It's crazy what music can do to you. A Train song popped into my head earlier tonight, and I've been on YouTube, Vevo, and Metacafe all night as a result, looking up stuff from when I was 15-22 years old, songs that I haven't listened to in forever. As a result, my Facebook is flooded with links. But I don't mind.
I close my eyes and let the songs wash over me, Eve 6, Our Lady Peace, the Cranberries, etc. My body thins out, my hair lengthens, my chest shrinks, and my skin clears up a bit. The makeup shifts to silver eyeshadow and brown eyeliner, and the glasses vanish. I can taste Boone's Farm at the back of my throat, and I'm walking at night in the middle of nowhere, thinking of all the things I thought of back then. I can feel the heavy humid air of a Lake Michigan beach on my skin, and I know if I open my eyes and look down, my legs will be tanned, my toenails will be unpainted, and the frayed hems of a pair of cutoffs will hang pale against thighs browned from repeated sun exposure. My vision will be better.
In my memory, I walk across cool wet sand, and a lake laps at my toes...Sturgeon Bay? Little Traverse Bay? Duke Lake? Mullett Lake? I'm not sure. The moon is out, and there's silver streaking across the water, reaching for me, and part of me wants to chase it. Instead, I walk and think. I sit on the sand and light a cigarette, and people I miss move through my mind...Budz and J from high school, two of the few people I trusted enough to see me, who I was, not the depressed angsty poet front I tried so hard to put up. I hear the songs, "Think Twice" starts playing, and I feel this crushing need to have someone be like that with me, just once, just so I could know how it felt to be wanted so desperately that someone would fight for me like that. Not the center of someone's universe, but close to it. I can almost imagine myself as one of those girls, taller, thinner, bigger boobs, flatter ass, thinner legs, perfectly clear skin and blue eyes.
The music ends, and I snap back into my present day self, shaggy haired, pierced nose, purple-painted toenails and eyelids, tattooed, a little heavier, a little more cynical, and a lot wiser. Thankful I'm not a cookie-cutter video girl. Maybe I'm not model material, but I'm happy with what I've got, hazel eyes and good cheekbones, thick hair and eyelashes, skin that tans easily and a few dark brown black Irish freckles for decoration. Maybe life is more exciting for the unexceptional-looking girls - we can do more than the girls who have attention constantly focused on them for their looks. I can promise you that if I were standing next to some six foot tall blonde bombshell with double-D tits, you're gonna be focused on her rather than on the short girl with the red-brown hair and gauged ears, and while you're staring, I'm assessing you. It lets me stay one step ahead. I move quick because I have to to keep up. I rely on my brains because I can't on my looks. And when I sense someone's interested in how I look, I hide behind my glasses, profanity, and tendency toward snark. It's self defense coming from someone who doesn't know what else to do.
I talk to someone who was one of my dearest friends from my high school days, and it's always a little weird for me. We'd fallen out of touch for years. Then, out of the blue, I get an email, a reply to some stupid random forward I'd sent him months prior. We emailed and talked on the phone for six months before he came to visit family and we went to hang out. It was so disconcerting to walk into the bar and see him...I didn't realize until that moment that every time we'd talked on the phone, in my head, I was a freshman in high school again, with all the physical differences between me then and me now seeming like they just weren't there. So when I moved toward him, making sure that was really him - he looked different too - I glanced down for a minute and blinked rapidly, wondering where my oversized belly had gone, why was there no greasy peroxided hair hanging in my face, where did I learn to walk with this confidence like I was a queen...without realizing it, I'd adopted my cocky kitchen strut, the one I use at work to let new co-workers know I know what I'm doing, that I'm confident in my ability. I snapped back to the present, to who I was now, mother, cook excellente, moderate badass at life, until his arms went around me, and then, shit, I'm fourteen again.
Music and friends, they can take you back and transport you to different times in your life if you'll let them. Me, I always do. I enjoy the ride, especially when I've been having a rough week, or a whole month filled with failure like this past one has been. I take a ride back in time, and it reminds me how far I've come, and that if I could come this far, I can go farther still.
