Deep Thoughts, I Haz 'Em.

Ya know what sucks balls? Not being able to finish a thought!!!!! Especially when it is clearly an important one.

We were talking about our nephew, he's 15. I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you the truth: He's kind of an annoying putz. -I'm guessing that at 15, I too, was some kind of giant pain in the southy bits, but I already had the makings of who I am now.

I can remember moments when people, sometimes strangers out of nowhere, sometimes a trusted cousin, would offer bits of advice or encouragement that ring in my ears to this day. I knew the moments were important when they happened. Still, I was difficult to influence, so I had a lot of living to do. In defining moments though, I have always been who I really am. For whatever that's worth.

Totally different kinda pain, I guess, is what I'm saying.

Dicky hasn't had a beautiful childhood. There is much I don't know, but going on what I do know, sure, he's bound to have some kinks to work out. He's just already so damned good at Victim Face. And that is so dangerous.

I know it hasn't been easy, but nobody ever put a cigarette out on him. That sounds bitchy. I do have sympathy for his plight, but it's so easy to take The Victim Face and make it your whole life. And it's a fucking terrible shame! There can't be any happy in that!

I remember grinding my teeth and reminding myself that in X years I'd be 18. I had big plans for 18, let me tell ya! Sometimes I would chant, "Bide yer time. Biiiiide yer time." in my head as my Dad ranted IN MY FACE, spit flying, nostrils flaring, hurling insults a father shouldn't apply to his daughter. I've been jacked up. I've been kicked when I was down. -Nobody ever put a cigarette out on me!! Any inappropriate shit of a sexual nature only involved other kids, and I gather that's "normal"ish for the most part. There's definitely shit I just don't feel like talking about. It could have been much worse.

In the history of human suffering, I had acne. And maybe some rickets or something. Not a big deal.

Knowing that is both painful and freeing. -I feel pain for people who endure so much worse. It's hard to think of so many people with all the same feelings... Out there, suffering I don't even KNOW what.

But I can pitch mine up in the air with a hearty, "Fuck You!" You didn't get me. I knew. I knew every single day that I was going to get the fuck out and be happy.

And I can't help but think that that is what it takes to get there, as a person.

Most of the terribly wonderful people I know had to overcome some shit. I know people who had "everything" and appreciate nothing. I know people from all parts in between who fall from one end to the other, really. -But those really wonderful, admirable, good, smart people all have this one certain something in common. Maybe it's a concocotion that I'm over simplifying?

It's not victimy for sure though. -And I want to give him that. I want to make him understand that he can decide to do better than the examples he's been given.

But one of the problems is, his examples are all sexist, save for my husband. His dad and my ex-stepfatherinlaw... Oy vey. OY VEY!!!!! And his step-mom is somewhat literally some kind of coke whore. (coke, crack, meth- we've established that I don't know what's hot in junkidom these days).

Not good, people. His Mom is a lovable hot mess. (In truth, her stock went up from raging lunatic mess, she's made a lot of progress though!) His grandmother is sortof fantastic, but she sabataged her "good example" by being a 19 year stay-at-home-mom, vocal "feminist"* who ranted about evil men all the time in front of her husband (the checkbook), her two sons- one actual fucking genius (younger) and my husband, one of the most truly all around great mother fuckers I've ever met, I shit you not, and said Dicky... Which rounds out the female examples nicely with... Crazy.

And then there's me, a late comer. I have always tried to listen to him when he's trying to tell me something- because I think there's a shortage of that. And I've tried to be positive with him. I have only succeeded in convincing him that I'm the "nice but dippy" kind of girl. Which is a testament to how far he's shoved his head up his own ass.

I'm not nice.

But I see his eyes glaze over when I talk to him. And I want to choke him. It all just seems like part of an excuse not to try. And he could maybe be pretty good if he tried.

I just don't know what kind of magic shove it takes to tip the scales in those cases where its not inborn. Is it possible? When the person can't even put together that the opinions and ways of someone who mistreats you are probably FUCKED UP, and not the ones to emulate?

*sigh*

It's early yet, to expect him to let it go... But I can't help but want to rush that moment when he can drop the bags and begin to live.

I'm not always this long winded.

*"feminist" because she talked "the talk" without even knowing where the boots for the walking of the walk were located. And "the talk" was just sexism itself. That's not fucking right either. EQUAL, not better. Fuck. Right across the damned board.

Gosh!

I'm gonna have to try really hard to start writing over here. This page gives me writer's block. I think its because I was depressed and pissed off when I started this one. It was supposed to be my secret hiding place. My place to really blow it out.

But that passed with the winter, I suppose. I hate the cold. It always seems so determined to hang on, clawing itself into months that should be bright and a tinge warm. It seems longer every year, and colder and wetter, and finally when I'm on the verge of a break-down... A sunny day, and then I'm fine.

