Hot coffee and music this morning, softly through Ben's big headphones. I still have this fucking headache. It's day four and I'm so done with it. You have no idea. I can't mainline pills. I hate taking pills. I drank so much ice water yesterday. I ate all of the Indian takeout leftovers and there's still more in the fridge. I'm looking for self-care of the highest degree today. Then I'll ignore it and do the same things I always do, which is as much as I possibly can. I'm always more scared it will get worse the next day so I keep moving. All the fucking time.
I ordered my Christmas present yesterday because it was super complicated and I wanted to get it right.
I've been coveting a custom leather traveler's notebook cover/setup for a while but I just discovered the maker I like best has a wallet/book combination so I jumped at it when Lochlan offered, telling me to order what I want for Christmas. I picked my leather, my stitching, my strap colors and added pockets and loops and goodies until I think I had it all figured out. Then I watched all of the unboxing videos that I could find until I was completely sure and then I pulled the trigger. It will be here December 19 and I am excited! It's the cutest and I can't wait. The boys were supremely happy because right now I am using this super ugly planner that is a little too big and has a snowglobe front which leaks glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE. This thing doesn't fit in any of my bags besides. Not that I dare take it off the desk because goddamned glitter.
(That isn't a complaint, if you ask me, someone who has been known to randomly 'spill' (AKA pour) glitter around just because it's fun to see.
The dog is usually covered.
He does not mind a bit.
The boys don't like it in their beards/wallets/trucks/dinner.
Huh.)
That's my day. I slept in. I now am listening to Relient K. Which. DAMN. The last third of Who to bury, us or the hatchet is so divine. Lochlan never minds if I play this on the piano, he just laughs. It's not nearly as heartbreaking as other songs, but at the same time it's bittersweet and awful but well executed.
He plays and sings it too. It's just a question of who gets to the piano first, some days.
He said maybe he would like a notebook like the one I ordered too. Eventually.
I can see that. He carries a super old, buttery soft leather cover with a simple pen loop and in it is a moleskine that he writes notes in, draws in. Lochlan's an old soul, this book was his grandfather's and then his father's and he just changes out the inserts when they are full. This is how I became a writer. When I was nine I said I would like one and the next day he came over with a brand-new orange Campfire notebook and a new blue ballpoint Bic pen and told me to carry it everywhere, writing down anything I saw or everything if I wanted. There were no rules.
So I wrote about, and drew him.
I still have that book. I keep them all. Cole threatened to burn it. I ended up sewing it into an old jacket, into the lining and I hung the jacket in the closet and then when Cole was gone I took it out and put it back on the shelf where it belonged and it's been there ever since. There's nothing exciting about it. I spent a lot of time describing the seasons as they pass in terms of Lochlan's hair color. Even when we were fighting. I would write that he was awful but his hair was so pretty.
I still do that. We still fight. His hair still reflects the seasons, without fail. I've learned I am awful too, sometimes.
And I'm finally getting my own fully intentional beautiful and well-deserved notebook, exactly as I want it to be. It even will have a pocket for my phone, room for some of my bespoke fountain pens and the ever-present Bic blue.