What is my excuse? Who shall I blame?
Facebook? Netflix? Illness? Boyfriend? Thieves?
Well, yes, the thieves started it. You see, a year or so ago, during a hot and heavy season of writing, thieves broke into my house, stole my computer, and took with them 2 years of writing. Damn broke my heart and I just could NOT mend.
Then I got sick. Real sick. Sick with a disease that inflames one of my internal organs. Internal organs aflame is no good. No good. So, sickness led me to bed, which led me to boredom, which led me to netflix streaming and facebook stalking.
The streaming took me into worlds I’d never known. Serial Killers with babies, Texas High School Football, 1950’s New York. It was fabulous. I made many friends and grew fatter with each passing day.
Then the facebook stalking. Stalking. Stalking. Stalking. No good, that stalking. Why, I ask, must all of my exes have babies? Why? Babies, and wives, and stupidly cute houses. Why? Would I know about their lives if there was no facebook? Perhaps, BUT, and i say BUT, would i have to SEEEEEE them? No, the answer is no. NO! I would not have to see their babies, or their houses, or their stupid holiday family greeting card. And, since we’re on this diatribe, what about all the stalking I’ve done on people I don’t even know, or barely know, or don’t want to know anymore!! Facebook envy is killing my soul.
I should move on, but really, I feel this next story truly drives the story home….
Facebook stalking put me in contact with my second grade crush. I believed we were made for each other. We sat next to each other in class each day, and when I developed that speech problem (some people, as in teachers, didn’t think it was all that cute that I couldn’t say the words: Girl, World, or Wolf) and was moved to a different class, as in, the bungalows in the back (p.s. why must the stupid kids be put in bungalows? It’s bad enough we’re stupid), my 2nd grade crush would stand atop a dirt mound and wait for me every recess. One night, years later, while drinking too much jack daniels in a dive bar, I told my date that there were only two men I’d ever loved — my high school sweetheart and my second grade crush. I know. Drunk girls are so stupid. Put them in the bungalows!
BUT, during one, long, drawn out period of men-less-ness, I decided to FIND that 2nd grade crush and tell him once and for all that I was the GIRL for his WORLD (see how I did that?). So, through a friend of a friend’s page, I found HIM. HIM. My first true love. My WOLF. His page was set to private, but I giddily asked to be his friend and he agreed! This was it! Finally! Love would be mine! We would have the best story EVER. EVER!
EXCEPT, he was gay. Yep, gay, gay, gay. GAY. FACEBOOK! GAY!
And to think, I could have dreamed of “US” forever. I could have always believed HE was out there, my lone WOLF, searching for me among a bunch of stupid, drunk sheep!
But NAY, Facebook ruined all that by forcing me to see him in leather vests on a cruise trips with the boys!
What was the point of this rant – ah, yes, why am I not writing?
Well, then, of course, I fell in love. Fell in love. What does that mean? like a fall– because it is unexpected, and surprising, and painful. You tumble into love. Tumbling and falling are never easy or without pain, yes? And love, I’m learning again, and again, the real kind that requires self-sacrifice, and vulnerability, and surrender, is indeed a painful tumbling. You bang against jagged rocks, rolling without control, experiencing simultaneously the weightlessness, the wind streaming through your fingers, the drop of your heart to your stomach and back again, and hopefully, in the end, you don’t land, but rather melt into an endless body of water.
But rewind, way before the pain, and I remember him, this man. The way he sat in his chair — always leaning back, one leg bent, with foot resting on the other knee, and a baseball cap, and new shoes, and black t-shirts, and that facial hair that he rubbed to think. I said of him, before he was part of me, that I hoped and dreamed that I could be with such a man one day. Such a man. I take two steps back and I see him. This man. I like to watch him read. A reading man. And if I ever start singing a song, he joins me. And in the morning, when we sit to watch the sun, he brings me coffee with cream and sugar, while his is black. This black coffee drinking man. An Irish man. A freckled man, with Green eyes, and Black hair. I remember him, how he made me laugh, and does still. Witty man. I wish that I could make it so he always felt light inside. I mean weightlessness. OR maybe the other as well. That his insides would always be illuminated, filled with radiance. Weightless radiance, please. Yes, I would like to bestow upon him, with my wishing powers, a weightless, radiant soul. Could that be my gift, please? Please. He deserves it. Both the Universe (big Universe, as in GOD) and I know. He deserves a deep, satisfying rest. A plunge into the great cold open waters. He deserves more than I’ll ever be able to say. That man.
So, I have many excuses to not write, but I hate myself for it. And I can’t make any lying promises that THIS IS IT, I WON”T EAT UNTIL I WRITE A BOOK. Because we all know how I feel about food and that I can be quit the quitter and so a promise like that would just be a disgrace to everyone involved.
Truth. I write tonight. I would like to write again. And I should. Because being here, with only my words, was a much better comfort to me, than facebook stalking former roommate’s sister-in-law’s baby cousin’s first birthday. Why do I need to envy people I’ve never even met? There’s so many people to envy that I HAVE met.
Goodnight, my lovelies.