On Two Years

It’s been two years since I first walked into her office, with the smiling, professional side of me fully engaged and (so I hoped) masking the severity of the problems. I waited agreeably in the waiting room, making good eye contact with the receptionist, smiling, holding myself with proper posture, and radiating sweetness—if only as a defense mechanism. I was nineteen, and scared half out of my mind.

The door was borderline-flung open, and my new therapist entered the waiting room with about as much speed. She leaned back on the door slightly, looking somewhat breathless as she smiled and called my name. And so it began.

No other mental health professional had been able to keep me in their office beyond a few months. Nobody else had fit. Nobody else had been able to elicit a knee-jerk reaction to the question of past sexual abuse from the very first meeting … and certainly, nobody else had respected and cared about me enough to say, “You know what, let’s back up. We don’t need to talk about this right now. Not until you’re ready. And if you’re ready with someone other than me, that’s okay too. I’m just going to follow your lead on this one.”

No one else dared “joke” about my food issues with me during the evaluation, taking note of and ultimately engaging in my sense of self-deprecating humor. Frankly, I was thrilled that she did. Thrilled.

And seriously, two years into this stuff, the Psych Spectacular deserves a medal. Not just for standing beside me while I grappled with every demon I could possibly summon from my past, every darkest detail from childhood that I could throw at her. (And trust me, I found the oddest ways to reach her—when words wouldn’t come, I snail-mailed letters … and then relied on the safety of emails … and then cited lyrics. And she accepted them all, without fail). But no, not just for that.

But for creating an unfailingly safe place for me, even when it meant taking me with her after she left the center at which we originally began. For proving to me that caring about someone does not equal being taken advantage of. For showing me that hugs are not dangerous or things to be punished over (this in particular, is huge. Huge). For letting me know that coming into session and talking about dog rescue and my latest taste in music is just as important and just as “okay,” therapeutically speaking, as talking about the tough stuff. For reiterating time and time again that it was not my fault and I’m not some twisted, perverted freak of nature because of what happened to me. For respecting me so much that when she messed up and told a little white lie (as she is, after all, only human … damn it) and I caught her in it, she gave me the option to walk away from her if I wanted. She had apologized, explained why she did what she did, and acknowledged a thousand times over that it was wrong, as I paced the side yard outside and tried to sort it all out … but when I needed a few weeks to myself to deal with what had happened and all of the flashbacky bullshit that it stirred up in me, she told me it was okay to leave.

And for showing me that “the water is fine, come on in,” with her own openness and self-disclosure.

Guys, seriously, she is one of those once-in-a-lifetime psychs that you know you’d keep seeing even if all of your so-called demons had been worked out. Just because you want her on your side while you deal with this thing called “life.”

I realized recently that nothing – truly, nothing with a capital N – is off limits in session. It is actually quite an amazing realization. And when she starts a sentence with a grin and, “Don’t put this on your blog, okay?” … well, I know I’m exactly where I belong.

She’s one of only three or four people that I know in the real world who knows exactly how bad things were as a child. She is also one of the precious few people I know in real life who have the URL to this blog. And after poking around it once (or twice, I don’t know … nor do I really care), she demonstrated her commitment to being foremost a therapist and second an ally, by telling me she felt it blurred the lines too much for her to read here, so she’d let it alone. Whether or not she still does is not of my concern; I don’t post that which I won’t later stand behind. But that she would know herself that well and hold such a dedication to our work to recognize what might ultimately complicate it spoke worlds to me. Worlds.

Tonight, we set off her alarm when we opened the front door, and though I almost offered to go back outside while she spoke to the security company, she didn’t hesitate to offer up that word while I sat on the other end of the couch. Granted, I knew it’d never leave my mouth, but that she trusted that it wouldn’t? Wow. Okay, then. And later, she took a page from my book and used dog rescue analogies to get through to me when I had shut her out and lapsed into feelings of failing and worthlessness over the whole stupid school situation.

Point is, she gets me. And she gets how to get to me, even when she may well think she’s not getting anywhere at all. I’ve used dog analogies to explain myself since almost the beginning, likening myself to a feral or comparing myself to a particular rescue case I had worked with previously when I couldn’t otherwise find the “human” equivalent to explain. And the fact that she took a chance and turned my own way of thinking on me tonight was huge. And for my defensive little self, it also worked—flawlessly.

