I'll be waiting there for you.

If I were a poet I could recite my poetry on a corner.

If I were a songwriter I could sing my love songs in a quiet cafe.

If I were an artist of any note I would take my easel to the river's edge and paint.

But I am a writer. I suppose I could sit on the dock jutting violently into the sea and tell stories but really, who would listen? How would I hear myself in the wind anyway?

I'll never be a busker again, traveling around the word collecting coins in a hat, at any rate.

I've come to that conclusion. And I have to sell my soul instead in phrases and paragraphs and chapters at a time in exchange for an occasional cheque and I don't mind, because I love what I do, I'm very attached to my words and I'm always exclaiming over new ways to put different words together to make my points of note. I love my fictional characters with all my heart. I have cried and bled for them, I have wished some of them dead and refused to allow others to hurt as I had planned, because I was far too wrapped up in them emotionally. Which speaks volumes, it tells me it works.

Because I can feel it.

But I like writing here better. And some days I wish I could just pack it all up and go sit on that dock and tell you stories about myself, about Jacob, about my children and about my life and you might like it. You might stay for a while, you might stay all night and we could build a bonfire on the beach and maybe Jake could sing and then I would have new stories borne out of that night for the next day.

My life is a snowball rolling down a steep hill, a sandcastle in the throes of accretion, a book that keeps getting added to, chapter by verse, word by letter, day by night and it is turning into a story all by itself. And the poetry has finally surpassed the porn because I have never had such a big response to one quiet little post as I did with the one I wrote on Tuesday. Those who have seen the picture and know us and love us were left breathless from the momentum with which I described that time in my life and those I haven't met in person yet were moved to tears and wonderment and for all of the letters coming in from far-flung magical places, the encouragement to keep writing and keep sharing I say thank you. It means a lot when you take the time to tell me you were moved.

Because you can feel it.

Those letters are the coins in my hat. My storyteller hat. Because I always wanted to remain a busker, traveling the world. I didn't realize I still am.

On ice.

Someone's amateur hockey career was over fifteen minutes into the first game. At least for this season.

Because of his temper.

I know! My God, here I was going on and on about the gentle giant singing me beautiful love songs in bed with his guitar and everyone I know was snickering because they don't get to see the Jacob I see. I wish they got to see mine more instead of the one with the temper and obvious lack of self-control. I don't like writing about it. I don't want to acknowledge that he has these issues but sometimes it bothers me. Sometimes it scares me.

Ben had to play last night too. He has balls to show up, but they're already short two players (Cole and Loch) so it was an empty bench altogether.

Jacob is the team's enforcer, he gets into a few fights each season as it is. He and Cole used to brawl whenever they had the chance and I have had many a winter dinner party in which the two of them sat at the table with black eyes or a few loose teeth. I stopped going to watch the games years ago because I couldn't stand watching them fight.

Cole's somehow passed his torch to Ben. I'd feel sorry for Jacob but he needs to learn to let it roll off.

They started hurling comments at each other before they got on the ice and were warned repeatedly to keep their personal problems out of the arena.

Did they listen?

Of course not.

I have been told that Ben said something to Jake when his back was turned and he was skating away from the net and that Jacob turned around and just launched himself at Ben and they went into the net, helmets and sticks skidding away and punches flying and that it took, once again, the bulk of the rest of the players on both teams to get them apart and keep them apart, as they attempted to go at it a few more times in the dressing room and then in the parking lot even, Jake's truck showing the brunt of that episode because they broke the passenger side mirror right off.

Nice.

Ben called this morning to apologize. Jacob wouldn't talk to him and all Ben would say is that he said some really shitty things about us to try to get under Jacob's skin and it worked and he feels like an asshole for doing it. I asked Ben for specifics and he said it was too awful to repeat. I thanked him for continuing to keep me free of doubt in my decision to cut him loose. He was so damned bitter. I told him to stay away from Jake. That he agreed with. He has a broken nose and is sore all over.

Jake wouldn't say anything about it at all. He doesn't hurt anywhere, save for a sore ear where his helmet was ripped off. He knows damned well he's too strong to get hurt in a fight. He and his size 12 skates (two sizes too small for speed) are intimidating and he knows it and I wish he wouldn't give in when he gets egged on.