So, dear friend of mine, who made me promise never to publish his name on my blog, thank you. You frustrate the shit out of me on occasion with the way you fall out of touch, but only for a second, till I remember that the only person who never lets me down is me, and that you always get back in touch again at some point. The randomness adds a bit of zest to the routine of daily life, which is cool, and it's always good hanging up the phone with you, stretching my limbs out from whatever cramped position I've been sitting in, and realizing that no matter how much I've changed in the last fifteen years, there must still be some good left in me, otherwise we wouldn't still be talking. Love ya, man.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Day 14 (music: DJ Psycho)
Day 14: A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Seriously, I got nothing. My heroes are culinary-related, so short of, say, Grant Achatz shutting down Alinea and opening a TGIFriday's in its location, it's incredibly hard for me to be let down by one. I tend to put stock in people in my actual life, and not people I don't know. Corey was one of my heroes, but he never let me down, and it would be impossible for him to do so now, because he passed away when I was 5 months pregnant with Matthew. If I think of something, I'll come back and edit this entry.
Seriously, I got nothing. My heroes are culinary-related, so short of, say, Grant Achatz shutting down Alinea and opening a TGIFriday's in its location, it's incredibly hard for me to be let down by one. I tend to put stock in people in my actual life, and not people I don't know. Corey was one of my heroes, but he never let me down, and it would be impossible for him to do so now, because he passed away when I was 5 months pregnant with Matthew. If I think of something, I'll come back and edit this entry.
Day 13 (music: Flogging Molly)
Day 13: A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Dear Flogging Molly,
Where can I begin?
My kid brother first introduced me to your music when Drunken Lullabies was released. I'd grown up listening to Silly Wizard, Dougie MacLean, Sinead O'Connor, and the Cranberries, and had always been in love with Irish melodies - call it genetic influence if you will. I'm part Irish, and I originally started dying my hair red in an attempt to look even more so. I'm not sure if it worked, but it looked good, so with the exception of a flirtation with the blue-black hair color that Feria puts out, it's been red for, oh, twelve years now. It's naturally dark reddish brown, but I've got that pale freckly Northern European skin, and it was just too dark for my complexion. But I digress.
When "Rebels of the Sacred Heart" started playing, it was like I simultaneously saw giant inspirational flash-bulbs go off and had the wind knocked out of me. It's incredible how music can affect you, isn't it? I loved punk, and I loved Irish...to combine the two? Amazing.
My copy of Drunken Lullabies was stolen five separate times before I finally ripped it to my computer and copied it to my mp3 player so that I wouldn't have to go without. When "Within a Mile From Home" was released, I did the same.
It was playing in my head the first time I had sex with my boyfriend/domestic partner/life partner/father of my kids/whatever you want to call him. It was playing for real the night our older son was conceived. I listen to it on my way to whatever cooking job I have - it gets me psyched up for a shift, so I can rock the line like a superstar. I listened to it while I was in labor.
When my grandpa died, I went for a drive up to the store, so as not to freak out my two small sons with my tears. I plugged in my iPhone, put the iPod on randomize, and the first song that came up was "Whistles the Wind." I parked at the store and listened to it on repeat while I cried. I listened to it probably fifty times, back to back, while we were headed downstate for the memorial.
When my brother Scotty passed, I made a playlist of songs that made me think of him, both songs I liked and songs he liked, and a few songs I wanted to be true. The top of them was "If I Ever Leave This World Alive." I wanted to think that he was back and sitting on the floor next to me while I stared blankly into space trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he was gone. It's been eight weeks and I'm still listening to it, and trying to convince myself that, had the inspiration been mine, I would have written the following verse about myself:
"She says, 'I'm okay, I'm all right
though you have gone from my life.
You said that it would -
now everything should be all right.
Yes, we'll be all right."
