Let me start right off by fully owning that what I am about to write is not fair. I know this. In fact, let me just step into my Petulant Whiny Little Girl persona, okay? Because that is where I am right now.

I hate you. I am angry at you. I wish I was never born, never had to go through all the shit that my life has been about. But you know what I am most angry at? That I can’t seem to step through the fog in front of my face in order to get to where the good stuff is.

Because I believe there is good stuff. I think it’s right here, beside me, waiting. And I can’t see it. And I am so angry that I am too blind to see what it is or how to get there.

I am angry that I have a soulmate and I think too much about how much it would hurt to lose him and his love, rather than resting in how beautiful and goddess-y I feel when I am with him.

I am angry that I keep wallowing in the pain of everything-that-has-come-before instead of opening to the beauty of what-is-yet-to-be, or even more beautiful, what-is-now.

I am angry that I feel pain.

I am angry that I am angry.

I am angry that I am not perfect.

I am angry that I want to be perfect.

I am angry at my self judgments.

I am angry that I am not kinder.

I am angry that I have a lifetime of knowing and no one knows about it but me. I have done this. I have hidden myself.

I am angry that people don’t like me.

I am angry that I care whether people like me.

For a long time now, I have believed in a Magic Bullet. One thing, one process, one shamanic journey that would Change My Life Forever and release me from all the fucking pain I seem to be so fucking fond of (otherwise why would I hold onto it?).

I am angry that I believe in a Magic Bullet. And that I am waiting to find it.

I still believe I just have to get through the fog that I feel covering me. And on the other side is all the Good Things I ever dreamed of or imagine. On the other side is my strong self, the one that walks confidently into a room, enjoying it rather than wondering what people think of me. On the other side is my goddess-y self, the one who isn’t afraid. The one who wears her sexuality like a comfortable, soft, revealing kimono. The one who loves her soulmate with her open heart. The one who sees her own gifts and shares them freely.

I am angry that my belief in the Magic Bullet might be keeping me from enjoying all that I have.

I am afraid that all that I have isn’t real, that I have dreamed everything up and that it might disappear. I am afraid that the good stuff I imagine is in my Someday will never happen. I am afraid that there is no Magic Bullet. I am afraid that I will always hurt. I am afraid that I will always be afraid.

I bring this to you, Universe, because it hurts too much to blame myself. Even though I suspect I made all this happen, and like a finger-snap could just as easily make it un-happen.

I bring this to you, Universe, because it feels comforting to believe that there is something out there greater than myself, something benign and loving, even, that could lift this fog from my eyes and help walk me into what I hope lies on the other side.

I bring this to you, Universe, because it feels like a beginning and an ending. Something might be closing today. Something else might be opening.

Whoosh.

In these times I look for someone to blame for the feeling of dread that comes from touching into the dead emptiness of my fear, but I know deep inside that I have no one to blame but myself. One of my superpowers is world creation, and I am very very good at it, but I don’t always see whether the worlds I create are actually taking physical form. Discernment. Sometimes the creation is all in my imagination. It is unwise to base major life decisions on something that doesn’t exist. Sure, it’s a fabulous learning and growth experience, but right now I am tired of those. I just want the ground under my feet to stop moving.

So I went down to Portland a couple of weeks ago, the place that was built atop an ancient unicorn burial ground (I did not make this up — it’s on Facebook so it must be true — but they only bury the really really ancient ones so they leave the perky young ones to prance around and make rainbows)(unicorn euthanasia)(don’t you love alliteration that doesn’t even start with the same letter? Am I a word nerd or what?) and that pulled me like a magnet all the way down I-5. I awoke that morning, my voice two octaves lower than usual (Matthew said, “Ooh, sexy!” and meant it) and my throat feeling like someone had taken a barbecue grill brush to it during the night.

I was sick.

With a job to do.

Meeting people and being all Professional In a Suit. Also wearing New Riding Boots, even though I had no idea there would be actual horses. Which made my hand muddy when I stroked their muddy necks and tried to avoid their long yellow boot-eating teeth, also teeth that mistake fingers for carrots. Hey, it happened once. Could happen again.

So for two days I was perky and also wise, and talked and talked and talked. Three hours non-stop on Saturday. NINE HOURS non-stop on Sunday. In between sleeping in the Room of No Sleep, the one everyone said casually the next day that, “Oh that? Everyone we know who has slept in that room had trouble sleeping there.” Thanks. Yes, it had a bathroom of its own, which I appreciated. Considered sleeping in it, too.

And then I drove back up I-5, a whole state’s worth of I-5, afterward.

And then died.

But wait! Then I had to pack! And drive again on I-5 to an airport! And sit on a plane with wadded-up airport toilet paper in the pocket of my Holt Renfrew stylish trench, because I had forgotten real tissues that weren’t made of sandpaper.

And then flew and died some more in someone else’s house.

Like I said before, I am an awesome guest.

