Obituary

Her mom was talking to her and the T.V. was on in the background when she first scanned the obit. Then her eyes returned to the picture and she felt the wind rush out of her lungs.

Him.

He had finally died. And she had never gone back to see him. She had stopped answering his phone calls. Not that there had been many. He called twice. Once he left a message, a quiet, "Hey, it's me," then a deep exhale through his mustache, "just wondering what you were up to." The second time there had been no message.

They had met over a game of pool on a quiet Wednesday night. She was too lonely to go straight home. They had played a few games, no pressure. He was far more expert than she but patient. After a few games he asked to buy her a drink and she accepted. He asked for her number at the end of the night and kissed her very softly and sweetly on the corner of the mouth. His beard was incredibly soft and it made a tickle through her whole body.

They saw each other a few times; quiet evenings over home cooked dinners at his tidy house. He had two dogs, they were easy going and her favorite part of those nights was holding his hand in the brisk early spring night, walking the dogs to the park. She stayed the night. He was warm and gentle and had a body of someone who had been fit and active his whole life. But he was older.

She didn't know what to think about it. She didn't know if it was OK to care about him,; she didn't want to have "daddy issues".

And then one night, they were laying in bed and without looking at her, he told her he was sick. Very sick. He said, given the newness of their dating, that it would be best if he could just be with his family at this time. There was a deep, long moment of quiet.

Was she meant to say otherwise? To tell him "No", that she cared about him and wanted to be there for him? That's what her heart and soul said. Her head said that he was right and that moreover, he didn't want to have to manage her existence in his life. So they spooned the night away and talked about how everything was going to be O.K.

But she knew it wasn't; he was sick. She asked along about him through a friend of a friend of a friend, who didn't really know. She dialed his number a few times, then hung up.

As her mother continued with her story and on T.V. some chubby man with spiked blond hair engorged himself on fried food, she thought of his soft hands, that first kiss. The sound of the exhale of his voice in the last message he left. She closed her eyes for a moment, and remembered.

Love Potion No. 9; t8kitez slowly melting on the NCW Riviera.

A lavender soaked evening.

An afternoon in the beautiful North Central Washington Riviera, with a splash of that magic Alice. RHG had fetched some good stuff this year at NWSS. It was a still and hot late summer day. A drop on a piece of spearmint gum launched me almost instantly. The author of a pizza cookbook I was leafing through stared at me with intense regard, then winked before all of his face began to sway to and fro.

We sat and watched the sun drift languidly across the sky, sitting in silence with each other, soft smiles facing back out into the yellow afternoon. The sky began to become pink and lavender. We listened to the birds and the bugs and sometimes I would venture out into the grass with bare feet, stepping deliberately because it felt as though all my joints were delicately balanced ball bearing. I watched my feet in the grass and Princess snaked her tail around my leg and laid in the sun.

Inside the afternoon, a million wild flowers bloomed inside my dome piece. I watched a bee, heavy with pollen dance along the rose bush in the backyard of Douchington Manor. I ate some raspberries. A little bush has sprung up voluntarily beside the cistern and the raspberries this season were tiny and perfect, a burst of bright, fresh tart juice.

The afternoon's gentle wind was the music. The sounds drifting in from the neighbors reminded us that we had not launched from this mortal coil to some quiet, personal Heaven. As the tree lines and fences buoyed along, it become apparent that I could quiet literally melt out in Sir Douchington's back yard. We retreated to the basement of the Manor to cool down a bit. As usual, Netflix was right there in our dimension and suggested "Bunny and the Bull". We clicked on it haphazardly, with the doe-eyed carefree 'tude of the sort of someone soaking in liquid L. The movie was delightfully engrossing; good story, good actors, awesome art direction. The basement was cool and still and we ferreted down the rabbit hole with the story. The evening had not yet began, the sun was still moseying across the sky, the most patient afternoon in August.

We finally were able to gather ourselves for a walk...

We took Moondog eArthfriend and set about a walk along the canal. A winding irrigation canal that wanders gently through old residential neighborhoods, it made for sparkling aqueducts in my mind's melting eye. Back yards and gardens pressed against the ledges. eArthfriend trotted along, almost prancing with glee to be out and about in the warm evening. The smell of backyard barbecues drifted along on with us, lifting our mood and moving our minds toward dinner. We had fixings for a Junior Congressman Sirloin Burger, his specialty.

