Twenty Eight : A Title That Shall Be Avoided

It’s been a busy month; work, Squid, drinking (socially, not alone) – the month slipped quickly by me. Somewhere in the blur of the last two weeks I wrote this… Eventually I’ll get caught up with myself.

 

Get out of my fucking head. Post haste. I demand it.

It’s been over a solid month since I thought or uttered sentences structured around you and the lack of you in my life. But today I stumbled.

I stumbled and I must have been jumped by the thought of you, shoving a knife in my face – your wallet, give me your fucking wallet, man.

But I have faith in my ability to shut you back out. This is not the first time I’ve relapsed into love with you. You are not the first woman, neh, girl – for if you were a real woman, you would have stuck around to make a man out of me – to leave, to jump, to take my wallet and step back into the dark. You will not be the last, I can only assume, but thus far you have hurt the most.

Congratulations on that.

I still have your box of abandoned things. I refer to it as “the box of Grace’s shit” – mostly to give the impression that I am no longer sad about our sudden dissolution . The contents of your box of shit is something I can scarcely recall, fearing that cataloging its insides, studying it’s liver and kidney and heart, would somehow open a Pandora’s box of loneliness and despair. The sight of the thing makes my flesh cold and my hair stand on end. I’ve been tempted to burn it for it’s crimes of black magic against my soul, or toss it into a large body of water and watch it sink, irretrievable by someone like me. Someone who can’t swim. Though on the other hand, part of me holds out for hope, that I should keep the box in case we ever do cross paths again in some way, or if all else fails, hand it off to Cook or some other mutual friend/acquaintance, wipe my hands of it and say “this concerns me no longer”. I believe in the end I’ll settle on that idea.

This is good, this is helping. I’m easing back into a soft lull, the panic no longer building in my chest as my skull fragments and breaks apart, my head expanding like a balloon, cherry Koolaid water pouring from my eyes, nose, and ears, mouth agape as I gasp for air. Breath in, breath out – my chest loosens, no longer feeling like my skin was shrinking, forcing my ribs to close in around my lungs.

Either way, I’ll admit it one more time, just to get it out of my system.

I miss you Grace.

I can spend all day talking about the things about you that drove me out of my mind, but I have to be honest – I could have lived with those things forever, they were endearing, personal. They made you seem as human and flawed as I am.

I hope you’re doing well though, happy and fortunate and lucky.

All my love.

Twenty Seven : Second Thought Sunday

Something has to change. I remember these words as I wake from my greedy slumber, the dream forgotten but the meaning fresh as the words repeat again in my mind. Something has to change. I sit up and adjust my boxers with one hand while I pull Squid parallel to me under the blanket, on her back, and scratch her chest and belly. I reach for my cell phone and stop half an extended arm short, the second thought hitting me. It’s Sunday, do I really need to look at the time? Second thought Sunday. It’s seven thirty in the morning.

Squid crawls over the top of me and oozes from under the ocean of blankets onto the floor into a stretch, her back paws hooked onto the bed, the rest of her extended as far as she can possibly make herself go. I imitate the motion and my back pops from brain to ass and I collapse onto the floor, giggling like a child. Crawling to my feet I realize I’m still smiling and can’t figure out why for the life of me as I slide yesterdays pants back on and throw on a fresh shirt.

I fly down the stairs in my usual edge of the step on tip toes way and stop two steps from the first floor, my toes dug into carpet, balancing on the edge, and let Squid scream past me and slide through the turn toward the kitchen on the wood floor to stop abruptly between the sliding glass door and the large turkey frier pot that serves as her food bowl.

With Squid fed I turn my attention to setting water to boil and rolling a cigarette, which happens just in time to spin around and walk outside, Squid squeezing between my leg and the frame of the sliding glass door. She does her business and I let her back in, choosing to stay outside. I look above the roof and power line horizon toward trees and sky. Gray, foggy, and wet. Rain drizzling down in that slowly and steady Oregon way, the weather knowing it has all year to thoroughly soak every inch of the western third of the state – tip to tip. I set the cigarette down on a concrete slab on the patio and step inside to make my tea.

I agitate the bag in the hot water to steep it faster. I know this is some kind of heresy, but I don’t really care, I just want my caffeine. I snag the cigarette and let the words stew in my brain. Something has to change. Aren’t things always changing? Isn’t that life? I’m worrying about nothing for all the right reasons.

Maybe it’s the little things: the cigarettes and pot, the alcohol, the lack of exercise, the video games. Wait, shit – that’s my entire lifestyle. Is my lifestyle the something that needs to change? Do I need to become an entirely different person to catch up all the years I feel I lost in my twenties. Did I actually lose years in my twenties? Did everything that happen, all the loss, happen to lead me to this point? To this lifestyle? Is this how I should be living my life? Or am I being constantly drawn to this junction? Something has to change. Something.

Second thought Sunday – where to begin…