Being depressed and being in love is hard enough the first time. Where do I focus my what why when how? Here is a tip for the young and naive and silly and brave explorer of these artic waters of the soul - love is not losing. Love is, especially, not losing your voice. Speak! Shout! Cry, scream, cry, beat your chest, yell, bellow, cry cry cry. Remember what the vibration of your vocal cords feels like, so you can remember anything at all besides what their palm and their skin and their hair and their kisses taste like. Because other people turn to ash, eventually, either by your doing or their doing or by your minds doing and then you will have nothing and be a mute.
2 years I wasted not writing. So when the police find my body, or if they had found my body, if I had been successful - a better brighter stronger girl with sharper tools - they would have no clue as to the events, imaginary and otherwise (what's the word - real?), that led to my untimely perfectly scheduled demise. And now that I have missed my train to the Great Whatever Else, I too have no clue what was happening in my mind. How am I supposed to stop history from repeating itself when no one bothered to write anything down for future generations?
So here, now, I am getting back on the metaphorical horse, ready to gush out the blood that is, I have found through scientific experiments and multiple runs with fixed and fluid variables, very definitely there in my veins. My attempts, however, to find out if my organs are really cradled by a greater omentum, have been thwarted by the limitations of the blade I chose. But I'm digressing and digesting and getting fat and sinning. Back on track.
So yes, back in the saddle, after the last equestrian adventure led me to desperately try to fling myself off a mad running speeding jumping horse and forcing the damn thing to buck me off but then it, being a beast, reigned up and shattered my legs or my pelvis or something there in the lower two quadrants of my symmetrical human form, shattered the bones in 60 or 70 places and little fragments pierced the muscles and the muscles turned to jelly and the skin could no longer be skin, at most be Japanese paper, and can you imagine the hospital bills?
But! Through the miracle of prayer and coffee, here I am. Ready for round two. All suited up and ready to go. What happened to being a Dragon Hearted Lady? The DHL club will definitely excommunicate me after this tryst, which I want to be more than a tryst. My four chambered heart is meant to efficiently pump blood and no chambers are intended to house feelings but I fear some informal settlers have, well, settled. This inefficiency will surely lead to a lack of proper blood flow and my orthostatic hypotension will get so bad the blood will pool at my feet and my calves downwards will turn a shocking! Gasp! Purple! And they'll amputate them and the DHL club, having accepted me back after my last folly only because of the magnificent way I got rid of that stupid boy and ended that stupid thing, will definitely expel me from their ranks now!
Don't leave me legless and clawless and clanless. In fact, for the first time in a long time, I haven't wanted to be alone, so maybe, if it's at all possible, don't leave me at all.