Notes from the Red Bird House

She asked me if I was okay last night. Yeah, I'm okay. What was I supposed to say? The truth? That no, I'm not okay. That I miss her horribly? That this is killing me? That my demons won't let me rest? That I haven't eaten in days? No, not appropriate. She can't think I'm that weak, so I tell her I'm strong. And I am stronger this time. Outwardly. Inside, it's the same story. And you have to remember, this is far from my first rodeo. I know how it goes - they like me, they really, really like me, then they leave me. And all my friends say it's about them. And all my demons say it's about me. I fucked up another one. So, here I am in familiar territory again. Alone and missing someone I'm not supposed to miss. So, no... I'm not okay. Not yet. But I will be.

I guess the bigger problem with tonight was the very recent ex-girlfriend laying in my bed. I was out. Had a good time. But no matter what I thought about, there she was. Home. In my bed. My bed. Where I wanted to be. I can't say I didn't want her to be there. I did. Just not as my ex-girlfriend. I can't say I understand. It wasn't my decision. It was hers. Hers. As in not mine. And yet she is in my bed. Sleeping. I'm still out. On the way home (and writing this on my Blackberry). I want to be home sleeping and if the situation was different I would love to be home sleeping next to her. OK , no matter the situation, I'd like to be home sleeping next to her. It's not a good idea, though. Sleeping next to her. All night it hung over my head. Where to sleep? The couch? Yes. The couch. No. My bed. Next to her. No. The couch. Back and forth. I never did make a decision. I made a promise, but not a decision. I've wanted to get home so I know what I decide. So ...

Sunday is November 1st. Fuck. I'm not going to beat around it with this one. I suck. There was so much I was supposed to do this year and as of right now, I haven't done hardly anything. I don't know how I always seem to get side tracked. Life takes over, I guess. It's the same thing every year. You'd think I would have learned by now. Focus is key. Yet I have none. I'm almost forty-one (Holy Shit! In two months I have to start saying I'm forty-one. Mother-effer. Where did the year go?) and I need to get busy. I can't afford many more years like this one if I'm ever going to accomplish anything. I'm a great planner. Fabulous. And an atrocious executor. I have all these grand ideas of what I'm going to do (key phrase - "going"). I'm going to get published. I'm going to finish my novel. I'm going to go back to grad school. I'm going to teach creative writing. I'm going to work on my serve. I'm going to get a US...

I like the color gray. It's my favorite, in fact. Yes, I am well aware that gray isn't much of a color and that it really shouldn't be my favorite. I resisted for a long time. Gray is not a favorite color color. People like red, green, blue, and even black. Gray never makes the list. Even though I've always been a little obstinate and contrary, I went with the majority and said over and over again that my favorite color was blue. Then I switched to purple. Then I decided that I needed to stop lying. Hi, my name is Stacee and I like the color gray. I do. Really. All shades, but most especially charcoal gray. Call me weird (it's OK; I am weird). Alright so yes, I've come out as a lover of gray. However, here's the thing - Over the past month, I've noticed that I have a lot more gray hair. You'd think I'd be happy. Something new gray in my life. Uh, not so much. I'm not vain. I know I'm cute and fit (some call that combination "hot...

I've learned that it's easy to give fear legs. It starts as an idle thought. You know that teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy thought that crosses your mind quickly and you think that once it's gone it's gone? But then it reappears later? Then again and again at random moments? And then it's all you can think about? You think and ruminate and analyze. Ultimately you find yourself losing sleep. And once you are sleep deprived, there's no stopping it. Your head aches and your stomach ties itself in knots. You keep thinking, ruminating, and analyzing. Your ideas grow potentially more and more irrational, but you're not sure exactly how irrational they are. Because you're so tired and you've thought about it so much that you can't quite distinguish between fact and fiction. What started out as intuition and an idle thought is now a dead certain reality. And otherwise known as "fear with legs". Fear with legs is no good. It leads to all kinds of crazine...

Things not to do when in the dark, alone, and drunk... 1. Listen to "Only a Dream" by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Especially on your sister's forty-second birthday. When the song always reminds you of her and your childhood together. In a bittersweet way. 2. Reply to a text from old co-worker. The conversation may lead to a discussion of a potentially open job and a tough decison. That will probably never need to be made, but it'll still bring tears. 3. Re-read a short story that needs to be a novel and recall that once upon a time you were inspired and brilliant. 4. Reminisce with an old friend ("how do I get out of here?") and wish she was a lot closer than she will ever be again. 5. Plan a trip home next week. It'll make you wish that it was THIS week. 6. Need the arms and solace of someone too far away, but just down the road. Things to do in the dark, alone, and drunk... 1. Play a song with good memories and maybe more to come. 2. Take one last sip. 3....

My mother hates it when I write drunk. Usually I find an email waiting for me that pretty much says, "Honey, take it easy on the rum. It's not the answer. And did you really need to post that? Re-read it sober and you'll understand. Love, Mom". I have never deleted a drunk blog (though thinking back Mom was right on occasion) and I'm not planning to start tomorrow morning. Am I drunk? No, not quite. Keep reading. I'll keep drinking. We might just get there. The good news tonight? I'm no longer staring at the walls. I was. I caught myself. This was after I drove home from the Super Target and couldn't remember half of the trip (did I really turn at Manchaca????). I'm tired. So tired I think I may have taken a year off my life. There are those that would say I'm far too old to get so little sleep. These, of course, are the people without a hot girlfriend who loves to dance. And the ones who don't have to work on Sunday morning. Yeah, so I got...