There were places where the water glowed with the fiery reflections of the golden pink sky and sunflowers hung dozily toward the water. A family celebrated a birthday party with purple streamers and balloons and the sounds of children laughing as they bounced in blow-up castle and parents chatting over plates of roasted pork and cold beer in the can. Sometimes we held hands as we walked and sometimes we were silent. eArthfriend trotted down the ramps and lapped at the water and we would look at each other and laugh about jumping in ourselves.

Returning to the Manor, we set about dinner. The Jr. Congressman Burger was invented Memorial Day Weekend by RHG himself. Sirloin burgers lightly seasoned and grilled over charcoal. Spinach, lettuce, purple onion, tomato for the gentleman, stone-ground mustard, Stilton and cheddar on a toasted sesame seed bun. Wash it down with cheap white wine on ice and some curly fries with Johnny's Seasoning (from popcorn to prime rib, everything's better with Johnny's). We ate with relish, the luxurious meal soaking up into our welcoming appetites, reviving us, revving us up for a evening of shenanigans.

Cheap white wine goes down easy in the cool summer nights of late August on the NCW Riviera. His deck faces out to the edge of the valley and the sounds come down from the canyons. The coyotes will howl sometimes. We finally are able to turn on music, we are finally able to cope with the intensity. And even then we kept it low, letting the magic slowly build and we drifted through conversation, smoking American Spirits. And danced some.

It's hard to describe rolling through a day and night that felt like a walk through an impressionist exhibit. To know for a moment the almost painful prettiness of the sky when the sun is setting on the right kind of evening. How a field of hay or a vase of sunflowers can be so simple, so rough and so beautiful. Or how a sunset or the bridge can be recreated in such a way that it causes you to stop and stare into it and just imagine being in it. Like jumping into the chalk sidewalk drawings in the Mary Poppins movie. And then, it slowly melts away, oozes through your psyche and the colors and magic slowly retreat to the Land of Make-Believe until next time.

And you awake, on the other side, smiling..... ...

So you say...

So you say you don't know if I can keep up.

Ha.

Keep up with what?

When I was 13 I saved my pennies and went to Scotland for the summer to hike and visit my ancestral castle.

I've been bitten by a rattle snake I caught with my own two hands that was warming itself on the black asphalt one summer day. I saw it and couldn't resist ant I grabbed its tail and it bit me and that caused my hand to swell up. We iced it but I didn't think it would be a problem but the skin around my thumb on my right hand has never been the same.

I once shot a flaming arrow out into a lake because I achieved my 9th Level of Archery. I, in general have excellent marksmanship and can even shoot clay pigeons and hit home runs either left handed or right handed.

There is a lake nearby fed by glacial run-off. The last two years on New Year's Day I have jumped in to that lake. Last year we had to break through the ice to do it. All for the love of symbolism and a cup of chili.

I am a 31-year old woman with only an Associates Degree. I have crawled my way up to stand among gray-haired, pot bellied men and I hold my own. I have earned almost $10 million in grant funds for my agency in the three years I have worked there. I have never relied on a man for health benefits or to pay my bills. I put myself through my two years of school with scholarships and elbow grease. I worked as a counselor in a psychiatric hospital. I talked down a two hundred pound killer and held the open neck wound of a suicidal drunk and I caught a child by his pant cuff from pulling a Peter Pan out the second story window.

I've slept under the stars in the Golan Heights.

I've snowmobiled at midnight to see the Aurora Borealis. I am a co-owner of a solvent entertainment/comedy troupe. I am the best and most natural stage actor in 100 miles. I have been the face of a commercial ad campaign. I was a paid radio news host and DJ.

I beat cancer.

I rocked your world.
I am the Zombie Huntress.

Yea. So you are willing to defile yourself and do more drugs and you think you can do better.

You think you've got something? You think YOU can hang?
Just because you can't handle the controls doesn't mean this baby can't make point five past lightspeed.

The Ghost of Dave Niehaus teaches t8kitez about aoristic concidence.

The afternoon of April 8, 2011, sans ticket, after a light sushi lunch, I traversed a three-hour trip to catch a Mariners game with my pals. The day was bright and crisp. The drive was fast, the Windstar mighty and true.

