Caterwauling

“You should ask X for (thing I really need from them),” they tell me.

I say I’m still mad. Not necessarily at X. Well, not entirely at X. But when one person’s decision ignites YOUR world on fire, yeah. Need a little more mad time, thanks.

“You NEED to ask,” they text back.

I say look. I’m grateful for all the good. There was a whole lot of it. And I think I cherished it all. Maybe not as much, toward the end. But I still knew the risks of leaving first. And those helped me stay.

“They owe you, Goddess,” they say. “Your life was dedicated to them. Your heart, soul health was invested. They know that. Don’t let it all be for nothing. It was bigger than all of you before it was a pile of dust.”

I think about it. And the revelation appears out of nowhere.

He didn’t want to be one of “my boys.” And I don’t know how to compute that.

They aren’t all “my boys,” you know. Sure, I give them every opportunity. Most of them realize a Goddess-less life isn’t worth living. And a Goddess-blessed one is filled with a whole lot more joy than the alternative.

One of my boys typed to another the other day, “If you’re not one of Goddess’ boys, what are you, really?”

I was cc’d. And so very pleased.

I think I always felt second/third/whatever fiddle. No matter how much I gave or tried or hurt or stressed or worried. Maybe I wasn’t so far down the food chain. I don’t know. Perhaps I needed more validation than I got. Or perhaps my apparent lack of needing any was off-putting.

In any event. I do feel owed. You go all-in and you are standing there alone half the time. Not bond-building. You memorize every detail of their life, and they probably still don’t know your cocktail of choice that you never ever deviate from.

It’s OK. It’s always OK. You’re always OK, even when you’re not.

I’m not a fan of this “Smile because it happened” shit. I will damn well cry because it’s over until I die.

But I’m getting better. It’s just not happening on any timetable that anyone would deem quick. And I may never get what it is I need/deserve. Not from this person. Maybe not from anyone.

But there is always the hope.

Folks ask my friends how I’m doing. What I’m feeling. If I’m plotting.

No one has asked ME, mind you.

What’s funny is that I catch the main asker whispering. A lot. And the conversation always stops when I walk in/past. Either it’s about me (doubtful — I don’t give people much to talk about) or problems/insecurities you don’t want confident, happy, secure Goddesses to overhear.

Maybe folks shouldn’t ask if they don’t want me inquiring right on back.

Leaving the total gray sky and downpour behind in the rear view, literally …

And at the same time, seeing nothing but blue skies and no rain heading south. 

I took both photos within seconds of each other …

Only in Florida!

At least I’m not a fighter for ISIL. 

At least I’m not in a sex-trafficking ring.  

At least I’m not living in a hollowed-out hospital in Aleppo. 

At least I don’t have Sean Spicer’s job.

At least I have a home. Even though the assholes upstairs go on benders every night and smash up the place and I drive as tired as can be every morning.  

That’s how I get through the day now. 

Wonder if  God gave me this commute to make sure I’d be praying to live in between prayers for a targeted meteor to take me away. 

Appropriation, yes. But this is what my soul is screaming. 

This works, too …

Mom said to me yesterday she wishes she could make it to age 65.

She’s turning 60 in September. God willing.

Saw this vintage secret on PostSecret today. It could be mine …

Not only someone to comfort me when the worst thing ever to happen to me happens (the only event that can surpass the 2016 election), but also someone who didn’t/doesn’t support Trumpanzee.

And I thought it was hard to get a good man without those parameters …

I’ve been looking forward to the weekend. So I could settle down for a nice winter’s blog. 

But it’s 94 degrees and the neighbors as usual kept me up half the night and the cat jolted me out of sleep early. 

Anyway, I think this text I sent a dear old friend sums it up. 

It’s like I got in my car and drove to 2012. Happy Friday!

In one week’s time, I got: evicted from my favorite office/city, put in a fishbowl, talked to about my flair, sent home (well, self-deported) for violating dress code, my period (three weeks early!), and a May calendar filled with dear friends’ exit interview and termination dates.  

Forget 2012. It’s 2008 all over again.  

You can wear mascara on just your upper lashes. That way you can cry and not have raccoon tracks. You’re welcome.