Boo and Hoo

I don’t believe I was anyone recognizable in a past life … but I’m fairly certain I have some serious romantic karma in the debit column that I’m carrying over into this life.  In fact, I must have been a tremendous jerk … it’s the only thing that makes any logical sense.  How else to explain that if I’m drawn to and attracted and fall for someone … which is infrequent … it invariably means they are unavailable.

Also, timing.
Mine is the worst.
If I had a dime for every time I’m convinced that a love-of-my-life person was passing in the subway car going in the opposite direction … or leaving someplace I was entering … or passing on the street/in a car/walking … I would have dozens of dimes.

I thought I was over all this … and I’m not.
A new disappointment added to the familiar disappointment with which I’m so familiar.



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I Keep Forgetting to Remember

Reminder:  Everyone is where/who/how they need to be right now.

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Sundays are my favorite.
I was born on a Sunday.
It’s the only day of the week when you’re supposed to relax … when it’s okay to just do whatever it is you wish, sans guilt.  Rather imbalanced if you ask me, six days when you’re supposed to work work work and just the one day to be lazy.

What’s lazy look like for me?
Doing whatever I wish in the moment.
I love the routines of a Sunday … the structure of the non-structure of it … ideally it involves a full pot of strong coffee, half&half, NYT, local rag paper, music I don’t seem to listen to any other day of the week, cooking something that smells delicious and will yield several meals, thinking.  “Daydreaming” … there’s even a judgmental connotation to that … and it’s something I do mostly all day every day, but Sunday is the only day it feels alright.  How silly.  How ridiculous.  It’s how I’m wired … it’s what I need to gestate creativity … I’m hurting no one … why on earth should that be shameful?

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Call Me Ishmael, Maybe.

My favorite people wait to get a sense of a creature they are entrusted to name before attaching one … your favorite boy name may be Barclay … but your 32-hour-old infant is, sadly, just not a Barclay.  He’s Fred.  The beagle mix you rescued is called Pritchett, but you will rescue her from that as well.

I’ve not had the privilege of being entrusted with such a grave responsibility for quite a while, save for a series of short-lived Bettas.  That makes me sad.  It’s something I want to change.

Names are important.
I’m not fond of my name … but I’ve not given much thought to what I am, name-wise.  Are we are given names whether we like them or not?  Whether we feel them or not?

What’s the last name you bestowed?  …   Do you like your name?

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Be the Best Damned Plumber

I wonder what would happen if we stopped lying to ourselves and our children.

We cannot be whatever we want. If you’re reading this and haven’t quite gotten around to being an Olympic gymnast or a a cowboy, it probably ain’t gonna happen.

We cannot have whatever we want if we work hard. Lottery of birth, luck, abilities, and a bunch of other things you cannot control or take credit for or blame have as much to do with fortune as anything else. Everyone thinks they work hard.

I think the best we can hope for is being our best self.
Do what lights you up, whether you get paid for it or not.
Create. Love. Be kind.

Be whatever it is you are.
That’s all that’s required of you.

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My Love Note to You

If I had a pot to piss in, I would gladly share that pot with you.

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Maybe it’s the breakfast wine talking, but I am feeling more content and … dare I say happy right now than I have in, perhaps ever?

Today marks the three-year anniversary that I moved into this rental house and last night was the very first time I took an evening shower without mysteriously igniting a sewer smell. It was the first time that the heating/AC unit has kicked on without the intermittent smell of sewer. That is 1,095 days and nights that I’ve lived with that … and the past year-and-a-half been living as a recluse … so that’s a lot of sewer smell. Oh, dear reader, how that has weighed on me … shame/defeat/powerlessness … that’s a pretty awful smell. Gone gone gone.

Since last December I’ve been on a path … and it’s feeling, well, wonderful.

It’s never just “the sewer smell” (although heaven knows that’s enough, really) … it’s the giant clog of shit that it represents … and how to make it stop.

I hope you’re able to identify … remedy … heal … and learn from your clogs.
We’re all of us circling the drain.


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