I was glad to see my friends, most of all my bestie, a former roommate and co-"star" in several community theatre productions. Suffice it to say, I figured, since the game was sold out, I would end up drinking away the evening at a local sports bar whilst the kiddies enjoyed the game. Met the kidz at the Ginger Queen's apartment. We gathered our forces and went to the game.

We parked pretty far south of Safeco, so we could stretch our legs and take in the beauty of the surroundings, fenced-off parking lots, fast food company administrative offices and restaurant supply warehouses. We passed a meat cutter's shop with several hairy-shouldered and thick-handed men sitting and drinking on the loading dock. The pre-game chattered away from the radio placed upon a green plastic chair. I noted this locale in case I was not able to find a ticket and continued to the field.

I was kept making the "eye" at passers-by, looking for tickets, but I didn't see much goings-on until we got up to the main entrances, when the place got rather claustrophobic, even for a nice spring afternoon. Everyone was looking for a ticket and it didn't seem that anyone was selling. I told the kids they were cramping my style and to go on without me. The group split off, thinking they'd have to scrape my lush self off the floor of the Pyramid Ale concentration camp after the game and we'd all trek along to the karaoke bar which was destined to be the night Ender's game.

But as I was walking briskly to a bar I know that serves oysters on the half shell for fairly cheap, a man walked by with a fistful of tickets. He was on a cell phone.

"How much?"
He stops, looks as me. "Sixty."
"Where?"
"Left field."

I did a momentary calculation. Oysters. Baseball. Fuck it. "I'll take it."

I handed him the money and plucked a ticket from his paw and went forth to the fucking Mariners game.

I looked around in bewilderment and knew I would need a drink to fortify myself against this next effort. Two mini-bottles of cheap chardonnay in-hand, I followed the signs to Section 149, Row 31, Seat 10.

Right behind my friends.

Right fucking behind them.

For a second I stood at my seat, none of them noticed me behind them. They were busy drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade (the red ones...seriously, the doodz were drinking them- these people) and eating a pile of something. Something smelly. It smelled like I had fallen inside one of the pores of this hippy chick I know.

Garlic fries.

In the garlic fry-scented silence of the milling crowd and pre-game shenanigans, I watched them laugh and chat and I wondered if I had maybe been hit by a car and I was a ghost.

No such luck, Beard turned around and saw me and we howled our excited greetings. They asked where my ticket was and I pointed at the seat behind them and they all went on to express their own baffled amazement at such an awesome coincidence.

You don't get how awesome this is- there are, according to one of my more bearded pals, 48,500 seats. I think that's what he said, anyway. Regardless. There's a shit ton. Of seats. Truly, Dave Neihaus was looking down on my white canvas sneakers I purchased at ShopKo four hours prior in his honor and blessed me with such an amazing gift as a scalped ticket in a decent seat for a sold-out Mariners game.

Had I put such a sentence as together, in my mind, at that moment, I would have been able to understand the truth of what this night would bring. The first indication of this being a mixed blessing is that I forgot to bring a flask. But the folks I sat by were cool. One of the guys was a regular Bob Costas in dreds. He had his girlfriend en tow but she was trashed because, per her report, "It's the only way I can handle baseball." She was an adorable pocket-person, maybe five foot, maybe 90 pounds. By the third inning she was bored as could be and asked if I'd liked to have a smoke with her. I agreed and we left to smoke. She grabbed my arm, "I need you to remember how to get back to our seats..." she whispered to me in a low, conspiratorial tone. She nodded at her own conclusion and ferreted off into the crowd.

Outside she deftly rolled some American Spirit tobacco. I plucked a joint from my stash. "I've got grass, I'll trade you a drag," I offered. We smoked a bit, making nothing conversation and she looked around. A plan was brewing behind her dark eyes.

"I've got to pee."

"Okay, let's head in then."

"No, no.... the lines will be too long."

I could tell where she was going. Very well. "Let's do this thing." I pointed to the flight of concrete stairs. "The rail will block you." She turned to me.

"Give me a warning...if someone comes."

"That's the plan."

I leaned on the outside of the concrete railing and I heard her scurry up the flight of steps. We were totally in the clear, it was perfect and I started to contemplate peeing out here myself, because, as most country folk know, there's nothing, nothing at all as fine as peeing outside. But then a very well dressed woman walking a handsome lab started coming our way. The only thing out this way was the staircase so there was no doubt in my mind this woman was headed up them. I walked toward her, noticed I had half a jay burning in my hand, smiled, turned around, tamped it out and noticed:

A river of urine flowing down the stairs.