I told him I was glad he was off the team because I like the kind, gentle man who sings love songs so much better than the brawling out-of-control giant throwing punches with abandon. He said only that life is certain to require a little bit of both and he's ashamed of last nights' behavior but Ben crossed the line and he's already gotten away with far too much and he wasn't going to get away with anything more, but that I should be proud because I bring out Jacob's softer side, that he feels relaxed and unhurried and unstressed when he's close to me and he likes himself when I'm within reach.

That shouldn't be cold comfort, but it is.

The gossip making the rounds of the neighborhood today is simply the surprise that he was off the team so soon in the season. Usually he makes it all the way to January.

Delicate and definitely not Tool.

Last night very late Jake picked up his old beaten-down Martin guitar (that he usually pets instead of plays) and he started to sing a song I had never heard before. I had tears rolling down my face and he got more and more serious as he sang and finally at last his voice cracked just enough for me to barely hear it on the third to last line that he stopped and he put the guitar down and this morning after I took the kids to school I drove to the damned record store myself and bought the CD because the song was that good and he had been practicing it from memory whenever I left the house for a good while now. It's for 110 days of marriage, which is tomorrow, by the way. The mood just struck him, so I was treated to this gift just a little early. I love nights like that. Everything else fades away and I 've just got Jacob's voice. Maybe that's all I need.

Thank you, Damien Rice.

    we might kiss
    when we are alone
    when nobody's watching
    we might take it home
    we might make out
    when nobody's there
    it's not that we're scared
    it's just that it's delicate
    so why did you fill my sorrow
    with the words you've borrowed
    from the only place you've known
    why did you sing hallelujah
    if it means nothing to ya
    why did you sing with me at all?
I'm glad he didn't try to sing The Blower's Daughter, because I might have cried that much harder, and he laughed and said there was no way in hell he could do that song justice, but that I shouldn't think for a minute it didn't cross his mind more than once.

Oh, just kill me now. Please. I am so spoiled.

Dedicated.

Oh, it's you. From the road I thought some kid had lost their beach ball.

Funny stuff, preacher boy. Be nice to the hugely pregnant girl.

Why are you down here on the beach alone, Bridget?

I'm not alone anymore, Jake, you're here now.

Where's everyone?

Still at work.

I see.

Why aren't you working?

I'm finished for the day. All my papers are written so I came out for a quick walk. Want to go for an ice cream instead?

No, thanks, it's too nice out. I just want to sit for a few more minutes.

What do you do in the winter when you come down here?

I bring a sweater. Then a parka when it gets really cold.

Boots?

No. The sand feels good when it's cold in my toes. Like if I dug down far enough the warmth would be there just waiting for summer again.

I think I have a nickname for you.

I hope it's a nice one. I'm a little sensitive these days, being wider than I am tall.

Saltwater Princess.

Sounds high-maintenance, but I like it.

No, not really. I've just noticed that when you're on the beach or near the ocean you never look at anything but the water. You don't hear anything but the surf. You're the princess of saltwater. It's as if you're surveying your future kingdom. You're barely paying attention to me.

Well, the surprise is on you then, Jake,because that's exactly what I'm doing. Except for the paying attention part. I'm listening to you.

And you're about eight million times happier when you're within touching distance of the water.

Who could blame me? She's beautiful, isn't she? That's my ocean. Mine. And I'm happiest when I'm near her.

Everything is beautiful here, princess. And I think I understand what you mean.

I tore my eyes away from the aquamarine waves long enough to smile in appreciation for how easily Jacob's new nickname for me rolled off his tongue and the meaning of his words. He was smiling back at me. He sat down behind me and put his knees up so I could lean against him like a chair.

You do realize you're going to have a mermaid baby, with a tail instead of legs.

Yes, I know.

Two weeks, princess. You ready?

As ready as I'll ever be. I hope she likes the ocean.

Oh, I'm sure she'll take after her mother.
I closed my eyes and listened to the waves crash upon the shore, and inside me Ruth matched the vibrations of the waves with kicks of her own. She always kicked a lot when Jacob was talking.

Jake? I think I'm going to head back. Want to come for supper?

Sure, princess. I'd like that.

Are you really going to call me that now?

Special girls need special nicknames. It will catch on fast.

He was right. Within a few short months the nickname stuck like glue and everyone, including Cole was using it. And I had my mermaid baby, Ruth, who was five days old when she saw the ocean for the first time, and three weeks old when she visited the beach and I stuck her tiny pink toes in the sand and showed her mommy's favorite place in the whole world.

