Jameson used to be the love of my life. Then we broke up.

Firstly, mad props to the mommy melee for the rockin’ header. Nailed it in one!  Also, my girl? She’s got posse, and they roll deep.  Thanks to all y’all who popped by for my fledgling run.  It was quite humbling to come home from work to such thoughtful comments.

***

The day I realized I needed to quit drinking I woke up in my neighbor’s bed and I couldn’t find my pants.  I think I tried to steal a boat.  One of those badass clipper ship sail boat things like in Romancing the Stone.  I’m pretty sure I’d been setting shots on fire at the bar and making a general douchebag of myself.  I’m pretty sure I puked and rallied.

Thing is, I’d gone out for one drink.  Just a beer with my boy (whose name I cannot remember now) to celebrate his birthday.  He drove a beautiful yellow and black ford falcon that I’d named Roxy Falcone.  Because it’s sacrilegious to own a bitchin’ car and not have a name for it.  The seats were black and the steering wheel stuck, but it was a convertible.  I wanted it, so I figured if I slept with him, I’d get it.  Jameson does weird things to my brain.

He was a nice guy with a face that was bland like mashed potatoes.  He had red hair that was fading in the florida sun and I’m pretty sure there were dimples.  He was sweet and owned a house and had plans.  He was exactly the kind of guy I liked to take out and mess up a bit.  Mostly because people shouldn’t just be so damn happy all the time.  Not when I was so miserable.  I just wanted to break things, all the time.

So I woke up, searched for my pants and tried to remember if I’d driven.  I scurried across the street and left him passed out in a sprawl of sheets.  My mouth tasted like I’d been licking the catbox.  I sat down on my carport- conveniently fleshed out with a futon, dart board, and a coffee table made out of a door I’d found that was littered from one end to the other with beer cans.  My lawn, I smirk to even call it that, was full of beer caps, and I’m pretty sure the youngsters I drank with pissed around the corner.  Oh yea, I was THAT neighbor.

My hands were shaking.  They’d been shaking for years.  A drunk tremble that only went away when I sampled the plethora of wines at work before my shift.  I couldn’t get my cigarette lit and suddenly I was crying.  I was disgusted with myself.  I was filthy.  My shower didn’t have hot water and I’m pretty sure the sink was full of cockroaches and dried macaroni.  Twenty nine year olds shouldn’t be living on macaroni and crying on their front porch at noon on a Tuesday.  Rockstars could always light their cigarettes.  Of course, rockstars also had musical talent.

So I did something I had never done before.  I asked for help.  Really asked.  I was tired of feeling like I didn’t fit in my own skin.  I was sick, that sort of sick that feels like I’d been gutted with a melon ball and filled with tacks and tar.  It’s like my life was that tooth that rotted from the inside; it still looked pretty on the outside, but every time I touched it- pain.

That was over two years ago.  I still haven’t had anything to drink, but that feeling still comes back.  I eat too much, wank too much (although I really wonder if that’s possible), and I’m still awkward in my own skin.

But today it rained and the ground was slick.  The lights of my neighbors porchlamp make the sidewalk glow.  There’s a gecko clinging to the ceiling and staring at me while I write.  The science of this ability still makes my heart hurt at the beauty of it.  There are atoms whirling chaotically and one plus one still equals two.

Today I’m just that girl who sits outside barefoot and inhales the wet air with a feeling close to happy.  I know I have to go inside at some point and vaccuum, put the laundry in the correct pile, do my dishes, and scoop the litter box.  Right now though?  I just want to listen to the rain.

And return those damn movies to blockbuster before they make me buy them.