You Can Put the Ring on Your Middle Finger

I'm probably never getting married. Never really wanted to. And that's ok.

But the closer I get to the end of my 20's (and I still have 2.2 years to go), the less ok this idea looks in the movies I see, the people whose conversations I overhear in bars, and the population in general.

Come on people, why aren't you with me on this one?

We claim to be modern and aggressive and a bastion of equality for the sexes. It's all about choice for women, the ability to be what they want to be, to pummel down the status quo and have society cheering you along into the new century.

But when I proudly declare my plan to adopt a child in my mid-30's and probably become a single mom, I get: "well don't give up on finding someone just yet!"

All this "progressiveness" and we're still stuck on wedding bells.

Take a Bow

I love spitting my mouthpiece onto the ring after a sparring match. How it launches from my mouth in an explosion of spit and sweat, leaving a mark as it bounces off that disgusting boxing ring.

And I can breath again.

House of the Screeching Sun

It's time to write about New Orleans again. Because wasn't that the whole point of this blog?

House of the Rising Sun came on the radio today. The radio that I keep on constantly because I'm suddenly a pussy about being alone.

I cranked it up and sat back on my couch to wait and see what I would feel.

Yearning with a hint of disgust and a feeling that I'm done with this place. But by the second verse a hope that I can still maybe squeeze some beauty or feeling or ... something out of it. Maybe it's a hope I need to have because I'm essentially stuck here the next two years. That's two.

Today I was driving toward the Quarter at about 9 am to meet a friend for breakfast. I've been trying to pin her down for the last two weeks, so I needed to take this opportunity when I could get it. Plus, I overslept, so I don't know how much longer she'd wait for me with her dwindling croissant. I got lost on Chippewa, looked suspicious circling the block and few times and finally found my way toward the bridge overpass.

Right before the bridge, I saw a car broken down for some reason or another and a family standing around it. Looked like a mother, an older daughter and two younger kids, one of which was manically waving his lanky arms at any passing car. They were on the other side of the street, so I could watch them through my rear-view when I stopped at the instersection. I thought 1) why are all these douchebags just speeding past them, and 2) what if they need someothing really simple like a ride to the gas station?

I even thought about giving them my spare if they needed it. Everything in me wanted to wheel my Buick around and devote the rest of my afternoon to helping them. But I didn't.

I pushed down on the gas thinking about how Kristen was waiting. How she was already probably annoyed. And how badly I needed a friend to talk to.

So I left them there. I still feel bad about it.

On the way home, I passed a guy playing trumpet on the corner near a bus stop. I sort of rolled my eyes at how "New Orleans" it was, but turned down my music anyway to hear him play. He sucked. Just made screeching sounds and stopped to laugh at himself every once in a while. It was refreshing.

Webbie On My Hand

"You're a bad bitch."

I have that written on my hand.

It's a last-grasp affirmation before bed so maybe I'll have more oompf and courage when I pry myself from my bed tomorrow morning.

Somehow, I feel like I've been here before. There's just too much emotion, stress, and forgetting between now and the last time. Suppose that puts me at square one.

But it's a new square, and I don't know what's in it. Is that a speck of wonder peering through my nervous depression?

As everyone advises: only time will tell.