What draws me in the most with your music, though, is pretty simple. Passion calls to passion. Your passion and your love of what you do is so clearly on display throughout each and every song. I'm a passionate person, especially with food, which is what I do - I'm a cook. I've actually been accused of being too passionate before - is there such a thing? I discussed this with a facebook friend (and real life friend of my boyfriend's, although I'd like to consider him a friend of mine too and wish I knew him a little better, because he seems pretty bad ass), and he agrees with me that no, passion is good.
Anyway, I'm horrible at writing letters to people I don't know, so I'll wrap this up. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for music that has soared with me to my highest of heights, and comforted me at my rock bottom lows. Thank you and please keep doing what you do.
Truly,
Megan
Dear Flogging Molly,
Where can I begin?
My kid brother first introduced me to your music when Drunken Lullabies was released. I'd grown up listening to Silly Wizard, Dougie MacLean, Sinead O'Connor, and the Cranberries, and had always been in love with Irish melodies - call it genetic influence if you will. I'm part Irish, and I originally started dying my hair red in an attempt to look even more so. I'm not sure if it worked, but it looked good, so with the exception of a flirtation with the blue-black hair color that Feria puts out, it's been red for, oh, twelve years now. It's naturally dark reddish brown, but I've got that pale freckly Northern European skin, and it was just too dark for my complexion. But I digress.
When "Rebels of the Sacred Heart" started playing, it was like I simultaneously saw giant inspirational flash-bulbs go off and had the wind knocked out of me. It's incredible how music can affect you, isn't it? I loved punk, and I loved Irish...to combine the two? Amazing.
My copy of Drunken Lullabies was stolen five separate times before I finally ripped it to my computer and copied it to my mp3 player so that I wouldn't have to go without. When "Within a Mile From Home" was released, I did the same.
It was playing in my head the first time I had sex with my boyfriend/domestic partner/life partner/father of my kids/whatever you want to call him. It was playing for real the night our older son was conceived. I listen to it on my way to whatever cooking job I have - it gets me psyched up for a shift, so I can rock the line like a superstar. I listened to it while I was in labor.
When my grandpa died, I went for a drive up to the store, so as not to freak out my two small sons with my tears. I plugged in my iPhone, put the iPod on randomize, and the first song that came up was "Whistles the Wind." I parked at the store and listened to it on repeat while I cried. I listened to it probably fifty times, back to back, while we were headed downstate for the memorial.
When my brother Scotty passed, I made a playlist of songs that made me think of him, both songs I liked and songs he liked, and a few songs I wanted to be true. The top of them was "If I Ever Leave This World Alive." I wanted to think that he was back and sitting on the floor next to me while I stared blankly into space trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he was gone. It's been eight weeks and I'm still listening to it, and trying to convince myself that, had the inspiration been mine, I would have written the following verse about myself:
"She says, 'I'm okay, I'm all right
though you have gone from my life.
You said that it would -
now everything should be all right.
Yes, we'll be all right."
What draws me in the most with your music, though, is pretty simple. Passion calls to passion. Your passion and your love of what you do is so clearly on display throughout each and every song. I'm a passionate person, especially with food, which is what I do - I'm a cook. I've actually been accused of being too passionate before - is there such a thing? I discussed this with a facebook friend (and real life friend of my boyfriend's, although I'd like to consider him a friend of mine too and wish I knew him a little better, because he seems pretty bad ass), and he agrees with me that no, passion is good.
Anyway, I'm horrible at writing letters to people I don't know, so I'll wrap this up. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for music that has soared with me to my highest of heights, and comforted me at my rock bottom lows. Thank you and please keep doing what you do.
Truly,
Megan
Day 12 (music: Rancid)
Note: Sorry for the extended absence. I was having depression and rage issues. I'm back. <3
Day 12: Something I never get compliments on.
Okay, I've honestly been thinking about this for a week, and came up with nothing. So I posted the question to facebook, and I'll just post the replies here.
Dad: Your generous nature.
Allie: You are who you are, and your comfortable with yourself, and not afraid to act like yourself. your real, not many people can say that about themselves.
