Sunday, 19 November 2017

Princesa muy pequeña, experto en hombres.

(I'm still drunk and it's seven in the morning so here's just how obnoxious I can get. Forgive me I'm not myself. I'm objectifying everything in my world right now just like everything in my world objectifies me.)

If you leave your phone on the table just know when you come back I will have wiped it clean and replaced your music with eighteen different remixes of Despacito. 

Because if I'm going to have this fucking song stuck in my head then I'm going to share it with you too.

Also this somehow popped my Beiber cherry which is not a thing I expected to see in this lifetime but he is twenty-three now (somehow) and the video wasn't bad, exactly.

I don't know how it wasn't good either (it kind of looked like something from a Fast and Furious music from the motion picture video too) but he's not a child anymore.

(Oh my GOD. Fuck off, Bridget.)

Also we saw Justice League yesterday so excuse me if testosterone is spilling all over everything. You're going to drown in it or at least in the brains from my head exploding every time Batman was on screen (not my Batman, the real one. Ben Affleck).

Those Affleck brothers though. Goddamnnnnnnnnn.

Was hard to pay attention to the plot. Really disappointed that Steppenwolf wasn't metal in the least and they missed a great opportunity to play Magic Carpet Ride in the credits, I think.

Stay through the credits, people. Two cut scenes. TWO. Everyone in the theatre walked out and we were like LOL. Suckers. 

Quicksilver is amazing! I mean the Flash. I don't have any comics except for The Shade, so I don't get the duplicates. They tell me it's DC versus marvel and I'm a DC girl all the way. Also Jason Momoa still isn't real. I refuse to believe any human could be that freakishly beautiful.

But he still ain't Batman.

(At least he's not Beiber though. I will revisit this thought when he's thirty and an actual man-man. Something happens to men when they hit thirty and they look like men suddenly. Ask me how I know this. No, don't.)

Also we missed church so now we can listen to Despacito on repeat. Because no one set alarms. Because Monte Cristos, whiskey and crowds, shhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sam's going to get fired but he's still asleep so at least he's spared that thought for now. Also I think Sam and Caleb might have buried the hatchet, and no that's not a euphemism for anything, Christ, people.

Saturday, 18 November 2017

Incorrigible.

The gift Diabhal had for me was a beautiful weekender bag,  a replacement for the one everyone hates and has tried to replace a few times over the years without succeeding. Part of the appeal of my favorite much-repaired exceedingly colorful carpet bag is that it's distinct and I don't leave it behind as such, it's loud enough that it calls out if I do.

Which is fine. I have a few very loud quirky things. I'm not a fashion person. I don't care for seasons or collections or whatever as long as it's comfortable or pretty, doesn't give me hives and works for what I need it for.

This is a Valentino Garavani travel bag. It's studded, it's black. It costs more than Ruth's tuition for the year and it's going back.

I could be a Valentino girl, hell, I am a Valentino girl any day when it comes to their dresses but this bag is not me. It looks like something Sophie would carry and I point that out to Caleb.

That isn't the point. The point is that it's well-made and will last a lifetime or two. I can return it, however. 

Please. 

He nods, slightly defeated but also well aware that if you spend a lot it should be for something someone adores and will cherish, not resent.

Stop trying to make me into her. 

You always complain that you're not sophisticated. Wearing a furry pink coat and carrying a multicolor patchwork bag isn't helping your fight, that's all. I can find a name for you if you'd like to work with a stylist-

Wow. 

(I say "Wow" from my current vantage point in Frozen-branded Disney pajamas. That are plush. And covered with Olaf. They were 60% off and a girl's large size that fits just fine.)

This was your issue, not mine. Honestly I kind of love the fact that you refuse to conform and then you step out in your dresses and blow everyone off the planet. 

Eclectic. 

Yes. The bag will go back. What do you need then? 

I'm fine. 

What do you want, then? 

Seriously, I'm fine. 

Christmas is only a few weeks away, Neamhchiontach.

Right. So just be nice. That's what I want. Keep being this. This is working. 

I would like to spoil my girlfriend this Christmas. 

Then let's eat Monte Cristos in bed and get drunk on good whiskey, and let's do that with Lochlan and everyone else too. 

I don't think my bed is big enough for everyone. 

That's okay, mine is. 

Friday, 17 November 2017

Blown wide open (rare & honest straight from the devil himself.)

He spoke with a gentleness, a hesitancy he rarely displays. It's been a week, Bridget. We were away and since we've been back you've not come to me. 