When she was nine months old, Jacob took Ruth in his arms and walked into the ocean up to his knees at sunset and blessed her in a dedication ceremony with all of our friends and family present, the latter grudgingly coming out for the 'hippie baptism', as they liked to call it.

I have the sweetest picture from that evening. It shows Jacob standing in the surf in the glow of the sun's final light, his jeans wet up halfway up to his thighs, his white shirt untucked and billowing in the wind, his hair flying into his eyes and he's smiling up at Ruth and holding her up high up in front of him. She is smiling back down at him with her one-toothed grin, her fine blonde hair blowing straight up from her head, her little dress buffeting around her diaper. If you saw it you would see the similarities, the connection they've shared forever and it makes me happy that Jacob has this history with us, that he has been a part of our lives and every major event therein. It's a permanence that belies the honeymoon phase of our relationship now with our marriage still in it's own infancy.

It gives us a deeper appreciation for each other, a foundation on which to build our castle, because this princess finally found the prince she was looking for. He was right under her nose all along.

The soundtrack for this morning was "Huh? ", "Really?" and "Eeeek!"

It's shaping up to be a strange day.

When I woke up I was upside down in bed on top of the covers and Jacob had one hand wrapped around my ankle. It must have been a spectacular dream.

Henry asked for Rice Krispies, which he never does, claiming he doesn't like them.

When we left to drive Jacob to his meeting we discovered a mouse living in the back porch, which would explain the hole in the bag of winter birdseed I keep on the floor of the utility closet in that room.

I'll be back with a real post this afternoon. Lots of appointments this morning. Ciao!

Pixies in the shallow end.

Yesterday I stood in front of the bathroom mirror holding a fistful of my hair out from my head and my giant sewing scissors. Frozen like a statue.

For close to a half an hour.

I just stood there, thinking.

My hair has an identity all its own. It's been long and very pale blonde with ribbons of darker ash and lighter white forever. The color of my hair matches my children's hair and my husband's too. We're a set of four. A blinding, vaguely Nordic, fully Irish flaxen presence, a towhead force to be reckoned with. It was stick straight forever until I let it grow with abandon and then it grew into crazy gentle waves and tendrils. It's called my crown, literally. Mermaid hair, princess hair, hair people covet so desperately they buy it in dyes and extensions and straighteners or they come up to me and ask me where I got it.

My hair drives me crazy sometimes. It's a love/hate thing. I go through a bottle of conditioner a week. It gets singed at the stove, it goes down the drain if I lean over the sink, Jacob is always pulling long strands from his beard, and off his coat. I tuck it into my jeans by mistake and get it caught in buttons and car doors. He sits on my hair without thinking, sometimes he lies on it, he's pulled out locks in his sleep because he's tangled in it. I veer violently from looking angelic to being Medusa. And yet it's comfort. I rarely wear it up anymore. Henry used to hold it when I fed him. Jacob holds it or touches it constantly, which I relish. And people stare at me and I admit I like that. It's been this way since I was around four years old. I'm possibly dumb enough to enjoy that kind of attention and admit it willingly.

But a small part of me would sometimes love to chop it all off and dye it bright red and be different just for a little while, not forever. Have it stick out all over in cute little turned-up points and become a smoldering firecracker, a ginger-flavored spicy pixie, instead of a vanilla lemon-drop princess. Why? Just to be different looking. Redheads are gorgeous creatures. I was born with bright orange hair which fell out within two weeks and then grew back in fuzzy and yellow and glowing. I've always identified with redheads. They get stared at a lot too.

Then slowly my common sense began to return in a trickle, because even if I say I hate my hair, I don't. I love it, unapologetically. But I didn't put the scissors down right away.

Jacob found me still standing there. When he saw the scissors he dropped his favorite coffee mug on the floor and it shattered into so many pieces I may spend the entire winter fishing shards out from between the hardwood boards.

Princess, what are you doing?

I'm thinking, Jacob.

Are you thinking about cutting it?

Yes.

Can I ask a big favor?

Sure.

Put the scissors down. Please don't change your hair.

I'm not. I'm just thinking about it.

You're thinking if you change your physical appearance enough you've have a clean slate, maybe feel different?

Something like that, maybe.

It doesn't work that way, princess. A big change can be symbolic but in the end life still picks up where you last bookmarked it. Altering your appearance won't change that.

I know. Somehow I know.