Uncle Phil: You are Life loving,kind,pretty,determi
Day 12: Something I never get compliments on.
Okay, I've honestly been thinking about this for a week, and came up with nothing. So I posted the question to facebook, and I'll just post the replies here.
Dad: Your generous nature.
Allie: You are who you are, and your comfortable with yourself, and not afraid to act like yourself. your real, not many people can say that about themselves.
Uncle Phil: You are Life loving,kind,pretty,determi
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Day 11 (music: Odd Hours)
Day 11: Something people seem to compliment me the most on.
Most of my compliments tend to be on specific abilities - I'm a good writer, a rock star in the kitchen, good with my kids, etc. More general compliments range from my hair and eyes to my tattoos to my creativity at coming up with insults to my taste in music. My cousin Ross suggested writing this entry about my vocabulary and knowing when to use it. I think I'm going to generalize that a little more and go with intelligence.
My dad gets a lot of credit for me being smart. He had me reading the newspaper by the time I was three. He let me read every book I could get my hands on - I read Lonesome Dove in third grade, in its entirety, only pausing once to ask Dad what a whore was (wish I could remember his answer, lol) - and thoroughly encouraged my love of reading. I read the encyclopedias we had at home. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I'd read the labels on soaps and shampoos and shaving creams while I was using the toilet.
Sadly, I didn't manage to apply what I knew about protective coloration, and thus helped make life hell for myself during grade school, like I blogged about before. As a result, by the time I hit puberty (early, which really didn't help me any), I hated being smart. I hated that I got A's without even trying at that school. I just wanted to be like everyone else, just another anonymous face in the crowd.
Concord helped me lighten up on myself a little bit. It was okay to be smart there, and my love of reading and writing was definitely encouraged. Something else too - none of my standard public school teachers had understood why I had such a hard time with math when I was so good at English. Math was the only subject I struggled with. At Concord, they didn't question it or imply that I was faking it like they did at HSMS. They just helped. Of course, I had to take beginner's algebra four years in a row to finally pass it, but I passed it, and passed geometry on my first try. That school was great for me. It let me shine, any way that I wanted to. I did drama and loved it. I wrote papers so long that a maximum word limit was actually imposed for me at one point. They let me be a smart ass and use all my vocabulary words (twenty) in two or three very long but grammatically correct compound sentences. When I hit high school, got moody and depressed, and decided to be a dark star rather than a bright one, they let me do that too. The phrase "expressing him/herself" gets a bad rap a lot of the time, because of crappy parents that use it as an excuse not to discipline their children. I'm saying it needs to be taken back. Concord let me - indeed, it let every student - express myself/ourselves in whatever way we could.
Now that I'm pushing 30, I've developed protective coloring. I can adapt my vocabulary to my surroundings quite easily, and I will admit to taking a devilish glee in allowing people to underestimate me at first, then smoking them with my intelligence, just for the reaction.
So yeah, that's all I've got.
Most of my compliments tend to be on specific abilities - I'm a good writer, a rock star in the kitchen, good with my kids, etc. More general compliments range from my hair and eyes to my tattoos to my creativity at coming up with insults to my taste in music. My cousin Ross suggested writing this entry about my vocabulary and knowing when to use it. I think I'm going to generalize that a little more and go with intelligence.
My dad gets a lot of credit for me being smart. He had me reading the newspaper by the time I was three. He let me read every book I could get my hands on - I read Lonesome Dove in third grade, in its entirety, only pausing once to ask Dad what a whore was (wish I could remember his answer, lol) - and thoroughly encouraged my love of reading. I read the encyclopedias we had at home. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I'd read the labels on soaps and shampoos and shaving creams while I was using the toilet.
Sadly, I didn't manage to apply what I knew about protective coloration, and thus helped make life hell for myself during grade school, like I blogged about before. As a result, by the time I hit puberty (early, which really didn't help me any), I hated being smart. I hated that I got A's without even trying at that school. I just wanted to be like everyone else, just another anonymous face in the crowd.