I did and you called me names. 

I'm sorry I did that. I was frustrated. Not an excuse, but a reason. I'm very possessive of my time with you. I'm not going to share -or relinquish- it to those who don't have my designation in your life. 

You weren't like this at the Lake, Caleb.

That event was a special occasion.

And what is this?

A random Friday in November. A dreary, lonely day full of rain that I was hoping to spend with you. The world is devoid of color for me when you're not available. I'm finding it rather grey. 

Or you could just say you need me. 

That would be admitting weakness. 

So you don't have a weakness for me? 

Of course I do, I just don't want to come across like a clingy boyfriend. 

So instead you opt for the heavy-handed, possessive stance?

Bridget, I've never done this before. Give me the curve on which to learn and in time I'll trace it perfectly. 

What would you like me to do?

Just like that? I win your favour and your company? 

Depends. 

What if I said I have a present for you? 

Depends on what it is. 

Ah, going the subversive route. 

Better for me than the submissive one. 

Why is that? 

Less dangerous. 

Not from where I sit. 

You sit in a place where you're now requesting my attention and sometimes not getting it based on your behavior. Are you sure you want to be like that? 

Like I said, I want time with you and I'm frustrated that I can't seem to get any as of late.

So, hang out more. 

Time alone where we're not hovered over by everyone in that house. 

Oh. That kind of time. 

Not necessarily. Just time. To watch a movie or read books side by side. Maybe have a snack. Go for a walk. Nap. I don't know, Bridget, like I said, I've never done this before. 

Been a pedestrian, bourgeois boyfriend of a little match girl? 

He kind of giggles. Yes. That. 

I've never heard you laugh like that before. 

I've never felt like this before. 

Like what? 

This. Peaceful, almost. Content in a way that doesn't come easily to people like me. Happy. I just would like to be alone a lot less. 

I'll see what I can do. He's watching my face as I struggle to plan time I never seem to have. 

Maybe PJ is up for more company. He seems to like not being alone. 

I actually think you two would be a good match. 

I think we'd grow to love each other. In time. 

I still get that present though, right? 

Of course. Come in and I'll get it. 


Thursday, 16 November 2017

Burn, baby, burn.

There she is.

I'm dragged out of a sound sleep, as his headphones are put over my ears. Ben lifts me up out of my warm dreams, Rob Zombie's voice crashing through my ears, Hands of Death, I think. How fitting. Ben is relentless, Ben is hunting. His hands are warm and hard, pulling me inside out, breath against the top of my head, chest solid against my face. My legs are wrestled out of his way, one on each side of his hips, knees bent back agonizingly and then he's inside me. I cry out and he is gone again as I am turned face down, headphone readjusted, music turned up, hand over my whole face to keep me quiet. He pulls my hips up into him and I close my eyes again. So gloriously painful. His chin comes down against my back, lips against my skull but I can't hear him thanks to the music. God only knows what beautifully terrible things he's telling me he's going to do to me. His mouth is against my shoulder abruptly, teeth softly pressing into my skin (not to bite, but to brace) and I feel his legs widen, taking mine so far out I feel like they might snap off and then I'll be the best girlfriend ever. I cry out anyway and his hand flexes, fingers reaching over my forehead and to each ear. He only holds me tighter, higher and I start to become afraid that he'll drop me from here.

But he's not going to let go, he's going to brace us both with one elbow. Oh my God.

The next hour is a delirious repeat of that song, over and over while he remembers where he is and who he's with. I am turned back over, dumped on my back, headphones pushed back on, scraping my face, as he bends down between my knees that dangle over his shoulders, his hand left over my mouth. I scream and twist against his face but he doesn't let up for even a second, scooping one hand underneath me to push me up against him. The harder I struggle the harder he holds me until I soar up over the atmosphere, unable to breathe, and then and only then does he let me up. His face is thrilled, the rest of him is tense and ready to go. He forces a kiss, says Sorry with a laugh before the headphones are put back once more. He drops his weight on me, at once driving so hard I wonder if I'll die this way.

That would be fine.

Seriously.

I can't hold on. He's too hard. He's too fast. He's not giving me or himself any breaks and fear tingles through me. Tighter. Harder. Rougher. I start to wonder if he knows it's me still, or if Ben is fucking his demons into oblivion so they might leave him alone, violated and ruined in one wide swath of darkness here.