It’s funny but earlier, I reread my journal entry from the day I met her and I still giggle at the bits of conversation that I wrote down then. Because really? It hasn’t changed. At all.

It still fits.

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Of setbacks, meltdowns, and running away (plus the Brindle Bro’s)

Earlier this week, feeling settled enough emotionally, I opted to pick up a half-term class and at least get another credit or two under my belt. I don’t do well with the condensed semesters as a rule, but if it’s just one class, especially while my work schedule is light, I think it will ease me back into academia easily enough. Since half-term classes require an advisor’s approval for registration, I went into the student affairs center and did the usual shuffle from station to station until the faculty figured out where exactly I was supposed to be and then herded me into a conference room to wait for the next available warm body.

After a seemingly interminable wait, a young, stylishly dressed woman led me into her office, which was decorated with pictures of her dogs. Oh, but of course. Soft-spoken and yet surprisingly skilled at the small-talk business, she registered me for the class in about thirty seconds and then sighed. “Ohhhhh, hon. You’ve got a whole bunch of holds on your account.”

She hesitated, obviously reluctant to explain. And when she did, my previously good mood crashed. Since I was never actually given a high school education, despite my parents’ proclamation of home schooling, it seems that I have a year’s worth of added classes that I have to take before graduation, thus turning my “two-years-for-a-two-year-degree” plan into a “three-years-for-a-two-year-degree” reality check.

The school work itself isn’t the problem. It’s more that I was mentally prepared to graduate next year and transfer to a university, thus getting the hell out of dodge and its flooding dungeon of horrors. Up until now, I’ve consoled myself with “one more year, one more year” … and now it’s like I’m starting all over again. “You were in the home stretch, you could see the way out,” sympathized a friend. “Of course you’re upset.”

And I was. I was bummed. And then I got pissed. Pissed at the school for waiting until I was year into my studies to tell me about the extra requirements, when I could have been spreading them out over the two years had I known. Pissed at my parents and their stupid, maladjusted parenting skills. Pissed at Georgia’s lax home schooling laws that amount to jack shit, and pissed at my parents for removing me from a well-respected school system only to not educate me at all. Pissed that I’ve had to be the one to pick up all the pieces all along. Tired of being the resilient one, my own parent, my own educator, my own everything.

My bestie called as I was curled up in a ball of rage on my bed, contemplating my next move, which might well have simply been to roll over and take a nap. There might or might not have been talk of beating people with tire irons while singing Gloria Gaynor at the top of our lungs. Pretty typical conversation, really. In the end, she picked me up and I overnighted my unhappy butt on her farm in the boonies.

The night was spent cackling over the new TFLN book, wreaking havoc on this thing known as Facebook, feeding her horses at 1am whilst falling down laughing (and totally sober, no less), and watching several god-awful reality series on E! well into the morning. And it? Was awesome.

I’ve simmered down to a low-grade sense of being bummed out and vaguely irritated. It’ll do. Meanwhiles, the boys were excited to be around horses again, and were happy to demonstrate for everyone just how difficult it is to get a good shot of the two of them together.

Guarding the arena ... or just being sad in their down-stays.

The trouble with mastiffs ... blech. Towel, please?

An outtake just too typical to delete. The goofball simply cannot give me a serious photo.

Napoleon does not approve of Louis' shenanigans ruining the shot.

So Napoleon gets his revenge ... Louis looks crushed.

Ah, success. Finally!

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Photo Interlude

Heart-shaped nose ...

Heart-shaped nose ...

It was a grey kinda day.

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Love Harder

Love Harder

I woke up this morning to a Google Reader overwhelmed by a single message: Love Harder.

And while a smile here and a hug there, or letting someone ahead of me in traffic and helping someone’s grandmother at the grocery store all have absolutely nothing to do with cancer, “love harder” was still a fitting message to rise to this morning, as I’ve made a quiet point of integrating the attitude into my daily life lately. Apparently, when I’m barely working and not eyeballs deep in schoolwork, I like to get back to basics and concentrate on radiating love (it would be cheesy if it weren’t Belle Renee’s blog post—so click the blasted link already). Who knew?

