bipolar much?

It's only fucking Tuesday. What the? How does it happen that lately I've had these Mondays that last, like, 14 days?? And I wake up on Tuesday morning, thinking "yippee! It's Friday!" Only to realize NO! Alack and alas! It is only fothermucking Tuesday.

I am most displeased.

In other news, I have a headache, and I'm hungry. What else is new??

Ack - I've written about 50 paragraphs and deleted them all, because I just can't quite get the right thing going here. I've got a little rant about depression going, I've got info on the boyfriend, I've got a trip to the heartland coming up! (NO! SLEEP! TILL! SALINA! Heh.) I want to talk about my dad (not good news.) I'm dealing with a lot of shit over here. Plus, I'm a giant perfectionist (HI!) which is what keeps me from writing for months on end...which is just sad. I suppose it's time for some literary vomit over here. I...apologize for that analogy. But you know what I mean. glllaaarrg.

So, um.....The boyfriend. Let's call him Max.* He's a sweetheart of a man, first off. Whenever we head towards a door, he does this little "hm hm hm" thing until I move out of the way, and then he opens it for me. Hee. It's cute - trust me. He's in a very giddy ga-ga (his word) phase right now. I'm pretty goofy over him (it's been two months, we're allowed) but I think I'm in a much more cynical place about relationships than he is. Which y'know, duh. I've been divorced a whopping 6 months - allow me some cynicism here. We're both pretty impatient people, and we're both in sort of strange places in our life, so this relationship has the possibility of some real disaster. But - it also has the possibility of some real magic to it. I'm kind of hoping for the second, just in case you're wondering. I'll keep y'all posted.

He also has the MOST amazing blue eyes I've ever encountered. Seriously..just..wow. And he plays guitar, which...I know I'm 34 and should be over this shit - but there's just something very sweet and romantic about getting serenaded, OK? bite me.

We'll see. I'm trying to sort of lead with my head, but not overthink. HA! Hee...snort.

Dad.....dad is not doing well. I called him for Father's Day and apparently the growths? tumors? tribbles? in his lungs spread during his time off between chemo treatments. He's on treatment again. He also told me, in his usual nonchalant, very practical way - "So...I'm making out my will. Anything you want??"

Heh.

I sort of smarted back that I wasn't sure, not having done a recent inventory of his stuff, did he have anything good?? We laughed - I told him that actually, I would like his diplomas from LSU. I know they don't mean much to him, but they sort of do to me. He said he'd find them. We laughed a bit more about other stuff, said our I love you's and hung up. And then I drove the rest of the way home crying.

And it's just not fucking fair.** I don't fucking want to hear anything about anybody else's dad dying of cancer or anybody's grandmother or anything. This MY dad. This MY FATHER that *I* barely got to fucking know as a kid. This is the man that I didn't get to spend any goddamn time with when I was little, that I finally FINALLY got to know as an adult and GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT HE GOT FUCKING CANCER AND IS FUCKING DYING NOW. AND IT FUCKING SUCKS. AND IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR.

And then the voices kick in, the ones that tell me that I'm over-reacting, that he'll be fine (HA!!), or that he's not dead yet, enjoy the time you have left (UM, OK, thanks for that) or that you never know, some new treatment may come along (ditto) or to shut and stop feeling sorry for myself, lots of people have lost loved ones (fuck you and the horse you rode in on.) The voices are the worst part.

Ok, well ..no - the worst part is hearing my father say "I'm going to die of colon cancer and this was totally preventable." THAT was the worst fucking part. The second worst part was him asking me what I wanted out of his estate......The voices pull a close third.

The voices are just the longest part - they don't quit. The other ones are sharp slaps - they come in, and WHAP, they're gone. They leave handprints behind and they sting and they hurt, but they're done. The voices are..I don't know...I can't think of what they'd be in terms of the physical....the hair pulls from the popular girls?? It's not that they hurt that bad, but you never know when it'll happen or what will provoke it. You never know - one minute everything's fine, the next minute - *yank* "hey, remember, your dad's dying - won't it suck that kiddo will only have one grandparent left soon??" and there you are, sobbing at your desk again.

So yeah - that's how dad's doing.

Which you would think I'd segue this nicely into the depression post, but now I just don't have the energy. And? I'm hungry and need to get my oil changed before my Great Plains Road Trip - which! I will talk about next time!

This weekend?? I get to meet Jane!! OOOOOOOO!!!!!

smooches


*HUGE Peter Max fan and collector - he (Max, not Peter) approved of the pseudonym.
**The other night Max told me that, as sort of a long-range art/grafitti idea he thought about writing "Life is Fair" on any available overpass, bridge, wall, etc that he could. That way, when someone said, "Well, where is it written that life is fair??" the response could be "dude - everywhere!!" See? See why I love this guy??