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I'm sitting on the front porch. Up to my eyeballs in daydreams and fuzzy thoughts. It was a simple day. I did simple things. Here is a list of them: dentist, sandwich, play with kittens, computer, made a bed, watch football, made a pizza. I am presently adding drink bourbon and smoke cigarette, and will polish off the night with clean kitchen and fall asleep. My sleep schedule is a disaster. And my dress is too tight and too short. I'm wearing a jacket, a coat, a stocking cap, and flip flops. I just read about astrology and then felt stupid. So here I am now. Listening to dogs bark in the distance, the evenings eternal cricket song, and the hum of traffic a long way off. I want to write about my Grama, but I can't do that right now. I want to be held, but that won't happen right now. I want to feel beautiful, but the point is mute. I want to see my friends, but they are all far away in some direction or another. I want someone to play me a song, or read me a story while I fall asleep. I want a lot of things that I can't quite put my finger on, and that cumulative sensation once again draws me back to that ever encroaching hope for eternity, which might not ever make a lick of sense until I die. But I don't want to die. Not yet. I feel the urge to drive around the country and drink coffee incessantly.

So, to follow course, here is a list of things I do have, which presently please me: Time with my family, a nice, stiff drink and a smoke, (albeit, gads, one of these days... nevermore.) a lovely sitting space, food in my belly, roof over head, hands, feet, eyes and ears, walks to the river, and a God who keeps tugging at my shirt tails, even though I have the tendency to be an obstinate shit. Lord have mercy, I am a selfish woman. Drawn by the caprices. Whimsy whimsy whimsy. Wondering if she will ever be satisfied.

The phrase that has been passing through my head for the past 34 hours has been "The man who tries to save his life will loose it, but that man who looses his life will save it." It's big, that thought, those words. They mean a lot, and I have been masticating their purpose in my life. My dad said that to me the other day, and I don't remember why. But he has a history of saying the right thing at the right time. 99% of the time.

I'm sorry for getting lonely and thinking too much. I'm sorry for always wanting to be alone and never quite realizing in that moment that it's usually an ill-conceived idea. I'm sorry for currently having a negative outlook.

If I'm honest with myself, all this is very exciting. There is much before me. A smorgasbord of good, good gravy. I can smell it. And it's chock full of drippings. Sit still little mind, and take a load off. Worry is a liar and a thief. And life is good. I'm sorry I forget that often. Such a child.

Part of all of this anxiety is my strong, unending desire to share my life with someone. I know a lot of people don't think this way, or pretend that they don't, but confound it, I sure would like to get married. That just sounds really nice. I have very rarely thought of what that might look like, in the material sense. You know, how girls dream of what their wedding might look like, I don't mean it like that. I just want to dish it out with someone, and fight and love and make chicken and drink water and pull stray hairs and take naps and get pissed and be sorry and tell someone how I'm feeling even though I know they might not get it and have someone shave my legs for me and brush my hair while we watch movies and miss someone and get drunk with someone and sing songs with someone and drive to stupid places and flirt and have them tell me what I'm bad at and bite my tongue and run my thumb across eyebrows and rub feet and kiss shoulders and own commitment and have some kids and be very very very naked in all ways possible. I want all that to play out until I'm all old and ugly, while I watch someone I love get all old and ugly, and love them for it.

My mom says she has some ideas. I told her to pray I don't marry a douche bag.

Sometimes I feel like a sucker. And sometimes I want to live in Mississippi again. Or at least the south. Man, do I like elements of the south, like any other place. But right now I miss Portland. And I have added listening to The Microphones, drink more bourbon and smoke more cigarettes to my list.