Sunday, March 24, 2013

Cynical Love

I had a post on FB get me thinking today. Having your relationship called a farce will do that a person, even with understanding that the person who is being so down on relationships was handed a raw deal.

First and foremost, one cannot love outwardly without loving inwardly. I'm not talking about all that happy mumbo-jumbo about accepting who you are and knowing that you're perfect that way. Please. I'm fine with who I am, but I know darn well that: 1. I could stand lose more than just a few pounds and 2. I never really liked my nose 3. my hair's a little thin and 4. I have a wicked evil bitch inside and I have to control her.

So this isn't about thinking you're perfect. This about thinking that you love you for you and for your flaws. And until you do that, you're fighting uphill in ankle-deep molasses. Once you do, then it's just uphill.

Hearing that all relationships are a farce isn't pleasant when you have been spending years helping your significant other conquer a disease. A disease that I would gladly take part of the burden for him if I could. One we will never cure, only control. Oh, that we could cure it...

Anyway. Love is pretty intense. I can guarantee that many people would have walked in my situation. I did not because I love my husband.  I knew who he was and what was going on and I watched him fight to come back to me. Two way street. We wouldn't be here if we didn't love each other. Because let me tell you, folks, I'm no picnic either.

 Easy? Hell naw. Worth it? You betcha.

Love is real.
Love is not always beautiful.
Love is not always heart-wrenching or heart-warming.
Love is not the same for every one.
Sometimes, love is cleaning the cat box.
Sometimes, love is rolling socks.
Sometimes, love is just sitting next to each other, watching "The Dark Knight Rises" for the 15th time.
Sometimes, love is learning what it is about you that others love.
Love is learning that neither of you are perfect.
Love is about accepting flaws.
Love is about dealing with one bathroom.
Love is the stupid "what's for dinner" routine. "What do you want to eat?" "Food."
Love cannot exist where it is not welcome.
Love should never be necessary. It should only be wanted.
Love cannot fit in the same place as anger and hate.
Love is not simple.
Love is not complicated.

But love does exist.
And love is real.

It just farts a lot and can't cook.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Writer's High and Aspercreme

You might see these posts a LOT from me, because I write a LOT. And sometimes, the end of the story catches me by surprise. 
I muscled past him, finally, and shoved my way out the door. He couldn’t even turn and watch me walk away from him. I could feel myself trembling as I marched down the hall. I was confused and frightened, and now I was an emotional mess. I managed to keep my composure until I rounded the corner and made my way to a different ladies room.
I sat down on the couch there, and just cried.

The End
82,624 words, 175 words.

I'm addicted to writing. Even though I know that I should be editing the story I want to get published, I can't stop writing. I had to push it off enough to get the third volume of The Faction Stories done, too. But if you gave me a choice, I'd always choose writing.

Every time I finish a story, I get a rush of satisfaction. I guess that's my runner's high. I don't get any satisfaction out of 1/2 an hour on that treadmill, 10 on the bike or figuring out going backwards on the elliptical will work my butt. But finishing a story makes me feel like I am walking on clouds.

So, maybe this is my runner's high. Would that make it a writer's high?

I like the writer's high better; it needs less Aspercreme and Icy Hot.