Lucky You, Here's a Rant.

Today I'm pissed off. Cranky crankasaurus. And watch out, Osbasso, I may be in a mood to whine. Better just click yourself away from here if you mind.

Let's see where this morning has brought us: the favorite coffee house and bookstore, sitting on a comfy couch, watching people, drinking my fuzzy coffee beverage. It's not so bad. Soon I'll start writing for real. For now, though, I need to work-write my way through this mood.

Honestly, my personal life is such a pile of burning truck tires that I wouldn't have to look far to figure out what could be bothering me. Foundering marriage? Absent friends? Professional angst? I muddle through this crap everyday; today feels different, as though there's a twisted bolt in my gut that some fucking thing is cranking hard in a bad way. It's tightness and pain, breathtaking with an accompanying lump in my neck.

Here's what I think it is, and it may crack you up. I'm tired of spilling my guts. I'm tired of opening myself up to people and not being met. I'm tired of telling people all the genuine things I think and feel, and sharing the vulnerable parts of myself and just not getting the same back, or not having it understood, or not being celebrated for all the different things I am.

You know, I'm sorry that a lot of people in my world don't know how to connect to or articulate their emotions, but I am really fucking tired of always taking these risks of expression and getting nothing back. Or worse, punched in the stomach. For example, my husband's response to what I shared about my yoga class (see post below). My energy for this kind of bullshit is spent. Yet funnily enought, the bullshit just goes on and on.

Sometimes writing here helps. But it doesn't get me a real arm around my shoulders or a voice on the other end of the phone saying 'Baby, I know how it goes.' Like everything else, it feels like writing a letter, twisting it into a bottle, and throwing it into the sea. Will I get a bottle back? Maybe. But it's just a bottle. I'm still alone on this island with the monkeys, and the sunburn, and the ever-fucking coconuts, my god the coconuts.

It's a constant and pervasive loneliness. How many philosophers have said that to be human is to be alone? Fuck man, it's exhausting and I don't want to be lonely anymore and I want it to stop absolutely fucking right now. I want the magic wand. I want the fairy godmother with her bitchin' Camaro to zoom up and make my life better.

Today, if I could take my son to Paris and not ever speak to any of these fuckheads again, I absolutely would.

But my passport expired.

Lucky you. I'm sticking around.