Thursday, September 13, 2012

Rain, flannel pj's and Vicodin

Listening while drifting in a Vicodin half-sleep to my classmate's radio essays.1  They are so very, very, good. 

I was in pain when I came home from the dentist this morning.  And I was exhausted and terrified because there is something at work that might be wrong, the kind of wrong I can't even say, not to anyone, because I am too horrified to even say it in my head.  And I hadn't slept a full night for days, and I didn't know when I would sleep this weekend, or how to handle all the food, there will be a lot of it this weekend, too, and it was not too much but only barely.

What I wanted was my bed, my stuffed walrus, maybe my friends later when they come home.

And it's funny, but I'm proud of that.  Because I didn't want him.  I didn't want his apartment.  I wanted the things that give me strength, and it is my life that does that, my home, my bed.  Three years ago, I loved Satanist Dan for the escape he provided.  I ran away to him.  Now, I don't want to escape.  Not anymore.  I'm home.

I joined the ballroom competition team, and the gold shoe girls smiled at me and introduced themselves.  I will never be as good as the girls with real training, the ones with ten years of ballet and modern, but I am good.  In nine months, I have learned to waltz, tango, foxtrot, rumba, hustle, country two-step, nightclub two-step, cha-cha, and in two different parts each.  Well, I can't lead a country two-step yet.  But I will.  Remember that salsa step that kicked my ass?  I can do it now.

And Born This Way?  It's totally a hustle.  And it's SO. MUCH.  FUN.


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