The urine was puddling at the bottom. Wow, two flights of stairs. That chick did have to pee. I didn't make very good work of slowing the woman down, she was deliberately avoiding eye contact and was making a wide berth around me, so I yelled, "Nice dog!" And really in the nick of time the little peeing goth fairy came around the corner buttoning up her black jeans. She smiled at the woman, "I really had to pee."

I think the woman was less interested in the puddles than her dog. On the way back in to the field you have to get your bags searched. I recently upgraded from plastic sack to promotional earth friendly grocery bag, free with my subscription to Mother Jones. It is nylon and cheap looking. Perfect. No one mugs this girl. Coach and LV bags are for suckaz. Anyway, I got forgot to tuck the little glass oregano jar I keep my joints and mahli in, back into my pocket and it was sitting loud and proud on top of my tampons and pilfered napkins and loose change. The security guard looked at me brightly, "You better not let them see that." He suggested. He waived his searching stick at the uniforms down the way. I smiled, "Huh?"

He laughed. "Be good, girl."

So luck was on my side that night. Luck was not on the side of the Mariners, who lost terribly. So terribly that my friends decided to leave before the end of the game. This sort of ruffled my feathers. When I pointed out we had collectively driven thousands of miles to be together that day, they shrugged. "They're losing" Beard explained.

"Of course they're losing," I replied. "They're the fucking Mariners. What did you expect?"

They didn't like my 'tude. I didn't like their flakiness. I didn't go to karaoke. Laying awake that night, watching the recap of the Mariners absurd loss, I prayed to Dave Neihaus. "Why? Why did this happen?"

Dave Neihaus appeared. He was wearing cut-off and white canvas sneakers. He was holding a frilly drink in his hand. "You rang?"

"Dave, you got me that great ticket! We were there for the game. We had all taken time off work, rented cars or gassed up our old minivans. We had purchased cheesy white sneakers. I had found a seat right behind them. What was the point?"

Dave sipped his drink. "My oh my."

"What?"

"That's a delicious Sex on the Beach."

I frowned, "Come on, Dave."

He laughed. "You know, you're a crabby bitch." There's really no denying this, so I made no reply. He took another sip and said, "Miracles only get you into the party, hon. You have to make the fun once you're in the door."
"You mean I should have gone to karaoke."
"You should do a lot of things. Like stop worrying about it and enjoy the fact you had a little miracle today."

"The ticket?"

He rolled his eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Listen I gotta go. But yea, the ticket. And as my drinking poker buddy once said when he was alive, 'Buy the ticket, take the ride'." He raised his glass and hollered over his shoulder, "Yea, yea- I'm coming. Quit looking at my cards, asshole."

"Night!"

Did I mention that I got a ticket right fucking behind those kidz?

Ohai Qoo 4 honeybearz

Golden honey bearz.

Amber musical sweetness.

Pwn noobz, two point oh!

Senor and the Miracle of Pizza and Wings.

So this morning on PT I kept seeing a thread imploring for food. As it kept catching my eye every time I came back to my "PT Tab" refresh the board, I finally decided it was worth getting involved enough to click on.

Turns out there is this kid in Charlotte, NC who is hungry.

OP's name is senor and he implies he is currently dirt broke and is coyly implying he'd be grateful for some food. I see where another PTer jumps in and offers and I can sense senor's hope as he posts that he has PM'd the PTer. Then the disappointment.

Okay, so who cares? But I sort of do, because I just get it. Also, I like people. I am rooting for this guy, who is honest enough to put it out there and I just want to tell him, yea, I get it. I've got a few dollars and payday is right around the corner for me and God knows I want for nothing. Make something real happen today, t8kitez.

So I let senor know I'm ordering a pizza. I've already found Pizza Hut online where you just plug everything in. I put in my phone number because I don't think to ask for senor's for any reason. Duh. And then I post the order and wait for the showering praise to come. I e-mail my friend a link to the thread to brag that this old lady did her good deed for the day. But then, amazingly, EPICALLY, Murphy's Law strikes.