But then he slows to a crawl and I am flooded with victory as he rips the headphones off, kissing my ear, kissing my whole face. Bumblebee, I'm sorry but you just looked so appealing sleeping so deeply, I couldn't help but help myself to you. And he laughs softly once more, asleep before I can reply.

Lochlan stirs sleepily from my other side. Jesus Christ, What the fuck was that? with pure admiration in his thickly dreamy voice and I fall asleep with a huge grin on my face. My lips were stuck to my teeth when I woke up this morning, proper.

Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Ménage à triage.

We're not even going to dignify the news that the DeLeo brothers have chosen a new life support system singer for Stone Temple Pilots when they should have pulled the plug after Scott died. You would think Chester also dying would have confirmed their inner doubts. Jeff sings flat. His voice has little power, frankly. But more importantly this is not what STP fans want. The band was more than the sum of its parts. Maybe the DeLeos could resurrect Army of Anyone instead? I hear Richard is free, and that album (self-titled) was a freaking masterpiece.

***

(I had a laugh when I chose my title for today's post. A ménage à trois means a threesome. Ménage avec triage means a house with a yard. Ménage à triage to me means this love triangle needs help. This is somewhere in between. The love triangle (square? ...hexagram? in this house needs work. You get it. Nevermind.)

August has thawed. Maybe since Lochlan managed to wrangle my heart back into place though it hardly fits for all the patches and frankenparts that make it up now. Maybe since it appears that I did navigate this seminal anniversary without losing my shit (yet, hence the word seminal) August figures it's safe to make contact.

Just saying that makes me feel alien and unwelcome.

But here he is in all of his dark-blonde wavy-haired flannel Newfie glory, a sight which never goes unappreciated (stop it, Bridget).

Hey, Princess. 

Hiya, Wolverine. 

What? 

Nevermind.  You just quoted a cheesy line from Wolverine. We laughed out loud at how badly Hugh Jackman delivered it before Logan happened and was so much worse I forgot Wolverine until now. 

What are you talking about?

Nothing. Nevermind.

Want to talk?

The question is, do you? 

That's why I'm here. Will you make some coffee? 

You're the one with the gorgeous Breville. 

You've got the press. He smiles and all of my guns hit the floor.

This talk wasn't for me, it was for him, as he says he didn't come with us to Tahoe because he couldn't, because he was dealing with his own marking of this, the tenth anniversary and he wanted to think on it, that I am as much his memory of Jacob as he is Jacob's memory to me and it's not a beneficial relationship because it's parasitic instead but that he wanted to try harder to get us both to a good place where we can help each other instead of ripping each other to shreds.

I thought you were tough as nails. 

No. I'm one of your butternauts. 

Everyone's a butternaut, deep down. 

I'd rather be tough as nails. 

No you wouldn't and I wouldn't like it if you were. 

Being here works better to keep us on track. 

So I'm banned from the loft?

For now. 

That's fine. There's lots of room here. Because I'm incorrigible and I never learn.

He gets it and laughs but changes the subject. Any concerns right now? Today, based on the past two weeks? 

I dump my brain out on the tiny glass table between us. Pieces fall off the edge and roll away under furniture but the big pieces will keep him busy for now. We'll find the rest later.

He frowns. Sam know about all this? 

I would hope it's pretty obvious just by looking at me. 

Mostly it is. 

Can you fix it? 

In time I can but for now we'll have to patch it up and see how that goes. 

Well, hurry. It's starting to hurt again. 

I'll do my best, Bridget. 

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Lionhearted.

You know that feeling when you forgot to do a laundry load of delicates for two weeks straight and yet it's too cold to go commando, and for the first time in forever that's an important thing to point out?

Well, it is and I'll tell you why. I forgot to wash all of my lingerie and there's enough of it that I just kept pulling things out to wear and not even thinking about it until this morning. When there was nothing to grab. So I shrugged and grabbed my jeans anyway. But then I headed downstairs and no. Turned around and came back up. Too cold, can't stand the feel of denim against my hips. Hate it. Contemplate a dress but no. It's windy and stormy and pouring rain, need jeans and a huge sweater. So I raid Lochlan's drawer and find a pair of white trunks at the bottom. They're like his boxer briefs but with shorter legs. As close to boy shorts as I can find. I pull them on but they're too big so I pin the sides and that does the trick. It used to do the trick between towns when I'd run out of clothes and it does it still today.

