The Boyfriend Ring

There’s a ring around the moon.

I’d take a picture of it if I weren’t a crappy photographer. I’m thinking all kinds of things right now. I’m thinking about how confused and generally angry I am. I am thinking about how disconnected I feel from my audience and how suspicious I am of the internet and how completely disorganized I am with the Cylon and how much more comfortable I was with the gray chunk of Dell-age that I had that I used to know how to knock into submission because I had folders everywhere and I used to kick them around until they behaved themselves. I’d do things like defragment drives and stuff just did what it was meant to until it didn’t. Now things are just falling apart around me. It can all be traced back to my temper tantrums and negligence. To me having all these great ideas and passion but not taking basic precautions and backing up and doubling down on safety features. It’s really elementary, but I don’t do it so it’s not optimal and then I cry when things don’t just blossom and flourish.

When I don’t look turtlenecky and cool and smooth and I have technology’s version of spaghetti sauce on the white skirt again. I’m a mess, and there is a cigarette burn in my new dress from the crazyparty last night. Hopeless. Go ahead. Judge. People do it. I drank too much as well. It’s not something that happens a lot. I don’t do my ‘a lot-s’ a lot. But I do them quite effectively. I’m my own biggest problem. I can break my own heart quicker than you can. I can do it faster and better than you. I’ll open a door and poke with sharp sticks until the mean horrible humans run through them and then I will say “see, told you so.” If you are still around me you are a saint and a hero and you have also been given pieces of my soul – which I consider to be very valuable. To me, loyalty is measured in body-things. It’s kinetic and visceral. It’s hard to explain this. I think it takes months of being sick and depressed and push-y/away-y and secret-y and increasingly angry and horrible. I’m at that point where I can feel the attitude turn-around on the horizon. I remember the fresh-clean feeling I had between 2008ish-2009ish. No complications, no mess. Just a crest up a productive hill of self-discovery until I found I was Unwell. And I don’t bear up well under limitation. I don’t broadcast much specific, but I sure do get whiny and defeatist. And I sure do feel sorry for myself. I sure am the most entitled, persecuted person in the universe. Those kids starving in Africa, murder victims, natural disasters… nope. No one understands. Nobody understands the bleak blackness of MY plight. Blahblahblahbittyblah. Painpainshabaingrain.

I’m making light, but it gets lonely inside a skull, as each of you who happens to own one knows. I bet you are sitting there thinking I am mad! How can I possibly understand! You, of course, have a brain in YOUR skull! How could I get it?! I couldn’t know your plight.

Oh rest assured, human, I’ve been down in your “human condition.” It ain’t pretty. When you (you being me) look in the mirror …. It Ain’t P R E T T Y ……

I’m tired. And I’m a worry-wart.

I just keep pumping out new material and then I have to back off from making the same mistake over-and-over again before I talk myself into a tizzy. (too late-ski) If there is noise all around me while I am trying to make a head space, a clear space to think – well then I’m going to crack. As you can see that I have done. There is just not really enough time … I have seven minutes to finish this blog entry and then I need to go in and watch TV. It’s pretty hard to be me. Later I will have to figure out when I’m going to do this, that, or the other. And how to best talk about it in a way that is general enough to get my point across without Spoiling Anything for anyone by intimating anything or For Instancing. Because I’m not really pointing out anything, or saying anything about anyone.

I’m cool. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

No, I’m totally fine. 🙂

Nothing to see here. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.

Why does the ring around the moon appeal to me? I think it’s because it seems like a little bubble of safety.

One of the boys I used to love when I was very young – we kissed. Our first kiss. It was his Very Very first kiss. It happened behind his house because we had gone for a walk. I wanted him to give me his jacket and he smelled like a Sophomore and like someone who played drum and knew about computers and was smart and had sweet breath. He had glasses and brown eyes and he was just taller than me enough. I remember things like that. I remember all my first kisses will all my first kissers that first kissed me. They were all really exquisite. There was something really singular about each one – like it was a present given to me because the universe knew I was going to be a songwriter and would need sumptuousness in my life. I would need material made of swapped gum and gorgeous lips and nibbling and breathtaking surprises in parking lot structures and getting dark cul-de-sac drive homes and of course, a trail behind the tennis courts.

Beautiful things.

There was a ring around the moon, and I don’t discuss these things often enough. I write in stilted lists about being unhappy. About the cryptic problems I’m having with such and such a thing. I don’t commit to the Bitching Out of the Upsetting Fact. And it is very Heady and Beautiful and Heartbreaking and Marvelous and all very so much worth it.

I wouldn’t change any heartache from distant past that Creeps up randomly in thought at a visual memory. Nor any recent one, nor a memory of one from my last Phase Shift before the Positive Era of Denise that I vaguely remember. I have been blessed with so many Heartbreak Thingy-ma-jigs. It’s all so very wonderful. Ack. I have so many people in my life that yell and scream or silently stonewall and I guess I am an easily alarmed creature but I can take it even though I am jumpy and it hurts.

The ring around the moon is an illusion of clouds. It’s so many miles away. You can’t touch it in your airplane. I will never touch the moon. Not with my fingers. I won’t touch the clouds. I am not safe in my bubble. I get touched. I get burned. I can’t say “never again.” I’m sure that I’m going to cry some more. So I may as well carpe the diem or whateveryak. And get on with it. This time, I will go with my gut and I will not hide behind my fear. I’m already starting out wrong, and I can’t go down the road where I throw fear at gifts of love just because I see trouble behind every piece of bruised fruit. Everyone has a sad story. We must stick or fall apart. It will hurt either way. It’s a choice, really.

And I learn, either way.
Everytime I see that moon though, no matter who or what my current situation, even if I happen to sit with lack of the boyfriendly sort of conflict; it always goes through my mind to ask “how’s your modem?”

The Boyfriend Ring

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