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January 3, 2008

Getting Back

I have been avoiding opening my laptop for the last several days. When I answer e-mails I respond by phone. I check a few websites and close up with a little snick of the Mac latching closed. I wish I could say that the last few weeks have been a blur, but they haven’t been. I have lived six months in two weeks. I am tired, sick of crying, fucking sick to death of people, tired of being questioned, misunderstood and slapped around like a little bitch.

I should be sick of wine, but I’m not going to be hasty. I’ve found that it is quite comforting buying bottles of wine at the quaint little wine shoppe (that’s “shop” with the extra “pe” for PErfect). Through the store I wander, my heels clacking on the hardwood, looking at signs and labels and figuring out which pinot noir will be required to hold my hand during the next stumble or how angry I have to get before I’ll break down and open a bottle of shiraz. There’s nothing wrong with shiraz except for the fact that me no likey. Therefore it is relegated with Mr. Jack Daniels to the back of the bus where the “Danger Liquids” sit waiting for their opportunity to come out punching and kicking, switchblades and spurs at the ready.

I’ve been on overload since about the 15th. That’s kind of a long time, even for me. But still I’m not ready to talk. I get like this - quiet, withdrawn - when I have a lot on my mind. It’s frustrating not knowing how to articulate things. And so I haven’t really tried. I’ve been avoiding JN. I’ve also been sick as hell and spent the last three days in bed sleeping, sweating and dreaming terrifying dreams. I was passed out cold when the clock chimed 2008, drunk on Ny-Quil. Boyfriend came in the bedroom at midnight to give me a kiss, but other than that I was done like dinner and curled up in the fetal position like a wino after a really good party under the bridge.

I have to come back sooner or later though, and I’m just deciding on when. I’ve got my piece written; it’s just coming down to how much I want to share. Even I - who will share pretty much anything - have some limits. I’m not sure if I want to break them. Is it better to keep things in or let them out if they’re intensely personal? That’s rhetorical, of course. There’s no right answer to that.

I have asked certain people from “real” life to please respect whatever shred of privacy I might have and to stop reading the blog. They have, however, opted to keep reading. I’ve discussed the feelings I have of the lack of privacy and being “found” by people who don’t really deserve to know what is going on in my life, but the end result is the same: either shut the fuck up and keep writing or shut the fuck up and stop.

I’ve been going back and forth about what I want to do after I shut the fuck up about it.

It was not a happy Christmas. It wasn’t a really great New Year. But in order to share with you, I have to expect that I will be sharing with them and for fuck’s sake, it’s like shoving shards of glass underneath my toenails. I want to be comforted by the fact that I don’t give a flying fuck what they say or think of me, I must, for I hesitate to write the things I have to write.

Ah, whatever. I bought a few bottles of a particular wine I sampled over the holidays and I think that will accompany me nicely to hell and back whilst writing what I have to write. It’s spicy, angry and carnivorous. Escudo Rojo is my Cerberus, my mad dog.

I will be turning off comments from time to time over the next few weeks so I can pretend no one is reading what I write. Sometimes it’s easier that way, doing things with my fingers in my ears and eyes squeezed shut.

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