Thinking, thinking, thinking....
Working things out in my head. Trying not to lose hope. Losing hope anyway. Getting by on "bread alone". Getting by on "hugs" not drugs. (Sorta)
There's so much taking place in my life at this moment. I don't want to take a blog vacation. I want to write the anxiety away. I want to write about all the special moments that have come to pass in my life, and share them with everyone else.
They are so personal.
I see Snookms suffering the worst case of insomnia I've yet to witness. I awake in the middle of the night to see him frantically searching jobs on the internet. There are dozens of printed applications strewn about our house, more than a dozen newspapers turned to the "career opportunities" section laid out everywhere, countless "Post Its" and scrapped pieces of stationary with contacts of who to get back to for job offers that Snookms is overqualified for.
He doesn't care though. He's willing to shovel shit if it means doing something "constructive" about our current situation.
We had a good heart to heart in the car yesterday, on the way to picking up the spawn from Spawn Academy. We made up our minds that everything's going to be okay, no matter WHAT.
When we first fell in love and decided we couldn't spend another minute apart from one another for the rest of eternity and all that other hullaballoo, we MADE it work. It didn't make any fucking sense to anyone else. We were irrational as all hell in our thinking, considering we had no where to live, no car, no jobs, but we did it.
I guess I just couldn't live another day without the smell of his skin against my own, the security it provided, the confident brush of his hand acrossed my hair after we had made love,even after the 50th time in one day, insuring me every moment of the day that this man loved me for me.
The first time we fucked, he didn't get up, get dressed and tell me, "I'll call you tomarrow". He didn't take me out to dinner, wine me and dine me, and shower me with material possessions. Instead he lay beneath my own naked body, caressing my hair, looking up at me with his brown puppy dog eyes, as if I were a gift from Santa himself on Christmas Day.
And when the lights were all out for that night, save for the glow of television show "Late Night with Conan O'brien" illuminating the walls of his sister's one bedroom apartment, he quietly whispered "I love you" in my ear when he thought I was fast asleep, naked and in his arms.
We're going through what is probably one of the hardest times in our life right now, and all I can think of is this moment in time, when we were still just kids pretty much.
Mike's hair was longer than mine then. He played guitar more than he ate. He could crank out a Randy Rhoades solo like it was me playing a Smoke on the Water riff. His main food groups were Doritoes, cigarettes, Pepsi and Colt 45.
Now he stays up nights playing Jesus Mii on Wii bowling, the highlight of our eventful evening being the burrito he warmed up from last Tuesday.
I don't know where the fuck I'm going with this, I just know that I love this guy with every fiber of my being.
He's not the hottest. He's not the buffest. He's not the snazziest dresser. And he's got the sensitivity level of Tom Green's right testicle.
But with everything else, it just mashes all that shit up into one big pile made from something magical, perhaps the stuff unicorn's horns are made of, and processes it into a very potent elixir of unconditional love.
Suddenly it doesn't matter that he's wearing a pair of pants 2 times smaller than a guy his height/weight should be wearing, and it doesn't matter that he doesn't look nearly as gorgeous as he does when he shaves off his 5 o' clock shadow, and it doesn't matter that he didn't see the tears streaming down my face when I saw how much he struggled to tell the manager of Panda Express that "Yes, I am available anytime, night or day, ma'am".
So right now, I'm thinkin' that that's what being a "man" is all about. Buckled over in a momentary lapse of reason, and STILL showing the ablility to project the image of what every woman would want to wrap her legs around till 4 am in the morning in orgasmic delight.
Like Stephen Parrish quaintly but cleverly puts it on his own blog in regards to all the hapless bullshit in life:
~"Everything else is just conversation".