Rock Me Like a Hurricane

Here we are again. Two years later, and no incredibly inappropriate yet mildly amusing internet ramblings to be found. I wrote the beginnings of the post below nearly two years ago, amidst some chaos and some soul-searching and some bourbon. Revisiting it now, it's only mildly depressing to see how much is relevant...A little more chaos, a little less soul searching, and a metric shit ton more bourbon, but other than that it's pretty much accurate. It's re-worked with a little less snark and a little more hope for catharsis, an edge I'm loathe to admit. It's a different life, a better one in so many ways, but in this moment, a harder one.



Ok, so here we are in zero land, 45+ unpublished posts languishing in the blogger dashboard. I had reasons, at the time, for pressing the mute button on this particular channel of insanity. I had reasons, and not all of them were funny. The pie chart of funny stories vs. not-so-funny personal crap became decidedly tilted, and the late-night-slightly-manic-keyboard-clicking-and-deranged-giggling sessions vanished. What's a quasi-humour blogger supposed to do when she's not laughing?

I had many rationalizations. Some posts were just a smidgen too racy for general consumption. I figured it was perhaps not necessary for any larger segment of the population to learn of my generally neurotic, often embarrassing, frequently misguided, and occasionally slightly less-than-moral demonstrations of horribly bad judgement.

Other posts were, to put it mildly, really fucking boring. And not the "Wow, that was kind of like watching my cat bathe" vaguely uncomfortable boring either. We're talking along the lines of "I'd rather suffer through 23 hours of childbirth with no drugs whilst being forced to watch a single episode of Jersey Shore on repeat" kind of boring. And, really, nobody wants that. (if you do, you are a far sicker person than I am, and I'd like to meet you...Mostly just to feel better about myself, of course.)

There were the posts whose content I was fairly certain would drive up suicide rates (I've since found better drugs) and the posts about that thing with that person that one night... (highly unflattering missives now destined never to see the light of day so long as we both shall live Amen). There were half-written posts littered with random notes-to-self (an aside: If anyone recalls the "story of the spray cheese" or "that thing about the badger & the snack crackers" please fill me in), and posts that more than likely could be used against me should I ever face any sort of mental hygiene exam, which, these days, isn't really that far out of the realm of possibility. Mostly, there was just that one post too many containing a reference to alcohol, caffeine, heartache, indiscretions, and/or some combination of the above.

There was procrastination, unexpected readership, writer's block, lack of sleep, and a hefty dose of apathy. There was too many tragedies and too many failures, all swallowed whole, no backwards glances.  There were too many exhausted evenings, hours of work and just as many hours of working out driving me straight to blissful unconciousness the second I stepped foot in the door. There were all of these things, all of these hilariously rejected posts, and since the general genre of this blog is supposed to be somewhat light and fluffy, a significant part of me is tempted to just leave it there. To throw this sucker up onto the world wide web in a highly self-satisfied manner and go back to listening to the "Songs for Sobbing" radio station. But there is too much more.

There are too many days when getting through in one piece seems unlikely. When getting air into my lungs without sobbing for any length of time is a small miracle. There are too many nights filled with unforgiving decisions to be made. When I've spent every second convincing myself to dig my fingernails into the edge of the world & not let go. There are too many lives unraveling, too much uncertainty, and far, far too much heartache.

My mother's always professed the "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" strategy. Well, I certainly haven't had anything nice to say...It's been nearly two years, after all...But is silence really a better option? I don't want to forget that time I fished dentures out of an elderly woman's teacup, or the declared teva+sock-wearing patchouli scented "mark of my people", or that time I worked out 5 times in one day and staggered around like Bambi drunk on Jack Daniels for a week. I don't want to forget to laugh, eventually, about how pathetic one actually looks cowering under a duvet in mismatched socks with strangers in the house and a large bottle of bourbon. Somehow, I'm convinced, that will seem really fucking funny in a story later on. But, of course, that raises questions. Will I figure out how to tell a story again? Will I want to? In the meantime, will I regret this colossally public admission of my life on the edge? We'll see.

I wonder if there's a capacity for crisis? A lifetime maximum that one can successfully navigate through? Or do we just keep finding our way, time after time, remembering how to breathe again? Do we move on, trying not to look sideways at the world while waiting for it to crumble like burnt paper into our hands? Or do we look, straight on, and find those moments that make our hearts beat of their own volition, no coaxing required? I don't know.

For now, here I am; messy, unpredictable, less-than-adequately-medicated, nursing a breakdown.  Here I am, staying afloat, with only the occasional "asinine musing". Here I am, and it's pretty fucking funny.