So she drove

Hot water ran down her face as steam filled the room. She was reminded of that foggy morning back in the middle of May. That morning that she had just hopped in the car and drove for hours. Through the fog and the mist and the rain. Through the never-ending miles of asphalt that disappeared underneath the car as she pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor.

In the thick of the deciduous forest that followed her on the right she spotted a deer. A deer that had no idea it was being watched. A deer that simply frolicked through the greenery looking for food, or perhaps seeking out a hiding place from a predator. But she pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor. Closer to the asphalt.

And the car drove faster than ever.

She drove straight on to sunset, to a place she had never known.She kept chasing the asphalt that had no end.

She drove to the place where it all began.

Auld Lang Syne

They danced together in front of the window overlooking downtown Saint Paul. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne floated through their ears, and as she held on to him tightly she could feel his breath brushing the side of her cheek.Swaying together just like everyone else around them, the world was finally peaceful. With her head laying gently on his chest she watched the snow fall outside, onto the bridge, onto the tiny little people walking down the street. She smiled wishing that perhaps she could be outside in the snow too, but quickly realized just how perfect everything was in this moment.

She felt his hand resting on the small of her back pressing gently as he lead her around the dance floor and she laughed when he grabbed her hand and spun her around. The bottom of her silky black dress flared out as he spun her around on the wooden dance floor. Their eyes met momentarily before he pulled her in close again, and for a moment, she was lost in the depths of his sky blue eyes. He flashed a smile at her... that smile. The smile that reassured her that this was meant to be. The smile that told her so many stories without ever speaking one word.

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne

Places

What happens when you've convinced yourself that you should feel guilty for feeling the way that you do?
What happens when your own self has justified condemning you for feeling abandoned?
For feeling hurt?
For wondering why?

What about the mornings where you know that everything turned out just fine and really, you should be so god damn thankful for what your life became, but you can't help wondering what could have possibly been so horrible about yourself.
Because you caused it.

For whatever reason, it is all because of you.
Yet, you feel guilty but you have no right to be.
You have questions that will never be answered.
You have a place in your heart that will never let go.
That will never really be able to fully understand why.
You are not deserving of the feeling guilt. Not when things turned out so perfectly.
You shouldn't even ask why.
You should be thankful.
And never look back.

What happens when you look back...
Why keep going to that place... That place you hate to visit, that you hate to see.
Where the guilt drives you to ask
The things you'll never understand
The things that dance around your mind when all the lights are off.
The unanswered questions that feed the guilt and rip your mind to billions of pieces.
The guilt that makes you scream for no reason at all.

The place you just shouldn't have gone.

..

Just like the water falling down drainpipes
Just like the sand sucked in by the tide
Blue like the raindrops descending from above
Don't ask me
I'm along
just for the ride

Fuck

That's all.

Footsteps

Let's go to a dark place. Let's go to a place that I don't want to visit, yet I just can't seem to forget. This is a place of hurt and pain, and such radical confusion that I'm not even certain that the place is real.

Why don't you be the judge of that? The place looks a little something like this:

The room in the basement is small with not a window in sight. In fact, judging by rust stains streaking the white porcelain bathtub it's possible that no one has ever even turned on the light; that is, if the light even works. The slimy string dangling from the ceiling leads me to believe that is hasn't, but I have larger concerns than this.

I've been sitting against the wall for at least five hours now. I keep hearing footsteps walking above me, but I'm certain he has forgotten I'm down here. It's better that way. Or at least I hope it is.

I'd rather sit in the ooze that covers the floor and drips down the wall. Curiosity begins to drive me crazy, just thinking about the ooze.

Feeling it. 
Smelling it.

The stench of the ooze is so strong I can practically taste it, yet I can't put my finger on what the mysterious substance is. I can only wait and pretend that I can remember what sunlight looks like, or what it feels like to be warm again. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness - for the most part the room is pitch black. But that light - that light under the door has found a way to shine in. It may be dim, but it's become a gentle companion reminding me that there is more outside of this room.

But those footsteps keep getting louder and the slime in the room seems to be expanding, covering my legs and my hands. No matter what I do.. I just. can't. shake. it. off.

I've begun to hear voices. Maybe it's the product of the ooze, or maybe I'm having an synapse malfunction in my head. Nothing but chaotic screams dance around in my head and I keep telling them to shut up to just.. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

But the footsteps...

Well - they just keep getting louder.

MOBS

The water is overflowing from the pitcher in the sink again and once more I've managed to drift into a daydream state while standing in the kitchenette at work waiting to make yet another pot of shitty coffee. I'm tired and overworked, but what can I do other than pour another cup of weak Folgers into my snowman penguin Christmas mug and sit down at my desk working only to clear my ever-growing task list. I tell myself that this is what I wanted to do with my life, but somewhere deep down I know it's at least a little bit of a lie.

