soapboxdiner

In which I regale the reader with tales for woe and pity

This is the best song ever.

WARNING: CHEESY VIDEO WILL LIKELY CAUSE IMMEDIATE AND PERMANENT BLINDNESS AND RUIN THE WHOLE DAMN EXPERIENCE. DRINKING YOURSELF SILLY AND LISTENING WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED (PREFERABLY WHILST HOLDING THE WALL) RECOMMENDED.

But I can't tell if I like that version best or this one:

By the way, I'm entirely too sober for my own good right now.

So I'm listening to old country music on pandora.com which, by the way, is the bestest place on the internet, save Diaryland, natch.

I sit on the welcome verge of cleansing tears that I've been fighting for far too long. It has been a long, long time since the jitters of stress overwhelm me and my stupid brain keeps telling me everthing I touch is shit. Every day I fight not to run away forever, because I know the grass isn't greener, but DAMN -- doesn't it HAVE to be greener SOMEWHERE? And the impotence of common sense overriding instict makes me SO ANGRY I want to KEEL something.

That's the worst part about it. Common fucking sense telling me this too is fleeting -- just ride it out. FUCK YOU, COMMON SENSE!!!

Did you know, darlings, that I love old country music? Hank Williams, Conway Twitty, Don Williams, Ronnie Milsap, Merle Haggar, Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, love 'em. It reminds me of childhood fishing holes, catching catfish and skipjacks in the Yellowstone. Riding in the Impala with the 8-track deck. Dad in his polyester shirt with the butterfly collar and snap-down buttons. Pork chop sideburns and Tang in the cupboard. Mom smiling widely and pulling us into the center of the living room to jitterbug with her.

Simple. Happy.

Now the only time I hear about Dad is when my sister calls my mother to report that Dad sobered up long enough to call. Mom reports to Bro who couldn't give a shit less, and then contemptuously passing it on to me once every couple years.

By the way, Dad moved out of the rent by the week hotel, apparently. He's living with our cousin now. Cousin's mom is still in prison for trafficking coke.

Dad called me once. Wanted forgiveness for abandoning us as kids. He never called again.

In other news, I will be treated to moving all my furniture this weekend to make room for my dead grandmother's hutch. You know, the one my mother promised would be mine someday. Only she forgot her promise and has now given it to SIL. So I will rearrange my space and my things to make room for a broken promise and an heirloom that will never be mine that I will get to look at every day, just to remind me.

Work is worky. D00d is D00dy. Kiddo is Kiddy. It's just me who's all fucked up. So I'll go listen to old country, smoke another cigarette and cry before I slide under my covers and try to sleep. In a cold bed. Alone.

9:52 pm - 11.20.08
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