It is cold, cold, cold, and there is rain, rain, rain.
Flashbacks of NYC trying to get the puggies to pee, but instead of leashing them up and stumbling past my favorite crackheads in th wee morning hours I stand on the concrete of my back steps, cigarette dangling from my lips as Blind Boy pug manuvers himself around the flagstones and feels his face along the ivy until he finds his favorite planter, and Girl pug hides under the back steps until the last possible minute when she dashes out to a patch of gravel and then leaps and bounds away from her own wee.
This tiny garden I would have paid a fortune for in my old 'hood, this small space that allows me an extra half hour of sleep and leaves my pugs naked and gleeful without harnesses. I still hate DC with a passion, this southern city where folks keep to their own and I've never been so aware of the color or lack thereof in my own skin, a city where if I held Rogue Agents hand, even with his light, smooth freckled complexion we would get looks because he is biracial.
Speaking of Rogue Agent, he read my piece on The Sound And Fury and he, simply, does not cease to amaze me, and it's hard to remain detatched when someone is actually listening to you, and understands sometimes what I write speaks louder than my admittedly very loud voice ever could. But he does NOT read my whole blog. I've reached my limit with my sister reading, M, Bella, and my Favoritest Customer EVER when it comes to unanonymous. Slippery slope, and I still walk like I'm drunk sometimes. I am doing my part to not sabotage, and to not endanger myself by keeping a close eye for things I may have missed before, things I missed with C, My Dangerous Beast, when what I mistook for running wild was actually feral and rabid with poop caked hindquarters. So I find my body still staying coiled, ready to leap and run, but Rogue Agent and his complicated situation and past and light complected freckled skin seems like he will stand at my side, and if I sprint will wait until I'm exhausted, and then take his time to come over and lead me to water.
Still can't make me drink, though.
And speaking of drinking, it was bound to happen. A major surgery, a job returned to too soon, a love gained and lost and a new one maybe found, and insomnia and families have triggered a flare of Why I Love Charmin Triple Roll, and I find myself downing Pedialyte on the rocks and probably entering back into a steroid induced rage, which will make dating even more exciting and fun for all involved. That plus even though I'm Pedialyte only right now, it will trigger the desire for consumption of Nutrageous bars in excess. It's been a while since this one reared up. I'm ok with it. My evil colon and I have been at battle for at least a decade, and the flares are fewer and far between, and I view them more as I would an interaction with an asshatt uncle at my brothers wedding reception than an enemy anymore. How ya doin. You're making me feel like crap. Go screw yourself. How ya like them apples?
Rainy cold nights with pugs and two weeks notice at jobs and Pedialyte and boys who maybe understand me. Somewhat sucky, somewhat good.