Old!

That moment when you realize the book you bought is twenty years old... 

Get off my lawn! Ha!

Oh, Darlin'

Last night my great aunt Gladys died. She was in her 90s. She lived a good life. I hope she is hugging the shit outta her husband, my uncle Vince, and her daughter, my godmother Pat. 

Ah, life. You're a dick sometimes, but I'm glad you gave me the time you did. 

"I love you a bushel and a peck..."

Spring Razing

Hey, guy-who-judged-me -- your opinion doesn't matter anymore.

Psst, guy-who-never-talked-or-loved -- you're outta here too, go on with yer life. 

Yo, me -- you fucked up, they fucked up...it doesn't matter anymore. We all fuck up. 

I'm imagining that forgiveness would erase fear, but I'm not sure. If I let the First Beater off the hook won't I still be terrified when I see his lumbering hulk? "To err is human, to forgive is divine"

is a hard pill to take, mainly because I cannot find the fucking pill which I would gladly ingest if I could just stop reliving the traumas, jebus fnargling crust amen. 

It was easy to forgive Riot; he made real efforts to heal our relationship (and himself, in some ways) even after the divorce was final, and is to this day a good part of my life. Deevis is still unforgiven, but he is also blocked from contacting me, so that's sorted. The two knuckleheads mentioned at the post's beginning are back in one another's devious arms and out of my life. 

The ones I cannot seem to forgive (and this makes sense,) are the relatives; the men who royally fucked up and fucked me up in the process and who are FUCKING RELATED TO ME. I mean...if you can't trust family, you're fucked. In my world, at least. Although heyo! two of my family members used their members against me, so what do I know of family? 

I know the women I come from kick ass and take no shit. 

I know my lady friends - the real, stick-by-ya friends - are family and also kick ass/take no shit. 

I know my great-grandmother let no man push her around or control her, and I hope she forgives me for being weak at times. I hope she's proud of my strength. 

So. Do I return the call? Do I engage once more in conversation with the pater? Do I let him hear my voice, which he said he missed in his message? 

Still thinking. 

Always thinking. 

It's the Loneliness.

That's what gets me. Sitting in a room with or without others, my me screams out for contact! conversation! connection! 

Too shy. Too this. Too that. Too me.