(By Day 5, I was doing the dishes, so be kind.)

But all that was TWO WEEKS ago. So why am I still sniffling and coughing? I thought I could blame the trees, which burst into blossom while I was away and stand there, smirking and covered with pollen, but for four days I stayed indoors and didn’t even breathe, so it can’t be that. I am tired of coughing up gooey lumps and I forgot to buy real tissues even though I have now been to the store TWICE this week with tissues on my mind and sill I came home with marked-down Valentine’s candy instead. Twice.

Why?

Why am I still sick?

Is a breast pump adaptable for noses?

I do have a nice vase of pink tulips, though. You don’t think it could be those, do you? They’re so … pink. Innocent. Even though I watched the water level get lower and lower and the one tulip with the really short stem drooped over the side of the vase, head down. Downward dog tulip. But I gave them all a drink and what do you know, he’s (yes, I made the tulip a him) standing up again! Yay tulips!

It’s not eBay, is it? Because I left the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show thinking I surely had not spent nearly enough money and by the way I needed two silver chains for the pendants I bought as a combination Christmas – New Year’s – Valentine’s Day gift for myself, maybe with my birthday thrown in. Plus I needed new Tibetan prayer flags, you can never have enough. Also probably something else. You know how it goes when the bidding gets crazy. So I hope it’s not eBay that is causing me to cough and gasp.

Maybe it is eBay. I should pretend it is and that could be my excuse to weaning myself away. I hate eBay anyway. It’s so yellow. You know that eBay yellow? Awful color. Probably causes uncontrollable urges. And coughing. It’s probably the yellow.

Yellow is the color of mucus. Not my mucus, exactly (I haven’t been checking — should I check? What if it’s, like, brown? or black? Sign of the plague? Is this plague?)(IS THE PLAGUE CONTAGIOUS THROUGH THE INTERNET?)(Maybe you;d better stop reading now, just in case)(Hey! Maybe that’s how I got sick to begin with!!!!!!!!), but general mucus.

[Insert military joke here. "General Mucus?" the officer coughed, "Slimy fellow. Slippery."]

Yes, as of tonight I am approximately 6% done with the book I am writing. Congratulate me!

Smaller heads use fewer resources and are more environmentally sustainable. Big heads need big hats. How many sheep does it take to make the wool in just one big-headed hat? I can imagine that three or four sheep devote themselves full-time to the making of just one hat. This is tricky because sheep are not easy to convince to do the knitting. Also, unless naturally bald, people with big heads have more hair and therefore use more hair care products, take more time for a hair cut, and use more wattage in blow-dryer time than do people with small heads. If they shave their heads, big-headed people require more razor blades per year. Large heads weigh more and therefore will wear out a pillow much faster than a lighter, more streamlined small head. Having a big head just isn’t environmentally conscious.

We need fewer choices, not more. How many times have you been flummoxed in the cereal aisle at the grocery store? There are now at least 1,100 different types of boxed dry cereal. None of them contain actual food. It’s the same with heads. Do we really need size XXXXXL hats? For that one person whose head is the size of the Concorde?

It’s not the heads as much as it is the faces. I met a guy with an enormous head the other day. His face was like a dinner plate with eyes and I kept imagining trying to stick my cheese and crackers and barbequed chicken wings onto his face and of course they kept falling right off. Kissing such a person must be terrifying. I myself went home and had nightmares about being licked by a huge dinner plate that turned into a Saint Bernard. If it had been the type of Saint Bernard that carries the little jug of brandy under his chin it would have been all right, but this wasn’t that type of Saint Bernard.

Stoning is a viable option. Big targets are easy to hit. You want to prevent global warming, don’t you?

*No sheep or Saint Bernards were harmed in the making of this post.

I can’t help but think that it’s part of the Universe’s plan for me. Tilting on its axis suddenly and causing me to fall out of bed and break my ass. That’s it, isn’t it?

I could also blame alcohol. Why not? My ass hurts when I breathe and I have to point the finger at somebody. And after all, coming home at night to find that my motorcycle had been kicked over for a 4th time had its effect on me. I called the police (“maybe it was the wind?”) and accepted the glass of passion fruit vodka that Matthew handed me. We watched an episode of House — always a good choice when you’re feeling vaguely misanthropic — and clinked sticky passion fruity glasses.

Hmm, misanthropy has its uses. Right now I am feeling untrusting. The rug has been pulled out from under me and I am pissed off. Out of the frying pan only to find out I never left it after all.

This post sounded a lot better in the shower 4 hours ago.

I am afraid and feel alone and there is no one who can help me. Even my ass is on vacation.

Note to Future Self: Do not get divorced from someone who subsequently will go to law school. Just don’t.

Note to Future Self Part Two: Stop being so damned idealistic. You know it gets you into trouble.

Note to Future Self Part Three: I have no other suggestions. You’re on your own from here on out.