That’s some full moon out there tonight, because wooooooooooooo! The crazy cans are a-shaking all over the place! Man alive. Snidgey and I were just like, WOW, what in the HELL is going on around here? and then I recalled Thursday, there was just a smidgen left before the full moon would be in its big shiny glory. And say what you want about the full moon bringing out the crazy, but I’m telling you, the crazy is OUT THERE and LOVIN’ IT.

So I’ve been logging entirely too much time this week ruminating over my emotional well-being, something I despise doing because it means feelings are involved, and I don’t do well with feelings, especially my own. And even worse than actually having feelings, at least to me, is trying articulate them in some sort of meaningful way; it’s not at all like writing a story, where everything is all (scribbled illogically) in my notebook. It’s more like walking through a haunted house during Halloween when you’re a little kid and sticking your hand in what’s supposed to be a brain but really is a bowl of spaghetti, and you’re trying fish out the meatball or piece of candy or whatever’s hidden in the goo. It’s moist and way unpleasant, but if I don’t and I leave the meatball in the goo, it’s going to mold over and start reeking. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if these feelings could cure cancer, much like my beloved Garcia Birkenstocks that I had to pitch because I figured they’d dry out once the detail guys got them out of the soup. Or cause it (cancer, I mean). Whatever.

Anyway.

The events leading up to all this, as I’m sure y’all gathered from last week’s bile spew, were nasty, horrific, embarassing, you name it, so I’m not going to rehash them verbatim. Suffice it to say, I got sucker-punched hard (proverbially, y’all, not physically) by someone who meant a great deal to me and has for a very, very long time. None of it should’ve surprised me, and though most of it didn’t, it’s the vitriol, man—the level it reached is just off the charts when it didn’t need to be. It NEVER needed to be, but I’m being told that yes, it did, because I just didn’t get it otherwise, and anyways I LET it happen, so really, it’s ALL MY FAULT. Got it now!??

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeessss. It’s all my fault. Way to rationalize your own behavior, dicksmack.

As someone who prides herself on being fluent in batshit crazy, I’m well aware that that’s all it is—not wanting to be called out on the carpet for rotten behavior, projecting one’s own (many, MANY) demons onto someone else and so on and so forth. I get it. Yet there are days now when I run it over and over about how I not only failed him, but that I put myself in a position to be shit on repeatedly, and there’s no deciding which is worse. Luckily, they’re fewer and further between, and I can go for extended periods keeping it all in perspective and, more importantly, not flogging myself over that which I cannot control. It’s just the waiting for the day when the good just clicks on and stays on that’s maddening.