We All Get It In the End

Saw a drag queen named Justin Bond do a midnight show at the Always Lounge last night.

Best thing I've seen in a long time.

I was afraid to sit up front, because I was expecting a bitchy schtick, where she might insult my footwear. And the, you know, it's on, bitch.

But Bond was like someone's chain-smoking, ex-starlet aunt who had a wisdom that ran deep from pain and too much experience - and I swear it wasn't my gin that made me want to lunge at her and ask for redemption.

The message from the songs she belted out at my noggin was, I'm alright, and so is everyone, because:

"We all get it in the end"

What she was singing about probably has more to do with anal sex than karma, but what it meant to me at the moment was:

No matter how "good" we try to be, we all fuck up, and we all deserve to "get it" in the end. Some actually do get it, and some of us bastards don't.

While I was really hoping I don't get mine, I felt a closeness to everyone in that room that night, swaying along to those words, knowing I deserve to "get it" as much as that dude next to me.

It's not that I want to be a crappy person, it's just refreshing to acknowledge that we've all been there, and we'll all continue to go there, but we don't have to be saints to keep moving forward and upward ... just human.

Where Were We..

Tonight was the first night dancing on my table in my underwear made me happy again.

Very 90's romantic comedy, but I get my kicks where I can find em.

Fear and Loathing at the Curry Korner

After a breakup, you have this floatsy feeling. Like you're not sure what makes you tick, or where the hell your personality went.

Today, lured by the promise of steaming Indian food, I drove up
to Curry Korner between classes, head full of dal and samosas. I swung the Buick into what I thought was a fabulous parking spot, only to hear a disgusting grating sound as I turned my wheel.

They finally got me. Those sewer drains everyone kept telling me were lurking under curbs to annihilate my tires.

This one got a bite, a good one- chewed it clear through to the tread.

That's when the adrenaline hit, I waffled for a second, forgot about the chai tea, got in the car, and savagely applied the gas. No telling when this tire would blow, and I wasn't about to pay some asshole to tow me.

I found myself doing 30 on Elysian Fields, staring down every pothole defying it to try and pop my struggling tire.

It was a heinous display of pure grit and determination despite uncertain death or maiming by tire blowout- ME AT MY BEST.

And the $30 used replacement made me smile.

Damn the License Plates

So, I was waiting all month for this monthly lesbian/queer event at a local bar.

Not as a pickup thing, just to be amongst friendlies.

I'm pulling up my Buick and I see the familiar license plate... the coffee color.

Fuck.

I knew I would be THAT girl. Just didn't think it would happen so soon. You know, the one who hates the fact that her ex is probably going to infiltrate her social scene for a bit. I'm still not even used to the word "ex." Bullocks.

All told, I had a pleasant conversation and three beers. But I still wish I lived in a city where I'm a number, not a name.

Yes She Can

Been thinking a lot about my terminated relationship. Terminated. So final.

Or at least it sounds final. Human relationships are never so cut and dry.

Been thinking about what I did wrong. Driving in my car to school yesterday morning, slamming down my coffee and wondering if I'm just a relationship fuckup. If I should ever try again.

(Insert existential sigh here.)

NO, I'm not a fuckup. Matter of fact, there's lot of substance here. A lot of shine.

I could comfort myself by saying we both fucked up, which is true, but a cop-out used by people who are afraid of themselves.

Because it's not about her anymore. It's about me now, and whether I can grab my fuckups by the balls and make em teach me something.

Dropsy

Breakups are a weird monster. Emphasis on the monster.

I feel like I've taken a 1.5 year hiatus from myself and don't know where I am yet.

I have uncovered some truths, some good, some surprising, a lot nasty.

It's been about 5 weeks and I still feel like I'm floating, though more in anger lately than sadness.

So far I've coped by being captain pro-active. Yoga, then studying, then hip hop class, then capoiera, then - if I can stomach it- the gym.

But at the end of the day I still find myself stamping my disordered bedroom floor demanding to know why the fuck I still feel like shit.

I mean come on, I do the positive self-talk in the mirror, make lists of why we broke up, go see a school therapist, did a detox, won a goddamn boxing match, made loads of plans for "ladies nights," and started drinking tea instead of coffee in the morning. What more does my stubborn-ass noggin need?

I'm not sure, but it may have something to do with letting go.

Emotion's A Bitch

It's freakishly easy to let other people ride your emotions and painfully hard to turn that ship around and say, "bitch, no!"

But the hardest sometimes is letting others help you feel ok.

Thanks Ladies for helping me say "bitch, yes."

The Obvious

Today I realized something stupidly simple:

I can be whoever I want to be.

How quickly we forget.