Thanksgiving

and are you grateful

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and i'm thankful...

You lot deserve a real update, replete with spelling errors and all of my idiosyncratic run-on sentences.

I normally pride myself on being 'mysterious', albeit poorly, when it comes to this diary, but I thought for a change, since I don't utilize Diaryland's services as much as I used to, I could just go ahead and tell you a few stories involving myself a few too many bottles of liquor and possibly some prescription pills.

First, though, I want to talk about something else.

I have a fondness for my former lover, Nixon. I met him twelve hours before I was to take off for New York, and we had a drunken crazy time that ended in the two of us going well beyond our alcoholic limits. I left for New York.

Things in New York didn't necessarily work out the way I wanted them to, so I decided what I really wanted to do with my life was save up money and just travel the country, which is what I've been doing for the past year.

I've seen both the East and the West; I came back here predicated on severe medical issues with my mother that landed her back in the hospital for two major surgeries. I ran into Nixon again.

We began courting though it was transient, at best. We were together for less than a week, and he rushed off to Europe while I stayed here and folded laundry. We had several dramatic moments in which we both professed to one another that eventually, we'll come back.

That day still looms.

Nixon is my favorite. When ever I'm having too many banal dramas at one time, I walk to his apartment in the cranes on the underbelly of this city. He always opens his door for me, and we share poetry or watch bad British comedy shows and bounce topics regarding Lacan (that lying sack of poop) and the Marquis de Sade. I call him for absolution. We bandy feverishly our silly colloquy jabs.

In public, I write him notes in my journal and he responds with autistic aplomb.

This past weekend, I almost died. Again.

I wound up rushed to the emergency room because I couldn't breathe; I was having an allergic reaction to my antipsychotics. I decided that since I was alive, the best thing to do is go check out some clubs and drink too much.

Apparently, I had an amazing time dancing with attractive strangers in my skimpy black outfit. I, of course, only recall bits and pieces of this. I was ashamed of the fact I had given back into alcohol, since kicking it this time around has been a little too uncomfortably operose.

All of my cronies drink, and they drink unabashedly, and they drink as though the next day doesn't matter. I used to be among them, but I had to walk away from it.

Anonymous consortiums don't do it for me. They're trying and there are too many fucking doughnuts, and I, ever-the-neurotic one, am trying to maintain this slimmer figure of mine.

Succeeding the brush with death and alcoholic romps with science fiction writers who look like Jude Law gone lanky, I called Nixon to deliver to him the news.

"Oh, shit," he said.
"Yeah, I know," I responded.
"Are you going to beat up your doctor for nearly killing you?"
"Probably not."
"I'm moving out of the apartment," he said.
"Oh, why?!" I demanded.
"My landlord isn't going to renew my lease, and since I live around a university, a lot of college kids are going to want to live there."
"So where am I going to walk to?" I questioned him.
"I don't know, yet," he responded.

Nixon has a fondness for me that's elevated on the way we wound up splitting. We don't necessarily consider it to be a relationship per se, because my inebriated behind made damn sure it would end before anything serious on my end began to seep into the edges of our having-sex-to-Massive-Attack & constantly-talking-about-Adam-Ant casual relationship.

Now, you lot know I hate casual relationships. This is an issue with which I've come to terms. I don't like casual dating. I don't want to casually sleep with someone as a means to get to know them. I will have dinners with people and theorize all the baryonic dark matter in the universe, yes, but it means something to me to invite near-strangers into my plaid skirts.

Nixon discovered this the hard way.

I e-mail him writing, pick up the pieces of his latest works from his living room floor. Our hugs last centuries. He's always making sure I'm alright. I told him during this last conversation that I would be fine.

I'm still alive, aren't I?

He snickered and threw me that deliciously brown-eyed Yeah, for now gaze.

Traveling has been fabulous for me. I'll be making it over to Europe soon, just as I finish up writing this silly book and finding a publisher who won't echo the abusive words of that one guy I fucked for too many years.

So, we'll see.

The point?

There is none. I'm just grateful I'm alive, my mother's alive, my father's alive, my book is nearly completed, I have musical projects, I've come out of my shell and am actually making something of myself. I'm grateful for the people who've put up with me as I was falling all over a dance floor because my blood-alcohol level was dangerously high.

I'm also grateful to you who have decided you still like me, that or you're stalking me for your own sadistic purposes, whichever comes first. I appreciate everyone being supportive and still perusing all of my dreck.

And there is your update.

Be good to yourselves. I'll be back in about nineteen days or so.

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time & machine