I like watching you

Earlier tonight, my Matchgirl came and sat on the couch while I was folding clothes. This is the small piece of dialogue that ensued and stole my heart:

Matchgirl: “I like watching. I like watching you. 

Me: “Mmmmhhmmmm…..”

Matchgirl: “Do you know why I like watching you?”

Me: “Why’s that?”

Matchgirl: “Because I love you, that’s why. That’s why I like watching you.”

Me: “Well, that’s why I like watching you, too.”

 

So awesome.

  • S.L.

I’m Fine.

Sometimes I feel lonely when I am surrounded by people; sometimes I’m literally alone and I hate being alone.

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Although it’s not like I want to hang out with anyone, either. LOL 😉

I’ve been sleeping away my weekends to avoid that shit, which I suppose is better than drinking to avoid it. Going to sleep as soon as possible on Fridays after work, waking up early, then morning nap. Meander around the house, do something productive, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. Eat, sleep, poop.

Like today. I pushed myself to take a shower. Pushed myself to go to the store. And now I have five hours before Bruce gets home from work before it’s time to watch some TV and slip again into Dreamy McDreamland. I want to curl into bed so bad right now.


I feel something stirring, like something isn’t right. I’m not where I should be, and I know what I have wanted for a long time. It’s fear that’s stopping me.

I have always needed a partner, though. At my core, I am a follower. I want someone to save me. I want someone to push me. I want someone on my path with me. I want guidance about every decision that I make so that if I fuck it up, it’s not totally my fault. That gives me the okay to point the finger a bit. Just a bit. If I go down, you’ll go down with me. And I won’t end up a lonely failure.

It’s really awful to admit that. See why I hate being alone? I see the ugly in me.

I’m going to get these sweet tats:

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If I could bleed emotions, it would be in all the colors imaginable.
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I’m fine. Save me.

Ughhhhhh,

  • I.W.

Let me dedicate a song to you

Whilst driving Sweetpea Beelzebub around to get her to sleep, I passed the Shell gas station where my friend Margie was killed in 2003. A man robbed the store and shot her in the face, twice, when she asked him to please let her keep her “grandma” bracelet.

The night this happened, I drove by the Shell on my way home, and there were police cars and crime tape around it, and I remember thinking there must have been a robbery, I hope Margie wasn’t working, that would suck. I would normally stop in and grab something and chit chat with her if she was on shift, and I was planning to do it that night.

Selfishly, I’m glad someone else got there first. I’m glad it wasn’t me who found her.

The news played the security footage, up to the point right before the killer shoots her, over and over, asking for help in identifying the man. It was brutal. I felt sick. I felt angry. I couldn’t understand, and it hurt all the more because she always reminded me a little bit of my mom.

I hated that man. Hated him.

I moved out of the city less than a month later.

When I finally came back, I made myself walk into that Shell station, because I wasn’t going to let the past rule my life. I made my purchase and wondered if the clerk behind the counter even knew that they were standing where the blood of my friend once filled the floor. It was surreal.

I had never heard anything further about it, and tonight I searched to see if there were any answers. I found out her case was closed, and then I found out the name of the man who did it. Then I saw his face. Then I searched the state inmate system, and saw he was serving a sentence of life without parole.

This is a case where he should have gotten the death penalty. I’m not a big supporter of rushing to the death penalty, for other personal reasons, but I believe that when you have blatant, unarguable evidence, that a human being perpetrated an obvious act of evil against another human, then the death penalty should be an option. He shouldn’t still be allowed to be here. I don’t care about the argument that killing him won’t bring her back. That’s not the point, and it’s a stupid argument. Nothing can bring her back.

I’m glad he was caught, though. I’m glad her case was solved. I hope that son of a bitch has a hellacious time in prison, although, unfortunately, I think he’s more likely to be the cause of someone else’s hellacious time.

While I normally refrain from wishing direct ill on someone, as it is against my spiritual beliefs, I hope he dies, painfully, and aware that he’s about to die. I wish someone could make him feel everything Margie felt, staring down the barrel of that gun that night. I hope she felt no pain, but if she did, then I hope he feels something akin to that too.

Justice rarely exists, but one can hope.

I love you, Margie.

 

  • S.L.

The Devil doesn’t care about your diet.

I overheard a coworker the other day say (summarized) that the devil was tempting her to go get fast food the night before, and she rolled over and said “not tonight devil”. I was flabbergasted. Think about it, really.

Say you’re the Devil, and you’re ruling over Hell and getting to torment all these souls and live surrounded by lakes of fire and you (allegedly) get to tempt people to misbehave.

Do you really think you’re going to waste your time worrying if Rhonda eats a twinkie or twenty? There are billions of people on this earth, and people think the devil has so little to do, that he hangs around their special selves all day, waiting to ruin their figure.

What this really is, is a way to circumvent self responsibility.

– S.L.