Triumphant Return

Let's get this out of the way.

I know I've been gone for a long time.

In fact, you're not even reading this the day I post it. You've stopped coming here regularly because you can't stand being let down anymore. The pain of seeing that entry from July 23rd over and over again hurts too much.

I get it. I've let you down, my darling.

The truth is, I have become bored with myself. Since last we spoke, here are the stats:

1: Bladder infection
14: Miles walked so far for Marathon training
1: New car purchased
1: Boyfriend still putting up with my shit/giving me shit to put up with
9: Families who have gotten a home thanks to the work of my department
1: New dog in the backyard that I can't stand
1: Friend Who Shot Himself
2: Toothbrushes used
2: Times I have done Capoeira, the Brazilian Martial Art

The car is great, I am excited for the marathon, I want to find a new loving home for this fucking animal, and a man who opened my life up to the possibility of Love is sitting on my coffee table in a sandwich baggie.

I feel fucked up.

I don't pay attention to what friends say anymore. I have little to no desire to teach and help people. I don't want to edit. I am helpless against the waves of nausea and revulsion that overcome me as I think about one of the only people in the world who knew me raw and unraveled's brains splattered across the wall of room 232 of the Days Inn in Little Armenia.

I think I'm entering the Anger Phase.

It makes me want to put on heavy eyeliner and take self-portraits.

All of a sudden I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I need company. Should I exercise or roll up in a ball in the corner and scream? Nothing matters the way it should. One lump or two? I feel like I'm underwater.

I can smell his deoderant. I remember when he took care of me during my very first anxiety attack. The time we played music for hours in his studio, attractively lit by Christmas lights. Our visit to the Statue of Liberty. That Thanksgiving where he wore the pink Ralph Lauren shirt. New Years Eve. The beach, both coasts. Mount Bonnell. Jack in the Box. The memories keep coming, like a faucet. They collect and leave me staring.

I wish it wasn't so late. I wish I didn't have to wake up so early. I wish he was still alive so I could see him sing one more time.

This is all so cliche. I hope you're not reading this. I hope you have bookmarked another blog, by some waiter who chronicles the tips he does and doesn't receive, or the one about the ever-changing hairstyles of Jessica Simpson. I hope you weren't looking for an epiphany, because all I have is something you have heard before from some other sad bastard who lost someone they cared about.

Put up your fists, and I'll just raise my glass. g