Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Confessions of a 30 Year Old

Lets cut right to the chase, shall we?

I love Calabrese.

No facking duh, right? Well, it's true. I love them. A lot.
Like, a lot a lot. To the point where I feel I have to write a Blog entry about it to sort out if I'm turning into one of those super creepy stalker types. F'reals. I can't tell. And even if I could, I kind of don't know if I'd want to admit it. I think that's step one, right? Denial?

So, where do I start?

I guess with the Blog entry I've been working on since October of last year. Yes, 6 months ago. It was my second time seeing them, but my first time actually talking to them. I freaked out. The whole night. It was ridiculous.

But I had planned ahead of time to make myself grow a pair, so I brought a box of treats. Yes, I brought candies and dumb chibi drawings to a concert. As offerings. No, I am not 14.

I talked to Bobby before and after the show. I was on some sort of insane auto pilot, because most of what I said didn't register until a day or two later. Thankfully, his eyes were a little red, so I'm guessing he was too tired to remember most of my drivel. Or maybe he had some janky beer. I don't know. I'm certainly not going to judge.

Why is it taking so long, you ask? Because it was them. It was an experience. And something as such should be crafted with care. Plus I'm still trying to mentally comb through everything. And hide the fact that I had a nosebleed over Jimmy's hip sways and inadvertently called Bobby adorable to his face. Please insert the appropriate rage comic and pre-pubescent squeal here.

Or, how about the year/Blog post before? The one where I was absolutely paralyzed, and nearly fell over at the idea of being in the same room as them. I barely could say two sentences to their dad after the show. It was mind-warpingly pathetic.

Then there was this year. More out-of-body babble. More dorky drawings. More chocolate. I'm sure they get piles of this stuff every time they go somewhere. Yet, somehow I feel like I should be doing it, regardless if it even matters. Oh, did I mention I accidentally hit on Davey this time? As in, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more? Yeah, that happened. Didn't hit me until 2 or 3 days later, either. Apparently, when I'm not in full charge of my facilities, I'm a total slut for these guys. Sounds harsh, but it's probably completely true. And I'm sure they totally love it, considering what I actually look like. /sarcasm

Speaking of, have I mentioned the dreams? How they have solely become the kings of my midnight reveries? If you've been reading this Blog, you probably already know. Most of the time, we're usually friends. Sometimes best friends. And sometimes...more than friends. Yes, I've "seen" them naked. And they're pretty good kissers, if I'm being totally honest.

Keep in mind, I'm not the type to normally fawn over something new every year like some do. When I latch on to something, I do it with all my teeth and I don't let go. Not for a long time. Perhaps even until said thing is nearing it's terminal limits. Even then. And the last time I can remember I was like this was in high school. So it makes me wonder. Is this...normal? Is it even remotely healthy? Or should I just find a nice, white padded room to sleep in for a while?

To be fair, there is a reason for a chunk of it. A reason which, I haven't told anyone about, and I don't really plan on doing so. Well...not entirely. I do have hopes that I can tell them one day. Probably never face to face, if the current trend continues. I've halfway written a letter to them in my head, and I don't think that's going to see the light of day either. It's a bit too long and personal to just throw out on social media, and I'd like to think it might be awkward as hell if I gave them a summarized note next time they come around. So who knows. I'll probably just die with it instead.

Still, though. The power they seem to wield on me is pretty strong. I used to chalk it up to any number of things before. Anything to downplay it. Even coming up with the dumbest reasons, like secret spellwork underneath certain tracks that lured the initiated in. And, even if that were true, I'm sure they would know the law of magic, and some sort of consequence would of been had by now...right? Unless they were dealing with certain entities, and -- anyway.

Am I going crazy? Is it OK to be this... in love? I'm married, with a 9 year old for Christ's sake. It's sort of even magnified if you look at the fact that I'm not into music as much as I used to be. Not by choice, but more by time spent on finding things. So I'm definitely not one of those chicks dressed in black with the heavy makeup at the bar. I wear color. And...Pokemon tees.

I need help, I think.

If you need me, I'll be banging my head against the wall.
Probably with my headphones in.

Until then.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Death Awaits

"I'm old." she says, matter-of-factly, cigarette hanging limply between her lips, "I just can't do stuff anymore."

"But mom...Aunt Pat is 11 years older than you, and she can do most anything just fine."

"Yeah, but...she doesn't have medical problems like me." she says, pushing the foot rest up on the recliner, reaching for her pint glass of wine. "Oh...have you seen the new episodes of True Blood?"

"I don't watch that. Or any of the other stuff you watch. Remember?" she says, tired, "Besides, don't change the subject."

"What? I was just asking."she says, with a shrug.

"And you know what I was just asking too."

"Tch. Chris..." she says flicking her wrist in the air, "It's not that easy. I can't just start something like that. My knees hurt. So do my hips."

"Yet, you still wear flip-flops everywhere. Which, I'm sure do wonders for your joints and posture."

"They're comfortable. I'm all about comfort these days." she says, almost offended.

"But a good pair of sneakers could do you so much better than those!"

"My feet need to breathe. Plus, I'd have to wear socks with regular shoes. And I don't really want to do all that."

She looked at the floor in front of her, littered in cat fur and papers, stacked high with junk, and sighed. Her mother does what she wants. Always has, always will.

It wasn't long ago that she remembered how things were once. When she was younger, mom was able to keep up with the family, and actually cared how she looked at times. She didn't drink too often, and didn't smoke as much as she does now. She would even try to make it to events that were considered important, even if it interfered with her up-all-night sleeping schedule. She really wasn't perfect, but at least it seemed like there was an effort.

Today, though, couldn't even come close to that. Not even in a mock sense of the word. She simply didn't care anymore. And found any excuse or reason to back her up.

Where did the person she had known go? Where did the mom who used to like things run off to?

Was she ever really there in the first place?

She sat, still, cupping the bottled water in her hands. She took a sharp breath in, with heavy remnants of tobacco still lingering in the air. As much as she tried to remembered the good, the bad was never very far behind.

She was never allowed to have friends over. The house was too dirty, mom would say. But mom wouldn't try to clean it, either. And there were countless times when things needed mom's attention at school, and she was told to 'just forge it'. A bath was given, maybe, once a month. Her bed was the floor, without a room. Doctors would give advice on her medical problems, but mom didn't listen. Mom 'knew better'.

And, oh, the drugs....

"The past, is past." she said to herself, shaking the current train of thought from the forefront of her mind. She couldn't change what had happened. Much as she would like to try. Much as she would like to forget.

She looked to her right, and saw her mom fixated and glass-eyed at the TV.

"Mom, won't you even try?" she pleaded.

"I told you." she said, eyes never leaving the glowing box, "I'm old. So, what are ya gonna do?"

She sighed, feeling that familiar heaviness sink in again. She was helpless to the whims and stubbornness of the woman who had bore her. Nothing she would say or do could affect mom or change her mind. And somewhere, along the lines of life, mom had given up. Given up on hope, given up on happiness and given up on ever trying to better herself.

Mom was simply, waiting to die.

From outside, she could hear the faint chirping of birds in faraway nests. Late at night, wrapped in the cold, she thinks of nothing else.

Until then.