The internet goes down. We're talking DOWN. We get a company intra-office e-mail from IT indicating there is no time frame for getting back on-line. I might as well be on the dark side of the moon. And then my cell rings. It is Tristan, delivery dude for Pizza Hut in North Carolina. Yea, sorry guy. I don't know where the apartment is... I don't even have the address anymore. I don't have a phone number. I don't even have a first name. So I text my friend, whom I had just sent the e-mail with the link, You must get online for me. PT emergency. I text her my password and user name. Then I don't hear from her. Thirty minutes go by, then, she texts me back. She tried to send senor the information but Tristan had cancelled the order. She asks in the text, can I reorder?

Well, unfortunately, all the information regarding the order, where it was going and EVERYTHING, is contained in my PT inbox. Cognitive surplus don't mean shit if you can't access it. So, between texting my friend in OR who was logged on for me and calling NC Pizza Hut, the pizza did eventually get to senor.

Somewhere, there are tiny sparks of not wanting to let someone down made for a fun day for me, filled with the "lulz"; it almost seems like empathy is still alive and well. It feels great in a way because I almost gave up and even though senor would have gotten pizza out of the deal anyway, I was happy that I followed through because I didn't want to be a lazy asshole and let it go, just this once.

It's really the little things in life that make it. :)

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The worn smooth oar...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7I9tCW-Q1o

^^^Press play.

So...I've been on a musical journey. What is beautiful about this journey it it is both external and internal. I have a positive symptoms of this exploration including: more music, new accounts on mediafire and megaupload, lingering on Audio Archive and listening to much, much more and increasingly eclectic music and seeking out live music.

The unmeasurable change is internal. Imagine, a wide, dark river. At each bank, dark, dense woods, the trees creating an early twilight on some still day. A fog snakes out around the dense, mossy hillside and coy fingers ribbon out curiously onto the water, so calm. So cool and still it quenches the thirst simply to be near it. The canoe moves graciously through it and the water parts with good nature. The oar is well worn and fits perfectly in the hand. The canoe and her captain are dwarfed by the river and the forest.

I can go forever. There is no end to this river, to the inside journey of the feelings and stories and dreams music can create. The same song a thousand times and a thousand different songs...both will take me along the river inside if I choose.

"How did I get here?" Or "Love Potion No. 7- How I learned to stop worrying and love RHG"

Standing in line at Safeway the next day, holding a quart of milk and baguette, just standing. Not thinking of anything. My brain, flushed and fluffed. I am tired but comfortable. Not sleepy.

It's always this way when I trip. It's like the dirty dish cloth of my mind gets wrung out, shaken, then hung out to dry. I feel better. Psychedelic experience No. 7 was as positive as all the others. It was "chiller" and less of an event, piggy backed with some effervescent mahli that really perked it up and kept things light. We kept it light. He kept it light. I love tripping with him.

The acid was the last bit of strip that he had retrieved from NWSS '09. It had weathered a time in my fridge at the trailer, then returned to his freezer at Douchington Manor. It was good stuff, the only stuff, I guess, I've ever had and I enjoyed it immensely. I credit this L for dislodging years of quelled creativity, repressed by my own neuroses. He handed it me, after work, in his kitchen, the little bit of tough paper and we chewed and washed it down with some Yellow Tail pinot grigio.

I like to make tea when I'm tripping. It keeps me from drinking too much alcohol and it gives me something to do. It really becomes a whole thing. I went with Celestial Seasonings Tension Tamer this go around, something to keep my tummy in check and meter the agitation of the powder. I had left my tea pot upon my hasty exit from the Manor in November. I smiled. It is a white kettle with a bunny head fashioned on the lid, made to look like a white rabbit. I made two cups of tea. The metaphor continued to flourish as we descended down into his basement, down into the underground, magical world of his Champagne Room. What magical fun would we encounter on this Friday night? Who could say.

We sat down, all prepared.

Big bottle of Yellow Tail Pinot Grigio. Check.

Cups of tea. Check.

Ice water. Check.

Stick pretzels. Check.

Ridiculous pile of mahli. Check.

Dank, homegrown Cinderella-99. Check.

Netflix streaming. Check.

"Wanna watch something?"

"Sure!"

We decided upon Trailer Park Boys II. I don't regret it. I've never seen any of the other TPB but quickly it became apparent that this doesn't matter. I laughed. I laughed and laughed. We stretched out on the floor, cozy and warm, enjoying the crawling sensuality of the acid. It makes me feel warm and since I was laughing so much, I repeatedly became convinced that I had peed my pants. "Did I pee my pants?"

