It was sudden and completely unexpected; one afternoon we noticed that he kept to himself, curling up in dark spots that he wasn’t known to frequent. We knew there was a problem when he wouldn’t eat, then he passed away at the vet that day. That was almost three years ago, but I haven’t had the strength to properly eulogize him. It’s too painful when I already spend my days either crying or cried out.
I didn’t even have a chance to say bye.
That’s why these drafts keep piling up. I miss writing as much as I miss the hairy little companion who would jump on my lap for attention every morning, but taking the energy to create feels so meaningless when I barely have the spoons to cook for two people and keep a clean house. I don’t even know if I’ll be alive in another year. The jury’s still out, and I’ve decided they can take their time for now instead of rushing towards a verdict.
It’s also why I’ve been on a regular dose of sedatives since last winter. I used to have to lie down for blood tests, while vaccinations were totally fine. After all, there’s nothing being drawn, no crimson essence I can see rushing from my body into little vials. But when I almost passed out, then vomited, at a clinic for a booster shot last year, I knew mindfulness techniques and breathing exercises could do only so much.
Continue reading “blood simple”…
I needed to feel a different pain. I needed to reassert myself. I needed to change my body from the one he knew.
I’ve been killing it. Nights that bleed into morning, pots of coffee, retail therapy, English ales that drink like meals. The blood doesn’t faze me anymore. Instead of slowly slipping down the spiral, I’ve decided to fall all the way so I can climb back up.
Sometimes you have to tear yourself down before you can start rebuilding.
I wish Trolley was here so we could play Starcraft 2 like we did when we lived on Island Park. I’d set up my laptop in his room — he’d have a beer and I’d have a joint — and we’d spend hours against some computers in Warcraft 3. Or he’d surf the web and listen to music while I wrote in this blog, sharing the apartment with his kitty and mine.
Those were the summers of No Motiv and Coheed and Cambria. The winters of Bel Canto and The Dears. I remember being happy then.
I wish Aaron and Trolley were here so we could get really, really drunk, even though I don’t drink anymore. Only when I wake up in the middle of the night, and all the thoughts I’ve been pushing into the back of my head come clawing out, leaving me with a restless mind. I pour a glass of Bailey’s on the rocks and practice scales until the alcohol makes me fall asleep again.
One time, we went to the Honest Lawyer to celebrate Aaron’s birthday. In our drunken haze, we thought it’d be a good idea to order some pizza when we got back to my apartment (there was a pizzeria right outside the side door). Aaron hurled in the garden rocks as we were waiting for the order. We brought him in, and gave him a pillow and towel cause he wanted to sleep in the bathroom. He told me later, “I only get that drunk when I’m really depressed”. Sounds good to me.
I wish my friends were here so we could drink like the old days, when we were between school and work, and women.
Also known as a drinking party at Shirley’s.
This is how I learn that people have a good time when there’s at least one person willing to make a fool of himself, because it sets the tone for everyone else.
That being young is to be young at heart. That to be young at heart is to laugh deep and laugh regularly.
And that it never hurts to have alcohol to help facilitate the process.
Trolley left his Tuborg in my room tonight, but I purposely didn’t tell him so that I could have a chance to talk with him when he remembered where it was.