Bridget, I really love your hair the way it is right now. Call it a guy thing or a fetish if you must, just don't change it.
I just stared at him without responding. He had shaved his beard off early yesterday morning, sending his seventies sideburns and tickly mustache with it. Now he's baby-faced again, clean-cut if you ignore the shaggy blonde hair that he hasn't had cut since possibly June. He couldn't put any logic around his own minor treachery. He can shave off his beard and I almost cried but I can't cut my hair that he loves? Um, what?

I left the mirror and returned the scissors to my sewing basket.

Within an hour I was overwhelmingly glad I hadn't cut my hair. I'm sure relief is always more welcome than regret. I didn't think we were both so shallow but it runs deeper than that and I can't explain it. I guess when you have a trademark like the one I do, being easily recognized for my hair, my brand, an identity tied to a physical characteristic, you shouldn't fuck with it. A package deal. I'm not a superstar, therefore I don't need to try to reinvent myself.

My other remarkable characteristics that are shared by few constitute my lack of height, my color-changing eyes and the sacral dimple that always seems to be a fun surprise to my lovers. I can't change those either, and I wouldn't even if I could.

Okay maybe I would lose the dimple. I find it kind of an oddity. Like maybe I was meant to be a bowling ball with three holes but at the last minute, through a cruel twist of evolution, I turned into a human female. Sorry, that sounds really yuck but I'm laughing anyway. Or maybe it was a tail and I would have been a little more popular on the freak circuit but it just wasn't in the cards for me.

Made in the image of a Blythe doll with the freaky eyes, but anatomically correct, and real. A living mermaid doll.

And yes, I'm tired today. Too tired to write anything important. I need a bath. I have to wash my hair. I need to get started on the the ten loads of laundry we created over the weekend. So you get a two-page ramble about my hair.

Feel fortunate, I could have posted a two-page ramble about sex.

I still might.

Moon princess.

Snowy owl-sightings and snowier walks were planned for yesterday as we cleared out of our now-leafless Victorian neighborhood and headed up to the lake for the day. The days are growing shorter. Nights are long and the echo of the moon was visible in the daylight sky, holding low to remind us that the dark comes soon, keeping us rushing through our late afternoons.

The drive takes forever. We eat red pistachios and sing Nick Drake songs, and Jacob has the most hilarious running joke of taking any heavy metal song and singing it as if it were being sung by Harry Connick Jr. I laughed so hard I feared the pistachios might wind up shooting out my nose but they settled for choking me half to death instead. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.

Our walk was icy-cold. Frosty kisses were worth it. The kids kept giggling. Jacob would stop every ten feet, grab me and dip me back low so that my hair touched the ground. I was full of snow. He was grinning as we walked, his nose was red and his eyes bright. He taught the kids a silly song that involved lots of stomping and clapping to stay warm and then we finally got too cold and the dark started crowding in close to our twilight and so we turned and raced back to the parking area from the labyrinth of trails. Only I didn't run, I walked briskly and watched as Jacob pretended to run fast beside Ruth, pantomiming falling behind and then tripping and falling into the snow. She was howling in delight, Henry was chortling and had snot running all over the place. I was laughing so hard I couldn't say anything anymore.

Both kids fell asleep on the drive back to the city, and Jacob took my hand in his and sang to me the whole way home. Songs he was making up about a princess who lives on the beach and meets a prince that she falls in love with and he builds her a sandcastle with an oven inside big enough to bake a thousand chocolate cakes. It was quite something. This princess had pet oysters who gave her pearls in exchange for her affections, and there was a switch inside her castle that turned on the sun or moon at her command.

Only Jacob insisted that it wasn't a fairytale song but a true story and that I should recognize the princess in the song as myself. I told him I couldn't light up the moon at my whim and he pointed to the glowing sliver of crescent now clearly visible outside my window. He smiled and said I could do whatever I set my heart to. That I have control at last. That I am capable of anything and everything. That it's magical.

He's right.

Blue velvet.

Contrary to unpopular opinion (the boys), I am not out of things to write about. But instead of me writing, I'm going to treat you to a favorite entry from The Journal. Yes, that one. Jacob's book of incredibly flattering and incredibly horrible things that he's written about me. An amazing read. But I'm narcissistic like that. I love to read his descriptions of me for reasons I can't explain.

