Month: November 2015

Tonight, I had dinner with a friend from all the way back in middle school.  But not like, “he’s my bestfriend” way back, more like, “oh shit, we’ve kinda known each other a long ass time!” way back, while I’m railing white lines off his dresser in my panties, and he’s putting clothes on for breakfast.

The guy that pays for your meal but only so that he doesn’t feel bad using the words blowjob or anal at the dinner table.

The guy that you call when the tool from the bar ends up throwing up.  The guy who’s house you can show up at in last night’s jeans and a hangover, purely because you don’t wanna be in bed by yourself all day.
Or maybe you just feel like being a trap queen that day.

Not a guy in the friend zone, but definitely not boyfriend material.  The guy that says gross shit to you but also pretends to be your big scary boyfriend when other guys say gross shit to you.  The guy that tells you that your hair smells really good, right after he tangles it up by shaking his hand through it.

A pair so comfortable, you sometimes take a second to look at him sideways and wonder… but quickly shake it off with a laugh

Nah. Better not!

Family shouldn’t care who makes the most money, or who has the biggest house.   Family shouldn’t care who has the smartest kids or the happiest marriage.  Family isn’t about those things, because family is about being the shoulder to cry on, being the words to trust, being the smile that’s looked forward to.  I can’t understand why for few it’s become a competition, or a name-calling war zone.  There’s plenty of shitty people in the world… one hopes family would be the one group of souls to count on. You should trust that your family wouldn’t pass judgement, or ill words upon you.  Family should be your safe zone.  I can’t understand how it’s become so hateful for few.  It physically disgusts me the way some people can freely talk so poorly of their own blood.

Simply because one voice is the loudest, does not make it unanimous.
Simply because few refuse to argue you, does not mean you’re right.

Least of all, if you don’t have anything truthful to say,
do everyone around you the favor to sit down, and shut up.

After finishing my first “diary” entry at 7 years old I remember sitting back and staring at the scribbled-on page.  I read what I wrote and tied a rubberband on it and shoved it into the back of my desk drawer.  I  did this my whole life.

When it came up that I enjoy writing, it was always the same question, “Can I read some?” So I was always more inclined to lie, and instead deny one of the biggest parts of me.  My writing’s are a direct line to my brain.  An explanation of the twists and turns of my mind, and to have them outside my head scared the shit out of me.  My literary offspring on it’s own?  Being passed judgement without my paternal rights to defend it?  Fuck no dude.  What if it’s misunderstood? 

What you love to do most  is a strange thing to fear.  Looping letters and crossing lines into something real, something I can hold, something I can fold up and tell someone else without saying anything at all.  Something to tell others who I am when no one else is there.

The tough part of being a free spirit is being misunderstood- by just about everyone.  They don’t understand why you have such a hard time staying in one place.  Or why you’d rather switch up your job regularly than feel unfulfilled.  They don’t understand why you’re constantly changing your hair color or your address or why you’re always somewhere in the mountains without cell service.

No no no, you can’t look through my notebooks, you can’t shuffle through the top drawer of my art table and you sure as fuck can’t read my blog.

Twas a household so filled with furniture and such huge, purposeless items, you felt as an intruder to the walls- just for breathing in what little oxygen was able to find dwelling in their small empty spaces.  A household in which the dogs were the worst behaved you’d ever encountered, and God forbid you tell any one of them, “for Christ’s sake just please stay down”, for you put yourself at risk of being overtly scrutinized by a tween with a condescending tone and a stink eye, “Do you even like pets?”

Don’t get me wrong, I love spending holidays at my dad’s.  As much as one can love spending time pretending to appreciate that their childhood was stolen when they were 12 and cashed in for a New Wife/New Life, 50% off if you ACT NOW.

Twas a household so filled with furniture and such huge, purposeless items, you felt as an intruder to the walls- just for breathing in what little oxygen was able to find dwelling in their small empty spaces.  A household in which the dogs were the worst behaved you’d ever encountered, and God forbid you tell any one of them, “for Christ’s sake just please stay down”, for you put yourself at risk of being overtly scrutinized by a tween with a condescending tone and a stink eye, “Do you even like pets?”

Don’t get me wrong, I love spending holidays at my dad’s.  As much as one can love spending time pretending to appreciate that their childhood was stolen when they were 12 and cashed in for a New Wife/New Life, 50% off if you ACT NOW.

My Dad started planning his second marriage before his first one was over, which obviously made for a sloppy transition and a lot of unanswered questions.  He spent Christmas Eve as himself, then left shortly after, explained that his new girlfriend “wouldn’t understand” why he was with his family for the holidays.  As if she were the child, and my brother and I were the adults left alone on Christmas because we’d chosen to interrupt someone else’s life.
We all make our own choices; the consequences too, are none but our own.

So here I am, surrounded by my aunts at the dinner table. I’m staring at my beer glass. Year after year of the same bullshit. You realize it doesn’t even matter if you act interested or not, the show must go on.  My aunts, bless their souls, are alert.  Ears perked, eyes focused.  One of them is really good at pretending, because I occasionally feel her eyes on me, waiting to exchange and exhausted look. I push my beer glass towards her, and she drinks a few sips before pushing it back. I lift my eyes to share a smirk. For 12 years we’ve been listening to the Cheri Show.  Listening to my dad’s wife talk about her thoughts and feelings- mostly on the topic of functions of our extended family.  What she doesn’t like, and what she doesn’t like even more than that.  Sometimes personal anecdotes.

Once on the 4th of July, she brought up the time in high school that my aunt’s boyfriend killed himself because he was gay.  My aunt had left the table to dry her watery eyes.
“What?” my dad’s wife sips her margarita, “it happened.”

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