The Pants People

When I was little it took me hours to get to sleep. I mean hours. I would lie in bed, in the dark, singing or trying to remember poems or passages from books. Quoting movies and television shows. Shadow puppets and plays. I would start conversations with myself then rewind them and follow them back to the beginning. Until I started to have Johnny Carson interview me, in my head, every night.

I knew The Tonight Show was where the cool people hung out. Where it all happened. I knew if Johnny laughed at you, smiled at what you said, it was magic. I wanted to be magic. So special that Johnny would ask me what I did that day. "What did you have for lunch? How was recess? Did you do your homework?" It was almost a form of meditation every night that lasted until about sixth grade.

When Johnny retired I felt this odd sense of loss. I know as viewers we all can form attachments (albeit unconventional) so when the Tonight Show went to Leno I refused to watch it. I knew Letterman should have gotten it and I was full on team Dave. As far as I was concerned, Dave was the new leader of the cool kid gang.  He had the better musical guests, he actually gave a shit what his guests had to say. He was humble and his humor was so dry there was nearly a ten second delay on audience uptake.  I miss him already.

The cool kids have gone over to Fallon.  As have I.  It's a party every night and I laugh. I laugh a lot. But I don't think Jimmy really cares what I had for lunch, how my recess went or if I finished my homework. 

Scratch That

Pickle is going through a tremendous awful moult right now and tonight for the first time in his sweet life he had a bad tummy. Couldn't get comfortable, lying in strange places and no interest in food. Food is Pickle's life. So when I brought out the big guns, Bunnycrack and Alfalfa hay, and he still wouldn't move, I got a little scared.

Pickle doesn't just jump on my lap for pets, he will climb me to get to the apple I'm eating but volunteering for pets isn't his style. Tonight, after all his place changes, he suddenly jumped up to my spot on the couch. This was after an hour of refusing my attention and prodding. He wanted me to hold him. I did. I rubbed his belly. He stood it for only so long then he jumped down scratching my chest pretty good in the process.

I got a sweatshirt and wrapped him in it, filled a syringe with water and gave him about a teaspoon. I kept him in the sweatshirt while I rubbed his tummy some more and he was so calm and sweet. When Pickle decided he was done being helped, he jumped down. Within twenty minutes he was cleaning himself and then jumped into cage where he's eaten some but water still isn't as interesting as it should be.

I'm on vigil. So is Peanut. Might be a long night.

Save As

I need to write something. I need to say something. I need it. I feel it. But what? I get tired of harping on and on about the sick girl that feels and feels. Yet, that is what I am and do and see every single waking day. I feel. I feel lots. Too much. Oh, so damn much I need a damper some days. As previously stated I feel the need to create. To be a creator. Of what? Move the words around until I find the right order and I'll solve the puzzle of being this faulty human thereby saving all other faulty humans the pain and suffering of being faulty all alone? I think that might be so. I do believe there is this part of me that is so grandiose that thinks it can save people. Help them. With words. Like words saved me. Poetry. Music. Books. Films. They have saved me over and over. I quote pieces of these balms everyday. Sing them. Yet this seems an impossible task because words are always inadequate to the emotions being felt. But I try. Although not enough. Truth is, I haven't decided what my story is. Best get to it.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou