lay me down to sleep

My brother is sick. Really sick. The kind you don't joke about anymore because there is no laughter left in your home.

I used to be quite emotional about the situation and would cry at the drop of a dime. I also used to be optimistic and hopeful if we're using descriptors as our gauge. It is not that I have lost any of those emotions - it's just that I have to be realistic. Because no one else will. Because at the end of this I can't be devastated into submission like I have numerous other occasions when I've been blissfully hopeful that things would work out. No no no. Not this time. It is likely my brother will die. And very soon.

You can look at me in horror and judge me all you want. I will not pretend any longer that there is a positive outlook here. If I'm proven wrong then all the better. I'm sure champagne will fall from the heavens and unicorns will frolic through rainbows and all that jazz. Dazzle me. Make me look like an idiot. Please.

I'm trying to find out the answers to those questions I shouldn't ask - what song do you want played at your funeral? Do you want to be buried or cremated? What kind of tattoo do you want me to get in remembrance of you? (He said he wants me to get the WWE symbol and I told him to fuck off.)

I do not ask him these things to be cruel, but instead to spark some sort of reaction in him. A big part of his illness momentarily is inaction on his part and I feel that by making his death seem real and imminent then it might force his hand. What do I know? If it doesn't I at least know that if I mention his foot fetish in my eulogy he'll strike me down with a lightening bolt from heaven.

a story to tell your kids

It's funny how the smallest things can change your entire day and you can stumble upon something you'll remember the rest of your life so spontaneously.

Today I was grumbling around Wawa putting together my coffee and generally probably thinking about how my hair was staticky or like how I wish I had put on hand lotion that morning when I felt someone staring at me. I ignored the feeling and continued putting in my creamer when I looked up and smiled at the person who I felt needed some attention and it turned out to be a teenage worker who had Down Syndrome. He looks me in the eye and says to me confidently:

"Hi. You look beautiful today."

I thanked him and walked away with a swelling heart and a smile that would last most of the day.

It was one of those things that happened at the exact moment when I needed to come back to earth and stop wallowing in my own crap. Others have it worse than us and there are people in the world like that sweet boy who can bring us down from the clouds and set us straight. Words almost fail me on how to explain the depth this kid touched me with a few simple words and the kind of confidence that trumps any loser frat boy who comes up to me on a Friday night.

I am not a religious person by any means but I feel like this situation was such a smack to the back of the head. Like, let's move on and forget about all the current and past bullshit that can fog up the important things.

After I left Wawa I wound up noticing and laughing at everything - like a Boxer sitting in the driver's seat of a car looking like he was going for a spin and a cute little boy running away from his Mom at Costco. No, I'm not going to be Mary fucking Poppins but I can at least try and notice these things a little more to remember it's not all bad.

There's a lot of good out there too if you look... or if you run into sweet boys at the convenience store.

bring back write-y

I don't remember when I stopped writing in longhand. I remember swearing I would always write things out with a pen so that they felt realer somehow. So that I could watch my handwriting become as frantic or controlled as my mood allowed. If I saw it in ink then it was permanent instead of something I could backspace on a computer and delete forever. Whatever that feeling was, it was important enough for me to grab a notebook. That I was important enough to be heard even if I was the only one listening. This specific notebook that I am transcribing from has vampire teeth on the cover. How fitting.

Do you remember when we were younger (for me it was 10-17) and our creativity and emotions were so fierce and insistent that there was no way to ignore them and the only way to set yourself free of them was by crying or writing or painting or fighting? There were not enough words in the English language for me to even remotely convey my feelings. I had to LITERALLY read the thesaurus much to the thrill of my high school English teachers just so I could bring justice to the shit swirling around my head. So I could even tell myself how I felt because hell if I knew until I looked down at a piece of paper and saw an entire poem I had scrawled.

Somehow as the years have gone by that urgency has waned. That intense obligation to write down all I feel is still there somewhere but it does not come out to play often. Usually it just gets bottled up and displayed inappropriately towards like the Wawa guy or a slow car in front of me on the freeway. Those moments where I stared blankly at chalkboards and teacher's faces because a story line was developing and begging to be written is no longer present. I used to legitimately have to yell at myself to stay focused and stop writing character outlines in my head - instead I cry at Dove commercials.

Where does that go? How do I get that again? Who can I bargain with to take back that annoying pull in my fingers to write! To create! To purge!

I remember thinking how annoying being a writer was. It was such a boring thing to be when all my friends got to be pretty or sporty or slutty. I got to be write-y. That went over real well with the boys.

I thought it was a waste to be write-y and for years I didn't even consider it an option. I just thought everyone did it. Didn't all 11 year olds write epic poems and elaborate stories?

No dumbass, they didn't.

And probably right around the time I admitted to myself and embraced my write-y-ness it somehow decided to fade away and I was replaced with other ordinary adjectives that I didn't want anymore. Somehow the older I got the more boring the adjectives got. Who would have thought your hidden teenage adjective would be the one you would try to get back in your adult life?

Bring back the write-y. She's sexy now. I promise!