Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Not drawn that way, just bad.

I know you've got it in your head, I've seen that look before
You've built your refuge turns you captive all the same
I'm trying to talk to you about important things and life things and you're all so incredibly concerned about PJ's bed instead.

 It's that time of year again. The last time of the year. The time I make giant impossible resolutions to do things like eat way less sugar (two cups on average per bowl of Shreddies (if it ain't white, it ain't right, I say when it comes to a sprinkle of sugar versus a straight pour.), and get back in shape because I stopped running and basically can't get up the steps from the beach without great ragged breaths so my lung capacity is ridiculously tiny now. Drink less. Worry less. Be less fragile. Be less victimish. Less quiet. Be less me and more Fake/Together Bridget. Be someone, anyone, just not this.

Be better? Be less worse. Be easier for everyone. Be.

But really you should be more concerned because fuck Disneyland, PJ's bed is the Best Place on Earth.

(Granted, I've never been to Disneyland. Never needed it after the things I have seen. The whole world is an amusement park, FYI, complete with the bright lights and the seedy underbelly. Just look around you.)

PJ's bed is the stuff of dreams. Sometimes he's still in it. Not awkward. Dreamy, I told you. We sorted ourselves out years ago. I may have thrown myself directly at him, overhand no less, after Jacob. After Joel. Sometime before Ben. Things happen and I was foundering for someone to hold on to.

In the end he decided he wanted me as a friend and we all briefly wondered if maybe he was gay (because no one turns down a Bridget, are you mad?) but he's not. He just loves me too much to fuck with me like that. Which is oddly the best gift I've ever received. My Christmas gift to him this year is a trip. A big trip so he can see the world and then decide if he wants to keep his as small as it is now. He is not obligated to be here. No one is but PJ is different. PJ is trust on two legs and absolute faith incarnate.

He's also an amazing lover. Ladies, fucking line up here, to the left. But so help me God, if you hurt him I'll kill you.

Happy New Year in advance. We're making bacon and maple butter sandwiches for breakfast and then putting away Christmas for another year. Then I need to start getting ready, beginning with painting my toes bright red (expressly, specifically forbidden) and then finding a dress that shows off my Neamhchiontach tattoo* (also not allowed unless he specifically requests that it is visible) for Caleb's little 'intimate' party tonight.

I almost choked on my own breath when I saw him use that description on the invitation. He's invited a sparing handful of us down to his place. It's too cold for the boat but the flames of hell flicker high in the Boathouse, let me tell you. From a distance it looks like it's on fire, I bet. That's because it is. Or it probably will be, by tomorrow. New Years isn't a celebration, it's an endurance event.

Don't feel bad for me, though. I go willingly enough. I go with my eyes open, hoping for Different. Hoping for New. Hoping his resolution includes less Bridget, but let's face it. He isn't PJ. He doesn't have the strength of character. He's weak to his own desires.

Kind of like me.

*(People think I skip around and many have questioned this tattoo. I explained it years ago.)