What a trip

I was amazed by perspective. Astounded how all these different objects came together to create this amazing 3-D image I was looking at. It blew me away. How could this be? How had I never realized before that looking at shit was this awesome?! It was then that I became aware of my bladder and noted that I had to pee. I sat my drink down on the lawn and wandered inside to the bathroom. While doing my thing on the toilet, I began to look around. Did you ever realize how neat toilet paper is? And tiles.. Tiles are great! Don't even get me started on wallpaper. I could have stared at the wallpaper for hours, and in all reality did.
"Your bathroom is so much fun," I told him when I got back. "You should totally go in there."
He was staring at the fence and didn't hear me at first. "My bathroom is not interesting, Meegan. It is just a bathroom," He said solemnly.
"No, I think it has something to do with the fact that our pupils are so dilated. It's the bright lights and the mirrors. It's everything," I explained. "What is this in my drink? Is that a bug? It looks like a monster," I said, handing it over to him for closer inspection.
"I think it is a moth," He told me, looking scared. "No, wait. It is an earwig," He finally decided.
"What would you do if I just kept drinking my drink anyway. Would you still be my friend?" I asked, completely serious.
"I would high five you," He told me.
"Why the hell would you high five me for eating a bug? That's gross."
"Well, what would you want me to do?" He asked, and I poured out my drink.
"Do you want to know why I just poured that out?" I asked, and he nodded in response. "I poured it out because I was worried that I might get to the point where ingesting an earwig might seem like a good idea." He nodded again and I could tell that he knew exactly what I meant.
"I was just thinking," he said quietly, "that if anybody inside looked out of that window, they would think I was having the worst party ever." We both dissolved into giggles. "It's true though!" he exclaimed. "Only I was also just thinking that I am having so much fun."
He was right. If anyone had looked out the kitchen window they would have felt sorry for him. Just two people, sitting on broken chairs, listening to awkward music on the radio, not even talking. "Do you see that tree?" he asked me. "I was just looking at it, and I was just seeing it. Like, I saw it."
"Wait a minute," I braced my arm on his shoulder, "let me get this straight. You were looking at the tree, and you saw the tree? No, that is impossible." I said, shaking my head. I was mocking him, but he didn't seem to realize that.
"Yeah. I was looking at the tree and then all of a sudden I saw this face. Do you see that face?" He pointed and we both looked up at the tree.
"No, I just see leaves," I told him honestly.
We sat in silence for several minutes as the Barenaked Ladies version of "Lover's in a Dangerous Time" played on the radio. I furrowed my brows and tried to figure out if I really saw people crossing the street, or if I was hallucinating.
"I always keep looking back at that wall, and then at you. And then you and the wall merge, and it blows my mind. And it anchors me. What do you keep looking at?"
"Nothing really. No, everything. It's like I want to look at everything, but I know there's not enough time so I want to remember every last detail of what I am looking at." If I'd been completely honest with him I would have also mentioned that I kept looking at my hands and feet to make sure I had the right number of toes and fingers. I counted over and over again and always came up with ten, but it still didn't look right. I was worried that all of a sudden I would look down and there would be six fingers on one hand.
We heard his parents saying goodbye to some of their friends, whom had come over to play poker, and he jumped up and raced towards the front yard to see what was going on.
"I wonder what is wrong," he said, concern written on his face.
"I don't think anything is wrong," I told him. "Don't people ever just leave your house because they are going home for the evening?" Evidently the answer to that question was 'no'.
"Do you ever look at the shadows and then think that they are coming alive? Like they're moving and then they become this person?" He asked, sitting back down beside me.
"No, you're on your own," I replied, but his attention was already somewhere else.
"Do you see that? In the bushes? I think it is my gray cat friend."
"Um, I think that is a raccoon." But it was too late because he'd already hopped up and rushed over to the hole in the fence.
"Cat friend," he called, every so often making clicking and cooing sounds in an attempt to lure whatever animal it was closer to him. "Have I told you about my gray cat friend, Meegan?" he asked, and then proceeded to tell me a story about his stinky room and his conversations with a cat. At one point in time, he told me that his gray cat friend was going out to pick up some "East Coast hunnies".
"Did you really just say that? Did you really just try to tell me that a) you had an actual conversation with a cat, and b) that the cat used the term 'East Coast Hunnies'?"
"Hey, they were his words, not mine. Get off my back."
As the evening wore down, it suddenly became apparent that I had not kept track of how much alcohol I'd been consuming. Later on I would have my own conversation with a toilet (while marveling at the wonders of the bathroom), though I did not vomit, before stumbling downstairs with the intention of falling asleep on the couch.
"Wait a minute. Where did the blankets go?" I asked him.
"They are on the couch," He replied.
"I am on the couch and there are no blankets here," I sighed.
"They are pink, Meegan, just look for pink blankets," he told me, sighing at what he perceived to be my stupidity.
"But there is no pink anywhere. Did you sister take the blankets? I had two here. One was purple. Do you see purple anywhere?"
"Just come sleep in my room. We're friends. We can keep the door open and you can keep your pants on."
"Jeez, thanks," I said, narrowing my eyes at him - which he completely missed in the darkness of the basement. "I am not sleeping in your bedroom. Did you not hear your sister ask me over and over again if I was your new girlfriend and if we were having a sleepover? If I sleep in your room she will conclude that I was lying." We both turned to look at his 11-year-old sister and her friend who had camped out on the floor just outside of his bedroom door. She seemed unconvinced when I'd told her earlier on that evening that I was going to sleep on the couch, and so she continued to ask me again every fifteen minutes until she and her friend finally passed out. "I am sleeping out here because they are sleeping out here to see where I will sleep. I do not need blankets anyway - and I don't need pillows either. I will just sleep out here like this. You just go to sleep now. And stop banging every girl you meet so that your family does not seem so shocked every time I explain to them that we are not sleeping together. "
"Okay," he said, looking slightly skeptical of my assurances, as if trying to determine if I was testing him in some way. After several more minutes, he disappeared into his room and I rolled over on to my stomach and prepared to settle in for the night.
As I lay there, on the couch, on the verge of unconsciousness, I felt something drop over me. It wasn't until I heard a whispered "Sweet dreams, Meegan." that I realized it was a blanket and that it was actually being tucked in around me. I woke-up this morning with a headache and morning breath that would have caused plants to wilt and die. I quietly gathered my things, and then stepped on his little sister (and her friend, just for good measure) as I tried to sneak quietly towards the stairs.


