cripes with all the aching everyplace

Reading missed connections on Craigslist is just fascinating to me sometimes. All this aching, everyone all wiped out on the pavement with love, I want to smack them and tell them to go running to whomever it is and speak up. Speak Up, people. You have nothing to lose. Fuck, I talked to Sean Nelson on Saturday, and if I have the balls to do that, you all have the balls to do anything. Really.

Like this guy:

I want to lick your mind... and then the rest of you. You are the most stimulating human I have met in a long time. I imagine that you taste like the pages of a 1st edition.

Or this guy:

Remember that I have looked into your eyes and it was like coming home...

Or even this guy:

You got on and our eyes met. We went to the back and you unzipped me and let me know your wet mouth. I didn't ask your name before you got off. Please reach out!!

Step it up! Even you, Mr. You-Fellated-Me-On-The-28-Bus. Even you.

As an aside, I swear, I could listen to this Arcade Fire album forever. It's so good. As the new relationship sky-breaking song comes on, as if to be on cue.

Ah... no, I won't go there. I'm starting to heal.

(something / filled up / my heart / with nothin' / someone / told me not to cry...
now that / I'm older / my heart / is colder / and I can / see that it's a lie...)

I guess we'll just have to adjust.

So I went to *the* greatest meeting tonight. It was just like home. It was every awesome thing about the Pacific Group when we started it years ago, without the bullshit, not a young people's meeting, not a show, not anything but people with strong recovery carrying the message. All adults. All anniversary night. And after like, a dozen people got up to share, with about ninety seconds left in the meeting, they called me up. I was half expecting it and half blown out of the water. And I cried and told my story in about forty five seconds and I got fucking bombarded after the meeting. About two dozen women gave me their numbers, every woman that was there it felt like - and I ate carrot cake with this really cool chick and we talked shit about boys and breakups and I'm going back next week. It was just awesome. I almost went up there and said, "I used to drink," with a pregnant pause, just to see if anyone yelled, "How much?" So I could go, "A lot." And everyone would laugh. I think I'm going to try that next time I go up.

I came home to appetizers and bonbons strewn about the apartment. My apartment. Because I really live here now, like really-really. Here. Aloha, Capitol Hill. A-lo-ha.

And on the self-imposed cockblock, which Movable Type does not recognize as a gramatically correct statement, or maybe it thinks I'm trying to spell corkboard (fish soap), I am really just out. O-U-T. I can't even communicate properly with the girl driving me to the meeting, let alone figuring out a moment or a date or an anything about anything. I mean, I know I already decided that and everything, but I am putting my white ass up on the shelf. Well, actually, I'll be taking it to the gym, where I'll be working out in a sea of gay boys (literally) that will not distract me. I'm going into winter under wraps, and I will emerge for season five a bright exploding desert flower, all hot pink and red and pushed up through a crack in a seemingly flowerless dusty chunk of earth. I'm going to write until my fingers fall off. I'm going to take pictures until I can't stand the awesomeness of it all, plastered on the walls, everywhere I look. I'm going to fort it up in my fort until I can't possibly fort it anymore, and then I'm going to fort some more. I will be ingenious. Brilliant. Something. All in an Irish accent, when I type "something", I hear Glen saying "something" like right before "I'm going to wait for you / I've got to send this tape to you" time.

Twisp. Fauntleroy. Vashon. Mercer? Creamer? Renton??!?! I hear the Arcade Fire in the speaker still, and it's reminding me of the time I saw Bell Orchestre at Firehouse 12, and how freaking good it was. All pictures reflected in the glass. It was so great.

I don't know if I have any words left. I feel like I just got carried, crowd-style, on my back across a sea of hands from one side of a stadium to the other. I feel cared for, protected, awake, alive, wrapped in gauze, in a good way. Tired but happy. Not like a cat tied to a stick. Not frantic. Nowhere near frantic. I wish they'd have more shit for me to do at work, so I don't sit around emailing all day, but that's about the worst of my problems.

I think I'm out of words. And the cd stopped, so I've got to go.

xx
VVB