Concord helped me lighten up on myself a little bit. It was okay to be smart there, and my love of reading and writing was definitely encouraged. Something else too - none of my standard public school teachers had understood why I had such a hard time with math when I was so good at English. Math was the only subject I struggled with. At Concord, they didn't question it or imply that I was faking it like they did at HSMS. They just helped. Of course, I had to take beginner's algebra four years in a row to finally pass it, but I passed it, and passed geometry on my first try. That school was great for me. It let me shine, any way that I wanted to. I did drama and loved it. I wrote papers so long that a maximum word limit was actually imposed for me at one point. They let me be a smart ass and use all my vocabulary words (twenty) in two or three very long but grammatically correct compound sentences. When I hit high school, got moody and depressed, and decided to be a dark star rather than a bright one, they let me do that too. The phrase "expressing him/herself" gets a bad rap a lot of the time, because of crappy parents that use it as an excuse not to discipline their children. I'm saying it needs to be taken back. Concord let me - indeed, it let every student - express myself/ourselves in whatever way we could.
Now that I'm pushing 30, I've developed protective coloring. I can adapt my vocabulary to my surroundings quite easily, and I will admit to taking a devilish glee in allowing people to underestimate me at first, then smoking them with my intelligence, just for the reaction.
So yeah, that's all I've got.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Day 10 (music: The Dissension)
Day 10: Someone I need to let go, or wish I didn't know.
UPDATED: The balance on the debt has been squared and this person hopefully will refrain from attempting to contact me or further attempts to smear my character.
I'm pretty good at cutting toxic people out of my life, so that excludes the first part of this topic. Anyone I need to let go has already been excised from my life. So that leaves someone I wish I didn't know. And I know just who that is.
I went on a mini-rant earlier today on Facebook. Here's the text, copied and pasted:
"You judgmental chickenshit little jerk. Next time you want to run your mouth around town about me about shit that isn't true just to make yourself look better, to one of MY friends, have the huevos to speak it to my face when I see you in town and not pretend like you're all engrossed in your phone call. Kiss my ass...oh wait, it's been so long for you you probably wouldn't have the vaguest idea of how to pucker. Here's a protip - purse your lips like you're sucking the life out of another "friendship" like the one you pretended we had while you ripped me off. And don't think for one second that I'm gonna let your comment about one of my brothers slide. That shit still pisses me off. Get off your ass and make things right, you whiny lying little bitch."
Here's the filled-in details. I've blogged before about this guy. Since then, it's come to my attention from a few unnamed sources that he's been saying that he loaned me all that change, not that it's payment on a two year old debt. Seriously? So insecure that he couldn't admit that he not only owed me money, but paid in pennies? And to run around telling that to people I'm friends with too? Honestly, I'd be laughing if I wasn't so irritated. Give it a year, and I will be.
Anyway, that back history in mind, I head up to the grocery store today, fairly neutral mood, you know, keeping my mind off the fact that it's Sunday and Sundays will always suck for me, just looking to get stuff to make tacos for dinner and check the price on cut flowers for my next visit to the cemetery. I went by the gas station afterward for smokes and was talking to my favorite cashier there, Devin. We were talking tattoos, I was talking Nigel up, had my phone out to show him some examples of Ni's work, when douchebag walks in. We locked eyes. He rushed out real quick after he paid. It got me pissed off all over again.
I wish I'd never met him. I don't see where his presence has added anything to my life, save reinforcing my already virulent loathing of hypocrites and people who claim to be Christian while spouting hate rhetoric and lying. And honestly, that didn't need reinforcing. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't be sitting here steaming about how he still owes me well over $100, how I was dumb enough to let myself get suckered into believing his hyperbole, spend Jeremy's entire vacation working for what looks like for free now, etc. I wouldn't have to realize the fact that there is one hypocritical lying sack of shit in my acquaintance who will gladly tell people all about how his god sends gays to hell. His life tends to balance more towards "fail" than "win." And I really think karma's starting to do its thing - his store's out of business, he's working at the dollar store now, and he couldn't even stand and try to explain why he's spouting lies to my friends when I saw him today. What's the matter, dude? Scared of a little five foot tall girl? Or scared of what I'll say? Do you have any idea how close I was to making you look like an ass at the gas station? The only thing that stopped my mouth before it could blurt out everything I've posted about you is that I'm an adult now, and I'd hate for poor Devin to feel massively uncomfortable because that girl who's always in there buying Camel Menthols just went off on another customer like a crazy person.
