Guys.
Excitement levels are at an all time high.
HIGH HIGH HIGH!!!!
I’m still here, I haven’t left.
I’ve been kinda busy “throwing myself into the corporate world”
and “spending time doing important things.”
We all know that’s a load of horseshit,
so let’s just be honest and fess up
to what’s really been going on.
I’ve been falling down, down into love. Downer and downest.
I’ve also been….
1. Sabotaging my sugar-free diet by binging on the crystal meth of Christmas candy.
2. Counting the alarming number of cat hairs on Oscar’s clothes.
3. Thinking, “I’m going to visit all the countries in the world in the next ten years!” and then realizing that there are a shit-ton of countries, so eff that.
4. Crying in public. Mostly about me being in love, but also about other things that make me sad, like my back fat.
Too much to handle, huh?
Rest your mind, and open your eyes to this.
I woke up to this cabin, in Joshua Tree.
And I died.
And I am now blogging from the afterlife.
And now, some truth.
While there are varying levels of honesty, this is the truth at it’s truest.
I wrote some notes on a napkin in 2001, after I graduated high school.
I was sitting down in the halls at my college campus, waiting for my next class.
Legs indian-style, I didn’t know anyone, I just sat there and drank my orange juice.
I opened up a book of quotes, one written by George Eliot (the second paragraph below).
I decided to write a paragraph prior to his, to make it my own.
This note was not intended for anyone specific at the time,
I just knew that I was writing out of frustration.
And I was longing for someone that had a hand that matched my own.
Think of a painter attempting to capture an inner dream.
She begins with one corner of the canvas, painting what she thinks should be there.
She takes a step back and realizes that her creation does not reflect her dream—
she has not quite pulled it off.
Frustrated, she covers it over with white paint, trying again,
each time finding out what her painting isn’t, and what her dream is.
The inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person;
having neither to weigh thoughts nor to measure words but to pour them all out, just as it is,
knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them,
keeping what is worth keeping,
and then, with the breath of kindness,
blow the rest away.
I no longer need to question who I was writing for.
I salute you, sir Oscar…
for helping me paint the dream I’ve tried painting all of my life.
