There is something slightly unsettling about hanging out with old flames, similar to having a ghost walk boldly into the room and sit in between the two of you.

It whispers to you, reminds you of words exchanged and past physical affections, all the while you look through its spectral body and attempt to concentrate on mundane conversation. You fight the urge to pull that person close to you and place your lips on their earlobe, breathing clandestine ideas and words of adoration.

We sat on the couch, the obligatory two feet of space between us, and watched a movie while the kids ran like elephants up and down the stairs. We laughed at the right times, cryed at the right times and ignored the fact that the evening felt like two children playing dress up and attempting to act like adults. What we really wanted to do was jump up and down on the couch, hold hands and forget we had roles to play.

But it's never really that simple, is it? The connection I feel with her is fleeting, fading and reminding me that I never was that into her. There were no fireworks, no declarations of love. The sex, while technically great, wasn't mind-blowing in the way that emotionally deep relationships produce.

So we're friends. Our children are friends. We watch movies, go to bars and have dinner.

But don't make me pretend that her hair doesn't smell like heaven.

I can smell the storm on the horizon, although it seems increasingly unlikely that it will grace us with its presence. I've been waiting for that one great storm for years now - the weather in Illinois has tended towards blizzard conditions instead of raging thunderstorms - but the systems always flirt by us like the high school prom queen.

We did, however, get seismic activity which I'm sure would have been amazing had I awakened from my semi-comatose (and deliciously dreamlike) sleep. It was a 5.2 on the Richter scale, which sounded impressive to me until Bear - in his usually deadpan demeanor - reminded me that he didn't even get out of bed for any quakes under 6.0 in California.

I did elicit some bed-shaking of my own yesterday evening, though. Due to Bear's back and our increasingly platonic romantic relationship (not that I entirely mind, however, although that fact mildly disturbs me), we haven't had sex in months.

I was unsure he was asleep but his back has been spasming more than usual lately and I wasn't in the mood to get told no, so I took care of business myself (so to speak). I think that the orgasms I have when I don't move a muscle, where my pleasure dances along every nerve in my body as I attempt not to squirm or gasp out, rank very high on my Richter scale.

And no, I won't tell you who or what I was thinking about. That may ruin your entire vision of me. *grin*

Sitting down to write, I've forgotten how much pressure it is to create for a public website. Here, as opposed to the more private writing I've been doing lately, I feel the need to live in a certain niche.

I'm not me, not the whole me, but instead reduced to little pieces of me that I feel comfortable enough to expose here and there.

And, try as I might, I can't seem to break through the self doubting wall that I've created in my time away.

My goal is to write more, about anything, and hopefully chip away at the brick-and-mortar bit by bit until the full picture appears in from of my face. I know it will be just as beautiful as I've always imagined.

I'm at work (and working hard, as you can tell!) watching Juno for the second time. And, I have to tell you, I'm kind of consumed with lust for Jason Bateman.

All I can think about is him throwing me up against a wall and fucking my brains out. Good lord - especially his character in Juno.

Yummo.

That's all for now!

Generically, we call today "Donor Day" at my emergency clinic. I, without even the tiniest bit of affection, call it "Black Tuesday."

Today is the day, once monthly, that our practice manager visits Animal Control for the purpose of funding our blood bank. She picks out one canine and one feline, all with their deadlines (and I say that without the slightest bit of irony) up and brings them back to the clinic. We then sedate them, draw out every last drop of their precious blood and euthanize them.

Needless to say, this occasion negatively effects me.

I began on this career path to influence people's decisions regarding the furry gifts in their lives... to make the suffering of animals without a voice as little as possible. I wanted to speak for creatures unable to speak for themselves. It's hard for me to grasp this basic assertion that it's all for the greater good and that these animals, that happened to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, have less worth than my precious ones.

One up-side to all this, however, is that I have developed an empathy and compassion in the the past few years that I didn't have before. I'm more tender and sensitive, more able to express emotions and deal with their aftermath with more dignity.

So please, pet your animals an extra time today. Life is too short to not take it as seriously and frivolously as it deserves.

My brows are constantly knotted in and out of furrows lately as my thoughts attempt to break free of the perpetual coffin they're being increasingly tied to.

That may sound dramatic, but I've never said that I'm into stating things simply.

I've been cheating on you, you see. Writing on other sites again, going around behind your back and giving my most personal and private thoughts to others. It's not fair, but I have this need to jump around to keep my feet from touching the ground. Afraid that others may try to cut off my wings and halo and bring me crashing to the earth.

I need my solitude, to hold that little piece of me that makes me special in my hands like a tiny hummingbird. In doing so, I make absolutely sure that even the most important people in my life don't truly know me. The unfortunate side effect of that is that I don't even truly know myself and it's a shame.

So I'm trying to write here more and less on privatized space. I'm trying... I can't promise I'll succeed but I do miss you all.

Wow.

What a whirlwind of a weekend!

Here's the cliff notes version...

Friday: Met new personal trainer. Saw Golden Compass (nothing compared to the book). Brand new car broke down AGAIN. Drag king show. Hot girls. Lots of alcohol. Hung out with friends I hadn't been able to hang out with!


Saturday: Dealt with getting rental car (and an obnoxious roadside assistance company). Best friend. Two hockey games. Serious ice storm. Battled uphill to eat and drink a bottle and a half of wine. Got lit.


Sunday: Crazy amounts of ice. Hit dead deer. Got nothing done. Yeah for me!



And that's how I feel about that...

It's true.

Today it occurred to me that I'm becoming a cat blogger. After I returned to the keyboard after throwing up (kidding, kidding) I made a conscious choice to stop talking about them so much. It's sick and unnatural.

I know it's been awhile since I've written and I apologize for that. I've just been busy with the holiday season crushing down on me and all.

After a stellar trip to Chicago (Tegan and Sara, a gay bar called The Closet, fill in the blanks after that) and the very first snowfall of the season - I'm feeling much more grounded.

And, of course, creative. I've spent lots of time creating outside of the online world - drawing, writing privately, decorating, painting... now it's time to write more here as well.

See you all soon.

Fa la la la.... fuck it.

I live in a home with kittens. Not one, but two. Two terrible, ruckus causing, mayhem inducing mofos. They look sweet and innocent, don't they? I promise you, they're anything but.

Today marks the first day (knock on wood) that my Xmas tree has gone and stayed up. We've been attempting this for weeks now. One will climb up the tree, scaling it like it's some large evergreen mountain - and she's managed to break off limbs and, today, knock the entire thing over onto the floor.

This is a seven foot tree. It was covered in lights and tiny breakable ornaments. I was PISSED.

The other, my less than bright bulb, is a chewer. Have you seen the scene in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation where the white Persian kitten electrocutes herself? It would be like that. Only furrier.

They've been officially banished to the bedroom for this month. I would say "problem solved" except they're nocturnal so they torment us for hours on end during prime sleeping hours... pouncing on toes, jumping on faces, smacking around tiny catnip mice filled with loud beads. You know, the works.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

I'm here and feeling quixotic. I'll post something tomorrow - have a lot of thoughts floating around in my head that I'm waiting to solidify.