Perhaps I cracked a rib. Or bruised it. Or pulled a muscle. At any rate, my right side hurts. A lot.

Maybe what happened is that I became so full of self-pity that I actually split. Down the side. Just a little.

No. More. Sad.

And like that it’s done. I know I’m blessed to be able to mostly shake it off so. I know many people who can stay in sad for a long, long while. This gal cannot. I think I’d get too comfortable and end up moving in. Sometimes it’s a really beautiful place. The trees always look better, you know? Gnarled, twisted, Burtonesque masterpieces.

But nope.

I wrote a new show. It’s magickal (that’s not a type-o, magic is more magical with a “k”), and when my super star choreographer injects her genius into it, and the gals get their hands on it, I think it’s going to be the greatest thing we’ve done yet. I’ve started working on the costumes, and imagining how it will look in our new venue and I’m so, so very excited. I think it will be ready by February, just when everyone needs something to get excited about.

I’m also doing lots of research about the medium we’ve chosen. Cabaret is unique in how much the audience is part of the show, which is something I’ve always loved about performing.

A revelation hit me the other day, when I holed up here, shirked all of my housework responsibilities and just wrote. I think I’m attracted to really brilliant workaholics because I myself know I need to focus more on my own art. Since I’ve started doing this, I feel much, much more like I am really in my skin.

And so I look you in the eye and say “ha”. I can walk with my head high and a smile on my face, and know that as long as my ribs can hold out, I’m gonna be just fine.

Wouldn’t it be fun to have someone to kiss? Just a little?

Just when you thought it was safe to comfortably enjoy being alone, all your collective past demons rear their ugly heads in one giant wave of WTF.

The universe is throwing things in this general direction that continually serve to illustrate one point, and one point only – my heart is to be kept under glass like a Victorian curiosity under a hand-blown cloche from Denmark.

How did I ever believe any of the lies that issued forth from your lips like car exhaust from a bumper to bumper in a mid-July heatwave? I suppose it was for the sake of wanting to believe that nobody could be so evil. Or at least nobody that I could love would be so evil.

Tell me, oh vast universe, how do I even begin to move forward into love again? So many would say, “This is only making you stronger, so you can make better decisions for yourself”. I would say that it has hardened me to the point where ain’t nobody gonna get a piece of my homemade apple pie again. They’ll have to settle for a slightly cardboard flavored store bought facsimile.

Seriously.

And I’m too tired to keep going, but can’t rest now because I’ll tumble into the abyss.

Ya know what I’m saying?

When I was little, one of the most marvelous things I could buy with my allowance, second only to sea monkeys (which I still think were a farce) were these incredible little sponge figures that would expand to nearly four times their original size when you added water to them. After that, they were pretty much useless. They got soggy, and kind of boring. The real thrill was watching them grow, and seeing just how far they could expand.

My heart is a dime-store trick sponge. As soon as it gets a little bit wet, it expands to freakish proportions, and then is next to useless to me. It almost did it again, but I snatched it back from the bowl, and have now turned the hairdryer on it.

So tonight, as I sit in the Fortress of Solitude, slowly realizing that my dog likes my landlords better (he refuses to come upstairs with me), and only slightly amused that my cat is curled around my arm, purring like a machine and gently stroking my face with his paw, I’m wrapping my innards in what can only be described as cardiovascular Saran Wrap.

I am so, so tired.

There are many things that are working very well in my world right now, so I think I’ll stick with those things that are uncomplicated and lovely for me. Things like art, and work, and quiet nights alone here. I’ve suddenly become one of those people who really likes to be alone. It’s very novel for me.

I keep dreaming about baby feet. Chubby little digits, with tiny little shoes.

My family cat got hit by a car last night and killed. My dad found him curled up in a ball near the curb, still in tact. He tenderly scooped him up into a plastic bag, put him in the garage, and then sat silently in front of the flickering television for four more hours because he was too upset to sleep. He told me via email. He said he “sure will miss his little buddy”. I am very, very grateful that my father has my mom, and a second cat at home. The idea of my father all alone is one that always, always makes me have a lump in my throat.

That cat hated everyone but my father. That cat was one of four pets now that have been the divided children of my various failed relationships. I work so hard to build a home, inject it with domestic bliss, and then it all unravels like a poorly knit sweater.

I feel like getting a little bit Rip Van Winkle up in here.

helloo?

is anyone there?

because on saturday night when i’m home alone, it’s just so hard to be sure…

but this is an exercise that i need to perfect, isn’t it? and then i either graduate to the perfect blend of domestic/hedonistic bliss with fat babies and smiling dogs in tow, or gin swilling spinsterhood where pretty pool boys tell me i use great eye cream on a daily basis.

expectation will ruin any party, but we do it to each other all the time. you expect that because i am extremely sensual that every opportunity for sexual exploration will be openly invited, and i expect…well i won’t even say that here. that will be saved for the hand-written volumes that will no doubt be savored as they are wrenched from my cold dead hands, days later, when the neighbours have discovered my starving cats feasting on the still-tender flesh of my unyielding cheekbones.

trust is a word that i can’t even form on my lips anymore when it comes to giving my heart away. even the tiniest crumbs of my heart.

you are magic. and i know you know me, but i must close down this hot dog stand for the summer. i absolutely adore you, and want to keep this perfect collaboration free of mustard stains, or tainted processed meats.

when you spread your wings, i lose my breath, and i can’t afford to fly right now. i have barely figured out how to walk. and i suspect you could care less about flying anyway. but maybe that’s the cynic in me.

let’s just move onwards and upwards, shall we? i get it. i’m pretty sure you do too.

a well-oiled sewing machine and several hours of writing, listening, and sweeping costume epics will fix this. not to mention a good spooning with Arthur, a week without red wine, and a bit of my mom’s home cooking.

i got a little caught up in the chutney, and the magic of us, together, in public spaces.

Kurt Weil and Haggen Daas, here i cum.