He liked to check for me, to make sure I hadn't peed myself. His hands are amazing, strong and smooth. You can tell he works in an office but that he can and does do physical work as well. He knew the whole point was to get those pants off eventually. It would happen. They always come off eventually. ;)

Then we watched ZG "Live at the Purple Onion". I very muchly appreciate this gentleman. He pulls you in and pushes you away and in the end he never lets up but he's always on your side. He always is on the side of humanity. I think most comedians are, because I think humor is a way to try and make sense of the madness, the meanness, the confusion. It is a way for us all to wink at each other and for a moment remember, "Same team!" I love the smile ZG gives the camera at the end.

He turned to me at some point and said, "Can we have sex for a while?"

(Side Note: When I trip, I am beautiful. My hair is perfect and tousled and soft. My eyes sparkle like jade. My freckles seem like sun kisses. My smile contains the entire worth of good-natured mirth. And he is heart-breakingly gorgeous. His beard radiates easy sparkles when he smiles or scratches it. The soft waves of his hair, the splashes of red and grey in the darkness. His skin is perfect. His mouth is velvet heroin.)

Yes. Please. And it was gentle and lovely. It was good. We were love for a moment. We kept most of our clothes on, just a little jaunt, this wasn't our first rodeo. We knew later there would be plenty of time to get naked and let go. He looked at me and smiled. A smile that can and does melt my heart. Love. Love on a little piece of paper. Magic. Magic that can make us go back to that time when we did love each other. After the disastrous break-up, to be here with him, doing this, was such a relief. It was sweet grace that he forgave me for my sins and let me touch him again.

And then after, there was more laughing and touching and BEING to do.

"What should we watch now?"

"Dunno."

Looking at the screen, the lines of the digital window soft and colorful, like Playdough or crayons. Netflix suggested some Anthony Bourdain. And boy howdy, was it a good suggestion. He went to China. If you haven't seen this episode, then you ought to, it will not matter if you are tripping for realzies. It will feel like it. All the food talk made me hungry. There just so happened to be a slice of cheesecake in the fridge upstairs. I retrieved it and we ate it together. I fed him a few bites and I felt like a lover at the peak of greatness.

I eventually spilled some tea on my pants and they had to come off.

The rest of the night is only for the two of us to remember. I couldn't do it justice with words anyway. And the next morning came and we went out and did some touristy things and enjoyed the afterglow. And then it was time for me to go home. Remembering the love we had once. Funny or ironic or nothing, weird how you can love someone and hate someone and love someone, and I guess I'm mostly talking about myself in that context, funny how I can be OK and then be brought low and then be OK again, because I never stopped loving him.

But just to enjoy him. To be with him, to smell him and feel him and hear his voice. To be on the winning team with him again. To come back from all that darkness.

It always ends. Alice always wakes up at the end of the story, no matter how much you want the adventures in Wonderland to continue. Nightmare or dreams, I always wake up. I stopped by the Safeway before the long, quiet journey back to my house. I needed some food to tide me over and I wanted something tasty. I also was thirsty for a rose and had found one in my touristy travels that day. Delish.

What's up with rose? Why is it so hard to find? They have the refreshing lightness of whites and the sturdy flavor of reds. There isn't a single bottle to be found in Safeway. I was glad I had pulled the trigger on the spendier bottle. The rare bottle is worth it. Always snap it up when you have the chance, because you never know when you'll be able to find another. But don't horde it. Drink it. Drink it alone or share it. But don't sit on it too long. Wine is meant to be drunk. Take a deep whiff of the glass. Roll the liquid around in your mouth and taste the fruit. Swallow it down, the coolness goes down to become a warmth inside. And then it is gone. Everything ends.

Sometimes love ends. But the lesson from Uncle Sidney is that feelings are transitory. So when the bad ones are weighing on you, remember they will end. And when the good ones are falling like a warm gentle rain on you, just enjoy it. You can't cling to feelings anymore than you should horde good wine. I could live in his presence. The only thing I have wanted in these last two years was to love him and have more of him. But I don't know if that will happen and that's the thing, you have to just let things come and go, you have to let go of the reigns and hang on to the saddle horn to really enjoy the adventure. You might get bucked off, your horse may take a different route.