I hope your car breaks down. I hope you get evicted. I hope when you die you get a great lecture from whatever entity is waiting for you, one that's all about how your place in hell or heaven or wherever is determined by your character and not by whom you've been fucking.
Every asshole I've ever met and had in my life has taught me something. I try to take the bad shit and make a lesson out of it, let it somehow shape my character in a good way. But you? You're a void. There's nothing minutely redeeming about you. You've done nothing to make me a better person. Every time I remember your offhanded comment about how my brother was going to hell for being gay, I see red, I wish you emotional suffering ten times worse than what my family and Scotty's friends have gone through since we lost him. I'd punch you in the face if you weren't smaller than me - it just doesn't seem fair to hit someone who's shorter than I am. I fucking hate moral high horses, but in this case I think mine's legs are a little longer than yours.
And like I said earlier, kiss my ass.
UPDATED: The balance on the debt has been squared and this person hopefully will refrain from attempting to contact me or further attempts to smear my character.
I'm pretty good at cutting toxic people out of my life, so that excludes the first part of this topic. Anyone I need to let go has already been excised from my life. So that leaves someone I wish I didn't know. And I know just who that is.
I went on a mini-rant earlier today on Facebook. Here's the text, copied and pasted:
"You judgmental chickenshit little jerk. Next time you want to run your mouth around town about me about shit that isn't true just to make yourself look better, to one of MY friends, have the huevos to speak it to my face when I see you in town and not pretend like you're all engrossed in your phone call. Kiss my ass...oh wait, it's been so long for you you probably wouldn't have the vaguest idea of how to pucker. Here's a protip - purse your lips like you're sucking the life out of another "friendship" like the one you pretended we had while you ripped me off. And don't think for one second that I'm gonna let your comment about one of my brothers slide. That shit still pisses me off. Get off your ass and make things right, you whiny lying little bitch."
Here's the filled-in details. I've blogged before about this guy. Since then, it's come to my attention from a few unnamed sources that he's been saying that he loaned me all that change, not that it's payment on a two year old debt. Seriously? So insecure that he couldn't admit that he not only owed me money, but paid in pennies? And to run around telling that to people I'm friends with too? Honestly, I'd be laughing if I wasn't so irritated. Give it a year, and I will be.
Anyway, that back history in mind, I head up to the grocery store today, fairly neutral mood, you know, keeping my mind off the fact that it's Sunday and Sundays will always suck for me, just looking to get stuff to make tacos for dinner and check the price on cut flowers for my next visit to the cemetery. I went by the gas station afterward for smokes and was talking to my favorite cashier there, Devin. We were talking tattoos, I was talking Nigel up, had my phone out to show him some examples of Ni's work, when douchebag walks in. We locked eyes. He rushed out real quick after he paid. It got me pissed off all over again.
I wish I'd never met him. I don't see where his presence has added anything to my life, save reinforcing my already virulent loathing of hypocrites and people who claim to be Christian while spouting hate rhetoric and lying. And honestly, that didn't need reinforcing. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't be sitting here steaming about how he still owes me well over $100, how I was dumb enough to let myself get suckered into believing his hyperbole, spend Jeremy's entire vacation working for what looks like for free now, etc. I wouldn't have to realize the fact that there is one hypocritical lying sack of shit in my acquaintance who will gladly tell people all about how his god sends gays to hell. His life tends to balance more towards "fail" than "win." And I really think karma's starting to do its thing - his store's out of business, he's working at the dollar store now, and he couldn't even stand and try to explain why he's spouting lies to my friends when I saw him today. What's the matter, dude? Scared of a little five foot tall girl? Or scared of what I'll say? Do you have any idea how close I was to making you look like an ass at the gas station? The only thing that stopped my mouth before it could blurt out everything I've posted about you is that I'm an adult now, and I'd hate for poor Devin to feel massively uncomfortable because that girl who's always in there buying Camel Menthols just went off on another customer like a crazy person.
