Do I Have the Reins? Really?

I don't know that I'm out of the woods yet, but I'm feeling better. Even with all the job stress and general bullshit that keeps dragging me down, at least tonight, I'm doing better.

Maybe it's the Scooby Doo with the girl. Maybe I've just gotten to the "who gives a fuck" barrier. Maybe it's the drinking. Hell, it's probably all three. But right now, looking down the barrel of a long and horrible next two months, knowing I'm going to be miserable and more tired than I am know and will probably lose all my PTO, I'm in a good mood.

Now let's ride this sonuvabitch as far as it will take me! Giddyup!

I Admit It

I cannot deny this any longer. It's been eating at my guts for some time. It's who I am and if it means I'm some sort of monster or something else, so be it.

I think James Joyce is overrated.

Seriously overrated.

I tried to read Ulysses. It bored the shit out of me.

I tried reading the Dubliners and few of his other short stories. I wanted to gouge my eyes out just to prove I was still alive and was not in some sort of circle of Hell where you're forced to read overrated crap.

After reading a few short stories by William Faulkner, I decided to come clean. I enjoyed those immensely. So much I might actually try to track down a novel. That's right. A friggin' book. If not a novel, then a book of short stories. Something! I can't get enough tonight!

I no longer hate famous authors. I want to read again. Just not James fuckin' Joyce. Something tells me that will be my eternity.

Into the Time Machine And Back Out Again

I feel less miserable than I did on Saturday. Coming off of a cold, I'm tired and my nose and head are filled with snot. It's late, and I probably shouldn't of had those two big glasses of gin and tonic.

Hungry, I shuffle into the kitchen and open the cupboard. The box of Booberry catches my attention and I pour myself a handful of chemical blueberry and marshmallow goodness. As I try to breath through the snot in my nose, the smell of the cereal mixes with the fog in my head. For a moment, I'm four years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my Sylvester the Cat pajamas watching the 19-inch television as the Scooby-Doo theme begins to play and the bats from the haunted house fill the colored screen.

For those few moments, I'm somewhere I haven't been in a long time. Somewhere that existed before the brutality of adulthood pushed its ugliness into the life of my brother and me. Me and him got along. Mom and dad fought, but not often. There wasn't much to be afraid of, other than not having our room clean enough to watch Saturday cartoons. Somewhere before we knew better or cared to know better - where you were more worried about your peter getting caught in the zipper or your mom hearing you say "bastard".

For those few moments, I felt innocent and naive and completely happy. As I snapped out of it, I was thankful I have the girl to share my Scooby-Doo addiction with and appreciation for horrible cereals with. And I guess to a degree, as I come to, I hoped that the innocence I remember stays with her for a long, long time. There's few thing more beautiful than her singing the Scooby-Doo theme song or Happy Birthday or saying "I want my daddy" in the middle of the night.

Nothing.

One Sunday A Long, Long Time Ago

I was just sitting here, working, when all of a sudden the memory of her rushed over me. I haven't thought about her in a while; but I suppose over time that's the way things go.

We were walking through a neighborhood near my great-grandma's house. Though it was winter, there was no snow on the ground and the sun was shining. Maybe the pavement was wet, but hell, I can't remember. Like I said - it was a long time ago.

I was peddling Campfire candy and Jo was walking through the neighborhood with me. Her daddy was a Marine and they were getting ready to head over to Bangladesh. I remember hearing about how at her last day of school the class through a party for her and gave her presents. Maybe she told me about the Barbies and such as we walked through the streets, cold and hoping to unload all this candy for whatever cause it was for. All I know is it was Campfire candy. And yes, boys could be in Campfire.

Jo had big blue eyes and blond hair. She was a sweetheart. Really, she was a good, sweet kid. I remember one Christmas when she was around (obviously, her old man being in the military her family moved around a lot)and we hadn't seen each other in years, well, two or three, but when you're eight or nine it might as well be an eon as the world is still so new, but we were fast friends. I loved her. Everybody did.

Anyways, we were walking back to my great-grandma's house (which was her grandmother, making her my mom's cousin, but anyways this isn't a delving into my family tree) and Jo had this calculator. I remember her stopping me and saying, "I can make the numbers look like a rainbow."

I was instantly interested. Would they arch on the tiny little screen? She was older than me by a year so surely she knew something I didn't. "Really? How?"

She pushed her thumb against the little LCD screen and like oil in mud puddle greens and purples and blues quickly rushed onto the screen. There was no arch and there were no other colors like red and orange and yellow. But it was pretty.

I don't remember saying goodbye to her before her family left for Asia. I'm sure we did. And I didn't get to say goodbye to her before, well, I didn't get to tell her goodbye. And to say why seems unnecessarily cruel for whomever may stumble across this damn thing. But for some reason today, in the monotony of my everyday Monday, my mind drifted to her and that one sunny Sunday in what I'm guessing was February.

I didn't realize how much I missed her.