I hung my heavy jacket in the closet with this blog shoved in the pocket. But if 17 whole people are going to hang out, I feel compelled to squirm uncomfortably, attempt a smile, and make small talk. I no longer like the idea of a place to piss and moan though... Although I may have been known to do so. I can't bring myself to make anyone the sole and constant recipient of negativity. Oh, and I'm short on it right now anywhoooooo.

So earlier, I was thinking. Remembering, actually.

Before I met my husband, to my knowledge, I never knew anyone who actually smoked crack. I always thought of it as an expression. "Did you see that hair don't?! That bitch must be on crack!" followed by a hardy har, a heedy heee heeee.

I know. -And since this is starting over, only a couple of you might know how hilariously ridiculous it is that I was so... Naive? Dumb? I don't know what that is.

Almost every one of his friends has smoked the rock at least once, though several years ago. None of them jumped in with both feet and fucked their entire lives, but they tried it. -And every. single. time this comes up and another one tells the tale, I'm amazed and enthralled.

I think it's funny that I'm accused of being rebellious when the fact is, I was clearly, deeply effected by the Nancy Reagan years.

I'm not judging them exactly. If anything, I'm impressed that they all managed to keep a handle on their shit- it just shocks me every damn time. -And the only reason I'm explaining all that is because I've been known to say, "Well your friends smoke crack!" and then maybe throw in some jazz hands. Or tap dance a little... It depends entirely on the expression it causes. Sometimes I just smirk. Or do a Sarah Palin blinky thing.

So last night, for whatever reason, I threw that out there, and he said, "Really? You really never met a crack head?" And I said, "Not til I met you, baby!"

And then I started thinking out loud. Poor guy.

Well... I guess there's a chance that Jon smoked crack, but probably not during the time we hung out. Maybe after I went to England... He and Sasha broke up as BFFs and moved out of the apartment for some reason, and that woulda done it.

When I first started hanging out with them, they were weed only people. They were the first ones I smoked with, and I didn't know there was any such thing as more fun than what we had going.

We'd go home, get vamped up, and then one of them would pick me up and we'd hang at their place, getting stoned and maybe a little tipsy in preparation for The Gay Bar.

OH! The Gay Bar, a moment of silence. -Our affair was short lived, but one I wouldn't trade for anything. I had more fun there, dancing with 7 foot tall, redheaded, green sequin encrusted drag queens, and wispy fairy princesses, and leather clad raver boys, than I would in the next three years of my life combined. I never laughed so much, danced so freely, or felt so light.

One night Jon dragged me into his room to help decide what kind of polyester nightmare he should wear to the club- he was way into shirts with flame jobs on them... And as I went straight for his walk-in closet, he went for his dresser. "Pssssst! You want somuh this?" he hissed, cutting a line of coke on his hand mirror.

"Oh, no thank you!" I tried to sound unaffected.

"Come on, girl! Lets get CRAZAAAAAAAY!"

"I'm good, but thank you. I gotta work tomorrow, and you know it freaks me out to be OUT THERE if I'm all fucked up. What kinda shirt are you into? Are you wearing leather pants?!"

"Oooookaaaay!" he said like *I'm* crazy, sashaying into the closet with me.

Five minutes later he was back at the dresser, "Heeeey! RrrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrr Ya gotta try this!" he ground his teeth, a maniacle, wide eyed panic-wonder all over his face. It wasn't entirely scary or disturbing, it was also incredibly funny. Jon was about 5'6", slight, blonde with one of those unfortunate haircuts that could be combed into a Cesar, spiked, parted, etc... And he had it parted right down the middle, like Alfalpha, his usually pale skin had turned cherry red, his teeth stood out, too white in contrast, grinding back and forth- he was almost cross-eyed, and he really wanted a coke partner.

"Jon. You gotta chill out. You gotta caaaaalm dooooooown. I really appreciate it, but I'm not doing coke. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Don't tell Sasha!"

"Okay, I won't." I said, knowing that if he started fucking up, I would have to tell her for his own damned good. "Are you cool? Do you need some water?... Er... Juice? Whataya do for coke?"

"Aaaahahahahahaahahaah! Girl, you crazy! Come on!" -and off we went for The Gay Bar. After he cleaned the glass.

"RrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrrRrrrrrrrr! Ya Rrrrrrrready?!" Yikes!

It wasn't until weeks later that Sasha told me she'd made him promise to leave all that shit alone if they were going to live together again. Apparently he'd gone through a period of addiction while they were in College. We tried to keep a better eye on him, but YEARS later, I would run into the former proprietor of that establishment, and hear that it was largely due to Jon that the place was eventually shut down. -Along with his business partner, they had everything from coke to heroin available in the rest room, and eventually the shit hit the fan.

It's a shame in this world. I hate to think of that place not being there anymore. I can't help but think one day I'll drive past it again, and then park, and just go inside to see what's happening. And I hate that it's not a haven anymore. It was THE perfect place to get your feet wet, if you were just exiting the closet. It was the perfect place for a hag like me, and I've never been in another joint with the same atmosphere.

*SIGH*

Wait, what? Oh yeah. No. Never even SEEN a crack rock.