Anywho. Most of the blogosphere knows who Brandy is. Personally, I read a hell of a lot more than I ever comment over there, and honestly, I don’t know her, aside from the parts of herself that she shares with us via her blog. She’s not on my Gchat list, nor is her email address saved to my contacts list. I don’t even think I have her on my blogroll (which is a total problem, if that’s the case … I should go check on that, actually). So I feel more like I’m jumping on a bandwagon than showing any sort of support for someone I care about; I never even posted her original plea because it seemed like it just wasn’t my place, as a relative stranger. But regardless, the bottom line is that I hold a lot of admiration and respect for the woman, and if this is all I can do, then, dammit, I’m doing it.

Besides, I think everyone—wherever they are, whatever they’re wrestling with in their personal lives—can afford to love harder. So read it, do what you can to make a difference, and take the message home with you tonight.

Love harder. Life’s too short not to.

Our Plea

Our friend Brandy is a brilliant writer, a wonderful teacher, and a generous friend.  And she is in love with a man who has just been diagnosed with multiple myeloma.

We are raising money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Fund in his name.  For the price of a cinnamon dolce latte, half-caf, hold the whip, you can be part of an effort to cure a disease that affects approximately 750,000 people worldwide.

http://www.loveharder.org

Every dollar brings us a dollar closer to a cure.  And every donation brings a sliver of hope to a girl who needs all the hope she can get.

What You Can Do

  • Give. Be part of a worldwide effort to cure a disease that affects approximately 750,000 people worldwide.  Every dollar helps.
  • Pass it on. Forward this story to five people.  Share this blog post.  Become our fan on Facebook.
  • Love harder. Life is short, love is unbending, and no one knows what could happen next. Tell someone you love them today.

Where Your Money Goes

  • The American Institute of Philanthropy recently named The Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation one of the best organizations to give to in terms of their accountability and use of resources.
  • By working closely with researchers, clinicians and partners in the biotech and pharmaceutical industry, the MMRF has helped bring multiple myeloma patients four new treatments that are extending lives around the globe.
  • The MMRF has advanced twenty Phase I and Phase II clinical trials. They need your support to advance these clinical research programs and accelerate the development of better, more effective treatments.
  • The MMRF’s Multiple Myeloma Genomics Initiative recently became the first to sequence the multiple myeloma whole genome in its entirety.
  • A whopping 98% of your donation to the MMRF will be used immediately to support high-priority multiple myeloma research.
  • With diminishing funding for early stage drug development and the next myeloma treatments not expected to be approved until 2011, the MMRF desperately needs your help.

Brandy’s Story can be found here

DONATE: http://www.loveharder.org
CONTACT: theloveharderfund@gmail.com
FACEBOOK: http://facebook.loveharder.org
MORE INFO: http://www.themmrf.org

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“The sun never looked so pretty … going down.”

I caught this when I opened the back door and as much as I wanted something remotely intelligent to accompany it, you know those moments when words just detract from the subject? Yeah, that. Contentment makes me mute … and falling into a late afternoon nap under these sunbeams really didn’t help. I’m sleepy-brained. It’s not a particularly stunning sunset—hell, it’s not even colorful—but the intensity of the light filtered through the trees struck me.

I’m spending the six weeks I would otherwise be using to rack up credit hours and fret over GPAs and deadlines to instead reconnect with the friends who rally behind me time and time again. To make time … for conversations over coffee, for the pursuit of live and local music, for mixing and mingling at events downtown, for wandering new parks in the company of good friends, cameras in hand.

I’m running the dogs on the agility courses at the dog park until we all fall into an exhausted, happy heap in the grass. I’m smiling in my car because the sunlight hit the back of a passing hawk just the right way, and melting because a gregarious little girl with a head full of brunette curls planted herself squarely in my path outside of a street-side shop and exclaimed, “Well, hello!” with the biggest, snaggle-toothiest smile I’ve ever seen. I’m singing all the damn time, much to the amusement and entertainment of both coworkers and random strangers alike.

And yet I’m not giddy or flying particularly high. I’m just lightened, relieved, and certain that this? This is precisely what I need to be doing right this moment. I think really, I’m just quietly satisfied and at ease.

I’m keeping tabs on my sleep, and I’m thumbing through the pages of long-lost friends, the ones with actual page numbers and binding and the rich smell of relaxed evenings and lazy mornings. I’m monitoring my (perpetually neglected) fluid intake, and I’m balancing the day’s menu … And I’m waking up smiling, which is entirely novel and strange.

I’m not just still alive, I’m living. And oh my God, there’s a difference.

(Title shamelessly yanked from No Blue Sky by The Thorns).

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And the one about the Brindle Brothers’ latest stunt

Someone explain this, please.

