My grandparents just had their 50th anniversary last weekend. Fifty years and still married to each other, isn't that wild? At the end of the night, after most of their friends and family left, I found myself facing the dance floor watching Nana and Papa slowly drift to a country love ballad. It was romantic, to say the least. I saw my Nana singing softly along with the lyrics and my Papa whispering into her ear, making her laugh and causing them to stumble a bit. Photos of their life were fading in and out on the projection screen behind their dancing, providing little details that shed light on their long lives and rich back story.
I wonder how my memoir will read (when I'm finished with it). I wonder if my golden years will resemble theirs, and whether I'll find myself slow-dancing to long love songs from my teenhood. What will that look like? Who will it be with? Am I even comfortable with that idea, of investing myself so deeply into someone? We would shuffle our velcro shoes across the dance hall, smiling and perhaps tearing up, hugging each other and feeling complete. It sounds almost dreamy, and safe. Secure. Comfortable. Vulnerable, but protected by our insistant and understanding love for one another.
I'm clearly rambling now. Truth is, I'm a two-bit, good-fer-nothin' romantic and I wouldn't have it any other way. These ideas of love and relationships can become so convoluted and complicated that it makes it not seem worth it at times. But as hard as I try, I can't help but WANT to love and be loved. I feel like I'm designed, wired, created for love.
Okay, WHOA, slow down tiger. I'm easily excitable.
I'm rocking myself in Justin's blue recliner, staring at the Pink Floyd poster above our kitchen windows. We've got party lights hooked up: an orange fluorescent, a green light bulb, and a blacklight. This place is baller, seriously. It's a typical bachelor pad, I guess - empty Jameson bottles line the tops of our cupboards, marijuana and it's accompanying toys lie around everywhere, and you can find one of seven 3-packs of condoms if you look hard enough.
I live with three incredibly daft people: Jared, Daniel, and Justin. They're not really daft (the jury's still out on Jared), but actually very intelligent people. Jared's the handy man who knows all sorts of random stuff about topics you'd normally find unimportant until the moment strikes. Daniel, well, he's just a genius. Certified prodigy, computer hacker, book-writer, bagel-eater... the list continues for kilometers. And Justin's the level-headed, collected guy who plays most all of his cards right and still avoids looking like a douchebag.
The community we live in is referred to by Justin as "Auschwitz" and comes complete with security guards, 24/7 streetlamps, and a padlocked trash dumpster. We've got access to the swimming pool and hot tub, the tennis and basketball courts, the playground near the office, and hotties working out in the exercise building. I'm normally the one to check the mail, so I roll myself a cigarette and light it on my way. It's a lovely little walk, and most of the time the alleys/streets are filled with kids or skateboarders or people walking their dogs.
I'm not sure how long I'll be here, but it's really pretty nice.
Hmm... Is this sufficient?
Oh damn, it'll be hard to recover from this one, huh?
Last post: August 28th? Look, I hereby solemnly swear the following things:
1) I will dust off the cobwebs and dried semen, logging in and posting at least once a week.
2) I will continue the wonderful tradition of including one (1) photo at the end of each post.
3) I will fly like an eagle. An eagle of excellence and danger.
4) I will assume as usual that no one is reading this, and I will be honest and perhaps "raw".
5) I will expect each of you to bring me 100 scalps. And I want my scalps.
