|She's leaving home, bye bye|
Details. Trying to manage all the details. Remember to pick up some razors, don't leave the laptop charger this time. Focusing on meaningless details to keep the real issues out of sight. She left her husband. She left her husband. She tries the phrase on, looks at it with a critical eye, puts it back on the rack. She left her husband, yes, she did, but what she really did is say a resounding "no more" to her husband and her daughter and the chaos and the condescension and the manipulation and the denial.
Soon I will write about the events that preceded my departure. I rarely get the chance to write at the moment. It's tax season, which means I am working 15 hour days, 6 days a week. I have time to play on Facebook, seconds at a time. but the chunks of time it takes to really work out what I like to think are well-written pieces just don't come easily lately. And when they do, they are devoted to doing laundry and repacking my suitcase, connecting with friends and getting validation, running with my dog (sneaking back in the house to spring him, first thing on Sunday mornings, when it's unlikely that the slackers who have invaded my home will be awake to catch me), "dating" my son and sharing small hard-won blocks of his undivided attention. NNITO, which if you GTS ("Google that shit,") or LMGTFY (Let me Google that for you)], you will find is an acronym for "not necessarily in that order."
|Make me one with everything|
Once I stopped in an espresso bar that starts with "S" and rhymes with "Starbucks," and after she had prepared my halfcafgrandesoyvanillalatte, the barista handed it over and said "All the decisions we've made in our lives have led us to this moment." And only the fear of getting burned by steamed soy milk kept me from dropping that motherfucker and falling over from that psychic bolt from the blue.
More soon, I hope. If it makes a difference. You have told me it does. And sometimes I believe you. Namaste, Nutjobs. LYLAS. And shit.