When I started this blog, there was no terribly ambitious goal in mind.
I had some feelings that were being felt, I knew words that could describe what I was feeling. So there you go, match made in heaven.
It's been more than a month since Mama went to the place where I am not quite ready to go. On account that I don't know where it is, not sure I know the people there, definitely not sure that I would want to hang with them. Except for Farida or Dad. What's the dress code like? Are fishnets vogue? I'll consider it if cowards are not allowed.
So yes, this blog is not really about my life and how or what I am. It's not about me being sad, having a different kind of upbringing, or about my mental health.
It's about bits of me, my perception of the world and the bitches who took over after Jesus left.
It's also about shoes, and food and sex and relationships and love and death and gays and friends and gays who are my friends and the challenges that come just because you are alive. And pasta.
It's also a lot more complicated than what I just wrote. And as silly as having a conversation with Harley. My neighbour's dog that I adopted. Not Wystan's brother. Or the motorbike that Dog the Bounty Hunter rides.
Did I tell you it's also about Love?
It's about the odd kind of love.
Not the syrupy-sticky kind First formers at Nations Facebook about. That one makes your teeth fall out.
It's not even about the married kind that men and women and now men and men and women and women do. To fight loneliness. Or demons. Or fear. I never thought being afraid of the dark is a good enough reason to get married.
It's about Love that can stand alone. Not need the props of security. Finding one's self. Soul mate. Of completion. Or the stuff that songs are written about. Come to think of it, I believe songs about love are really lies about love. Except maybe for "Ghetto Love" by Macy Gray. Now that is truth. About Love. About Humans. Or maybe not.
I've begun dreaming again. Which is brilliant considering I sleep badly. Dreaming. About little things. Baking a cake. Losing some weight. Growing a butt.
And every now and then, Farida stops by. Those are the best ones.
So tomorrow, I'll write some more. I'll let you know how it goes. But you've got to come back. And hey, there's also a pact.
When you come here, come naked.
See you at the edge of dawn.
