I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing most days, unless it involves the tip-tapping of keys. I’ve forgotten how to properly mingle with breathing bodies; I prefer the company of the characters who live inside my head to the people I meet when I go out with friends, on the rare occasion I go out with friends. The friends I most want to spend time with live miles and miles and miles away from my old house in this piss-ant village in Michigan. There’s one special lady who lives across the Atlantic, and I miss her. Funny how you can miss someone you’ve never beheld. Funny ho-ho, not ha-ha.
I don’t go out and paint the town puke anymore. If it weren’t for Fibromyalgia, would I still stay home on Saturday nights? Would I get all riled up when the phone rings after 7 pm? The friends I most want to spend time with would never phone me after Jeopardy has begun, and if we did go out on the weekend, they’d make sure I was home and in bed by nine o’clock. When I stay up until 5 am, it’s because I’m writing. Or binge watching Stranger Things, or True Blood.
My sister got me hooked on True Blood; Tara let me borrow her DVDs. She also has the complete set of Pretty Little Liars, but no thanks—I do have standards. I finished Stranger Things 2 this afternoon. Holy balls, what a terrific season! I do hope there is a third. It really boils my piss that Jim won’t watch Stranger Things. He also dismisses my attempts to get him to watch Black Mirror. Both shows are themes he is interested in, but for some reason, my fucking husband will not cooperate with me.
Jim works ten hours a day, and Nicole has been out on her own for over a year. I do miss my girl a lot, but being alone most of the day has its perks. For the majority of the day, I live alone. I like being alone. I don’t have to listen to the television screaming at me; I can play my music as loud as I want; I can read a book without someone interrupting me; and I can just sit quietly with my thoughts without someone asking me if I’m okay.
I like to sit in silence, preferably with Melvin in my lap. The sound of his purring is relaxing—hypnotizing. My mind wanders free, and opens up to brand new thoughts. Sitting with my kitty is my meditation. Some people in my life laugh about my relationship with Melvin. They think I’m being funny, or that I’m fucking nuts. Well, nuts to them, I say. I feel sorry for people who don’t know the special relationship between human and animal companion. For real, when my baby boy jumps into bed with me, and falls asleep on my chest, I’m overcome with the most relaxing sensation. My Melvin, he is the best therapy I could ever receive.
I’m tired enough to sleep now.