For Crying Out Loud

No time for frills and flair. But I have a lot of frills to share. Tomorrow, when I am semi-fully rested, I may or may not come back and pepper this entry with images that you may or may not give a fuck about.

And such is life. We're only ever guessing at what the other guy cares about.

A few weeks ago I had tea with a kindred spirit. She loves a man who makes gorgeous murals but above and beyond that she has a lovely spirit and a fierce little way of being in the world.

The these things aren't the point. The real point is that just three or four weeks ago I found myself having my first adult conversation about why it's important for a boy to write my name on a wall. And why it matters how and where he does it. The colors and placement and style. All of that. For the first time I found myself talking to someone who completely understood that concept, and it was magical.

Rewind to my ex ex boyfriend of forever ago, and how he would not even write my name on a piece of paper. And how the one time in two years that he ever painted my name next to his it was in the most cutty spot ever, where no one would really happen by it. And in spite of my begging and pleading and often driving him to the places he painted at, not one other time ever did he grace a wall in my honor.

Pause. It's important that you know that I know that I have an inordinate amount of emotion invested in that situation. Out of proportion to the actual situation, really. And it's more important that you know that I know that it means something that I see things this way.

Ahem.

Fast forward to a few days ago, and me getting an email from my ex ex boyfriend. Not really shocking since we stay in touch and trade music and the occasional picture or whatever. But this email was art-related, it was some pieces he's done that I hadn't seen before.

And you know what? Bless him. Bless his heart for that.

But about 3 pictures in, as I'm just oohing and ahhing over his mastery? There's this one solo piece he sent me. The only one that was just him with no friends. It's on a roof top somewhere and the sun seems to be setting and the light is golden and there's his name clear as day.

And above it. Like Casper the Friendly Ghost or some fruity ass Parisian hat. Like a foot or so above his name there's some chick's name. Clearly done by him. Clearly done for her. Clearly there clear as a fucking bell in the motherfucking picture he sent me to keep me posted on his artwork.

Such a sweet gesture.

And mother fuck that, is all I have to say.

That came in the middle of an epic under-the-weatherness that I just barely made it out of after two whole days of staying home. Wednesday and Thursday were for convalescing and feeling indignant. But Friday found me pulling it together spectacularly, starting the day with a hot pink bath that had heart shaped confetti in it and sporting a pretty amazing outfit to work.

I wore a sweater, but I rocked a bikini top underneath it. In my mind somewhere there is always at least a little bit of summer time, you know?

Yeah, you know.

Good night.

And good morning, too.

Adieu