Can someone please, PLEASE explain to me what in the wide world of sports (hi, Dad and your favorite weird sayings) would possess an otherwise-sleeping adult dog to NOM three fucking keys off of my laptop’s keyboard (the one I just paid out the ass to have repaired) in the FIVE WHOLE MINUTES that it takes me to go upstairs and get a drink of water to bring back to the dungeon (… insert question mark here EXCEPT THAT I NO LONGER HAVE ONE). Oh wait, I can still do it with my finger, like this, see? Oooh, exciting. Living on the edge here, people.

Seriously though, dogs. You’re BOTH three years old and have known this laptop since I got it. I leave it out for five minute “run-upstairs-and-use-the-facilities” breaks ALL THE DAMN TIME. I mean, I get the demolishing of new or unusual items left out in your reach while I’m at work (that novelty just can’t wear off quickly enough for you, can it?). That’s totally on me, and I learned my lesson for that one REAL quickly. But this? THIS? What the fuck, dogs? You were BOTH asleep when I went upstairs!

Peroxide has been administered and we are now waiting to see who is the guilty party. Which sucks considering that I seriously need to make one of the aforementioned run-upstairs-to-use-the-facilities sprints, and since they got the damn keys off of my keyboard in as many minutes as it would take me to take care of THAT bit of business, I’m reluctant to leave them in the event that they puke and then re-ingest the bounty (as they so like to do) and thus defeat the whole purpose of the circus known as peroxiding two gigantic, guilty-faced dogs.

Though, considering that Napoleon was already in the corner when I came back into the room (just like in this picture after this traumatic event combined with this bit of fun to nearly kill whatever was left of my sanity), my bets are on his stomach being the one to return the stolen goods. Like I want them now, anyway. Gawd.

I seriously DO NOT understand these knuckleheaded gooftards. Really, what the fuck, guys? That was really, really weird, even for YOU.

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Yeah, what SHE said

I effing love it when I rediscover old favorites right when I need them. Hello, lyrical library to the rescue once again. In case there was any question, I am totally right here, right now. Exactly why is absolutely beyond me but if I were ever going to play off of the pit bull’s bad image and numbskull “locking jaw” wives’ tales, I would totally make some comparison to my whole refusing-to-let-go stubbornness and determination right about now. Which I kinda just did, so there ya have it, folks and funnybones. And said stubborness and determination are kinda springing up outta nowhere, but you know, I can’t say that I don’t like it.  We are (strike that, I am, as the dogs’ opinions don’t count for much outside of the toy aisle at Petco) picking up the pieces here, planning the next step, and cementing a way to get the hell outta dodge. And until that happens, mishaps and misjudgments aside, this sums me up curiously well.

Hand in My Pocket, Alanis Morissette

I’m broke but I’m happy
I’m poor but I’m kind
I’m short but I’m healthy, yeah
I’m high but I’m grounded
I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed
I’m lost but I’m hopeful, baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving a high five

I feel drunk but I’m sober
I’m young and I’m underpaid
I’m tired but I’m working, yeah
I care but I’m restless
I’m here but I’m really gone
I’m wrong and I’m sorry, baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be quite all right
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is flicking a cigarette

And what it all comes down to
Is that I haven’t got it all figured out just yet
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving the peace sign

I’m free but I’m focused
I’m green but I’m wise
I’m hard but I’m friendly, baby
I’m sad but I’m laughing
I’m brave but I’m chickenshit
I’m sick but I’m pretty, baby

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano
And what it all comes down to, my friends
Is that everything’s just fine, fine, fine
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxi cab

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The other F word, or “This is why: Pt II”

She’d been silent, he’d been angry. It was the day before semester would begin, and I knew the question was going to come up sooner or later. I had hoped it would be today, when I had more than just three hours of sleep preceding a thirteen-hour shift and six hours of driving on icy roads under my belt. But they’ve never been much for timing, so last night it was.

“What all did you sign up for this semester?”

It was a loaded question; she’d never given a damn before and she damn well knew the answer without needing to ask me. She had me cornered at my computer again, per her usual tactic, and the exaggerated innocence of her inquiry told me from the get-go that this couldn’t possibly end well. The conversation went as predictably wrong as could be imagined, and my fingers arced into claws of frustration over my computer keyboard as I measured my words, my tone, my pace. I told her the truth, which was “nothing.” I also told her why, but she was too busy berating me for laziness and apathy and reminding me of “the whole reason you moved home” to hear it.