It seems so long ago

I found these pictures of the dog on a cd that was kicking around my room. I barely remember him being a puppy. I remember even less of his adolescent years, probably because I'd abandoned him at my parents house and fled for school. Considering how many pictures I now have of my animals, you'd think I would have taken more of them when they were babies.


Realistically they will learn nothing

I watched quietly as two punk-assed kids took sticks and wrote their names in the freshly poured sidewalk in front of my house. MY sidewalk. They marred its beautiful, virgin surface with their names followed by "bitch".. you know.. because they're just that cool. So cool, in fact, that they feel the need to deface city property so that they can take their friends by it and show them exactly how cool they are. If a sidewalk says your name then you must be cool, right?
I decided to take it upon myself to teach them a lesson. I waited until they had left and then proceeded to write "sucks" underneath their names. It was not one of my most mature moments, but I still stand by my actions. Now when they come back - friends in tow - to show off their work, they will find my special gift to them. And maybe, just maybe they will take a lesson away with them.
So in closing, don't deface sidewalks. You make them less aesthetically pleasing. It ruins them. And if you do decide to deface sidewalks, make damn sure to stay next to that sidewalk until the cement dries or else....



I sleep on two single mattresses that have had their separate frames pushed together, in a room with no windows that seems to repel any and all forms of heat. The dog has been sharing my bed this week. He sticks to one of the single mattress, and I the other. Sometimes I wake-up, groggy, and mistakenly think that I have brought home a severely hairy man the night before. I could do worse, I suppose.
The dog sleeps with his head on a pillow, his body snuggled under half of my duvet, and his front paws resting just below his chin. He doesn't snore. He doesn't smell too bad. He is, arguably, one of the better bed mates I have had.
He is, oddly enough, not the only one to have woken me up by licking my face.