But then we're outside and Lochlan dares me to jump into the roiling sea with him. A hard reset, he calls it. Baptism on the fly is what I say.

Fine- I start to say, and then hesitate.

Take off your stuff, he reminds me. You can't surface in jeans and a sweater, it's too much weight. We always strip down to our underwear. And I'm wearing his. But he doesn't know. And they're pinned which for some reason is even worse still.

Maybe later. I'm freezing already.

Bawk...bawk.

The fuck is that. I'm not afraid. Fine. Let's go. Odds are I'll be in first. I strip out of my clothes and down to just his underwear. He sees it and begins to laugh. Almost doubled-over, still fully dressed.

What the hell, Bridge. This is hilarious.

I'm out of clean things. 

So you're wearing mine? But they're too big. Holy shit. 

Stop it. I cross my arms over my chest, not because I feel exposed, but I'm damn cold. You have two seconds to strip or I'm jumping alone. 

The only thing that would have made this better is if I stripped and you discovered I was wearing your underwear. 

I'd like to see you try. 

Not sure I could get a leg hole past my knee. 

You do have big knees. 

And I have an arse, unlike you. 

Last one in is a chickenshit. And I run and I win, hitting the churning water while I think he was still unbuttoning his flannel shirt. Then he hits the water mere seconds later and surfaces before his hair is even wet. He looks like a lion, slightly angry, slightly bemused. Like his face can't decide.

You have to wait for me. 

I knew you wouldn't be long. 

And he grins. You've got to wear my stuff every day. It's freaking hot. 

Not from where I am right now. 

Want me to piss in the water, to warm you up? 

LOCHLAN! GROSS!

Monday, 13 November 2017

Making Amens (sic).

This morning I brought up breakfast in bed for Lochlan. He's done it for me, I do it a little differently. Hot chocolate, fried potatoes, sausages, soft boiled eggs and toasted bagels with honey. Tin plates and mugs, camping forks and flannel napkins with tea lights on the tray to make it rustic and appealing. He woke up slowly with a smile on his face from where he was probably dreaming about fire. It's like having married Ghostrider, except that he has a face, and such a beautiful, sleepy one at that.

What's this, Peanut? Is there enough for both of us? 

Of course. I settle back in beside him, cross-legged in my pajamas so we can eat. I was starving but I wanted to do something special for him and also avoid any more overhand-mug-throwing because I'm sure he's perpetually ragey at someone, probably Jay today, since no one addressed his fuck-it-I'll-throw-my-hat-in-this-ring offer from the weekend.

And no one will be addressing it. We're just going to leave it to twist in this crazy wind. We could almost surf today in the waters off the beach. It's fierce. I keep waiting to hear the power go out and the generators kick in but so far so good. Hopefully it will stay on. Otherwise I love this weather.

We polish off our plates in short order and I stack the dishes on the tray, moving it to the table. Lochlan buries himself back into the quilts, bringing me with him.

Thank you. That was amazing. I think you should do that every day. 

Maybe I will. 

Can you imagine that life? 

Don't have to. Just lived it. 

But every day?

Well, remember that time you put toast in the toaster without getting off the bed? 

That was extreme poverty. This is luxury. 

Because I made breakfast so far away from where we sleep? 

Yes, exactly. But he's smiling. You do realize the day is all downhill from here now, don't you? 

I hope not. I've planned a pretty exciting lunch too. 

In bed? 

Hopefully.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Jesus complicated.

Sam and I had a karaoke session in his car all the way down the highway to early church this morning, singing along with Wings. Let Me Roll It indeed. By the third go he had all the words down, and by the fourth we were both sick of it and switched to Fleetwood Mac.

And I got another lecture, because he covered for me and he was pissed that I flouted his grace in favour of making a cheap grab at shocking the whole household, as if PJ is an easy mark, lesser somehow.

He's not but everyone is also right in assuming that he's a safe bet, he's easily let off the hook whereas virtually anyone else would be subject to a huge blowup.

And I know what's wrong with me. I know what's wrong with this, but I maintain if there's going to be a fuckup, PJ is definitely the lesser of all evils. I had offers from as far away as Jay. No one wants me with Jay.

And yet Sam is wondering why PJ in the first place? Why not himself?

Because August was busy (August is also angry with me. Seems to be contagious.)

I wasn't busy, Bridge. 

You're a direct threat. 

Lochlan regularly invites me-

Right. He does. I don't. 

I'm harmless. 

No, you're not. And I tell the truth. You're as dangerous as they come. 