I could see the gears grinding in her head as she contemplated the “consequences and ramifications” to be imposed due to my “misbehavior.”  Because in her mind, I’m still twelve years old and subject to simple disciplinary measures that will change my mind about “acting out.” She still believes that taking away my radio or locking me out of my email account will bend me into submission of her current idea of what’s right and necessary.

She chose not to probe for the details surrounding my decision—as I’m sure she damn well knew the answers to that one, too—and ignored my responses entirely, preferring to talk in meaningless circles rather than to allow words to accomplish something that is not, for once, destructive. She walked away a few minutes later in irritation, midway through my response to one of her questions. I figured that the conversation would continue in the morning, but I didn’t expect her to instead hand off will-wrestling duties to my father five minutes later.

He walked into the room with an ominous casualness and said simply that if there were late fees for registration, he needed me to register before midnight tonight … “On your mark, get set, go!” for College Conversations Gone Wrong, Take Two. I looked at my keyboard and told him, just as I had told my mother, that I’m not in a space to handle the pressure and deadlines, that I need to back off for a moment and deal with the more pressing parts of life right now. He went rigid at my perceived resistance, demanded reasons, and I opted for the plain, simple truth.

“Because I’ve tried for a year, and it’s damn near killed me. I can’t do it here and I’m afraid of what will happen if I put that kind of pressure on myself right now.”

His voice rose alongside his anger. “Well, I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I suggest you look closer to home before trying to project any problems on this household.” … Try the mirror, I finished dutifully in my head, knowing the rest of the sentence all too well, and I lowered my tone, my intensity, and my gaze to compensate for the heightened state of his.

Too tired to defend myself with any amount of anger, too disappointed in myself to even try to pretend to be okay, I rattled off every reason that I don’t belong in this house or in a classroom, all at his incessant prodding. He continued taking jabs, pushing the issue, and I finally gave up the last explanation I had.

“Because I have relapsed on every, single self-abusive tendency I could ever come up with, and created some new ones along the way. I wasn’t being dramatic when I said it’s damn near killed me, Dad. I … can’t … handle it right now. I just … can’t. I’m sorry.”

The “sorry” was less a weakened apology than it was simply a tear-stained regret, but I knew he wasn’t really listening, anyway. Sure enough, livid once again, he walked away before I’d finished speaking, and moments later, his bedroom door slammed overhead.

And the failure remains, as always, with me. If not here and at the cost of family image and expectation, it would have been in the classroom and at the cost of a semester’s tuition. Either way, they still – still - only see the failure. Dammit.

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THIS is why, dammit (warm fuzzies, look away, look away now)

So, a little spewing of brutally honest, livid lividness (yeah, I made it up, shuddup), just for fun (depending on your definition of the word).

You know when life is awesome?

It’s awesome when you quit your new fucking job after being called stupid and unfit to work with animals because your retard of a boss (SHOUT OUT, homeboy!) doesn’t bother to train you for any of the THREE positions into which he flings you on Day One and you decide that no amount of abuse taken to that degree is worth a FT paycheck (actually, you quit more because he’s going to fire you in a minute anyway because he’s an inept jackass, so you figure you might as well skedaddle and shake hands with him before you lose your cool and BITE HIS FUCKING HAND OFF INSTEAD). And THEN you get a cowardly text from your sister the next day telling you that you’re a “stupid bitch who would cause a lot less trouble” if you “hurried up and died already instead of just thinking about it all the damn time” (that is VERBATIM, folks), and your own dog takes the bottle of sedatives you keep OD’ing on and buries it for you in the backyard (thanks, Ivan, ‘preciate it, man). And you go the shelter because where ELSE the hell are you going to go, and you save a death-row Cane Corso mastiff because you’re the only one who understands why he’s being an asshole (because he’s protection-trained) and you’re the only one who speaks his language (which would be German), and when you share your great excitement with your mother because you’re STUPID enough to think she might GIVE A DAMN about your having gotten him another chance, SHE FUCKING HANGS UP on you after saying she hopes the pound kills “the damned thing” in front of you.