To whom it may concern,

I don't miss you more today than I do any other day. If there is any difference it is only because I know I am supposed to be more aware of you absence from my life on this day. Sometimes I forget that you are gone. I go to say something about you, and then realize my mistake.
There were times when I used to sob quietly in my bed at night, muffling the sound of my anguish so that no one would hear my pain. I don't cry for you anymore, but that doesn't mean I miss you any less. I never realized how much of a role you played in my life until you weren't there to play it anymore. There are so many things I wish you could be around to witness. I wanted you to see the person I was becoming. I wanted you to be proud of the person I was becoming. I wanted you to lecture the first boy I brought home, when I decided I finally liked one enough to bring home. I wanted to roll my eyes as you gave him the third degree, and disclosed information about me that caused me to turn red with embarrassment.
I worry that I'll forget the sound of your voice, or the way you smelled. That I won't always be able to close my eyes and see your faces smiling back at me. I think back to all the times I saw your name on the display as the phone rang and decided just to let the machine get it so that I didn't have to deal with any inane conversation. "If I'd only known," I think "I would have answered. I would have answered every question you posed and I would have done it gladly." There are so many "if only"s now when it comes to you. If only I'd know that I would never get the chance to see your faces again. If only I'd known that I'd never hear you say my name another time. If only I'd known that it was the last time I'd be able to wrap my arms around you. I would have memorized the details of your faces. I would have listened just a little bit better. I would have held on just a little bit longer. I would have held you just a little bit tighter. I would have told you so many things that I never got to tell you, that I thought I had more time to tell you.
I'm a hypocrite, you know. I've judged other people for their grief, and yet I am still not finished dealing with mine. I have come to learn that loss is loss, no matter what you lose. Grief is grief, no matter what you're grieving for. And pain is pain, no matter where it hurts. You can't say that someone else's pain is better or worse than your own. It's different. It's all different, and it cannot be so easily classified as to label it better or worse.
I lied when I said I don't cry for you anymore. In unguarded moments, my tears catch me by surprise. Three years feels like forever and yet like no time at all. I don't miss you more today than I do any other day, but I find my eyes red and puffy all the same.


Hair of the dog, literally

Yesterday I went to take my dog for a walk, but then last minute ended up shaving off half of his fur. You may be wondering how someone can intend to take their dog for a walk and then get so off track that they then shave their dog. I can't really tell you how it happened. All I know is that he'd been looking overheated since the hot weather set in and I'd been considering shaving him for a while. One thing I can tell you is that I do not have a career as a dog groomer in my future, and that breaks my heart. My dog sat there for a long time and let me take the shears and shave off a bag full of hair from his back and sides, but when I made a move to do his stomach he got more than a little antsy. 'No problem.' I thought, and moved to do his chest. No dice. He decided his hair cut was over and I decided that we would pick up where we left off sometimes later.

He really doesn't look all that terrible, but my brother keeps telling me that I have given him a dog mullet. Business up front, party in the back? I think so.


Eau de Volkswagen

I drive it and I feel at ease. Nothing is wrong with the world because we are together, even if the brakes selectively work. I roll my windows down and let the wind blow my hair out of my elastic and into my face. Each time I slow down, the recently freed stray hairs flop down over my face and I try, in vain, to brush them aside. Sometimes I wonder how a vehicle can seem to have a personality of its own. I have thought, on more than one occassion, that I love my van more than I love most people. Sure, sometimes it may seem like the van wants to kill me, but it is those moments when the brakes are working and my gear shifting seems perfect, so smooth, that I live for.
I sometimes think about selling it. Not often, but enough. Sometimes I think that the money that van would bring me would do a lot to ease my financial burdens. I couldn't sell it though, it would almost be like seriously considering selling my dog. I am convinced that no one would appreciate the dog or that van the way I do. No one could love them as much as I do. They are part of my family. Me, a dog, a retarded cat, and a 30-year-old van. Most people, when dreaming of the summer, think of the sweet smell of flowers in bloom, or the smell of fresh cut grass. Not me. I dream of the smell of gasoline on my clothes. No matter how much perfume I may pour on myself, every time I drive that van I smell like gasoline for a week. I wouldn't trade that smell for anything.