I hope your car breaks down. I hope you get evicted. I hope when you die you get a great lecture from whatever entity is waiting for you, one that's all about how your place in hell or heaven or wherever is determined by your character and not by whom you've been fucking.
Every asshole I've ever met and had in my life has taught me something. I try to take the bad shit and make a lesson out of it, let it somehow shape my character in a good way. But you? You're a void. There's nothing minutely redeeming about you. You've done nothing to make me a better person. Every time I remember your offhanded comment about how my brother was going to hell for being gay, I see red, I wish you emotional suffering ten times worse than what my family and Scotty's friends have gone through since we lost him. I'd punch you in the face if you weren't smaller than me - it just doesn't seem fair to hit someone who's shorter than I am. I fucking hate moral high horses, but in this case I think mine's legs are a little longer than yours.
And like I said earlier, kiss my ass.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Day 9 (music: Silverchair - Neon Ballroom)
Day 9: Somebody you didn't want to let go, but just drifted.
My friend Buddy. This is a no-brainer.
Budz and I met back in eighth grade. He was one of my mom's students - dyslexic. He had this gorgeous singing voice that made me want to shut up everyone else in choir so I could listen. Listening to him sing Brahms' Lullaby gave me chills.
I think I've mentioned before about how I had my core group of friends during high school. Two of them were guys - my friend J down in Texas. The other was Buddy. My parents liked him. He'd come over after school for Mom and I to help him with his homework. After a couple years, he even started spending the night at our house.
When my brother Trav was in a coma in the hospital following a car accident, Buddy told me to page him every day with any updates, no matter what. And to page him if I needed anything. He was at the hospital visiting Trav every day. He'd scrape one of his car keys on the soul of little brother's foot, point at Trav's toes curling, and say "Look, I think they curled even more!" He came out, spent the night, and brought his guitar one of the nights both my parents spent at the hospital, and played and sang for me. We even sang together - "Hotel California" if I remember correctly - as his last ditch effort to get my mind off the fact that my brother was in PICU in a coma and had been for days.
We both fell into the underage party scene during what would have been our junior and senior years of high school. One party comes to mind in particular. I had had way too much to drink, ran for the bathroom, started puking, and passed out with my head in the toilet. Budz came to check on me, saw me there, carried me to a bedroom, and sat there all night holding me just to make sure no one tried to mess with me while I was unconscious.
We lost track of each other around the time I hit 18. He'd pop up at random every six months or so, and it would be like we'd just seen each other the other day. And then, a four year silence.
When I was 23, he called me out of the blue one day, said he needed to talk to me. I lit a cigarette and settled in for a good long chat. What I heard made me feel both extremely upset and extremely flattered at the same time, if you can imagine that dichotomy.
Budz had had some issues with depression. He finally couldn't handle it any more. He began a suicide attempt - I didn't inquire as to the method, but judging from what he said, it was either cuts or pills - and then stopped and called 911. Why?
"I'd done it, I was ready to be done with all this shit. Life sucked. And then, all of a sudden, I saw you there, standing in front of me, telling me if I did this you were gonna be so pissed you'd kick my ass. It was so clear - like you were actually there."
He went on to tell me that he had a "thing" for me, and to inquire if I would want to go out on a date sometime. He's a friend, a good one. I had to tell him the truth, that I was in love with Jeremy, couldn't date anyone else, didn't want to go on a date out of friendship and sympathy's sake and hurt him worse in the long run. He accepted it well, but told me, "you know no matter what, you'll always be my girl, my little sweetheart, right?"
Coming from anyone else, I would have either verbally or physically laid them out for calling me "little sweetheart." But Budz...there was no condescension present. It's just how he talks. I agreed. I'll always love him, though in a big brother way. And I miss him.
