, so in his opinion, those were the worst. Not sure why he thought he was going to get raided ...


What's the most embarrassing underwear you own?

The kind where the dog ate the crotch and for some stupid reason I keep forgetting to toss the bitches, keep washing them and end up wearing them because I am lazy and wait until the last pair is used to wash more.


What's your favorite color of underwear?

Unstained


What color underwear will you not wear?

I wear underwear my dog ate, do you think I have standards?


What's your favorite underwear on a member of the opposite sex?

Commando


What underwear do you hate seeing on a member of the opposite sex?

Any?


Have you ever lost your underwear while out somewhere?

Yes, yes I have. On several occasions, usually if they weren't bunched up in my pants/clothes, I didn't even bother looking before trying to sneak out. Of course, that was generally a failure, since I had no clue where I was, was still drunk and needed to ask for directions home. (Once from a whole ... 4ish blocks from "home".) I also once drunkenly sharted and decided tossing my underwear while wearing a dress with an unpredictable ass was a good idea. I was lucky it turned out relatively OK.


Have you ever found someone's underwear while out somewhere?

Yes. More than once, even. Apparently I'm not the only one with the aforementioned shart/toss idea BUT *I* wrapped mine up and placed them in the garbage, thank you very much.


How often do you buy new underwear?

Not often enough. I keep putting it off until I lose weight. But I've gained weight since my initial decision to wait until my ass was smaller to spend money on it, so I either have to get to work, or give in.


Do you buy underwear for anyone but yourself?

Yes. Clone Wars briefs yesterday, even.


Where do you like to buy your underwear?

Wherever I happen to be when I break down and grab some.


Do you have a favorite brand of underwear?


Whatever the dog hasn't eaten.


Is there anywhere you refuse to buy underwear?

Yeah, Amelia's thrift store idea is a good one.


Do you own any novelty underwear?

Technically, the dog created crotchless for me ... Hmm, actually, I might still have a leather set around, not that they'd fit anymore ...


Have you ever bought novelty underwear for anyone?

I don't know. I keep having horrid sock/thong in leopard print visions, but luckily, I've supressed whatever it is causing those visions enough to doubt my role in purchasing them.


Have you ever worn someone else's underwear?

Plenty of times. I always forget to pack em.


Has anyone else ever worn your underwear?

Yeah, but not often.


What type of underwear do you wear most?

Cotton.

Is there any kind of underwear you refuse to wear?

Well, um, I'd like to say granny panties, but I think now if it was granny or eaten, I'd pick the bloomers.

Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com http://www.quizopolis.com/survey/4614/Underwear-Survey/

15 Qs

15 Would You Rather Questions Survey from Quizopolis.com

Be a poison tester or suicide bomber?

- Poison tester. Normal healthy food doesn't agree with me, what are the odds that poison would actually harm me?

Fat and short or fat and tall

- I am already fat and sorta tall, why shrink? Then I'd never be able to say shit like, "Your face only reaches my boobs, bring it." again.

Wet and cold or dry and hot

- Dry and hot. Or wet and hot really, just FUCKING HOT. I'm sticking with Amelia's answer.

Vampire or a cat

- Ugh. Blood or fish for dinner?? Hmm, I guess vampire, at least then I could have hot food every now and then.

Be george lopez or brad pitt

- Brad Pitt. Really, who *doesn't* want the chance to bang Angelina Jolie??

Eat sand or dirt

- I've had sand in my mouth and it just stays there, gritty and clinking. I'll take dirt, nice clean dirt.

Be 30 or 1

- Um, let's go with being 1 again, but the 1 in whatever country it is that considers you 1 when you're born.

Pro skater boarder or singer

- Do I have a good dental plan? If so, I'll take skill and balance.

Eat metal or bugs

- Definitely metal. I've had enough Goldschlagger in my life to either have already shit the equivalent to (of?) a gold nugget, or have one hanging around inside me, waiting to escape. ("Yes, I have gold to exchange, but the extraction process isn't going to be fun for any of us.")

Be a monkey or wolf man

- Hmmm, fling poop or howl at the moon?? I guess I'll howl.

Work at google or bing

- Whichever pays more and requires less. Duh.

Make a board game or video game

- Board game would be much easier.

Mini cooper or mustang

- I miss my MINI. *sniffle* Only if it's turbo though.

Dead or alive

- Sure, I prefer my dinner to be dead.

Singer or actor

- A singer, but a singer like the guys in the Gorillaz, where they use lots of computer shit to distort the voice and no one ever sees me.

There are other people doing this one today, but I'm too lazy to look for a link right now.

