Somewhere, I have notes on family and names, the infamy of Cuban fare, being alone together, breaking the seal, passing Damian on the way to Havana, salty hair from salty air, rum and brown, threaded fingers, not enough euchre, every life-guard trying to sell me lobster meals, patterns on palms, plus 20 minutes Cuba time, finding out how deep my scars run, blushing through my sunburn, sand everywhere and in everything.
Continue reading “this must be the place”…
Heather G left a package outside my door after trying to make plans and getting what must have been a distant answer. Organic herbal tea, 80% dark chocolate truffles, and not only sushi from my favourite restaurant, but my favourite kinds too. She knows me extraordinarily well for a person I barely get a chance to see, and she cares so much even though she has no idea what I’m going through. It’s helped me realize that some people are better at being what you need, that you can’t expect every person to fill all the roles in your life. I’m also trying to figure out what those needs are right now, and how to express those needs to others (or how hard it is for me to express them).
It always takes me a while to recover from these kinds of weeks, and this one was particularly difficult. When the cops showed up, I pulled the whole Drexl Spivey thing and ate my Chinese, carried on like I ain’t got a care in the world. I know what they need to hear, especially the second time around, and what’s more, I know that nothing they say will make a difference.
Everything has left me feeling numb and overstimulated. Almost all the hours are spent in Far Cry 3 with a bolt-action suppressed Z93, wasting time and lives in appropriate portions. Losing myself in that world and not getting anything productive done at all was an easy decision. I know I deserve to be okay for a little while, and we all deal with our damage in different ways.