deer might fly why not: i met you

i am listening to an album by a band called the weepies. do you know about them? did i forget to check my culturemeter before i left for work this morning, last week, when i was twenty-four? probably. they win in my book. i listen to them and see you and talk to my brother and watch italian food on mute and the dog circles around and every so often says, so....are we going to bed yet? no? okay i'll eat some more of the carpet and wait and so....are we going to bed yet?

and you, my friend, i am afraid to call you my friend. how do i find myself again in this place, afraid, and i think, what in the good God's name made me so afraid? i know the answer but i make up others in my head and wish it was more that it was but know nothing could be more than that, than the truth, so little of which i've shared with you, my friend, but all of it you know.

someday there will be no more ropes

mothers who kill their children. what is that about?

why am i thinking about this, anyway. shit. there is an 87-year old woman i have on a case, a victim, a mother who didn't kill her children, and she was robbed, terribly, and things stolen from her, and well.

whatever.

i feel like i go into some courtrooms with my hands tied with ropes i could undo, but that could possibly result in someone else being hurt--or is it fear? fear fear fear, you are afraid of some things, she says, i don't know what they are, or why, but you are afraid sometimes of something(s) and

but thanksgiving is coming. i've eaten the same thing two days in a row now. should i go for three? except tomorrow is friday and time for steak and red wine, red wine is a good drowner.

andrea yates was too tired and too thin in her wedding dress, and her husband looks blind with those big eyes, and why is counseling wrong and bad and terrible and why would you kill all of your children, then, don't know, do you?

my cousin Stephanie is pregnant with her eighth child. shitfucker.

that's my new one.

the dog is now running around tearing the brains out of her little rabbit and now, the pink (don't feel bad about the rabbit because its orange, yes well) ball. fire and brimstone.

those eyes are awfully big.

let me do this, well, sometimes the answer is yes. i will.

rachel ray, you sell-out, you shut your mouth

now i am talking on the phone AND blogging. "blogging." nerrrrk.

i find that more and more i have little to say in writing. is that true, or just laziness, or the zero lack of forums (fora? flora and fauna? mr tumnus?) to put what i'm thinking and feeling into words. when i get home it is nice to be quiet, or to just think--nope, scratch that--to just listen. there we are. or nowhere at all.

poor sandra lee. her show has been cancelled on foodtv. it's not that her food looked good anyway (because that shit looked like......yeh), or that her tablescapes (for real, that's what they're called) were anything that would draw me into someone's home rather than looking for a polite escape, but she just......looked like a giraffe. no no, i mean she just had that certain something.......like the way she would say "and then it's cocktail time!" or "now let's put some of that delicious syrup on the brown apple betty!"

man. i hated that show.

it's been too long but it's because

i bought an xbox 360. i'm sorry.

imagine the best thing you've felt in years

that's like how it is when i hear your voice, even on a voicemail, a pre-recorded piece of electronic transmission, when i hear your voice in live and real and cold person, when i hear you in the front room of my apartment having just come in from the actual real cold air, with your cheeks ruddy and still cold and kissable and well, i can't post this now, now can i?

is it because you are you or is it because i have a bit of class yet left inside me? that i can't post, that is? i hope it is the latter and never the former, because there isn't a good Goddamn (God with a CAPITAL G) thing wrong with this love letter, posted on the internet, for all to see, which i will post after all is said and done. it's a well-versed one, now isn't it? you would be proud and will be proud and are proud even reading it, because i will love you just as well without words, and that is the thing that continues to separate you from everything and everybody else in the world, i can love you without words just as well and even better, that i can use my words but they aren't necessary after all, turns out.

is the bad girlfriend alarm going off? shit, i hope not.

imagine the best thing you've felt in years, and years and years and today, then you will have it and then some again. like that new song that makes you rush for your credit card to purchase it on the old itunes, and like the best drink you've just discovered that everybody's been drinking for years and the jeans you pull on and on and on to holes and they still feel nice and comfortable and oh no, don't throw those out i know their rags but i love love them wish they could always be so, yes, that's just like that, the good jeans and the drink and the song, you are equal to and the sum of and the most universally greater than any and all of those, you are, quite simply, the beginning and end of me.

of course there's God, Jesus, that's not even relevant at this point. keep it in your bible covers, people.

Lord, where has romance gone?

not that i ever knew the word until, yeh, well. well.

well, well, well.

secret's out, i guess.

you know who you are

i love you, and i love like that, even.

how do you like those potatoes, eh?

i thought you might like them. and like this: i blog more for you than i do for you, or even you! i blog........"blog," gross.........for you, my friend that so much goes left unsaid for, because i think you will end yourself before anyone who loves you is ready, and do you care? nah, you don't and don't, and that in itself alone makes me miss you more before you've even gone.

i drink a guiness as i write this. if i had a good idea and a good other blog, i would review you, guiness, and tell you that........you are so disappointing and so consistent, it's hard to even dislike you or give you a good review. none are true about you, guiness. do i keep spelling you incorrectly? i hope so, oh i hope.

money can't buy you back the love you had then.

the dashboard! when did that come about?

now?

there is a case out of our (Our?!) old stomping grounds i can't stop thinking about. i wish i could say his name here, but i would then lose my jobby job, and he would win, now wouldn't he?

of course.