But that's OK; it's OK because I was there with him and it felt good to be there. All the hurts and fears and hopes and agendas, they can't take away the memory of that Friday night and all of our Friday nights. It can't take away the feelings I felt. I still remember the taste of that rose and I still remember the feeling of his mouth on mine and whether it was true or the dr00gz can't stop me from feeling like an epic princess when I think of it. Can't stop me from laying in the dark at night sometimes and touching my lips and thinking of how amazing it was to feel his kisses. He'll either reach for me again or I will have these memories.

LSD and the meaning of life, man.

Like our affair. Like Life. I did not set out to be on this course. I did not set out to hurt him. You never know what Netflix is going to suggest next. And when you roll with it, it makes it perfect. Acid lets you understand that things are both wonderfully meaningful and yet entirely inconsequential. It is just Life, moseying along, same as it ever was...

You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.

You may find yourself in another part of the world...

...You may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"

Until next time.

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This is why I love improv. I love to develop a story. I've always needed a grain of sand around which to create a pearl. This thread was the ideal moment to be a tangential nerd.

Reasons I could use a drink, a toke and an afternoon veggin' out in front of Futurama

[ ] Hell Week at Music Theatre.

[ ] PMS.

[ ] I have the shakes.

[ ] I hit a cat last night. Being tired always makes me feel existential. I laid awake thinking about the fragility of Life. Then got a series of texts which made me even more contemplative. Not enough time to let my brain relax and be contemplative. I'm understanding why people pray. But I'm lazy and I'll take the low road of a little buzz and some TV.

[ X] All of the above.

McFly717 on a Cherry Blossom at Sunset

In the evening shade,
Footstep on the dusty road.

There, a clever boy.

http://phantasytour.com/bands/1/topics/2570733/posts

A few months ago I received an utterly unsolicited and frankly, totally misguided pep talk from a former high school teacher that I ran into on the bus to work one day. She assured me, repeatedly, despite my numerous interruptions to indicate that no, I wasn't the least bit interested in being in a relationship just for the sake of it. She treated me like I shouldn't feel like I was broken. I don't feel broken, but the naivety and audacity of her comments irked me. Because this is how the world see us singles; even the "enlightened" tell us we should not worry or rush it. Not out of an understanding that we should not look to a relationship to complete us, but rather that we will eventually find that other person to complete us. I wanted to say, "Listen lady, I am a whole being already."


Was it the plan to be a single woman living in a trailer, talking to my cat and "hanging out" on PT? Would I rather be spending the afternoon with a significant other and a family we made? Yea. But it hasn't happened yet. And it seems to me, that everyone I see who makes the choice to be in a relationship because they "want a relationship" or "are looking for someone" or have some deep seated belief that they "need" to be paired up with someone and not because they really care about that someone in a special and devoted way, end up unhappy because of it. Then they look to another person and another person to bail them out of their unhappiness. After my divorce, it was literally when I had to be alone due to geographic isolation, that I remembered I was more than just someone's ex-wife. I had a lot of other things that I was interested in doing. Once I was so far away from civilization that there was not anyone to date, it gave the chance to think about something else in my life other than the search for a man who would redeem my earlier rejection.


Would it be awesome to have a partner in crime? Hell yea. But it's awesome right now, anyway. And the older I get, the more I realize there is more than one way to skin a cat. Single-dom affords me the luxury and liberty to do exactly what I want and I have really enjoyed this liberty; from choosing the movies I watch to choosing to donate charitably and being a part of organizations in my community, to truly be available for friends and family and drink and smoke every night of the week. I like my life. If someone comes along that enhances the experience, I absolutely want to sprinkle some more MSG's on my life. But as it is, I'm pretty content. If that makes me broken, I guess I'd rather be broken and content with myself than unhappily coupled.

Phantasy Sex Blog: Page 13 from t8kitez's PT diary...

Dear Diary,

So, PT goaded me into writing a sex blog and I'm totally nervous! OMG! I really want to impress all the people on the interwebz. I know that I'll never be awesome enough to win the interwebz, but the interwebz are so amazing and special and real I just want to be a part of something bigger than myself.

And maybe I AM meant for greatness... I mean, it feels like I am. Maybe this blog will bring people together, to see that we are all just people. People trying to hump. It could bring about the dawn of a new era, where we all get along because we all can acknowledge it's all about sex anyway, so we should just get it on. And enlighteneed era. If only George Carlin would suddenly appear, in a swirl of electrical effects and wind and smoke machine. If only he would step out of phone booth from the future, remove his awesome shades and say, "t8kitez, I'm here to save your blog."

