Friday, September 12, 2014

.Even The Moon.

I know I don't have much to say these days.

All the tortured-soul things I could spin sentences about once upon a time have kind of spun themselves out. No heartbreaks, no misadventures, no done-me-wrongs left; let's face it, batshit crazy has kinda been my thang for, well, ever...and batshit crazy makes for good stories. What does a girl write about when she can't write about chainsmoking and whiskey and doing all those gloriously debauched things that make a her simultaneously hate herself and feel invincible in the morning? 

I can't say. I don't know. A zebra can't hide her stripes, and my particular brand of dysfunction is as "me" as my green sweep it under the rug completely would be to reach Stepford-wife levels of fakeness and I just cannot do that. I also can't go back to being Momma-Before-She-Was-Momma. There's a little boy who deserves far better than that cuckoo-bananas bitch.

So I keep my crazy a little more just-for-myself. It's in the perfume I wear that's just a little too sexy for daytime, in the black nail polish that I reach for more often than not; it's in the "hey, remember when?" conversations I have with old friends, and the last bittersweet thoughts I have of Metallica and Marlboro Reds before I fall asleep almost every night. It's in my iTunes playlist where you'll find more heavy metal than mushy love songs, in my favorite Tim Burton movies, and in the fact that my favorite words are still very unladylike ones that I say as often as possible when tiny ears aren't around to hear them. It's just half a bubble off plumb...

...but hell, even the moon has a dark side.

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