just another night on tumblr
All I’m going to say about the Boston Marathon is that it hit a little too close to home.
Scott is safe and that’s all that matters
Andy is safe and that’s all that matters.
Nick is safe and that’s all that matters.
221 days until “Catching Fire”, but who’s counting?
“I’m so sick of saying the words gay and lesbian. Can we just — people. I’m so tired of that. One day I want my son to come home from school and be like, I found this guy and I love him. And I’m gonna be like yes, you do, and that’s okay.”
(I thought I’d break up the BBC spam with some JHutch. He’s cute and smart.)
I brought all my toys to work yesterday and finally set up my desk. It felt weird to bring my red dress picture and my Katniss action figure if only because now I have to explain the story behind them. I’m not ready to come out of the closet yet. Yeah, I’m afraid to come out of the closet.
Kind of ironic, isn’t it?
So… now I’m featuring Peeta on my blog to compliment the importance of Katniss in my life.
Nope. Not a post about Martin Freeman, although I do have to start with Sherlock. (It’s FOUR sentences. Deal with it.)
I watched “The Reichenbach Fall” again. I spent the entire hour and a half watching it from Sherlock’s perspective.It was probably more heartbreaking than watching it from John’s perspective. You finally realize how much John has changed Sherlock, and how much their friendship means to the man that doesn’t have friends.
For whatever reason, that made me think of someone: The Man with the Silk Shirt. (If you’re reading this, yeah, it’s YOU!)
Recently, an old friend decided to read all six years of crap that I’ve written here. Miraculously, he survived. Even more miraculously, he’s still speaking to me. I suppose that’s because he’s only mentioned once, and it was a nice thing.
Seriously, I wrote all this shit - I LIVED all this shit -and I still don’t want to go back and revisit half of it. I couldn’t imagine reading it without know what was going on at that point in time… some of these entries really need some context. This isn’t a blog full of stories that you could just breeze through. This is, and has always been, a cheese sandwich blog. I’m a cheese sandwich blogger. I was one long before the phrase was ever coined.
I went through the archives recently, just because. I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that reading this blog, man, is HARD WORK. And I applaud him, that crazy psycho.
So anyhoo… my point was…
He said that my entires about depression were very enlightening. That the blog itself explained a lot.
He and I. We have history. Our relationship was good. It was bad. It was terrible. It was awesome. And then it was gone. I wrote about him on That Other Blog. While I’m glad that he’ll probably never know what I talked about, or how openly it was discussed, I do want to drive the point home that even though he could have shattered me into a million pieces, he never did. No matter how bad it got, I never got mad at him… and I hoped that I never hurt him. I knew at one point that I was out of control. I just didn’t know why.
Back then, it was easy to make excuses. We had our thing when my mom died, so there was a lot of Ick going on. It was easy to blame her.
Little did I know that HE was responsible for planting the seeds of what would eventually become the overwhelming self-awareness I have developed since my official diagnosis. Little did I know that a chance encounter with him would make me undescribably happy. I don’t want to/can’t/shouldn’t go into all the details… those are better shared in person, over burgers or something… but he made more of a difference than I thought he did. Than he’ll ever know he did.
(I had to confirm this by going through the paper journals I used to keep back them. I thought that over time, I had smoothed off all the rough edges, inflated the importance of blah, blah, blah, blahbiddity, blah, blah, blah. Nope.)
It was weird to look back on those depression entries today and try to read them through his eyes.
I have no idea what he saw in them.
I know what I see in them… but I have context.
It never fails to crack me up. NEVER.
Last night, Colin, who I’ve met several times, didn’t know who I was right away. Finally, he said, “OH! YOU’RE THE NUMBER ONE FAN!”
I’m either the girl that drives four hours, ‘New Hampshire”, or Tam, when I’m with them. ‘Number one fan’ has been thrown around before, but I’ve never been known by that. It’s something the band members have said to me, but it’s never been my identity… Considering the last number one fan wound up in the band, I’m curious as to what my future holds. *grin*
I was deemed unusually huggable and then jinxed Syracuse. (w00t! I’m so glad Michigan won! For a bunch of reasons…) My drunk friend from the last show there left me alone, which was nice. Nothing makes me happier than freaky drunk guys not recognizing me.
Apparently, the laws in Woodstock (NY) are a wee bit relaxed when it comes to illegal substances. There was a guy openly selling shrooms, and the weed. Oh, dear Dog, the weed! Being smoked on the patio like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which I suppose it is out there in the land of peace, love, and dirty hippies. (Seriously, the one guy really needed a bath. Or some deodorant. Maybe both. Oh, and a toothbrush.)
I headed back to the hotel reeking of smoke. Both tobacco and decidedly not tobacco. When I woke up this morning, the first thing I smelled was pot. It was so strong around me that I’m surprised I didn’t get high. Then, again, I might have been high when I went to bed this morning. The dreams I had certainly couldn’t have been the product of a sober brain. I’m blaming the dreams on the pot fumes… NOT the JohnLock fan fic I read before bed, or the fact that I fell asleep watching Sherlock. Nope. Not at all.
(Suddenly, I’ve been leaning towards Parent!Lock… sweet, established relationship, with none of the smut or fluff. It seems like that’s the closest I can get to my brOPT!Lock sometimes, so I’ve been putting up with it for now.)
Did I just Sherlock a blog entry about Black Mountain Symphony?
I know certain people, if they’re still bothering to read this and continuing to pass judgement on things they don’t understand, will disagree, but damn I have come a long way since my mother died.
It’s not like I had a choice, of course. Life goes on and 21 years is a lot of life to live.
And damn, have I been living.
I giggled maniacally when I got my t-shirt from Firefly Hollow Brewing Company. (My friend is starting a brewery and I donated some cash. NBD.)
I supported a brewery. A place where people make ALCOHOL. The same substance that killed both my parents.
Every day at work, I drink water out of a Magic Hat pint glass. (Magic Hat, of course, makes alcohol. Beer, but whatevs.) I have also worn the snot out of my Magic Hat t-shirts. (God, that was a good trip. Glory days, blah blah blah… Movin’ on.)
The girl who used to hate booze in all forms.
Not only does she display brewery logos willingly she GOES TO BARS.
As J put it so eloquently, “YOU’RE IN A FUCKING BAR!”
I go to bars now.
A lot. Too much.
I’ve logged too much time in bars to still be the girl who hates alcohol with the passion I used to.
I don’t like it. I will never understand why people drink. I will never drink.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t buy a round, or support my friends with their dreams of owning a brewery.