Years ago I dreamed of being a kindergarten teacher, hoping one day to be surrounded by happy children anxious to learn. Years before that I had dreams of being a music teacher, standing before a concert band waving my baton as the sounds of Shostakovich's Festive Overture filled the room. Yet somewhere along the way I decided those dreams weren't worth chasing - for whatever reason, and pursued business instead.

Another shitty cup of coffee, another day filled with phone calls and decisions and ignorant people who can't fucking figure out how in the world to operate a computer. Another day anxiously awaiting for the clock to strike 5:00 pm. Another day of throwing a handful of pills into my mouth desperately hoping that the headache I've had for the past five years will finally disappear.

But I love my job, really, I do.

One time there was a woman - let's call her Mobs. Mobs was a business lady too and eventually Mobs became my boss. Mobs operates under the cover of a friendly woman whose laughter fills the halls. However, Mobs truly is a manipulative micro-manager who secretly crushes dreams. Mobs strives to make you feel like you're never truly good enough, and although she does give praise on occasion she never fails to tell you that you can continue to be better. Mobs stole my passion and crushed my zeal. I'm convinced Mobs fed on my livelihood. I think it's what feeds her laughter.

It's time for another cup of coffee.

Snow, Football, and Baked Potato Soup

Sunday. My favorite day of the week.

Every week I look forward to Sunday. Sunday is my day to reflect, relax and just be me. Sunday usually starts for me when my little furball of a dog pokes his nose at me - he wants to go outside for a walk. some would find themselves reluctant to wake up at 7:03 am on a Sunday, but I love it. I always look to the floor beside my bed knowing that I'll find some comfortable pair of pajama pants that won't be too dirty to wear on our morning walk.

This morning when I opened the front door I was greeted with a wonderful winter wonderland! Snow - snow everywhere! Snow on the ground, on the trees, on my coat... just snow everywhere. I love it! I especially love snow on Sundays. It lends to my thoughts and it paves the way for a peaceful day. The snow pushes me to stay inside, enjoy another cup of coffee and perhaps make something tasty to eat. This morning I found that I had six baking potatoes. I've decided to make baked potato soup. My Sunday ritual always includes cooking.

Lately my Sunday ritual involves football as well. I fucking love my state - being a Minnesotan fills me with a sense of pride and joy. I love being from the north and I love the fact that my Minnesotan brethren can't seem to understand that the word 'you' isn't actually 'ya'. I love that elongated pronunciation of the letter 'o' - like it feels so good to say that any time we find our beloved vowel in a word we automatically reserve three seconds to pronounce it. So needless to say my love of being a Minnesotan has eventually directed me towards the Minnesota Vikings. Sunday now includes football (provided a game is on), and I'm finding that I actually like it, or perhaps I just like the ritual of being a Minnesotan and saying I like the Vikings. Or, perhaps I just want to feel like I have a reason to wear a Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. Or maybe I just want to drink beer on Sunday at lunch time. Regardless, it's become part of my Sunday ritual.

Sometime on Sunday I'll do laundry, perhaps I'll write or look at new recipes. Eventually Sunday will involve preparing my clothes for the upcoming work week along with a lunch for Monday. The Sunday ritual will conclude with an hour dedicated to the show Dexter and then an early retreat to bed. My favorite day of the week is so - uneventful... but I wouldn't change a thing.

Except for snow. It is always welcome to snow on a Sunday.

Morbid Thoughts

One thing that really fascinates me is what death row inmates choose for their last meal prior to their execution. I wonder what was going through Stacey Lamont Lawton's mind as he requested an entire jar of dill pickles for his last meal, or Victor Feguer who requested one unpitted olive. Are they thinking of the last things they want to taste before they die? Do they find themselves consumed by memories of the past, hoping that one simple piece of food will help make that memory feel somewhat real one more time before their death?

I've given some thought as to what my last meal would be should I ever find myself in situation where I need to eat said last meal. My request would be:

• 1 medium Carbone's cheese pizza
• A six-pack of Sam Adams Boston Lager
• Spicy buffalo wings with blue cheese
• Dippin dots ice cream (banana split)

While I may know what I want at this point and time in my life, I wonder if my mind would change knowing that my death was right around the corner. Would I opt for a single cup of really good coffee instead? Or would I forgo a meal altogether due to nerves? 

I hope I'm never in that situation, but I just can't help but wonder about it and entertain my curiosities of those who have been in that position. 

Half-Assed Introduction

Why do I always think that starting a blog is going to be a good idea? I find myself going through cycles where I don't want to write or be creative at all, and then all of a sudden I try to talk myself into starting some epic blog that "is going to mean something this time around" only to forget about it a month later. Well not this time! ....check back on that statement a month from now.

Currently I have no ideas about what this blog is going to be about. I tried to think up a theme, but then I realized that themes never seem to work for me as the second I set a theme I find myself wanting to deviate from it. So prepare for randomness, realness, and rawness as I prepare to blog about everything, and nothing. I can talk a whole heck of a lot about nothing.