And it’s snowing and snow is supposed to be all pretty and happy and shit, and I really wanted to be excited about it, because I’ve wanted it since forever, but now it’s just pissing me off because Atlanta drivers can’t drive in the RAIN let alone, OH MY FUCKING GOD, SNOW!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!! so they’re all acting like glaucoma-riddled grannies with one glass eye a piece. AND also because the stupid floods of ’09 (nope, not done beating that dead horse yet) destroyed my winter coat, so I don’t have anything but a hoodie when I have to go out into Satan’s wretched whitewash so I’m FUCKING COLD as FUCKING SHIT.

And the Psych Spectacular completely, devastatingly misunderstood the last text I sent her because I fucking SUCK at asking for help, so I scratched that little option too and now have a 120 lb Presa laying ON TOP of me refusing to let me get up, which is nice of him to play psych ward attendant and all, but you know … I still think I should be holding my own, without him OR the PS. Because I hate needing and I hate not standing on my own two fucked up feet even more.

So this, THIS is why I’m already cursing 2010. THIS is why I haven’t posted in a minute. THIS is why I have 122 posts in my reader and I’m NOT FUCKING TOUCHING THEM UNTIL I CAN STOP CUSSING. This is why I can’t handle school right this very semester and have thus handed my folks more ammunition for, “Yeah, well, if any one of you wouldn’t be able to hack it, it WOULD have been you, wouldn’t it?” To which I want to point to their DFACS record and ask if maybe they think the two are quite possibly related, but I like to pick my battles so I just shut up and go back to the bat cave and text the PS and make life worse for myself.

So this, THIS is why … I don’t even know why. It just is why. And it’s going to be why for a minute.

(The lack of FT jobbery, by the way, means I’m STILL stuck in the GODFORSAKEN BASEMENT, which was my itsy-bitsy glimmer of hope and the whole reason I was willing to sit out Sir Jackass’s abuse in exchange for a decent paycheck. The fucking basement, where the water heater blew and flooded the place AGAIN, and the degenerates who dare call themselves my parents IGNORED IT FOR FOUR DAYS after I pointed out that I was splashing around my bedroom again. WTF, mate? You know, a friend is building a barn for her horses and I am seriously, SERIOUSLY, two steps from moving into a stall and living like the fucking baby Jesus for a few. It would be bigger – and warmer – than this bullshit.

In the meantime, in the face of such livid angrypants-esque spewing, please meet Sir Broderick, because he’s the only thing that made me not just smile, but actually burst into giggles today. They promised not to put him down until I get him into foster care, now that they know he’s not some Cujo-monster from hell. So Happy New Year, Mr. Brody. At least someone’s benefiting from the dysfunction – I get it, you looney Schutzhund-headed gooftard.

The evil, angry monster who was just doing what he'd been trained.

Mush head.

See, offer up a little German and you get a big, disgusting smile in return.

These guys acted like they'd known each other forever. Very sad-faced sit- and down-stays here.

I’m reading you guys, I promise. I’m even laughing here and there. I just … well, you know why now, don’t you? And it is TMI Thursday, is it not? I’ll be back, as always … (and, having glanced as IPs … if the FUCKING STUPID, CLINGY MAN-CHILD STALKER FROM MICHIGAN DOES NOT GET OVER HIMSELF AND HIS FANTASIES OF US BEING TOGETHER, SO HELP ME, I WILL ANSWER THE PHONE NEXT TIME AND TELL HIM EXACTLY WHERE [AND HOW] TO SHOVE IT, BECAUSE I AM JUST THAT PISSED.

The end. Breathing, recovering, and coming back for more in a few.

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Onwards and upwards

Last night, I read 2009 its last rites and at midnight, buried it beneath a mound of equal parts heartache and hope. I honored its losses and counted its triumphs (no matter how small), nodded to the doors that had closed, and raised a toast to those now opening in their places. In good company, I gave it a send-off to rival those of all the years past put together.

And this morning, with clouded sunlight leaking through the blinds, I woke up in the arms of someone I love, rolled over, and thought that this really wasn’t such a bad way to begin a new year. Back at home now, wrapped in a bathrobe and sorting through the pictures from 2009’s going-away party, I still stand by that sentiment. It’s going to be a good year.

I’ve opted not to reflect much on 2009 here. But to deny the past is to also discount its lessons, and as the self-assured highs and the bitter lows of the last 365 days come crashing back, I’m overwhelmed with something I can’t quite place my finger on. Something almost like defiance.

Because some of the dust has settled now and some of the smoke has cleared, and I’m still standing. So rest in peace, 2009. It was a hell of a ride.

Here’s to the other side.

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