At Least They're Committed

I’ve bundled up my sanity and stolen it and myself away to the far recesses of my bedroom. I type by candlelight and by monitorlight blaring STP’s “Sour Girl” to drown out Muse’s “Knights of Cydonia” (sp?) on Guitar Hero. Evidently it’s a tough one on expert and DSII is bound and determined to conquer it and I’m all in support, as long as I’m far and away. Brian says that song reminds him of Rush; I’m thinking Queen, like from the “Flash Gordon” era. No matter. Ninety times — or portions thereof — are more than enough for me.

Today’s homeless man picked us out before we’d even left Illegal Pete’s. We even crossed the street and he followed. He danced his best Michael Jackson routine, talked to us about his nephew in prison and walked with us for four blocks before asking for money. D gave him a $5. “Here in town you can tell he’s been down for awhile; but my God it’s so beautiful when the boy smiles,” Anna Nalick. It’s what I have blasting now and it seemed appropriate except this guy didn’t have such a great smile and I most certainly don’t want to hold him. I decided today I never want to “hold” anyone. Never again. He gave nice hugs though.

So, in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” why was it supposed to make James Stewart feel any better to know how fucked up everyone would be without him? What about him? How fucked up might he have been without any of them? Or would he have been at all? Hmmm. Now that IS the question, isn’t it?

Sam Adams friended me on facebook today! Cool! I’ve always really liked Sam.

The young, tattooed guy who built my taco at Pete’s asked me twice how my day was going. I said “good thanks,” the first time and “excellent, how is yours?” the second. He was working on his birthday, but he got off at 5 p.m. and that was pretty cool because a couple other people in his apartment complex have the same birthday so they’re planning on a monster ass party. Sweet!!!

OK. now if one were clever (or were one to actually ever read this) one would recognize by now the double entendre of the title of this post cuz I’m escaping not only the band/song, I’m also not being the slightest bit poetic while I’m at it, so I’ve literally (literarilly heh) avoided the muse as well!

I’m catching glimpses of myself in  the mirror, the dark shadows where my eyes would be, my hair cascading down almost to the H on my Michigan sweatshirt. I look totally badass and really pretty damn sexy. Sooo, if the mirror is 10 feet away and the light is dim, then double that for how distant my reflection is and it equals: I still look good at 20 feet in the dark. Good to know! (“Why is Cathy sitting three tables away and flipping her hair around like that?” “Got me.”)

I just said out loud: “I don’t think anybody likes me.” Why did I do that? I don’t know. Something just, like, swept over me. Dear God I make no sense. “No more life replacing all of us; changing this fable we live in.” I sing along with Avenged Sevenfold the way the nuns always tried to make me sing in church. Hands clasped as if in prayer. The difference being, of course, I’m actually singing this time, not mouthing the words like I did as a child and still do whenever I make it to church.

J said today that when he took the wine at Mass the priest said “This is your salvation.” I wonder if the priest said it to all the parishioners or just to J? I wonder if he could sense his turmoil. Poor baby. I know he’s wondering what his salvation is or could be. I know he’s looking. For every single thought he presents, there are like 20 ways I can take it and I think it’s because he has so much running through his head I can’t read him without actually looking at him. Anyway, we can safely say I’m not his salvation. I’m nobody’s salvation. I’m just a tool.

“Something takes a bite of me; you and I weren’t meant to be. A cheap fuck for me to lay. Something takes a bite of me,” Korn. I like complaint rock. What can I say. Ooooh! Stabbing Westward! I scream the words to this song: “I cannot save you! I can’t even save myself! So just save yourself!!” with great vigor and rage . . . then I go and try to save everyone anyway.

My husband sees auras. He admitted that to us, kinda slipping it in like an “oh, by the way, did I ever tell you?” after 20 years of marriage. Interesting! Evidently my aura is purple. As a good Catholic (ahem), I didn’t need to look up what that meant. Of course. Of course I’m purple. We’re all Catholics; this whole confused little band of us. I find that a little comforting. Don’t know why. Guess it a-Muses me (that’s a double entendre, too! Get it?).