April 21, 2014
According to some one guy who used to pour vodka (ok, I do not really remember what kinda booze for fuch skae, I am an addict not a boring boozer!). I felt happy at least I looked like someone on TV. I am going to pretend this TV ad lady is super adorable and leave it at that. LAter, my son told me his buddy thinks I look like TIFFANY from the eighties. Ok, that, not so secretly, made my night.
M. said he enjoyed his commute to work. Listening tot he radio. Kickin'back and Drinkin' Diet Cokes. Made the ride fast, easy, happy. It killed me. It kiled me in such a good, clean, simple way. It was is like is Steve Buschemi were in your living room and you had to act normal about it.
The pilot who I wrongly thought was a creepy womanizer, though a fan of Mittens, always helps me when he talks. Plus I want to be like his wife when I grow up (her Catholic pro life craziness aside).
The mark inside is killing me. Being in this liminal gray world. Everything is a boring nightmare. The weight of M's illness real and imagined. Being alone with worrying about E.
Will I ever go near that island of "It's all God's will " again? Do I want to? People in hell wanna glass of water. If the Kool Aid ain't really poisonous, I should prolly just drink it.
Worried about the boy's upcoming trip. I always remember my mom telling me (when he was about 6 and I still homeschooled), "You've got to let him go, Honey." I need to let him go. Loving aboy like him. It i slike my whole entire body is a briuse.
And then William Burroughs (the guy I tihnk of as Burroughs b/c he is cool and a fucking spritual genious, or maybe I just have a lame crush on him like Mack says) was there. In face, I prayed he'd be there. He wasn't. And then he was. He reminds me that we are all just walking each other home. And I hope, like Ernest Hebert reminds us in his slightly well written rural NH dramas, this is what we're all really here to do anyway.
The cat loves me the best now. Thank God for the little things. And I have been trying to read again. Nothing smart or intense yet, save for some poetry by Heather Christl. The Interestings by Meg Wolitzer. But I only stopped once to write this entry. So there.
I ant back in, I ithnk. I've even been praying for it. And to me, prayer is such a last resort. I want to be here now. Please realize I know how lame "recovery blogs" are. Fuck them all. But I just ant the ability to love literary smart stuff back again. And also the whole entire sky.
P.S. I am not really so sober these days. I am letting this little truth out of my bag slowly, but surely. I am not a batshit mess, but I could easily become this way.