He turned up again a few months later, after Jeremy and I had been together for three months, and about two weeks after I'd found out I was pregnant with Matthew. He stopped by the house and visited, and then we went out for coffee the next day. After that....
I've seen him a few times, all when he worked at Subway.
I miss him. He was my friend at a time when I was massively insecure and didn't have very many friends. He was my adopted big brother. We used to tell people we were twins born eleven months apart. He was always there for me, no matter what kind of existential bullshit teenage crap ego drama I was going through.
Buddy, I know you're not reading this. But I still love you. You're my big brother, and you always will be.
My friend Buddy. This is a no-brainer.
Budz and I met back in eighth grade. He was one of my mom's students - dyslexic. He had this gorgeous singing voice that made me want to shut up everyone else in choir so I could listen. Listening to him sing Brahms' Lullaby gave me chills.
I think I've mentioned before about how I had my core group of friends during high school. Two of them were guys - my friend J down in Texas. The other was Buddy. My parents liked him. He'd come over after school for Mom and I to help him with his homework. After a couple years, he even started spending the night at our house.
When my brother Trav was in a coma in the hospital following a car accident, Buddy told me to page him every day with any updates, no matter what. And to page him if I needed anything. He was at the hospital visiting Trav every day. He'd scrape one of his car keys on the soul of little brother's foot, point at Trav's toes curling, and say "Look, I think they curled even more!" He came out, spent the night, and brought his guitar one of the nights both my parents spent at the hospital, and played and sang for me. We even sang together - "Hotel California" if I remember correctly - as his last ditch effort to get my mind off the fact that my brother was in PICU in a coma and had been for days.
We both fell into the underage party scene during what would have been our junior and senior years of high school. One party comes to mind in particular. I had had way too much to drink, ran for the bathroom, started puking, and passed out with my head in the toilet. Budz came to check on me, saw me there, carried me to a bedroom, and sat there all night holding me just to make sure no one tried to mess with me while I was unconscious.
We lost track of each other around the time I hit 18. He'd pop up at random every six months or so, and it would be like we'd just seen each other the other day. And then, a four year silence.
When I was 23, he called me out of the blue one day, said he needed to talk to me. I lit a cigarette and settled in for a good long chat. What I heard made me feel both extremely upset and extremely flattered at the same time, if you can imagine that dichotomy.
Budz had had some issues with depression. He finally couldn't handle it any more. He began a suicide attempt - I didn't inquire as to the method, but judging from what he said, it was either cuts or pills - and then stopped and called 911. Why?
"I'd done it, I was ready to be done with all this shit. Life sucked. And then, all of a sudden, I saw you there, standing in front of me, telling me if I did this you were gonna be so pissed you'd kick my ass. It was so clear - like you were actually there."
He went on to tell me that he had a "thing" for me, and to inquire if I would want to go out on a date sometime. He's a friend, a good one. I had to tell him the truth, that I was in love with Jeremy, couldn't date anyone else, didn't want to go on a date out of friendship and sympathy's sake and hurt him worse in the long run. He accepted it well, but told me, "you know no matter what, you'll always be my girl, my little sweetheart, right?"
Coming from anyone else, I would have either verbally or physically laid them out for calling me "little sweetheart." But Budz...there was no condescension present. It's just how he talks. I agreed. I'll always love him, though in a big brother way. And I miss him.
He turned up again a few months later, after Jeremy and I had been together for three months, and about two weeks after I'd found out I was pregnant with Matthew. He stopped by the house and visited, and then we went out for coffee the next day. After that....
I've seen him a few times, all when he worked at Subway.
I miss him. He was my friend at a time when I was massively insecure and didn't have very many friends. He was my adopted big brother. We used to tell people we were twins born eleven months apart. He was always there for me, no matter what kind of existential bullshit teenage crap ego drama I was going through.
Buddy, I know you're not reading this. But I still love you. You're my big brother, and you always will be.
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