More than August? 

Yes. 

Why is that?

Oh, look, we're here. Looks like a full lot today. Ready for your closeup, Preacher?

Saturday, 11 November 2017

Hide or lie.

He poured me a stiff drink for breakfast. A Bridget-double, which is one and a half. I drink it like a shot to feel the warmth and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand so that I look tough. I put the glass down on the counter and turn just as he whispers Showtime, baby. 

He pushes me backwards without looking, as I stand behind him without anyone realizing I was there, because Lochlan threw his coffee mug overhand at PJ's head upon coming into the kitchen.

Christ, Padraig. Keep your fucking hands to yourself!

Or maybe keep better track of where your wife is, at any given time. PJ reaches back once more, grabs me by the arm and pulls me out beside him. Lochlan turns pale.

At least I can actually protect her. PJ further risks his skin in this game. Besides, she's my ride or die. Better off with me than virtually anyone else on this point. 

But Lochlan ignores him. Did I hit you with the mug? 

No. I shake my head.

Who's your ride or die, Peanut? 

You are. 

That's my girl. 

She wasn't in any danger with me, but maybe you better talk to Caleb, as she left his place in a hurry and I just ended up being the boomerang. 

I know. PJ. Thanks. Lochlan is still looking at me.

And that's how I escape any sort of retribution in this house. They actually thank me. And then I'm dismissed. He winks at me and with a flourish he is gone. Proper thing, too. If he had continued to needle Lochlan, eventually Lochlan would have turned his ire and attention back to PJ and it would have ended with a quiet brawl on the floor in which they really really want to hurt each other but at the same time, they don't and it's difficult and complicated and nevermind because PJ's already gone. I said I'd take the fallout for my actions and I do, right up front.

Caleb wasn't putting me in danger. He made a comment about me being a party favour so I left. 

And confirmed his assessment. 

Hell yes. 

PJ's had a little too much good luck this year, don't you think?

Sure, fine. Next time I'll go to Duncan. 

You're angry with me. 

I needed you and you disappeared. Again. After you promised you wouldn't. You said you wouldn't break any more promises to me but you weren't there. 

I could say the same for you when you promise to stay put and then I end up sleeping alone. Apparently my ride or die is Benjamin! 

I open my mouth in horror. TAKE THAT BACK! 

STAY THE FUCK PUT! 

FINE! 

FINE! 

He laughs suddenly with tears in his eyes. Jesus, Peanut. If I could pin you to the floor anymore I would. Caleb said you were sleeping. Sam said you were doing fine, every single time I went looking for you everyone assured me I was being a helicopter husband and that you'd be around in a minute but you never showed. I really wish you wouldn't fuck with PJ. It's a conflict of interest. His loyalty is to your well-being, not your flesh. 

I've got news for you, then. My laugh is bitter because I know better.

His eyes flashed brightly in warning but in that flash I was gone too.

Friday, 10 November 2017

In the next Harry Potter movie I'm starring as Hegemony Grifter

(Who wants a Saturday morning crash course on Manichaeism? Not this girl. I get enough of it on a daily basis.

They let me turn on the exterior Christmas lights last evening. The crazy colourful midway ones I wouldn't let them take down, that span at least eight kilometres in length because absolutely everything is covered and you can see our point from space? Yeah.

Sorry (not sorry).

In other news, Caleb earned himself an icy shoulder by pointing out that things have shifted once again, and didn't I see it? First we've boarded up and demolished the concrete rooms in my brain and then we shut out the ghosts in favor of more room for the living. Things are improving. I was able to navigate this time of year without completely falling apart so let's move quickly through the stages here and go back to keeping the drama within the Collective relegated to who gets me on which night.

Which...honestly? Horrified me that he even went there.

Because I don't.

And just no.

Fuck off, Caleb. I used his name for effect. Formal. Distance. No beloved nicknames for you today, asshole. Because a) don't neatly wrap up your dismissal of someone I will love and miss forever, equally as if he still breathed and b) don't highlight my own deviant behavior as if it's a bonus or a treat for you. Don't gleefully benefit from my pain. Fuck you indeed.

And then true to form, I promptly came home and went to PJ's room since I didn't want to disturb Lochlan who is exhausted from being tense for the past while. PJ woke up easily, held the blankets up for me to crawl in and said No funny business, Bridge. I'm an old man and I can't afford to lose any more friends. And then he promptly pulled off all of my clothes.