"WHOA DUDE!"

He hustles over to me, "You must write the blog, t8kitez. It has to happen."

"But Rufus! I've never written a blog before! And they want it to be about sex! What am I supposed to write about? What's a girl like me got to say on the subject? And aren't you dead now?"

"Yes, but not in the year 2688 A.D. And enough with the questions, what do I look like, a white guy you can ask any question? We don't have time for this." But APPARENTLY we have time for him to check his cell phone to see if anyone texted him. I get an idea for a game... but then I remember why he's here.

"I don't know what to write about. I mean I guess I should write about something exciting, something really cool and interesting... Something sexy." I throw my hands in the air to indicate that truly, I am at my wit's end here.

Rufus gives me a grave look, "It's gotta be about sex but just like good lovin', you can't force these things. You have to be yourself. That's what's sexy."

"But Rufus, I'm a nerd! I just like nerdy stuff like TOS."

"Listen," Rufus says, rolling his eyes and beginning to look bored already, "Just write the fucking blog. I don't have time to lead you through the adventure and then the misadventure for you to gain the insight and confidence needed to do it on your own. Write a blog about the one guy in history whose knob you are sad not to have had the opportunity to polish."

"But I don't know who that would be.... I mean, at first blush there are quite a few."

"You can pick 3 guys-"

"-Can I pick Jesus?"

"NO! No one picks Jesus."

"Seems like nans to me."

"Seems like you better shut your damn mouff before I nans your face." Rufus might be a bit of a jerk. "You can pick three guys from history to go back in the time machine phone booth and meet. You cannot hump any of them. But you can meet them, to see if that help you decide."

"Which do I choose?"

"You must choose, but choose wisely."

OKAY THEN HERE GOES NOTHING:

Right out of the shoots, I have to go with Ben Franklin. I know what you all might be thinking, maybe he's pretty old and looks like a bit of an apple shape. But I bet he is a hedonist. And he coined the phrase, "Fart Proudly." A sexy time with Benny Franklin would probably begin with an amazing dinner and conversation. Something totally over the top and delicious, some kind of French cuisine. We would drink shit loads of wine. He would probably say flattering, gentlemanly things whilst getting a little grabby. He would definitely gently tweak my nip when he reached for the salt. The dessert would probably devolve from a verbal tete-a-tete over sorbet to feeding each other chocolate truffles. He could easily run intellectual circles around me but he wouldn't so I don't feel like a fool. And I bet the sex would be slow, hot and satisfying in a "rub my belly in satisfaction" kind of way. Ultimate foodie-intellectual-humps.

Second stop: Freddie Mercury. Yea. I'll say it. The guy looks like a blast. He looks like it would be like LSD sex without the need for LSD. Also, there would be a mirror on the ceiling and we would have to be in a round bed. No silk sheets though- wet spots are a little too real on silk sheets; I don't do silk sheets.

And you know? As much as I would like my third stop to be Teddy Roosevelt, my guess is he wasn't a bear in the sack.. I'd WANT him to be, is the thing. Rough Riders, you know, cigar clenched in his teeth, still wearing his cocked uniform hat and boots with spurs. But that's probably wishful thinking.

So my third pick would be a toss-up between Frank Lloyd Wright and King David. I get the feeling Wright would be a disciplinarian between the sheets. And I'd have to go back ad see if King David looked anything like the statue that Michelangelo did of him... basically, he's be in the mix as a historical "The Situation".

Who would I pick? I can't foresee at the moment. But it could be sort of like a "Shot of Love with Tila Tequila" except I am not nearly as Singaporean as she is and I don't know if all the dudes would be as interested in wearing designer tank tops. But it would be fun. And the one that I did choose? Well, that night would go down in the annuls of history. At least my personal history. Damn that would be cool.

Rufus smiles, "See? You did it. You wrote a blog."

"This blog is going to bring a new era of peace and win me the interwebz?"

"No, are you dumb? Your blog sucks its own cack. But, you started...and now it is only a matter of time."

"How can I ever thank you Rufus?"

"Just don't post the #1 of my asshole that you dared me to text you from the john."

"No can do, Slurms."

"KYS."

Believe to achieve.

Sincerely,

t8kitez