there is a good person i get to work with named......ha......forget that part of it, but has a name (even two whole names, maybe more than that), and she has those decisions before her, and makes the decisions that are the worst of those decisions, but decisions all the same, and tells me all about them and those and there and its.

well. let's leave it at that.

it's really not as morbid as it sounds.

when the tempurpedic (sp?) (the fancy-bed people?) commercial comes on, and the lady's like, "come to tempurpedic.........come to bed," are you freaked out a little? like maybe there might be something between you and the lady? like she's making you an offer you can't refuse? and maybe.....just maybe......you don't really want to, but yeh, okay, you'll come to bed. you're ready.

i'm watching a documentary on charles manson. does anyone else think that whole thing is totally insanely compelling? because......yeh, i do. read helter skelter.

the prosecutor says: is he dead yet?

also, trust me. you'd rather talk to him than talk to his parole officer. really? you think, that's this guy's parole officer? whatever, man. let's hear some more guitar.

she says: yet? why not?

i had a drink (well, i had two, she had a) with the judge i appear before regularly. is that weird to say? i feel like that's weird. are we speaking another language, a different language? a different one, you and i? i think so. and so, like i was saying, i was there and so was she, and it was like having a drink with the kind of person i sort of thought she might be all the time, but was pretending she wasn't. it was very sad, yeh?

yeh.

also, don't watch the charles manson biography thing, because it's very sad. watching him isn't very sad, watching him will make you (if you're me, yeh, well) want to kill him. watching the women, though, who were and were again stronger and then beyond stronger fucked up beyond belief before and while and after, well, that's the sad part. and sure, you can be all fucked up together on acid and then be conditioned and whatever and kill, but then again.....

why, again, not dead?

okay, so this is different, maybe (maybe not?), than the way i used to talk and write and think, but i'm paid now to talk and feel and advocate and argue and deal and whatever with the real person in the real fucking shit whether they explode it to the full hilt of the law or not day by day by day, and well, it'll give anybody heartburn.

even.

that's the scary part

i'm doing this at work.

so today i had a frustrating experience, in the morning, involving my feeling idiotic, ridiculous, righteously angry, betrayed, and forced to confront the absolute swell of my own pointless sense of pride. i suppose it's inevitable to have these kinds of experiences when you work in an environment like mine, but i still never get used to it and it doesn't ever lose the sharp teeth it has either.

whatever. isn't it dirty to talk like that on your blog? sure it is.

i think i'm going to move soon. i don't see myself finding self-worth and satisfaction in this position for very long. there are a lot of things i really love about my job, and a lot of things i love about my work and daily life here, and i love the boss (big and little) i have, but it's tiring and draining and ugly for the most part. who wants to live like that forever? bad for the chest and its contents.

remember the bible?

maybe this is just supposed to be for journaling, like live real-time journaling? but nobody wants to read that blog, right? that's the blog i roll my eyes at and skim over if i even visit. so then maybe i shouldn't make it public, right? no clicky, not tricky. i don't know.

i have another hearing at 1 o'clock today, in five minutes, but i'm sure the judge isn't going to be back from lunch, so what do i care? am i better than that? i don't know. i used to think so, but now i.......well, maybe i'm just avoiding taking responsibility for all the things that i do, no matter what they are. maybe i'm just blaming work and stress for my own failings as a person, as a Christian, as a friend, instead of any introspection or intraspection or whatever the fuck whole people are supposed to do, and getting off easy because it's a hard-to-confront issue. maybe i'm just avoiding any real, meaningful interaction with any real, meaningful people because it's much easier to feel self-important, prideful, and martyrish than it is to deal with concrete, difficult problems with concrete relationships that i have that might possibly be here after i decide to stop working here. or maybe i'll just keep working here forever, and do this job and become a raging alcoholic, bitter and angry at the world and its idiots, fool myself into thinking i've made a difference thirty seconds at a time, five days a week, with holiday and sick pay.

it'd be easy to do.

good morning

this is still called: font. don't you like to be up to date?

of course you do.

i work in a place where there are other, crazier people working alongside. there's the woman with the office next to me, who used to defend, who is bound and determined to be unhappy. it's her lot in life, really, and as much as you want to rebel against that notion, it's really working out for her and keeping her just fine and dandy, so why not so be it? yes?

alright.

and then the guy down the hall, who i had to discover, create, use--over and over again, mind you--and then bury under no uncertain terms, a hatchet, very big and very sharp and handy. we've buried it, but if you've read any king you know that what you bury is yours and may and always will come back to you, and is yours to begin with, so we'll see how that goes, if human nature is really as ugly or redemptive as we want to believe it (both) is.

those are two: wait for more.

let's try not to make this terrible

this is called: font. maybe i am and maybe i'm not. what difference does it really make, in the end?

let's try.

so i've been away. try to forgive me. i know it might take some time, some effort on both our parts, perhaps a circle of feelings. but look at it this way: in the meantime, i became an arbitrator, a used-car saleswoman, a bargain-dealer, a racist and a thief. but that was before i passed the bar exam. now, i am just looking for something i've misplaced.

maybe i'm starting this writing back up because when i get home it takes me over six hours to relax enough to even lie down in my bed without getting up after ten minutes, or because i sometimes question this: how did my world get this small this many times during the day, day to day, week to week, month to month? i was bigger than this, could think and walk and talk bigger much bigger than this at one time and without any prompting, so let's see it again, loya the destroya (or so they call me at workity work work work), do it for us all one more time.

alright.

back again.