Edit:: Ahh, I was asked nicely, so I'm throwing some blood, sweat and tears into it and linking to JesterQueen. ;)

4AM

The phone rang at 4AM. She smirked.

"Sure, I'll come drive you home. You do know your house is closer to the bar than theirs, right? Shh, I'm just busting your balls. I know what you really want."


Trifextra-- 33 words, including "The phone rang at 4AM"

uh

The shock of his death rattled us all somewhere so deep we kept trying to rebury the pain, afraid that if it was allowed to surface, it would never again be content simmering deep within the confines of our hearts. Or maybe that was just me and I'm projecting, but I don't think so. When the guy who occasionally became the butt of "liver failure" jokes, partially out of concern, but mostly because we all expected him to be there forever, had a lethal heart attack out of nowhere at the ripe "old" age of thirty, pause was given. Questions concerning who dies and when and why bubbled into our brains.

Beyond and behind the immediate grief came creeping thoughts like "It could have just as easily been me. We ate Burger King and drank together and passed out on the same wretched sofa every day for years. Hell, he paid for me to do that for years." The future I was never sure I wanted no longer seemed to be a given. With his death, at least a few of us pondered our own lives more than we ever had before.




Trifecta's word this week is "wretched" and I seriously think I broke my brain. I can't even think of a title.

Doom, doom doom doom, doom!

Stress is no stranger in my life. I do homeschool a very, uh, active child on a very small budget. We all have stress though. Usually I can happily feed my stress pizza and put it to sleep. Really, my stress loves pizza. I can placate whatever crap is being thrown my way with cheesy goodness and go back to, hmmm ... doing nothing.

Today though, I have an unease gnawing at the pit of my stomach. It's a feeling of impending doom, like the world is about to implode. OK, maybe not the whole world, but my world. I don't usually get this feeling, and I don't remember ever getting it wrong, so it's rather worrisome. Ironic how unexplainable anxiety creates more anxiety, no?

Maybe it's just some sort of gastrointestinal distress taking it's sweet time manifesting fully. Awesome. It's very early in the day for me and I've already decided the world's going to implode or my ass is going to explode. I guess it's nice to have options and expectations for the day.

Dear Gumby,

I can't believe it's been 11 years since you've been gone. Sometimes it feels like it's been that long since I've had fun. I know it hasn't, but it's sporadic now, and different. I can't go back to our bar without a stab of pain because you're not there. In fact, dear Donna sold the place last year. After the initial feeling of, "Oh man, all the fucking times Gumby and Spar tried to buy it and got turned down are really annoying now," my second reaction was horror over the idea that the new owners might take down your little memorial on the wall, and that the monthly calendar would never again note your birth and death days. No one there now knows you died in the bar you loved. Ouch. That hurts the most. To them, you'll be nothing but a cranky ghost screeching in a Krusty the Clown voice for your "pint of Dewars, no ice!!" That is, if they even hear you at all. I hope your haunting has taken on a feverish pitch, rather than slowing down.

My pain over missing you has slowed down. I don't even usually feel guilty about that. You don't mind, right? No, I didn't think so. Despite all the crap you gave me, and everyone else, I know you cared about me. Chris even said you were in love with me. I think he was just stinging after I rejected his offer to take me to your funeral. He had never offered to be there for me like that before, but it was already too late, and the idea of how pissed you would've been to see him there drove that home like nothing else could have. I'm sure you're glad I told him that. His response was that he was surprised to know that you didn't like him. When I pointed out that you knew most of the things that he had done during our relationship, he said, "Ahhh, it all makes sense now. I saw the way he looked at you when you weren't looking, but now I know he was in love with you." It has never occurred to me before now that he wasn't being honest. I guess it doesn't matter either way though, does it? I liked the idea of you knowing I'd turned him down because you disliked the way he treated me. I wish I'd done it while you were alive.

Anyway, I'm freezing and rambling and losing my train of thought, sure signs of sobriety. I hope you're drinking with impunity and enjoying the show.

perv

Linking up for Trifextraagain. Warning:: All I saw in the picture was raunch, pure and simple. I swear it's the missing pants. I've toned it down as much as I possibly could, but really, I spent too much time in fraternity houses and bars, so if you're easily offended or grossed out by inappropriate sexuality, just skip it. :)








Well, I don't really care how exactly you uh, ... fit. Please don't ever call me in here again unless you are wearing pants or I'm moving. The rent's not cheap enough for that.

Boiled Down

I could spend a lifetime retelling my lifetime. Many words could be used to utter meaning into grievances, passions and actions. I could simplify and save time by merely muttering the word "fool".

Trifectagain. Word of the week is "fool".