The coffeeshop mention that I again gave made me run and look it up and he's given me permission to transcribe it to my journal. It gives me goosebumps:

I wrote that I had met the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen a few days ago but today she met me to give me back my coat and she looked a hundred times more beautiful. She rushed into the diner on Friday morning in a flurry of bells and cool air and every head turned to watch her as she made her way to where I sat. Briefly I was the luckiest man in the world. When she sat down she stuck her hand out and smiled at me and told me her name was Bridget and she was happy to meet me, since last weekend our introduction was awkward at best. We both laughed, the sound from her throat a low, soft chuckle with a hint of rasp. She has a neat voice. I can still hear her in my head.

She took off her summer coat and sat on it. I had forgotten how small she was. She looked so pretty. She had on a white Indian kurta shirt and blue jeans and clogs and she had a blue velvet ribbon around her neck. With her coat she carried an umbrella and a patchwork tote. She has really great long hair. I really wanted to touch it but that wasn't appropriate.

The diner was loud and we talked a little, she asked me to repeat a lot of my questions, she wanted to know why I was back in school, and mostly she apologized for her behavior at the party even though I told her there was nothing she could have done better and I was glad I was there. There was something about the way she twirled her cup around in circles on the saucer and looked up at me through the longest blonde bangs and white eyelashes I have ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off her lips, they were free of any lipstick or makeup, just pale pink lips and I liked to watch the way the corners of her mouth turned up when I said something that pleased her.

We were wrapping up our conversation and I was afraid I would never see her again and I wanted her to know it but instead of telling her that I said I wished she was single. She froze and I saw a flicker of pain pass through her green eyes before she collected her thoughts and began to rush to gather up her stuff. She told me she had to go and that she was happy and married and trying to get pregnant. She was upset and so I grabbed her hand, I needed time to apologize, I didn't want her leaving when she was distraught because I said something so reckless. I asked if we could be friends instead, because of our common interests. She made a joke about me trying to trick her so I could steal her from her husband and even though that's exactly what my plans were, I laughed and said something different instead.

I walked her out of the diner, unwilling to part ways with her but she was in a hurry to get to work so I said I hoped we meet up again soon, and I was gifted with another one of her softer smiles. She agreed and then turned and walked away down the sidewalk, head high, maybe knowing so many eyes were following her. Life would be like that for her. My own eyes followed her until she was swallowed in the lunchtime crowd of people, families and traffic. And then when I couldn't see her anymore I missed her already and that unnerves me. What kind of man falls that hard that fast for someone he has briefly met twice? Besides, I'm too busy working on my thesis to chase after any girl right now, let alone a married one. She's gone. She'll never be mine, my brain tells me. But then my heart says different, because I held her in my arms for a whole night and I can't explain how she has created these overwhelming feelings in me. I put her number in my book and I plan to call her in a few weeks and ask her out for lunch, hopefully we can be just friends and I can find a way to turn these feelings into simple caring for Bridget. If only I could get past her smile.

This KILLS me. Wow. If you ever wanted to know what a man was thinking at a certain time, it's a trip to find out. Maybe I'll post some more of his writing if he says I can. He was funny about this entry. He smiled and told me he had it bad from the first night for me and it took me forever to take him seriously.

This makes me wish I could turn back time.

Defining our normal.

We went to the doctor today. It's been a little over six weeks since I checked out of the hospital against my doctor's advice because I wanted to grieve and heal at home. It's been a little over two weeks since, again, without my doctor's consent, Jacob and I made love for the first time since the end of September. It has been a little over a week since I was given the very last of my much-loathed anti-depressants, having been weaned off them fairly quickly and with minor difficulties.

So tentatively I was peeking out at the world and wondering if all of my professional Bridget-keepers were going to clear me for normal life now, Jacob included.

And they did and it's bittersweet. We chose some birth control we can live with and we were told to go home and be happy and live normally, that I am healing just fine and am physically well again. Couple this with another follow-up today with Claus in which he declared that he knew I would find myself with time and the incredible support that I have.

In the truck on the way home we were quiet, each of us lost in our own separate thoughts of what normal life might be like, because we've never really known it before for anything length of time and yet, here it is.

What in the hell has ever been normal about our relationship? It's mostly been some quiet wonderful days that wire together the popping, exploding lights of heartache, pain and overwhelming joy. I'm not sure how to function like this.

Jacob was standing beside me, tense and and holding my hand while I sat on the table and waited for the doctor to return after my exam with some more information on future pregnancies. Jacob's hand was warm and damp, mine was trembling. Being here brought back everything but we remained in place because it's closure of a different sort.

Bridget, everything looks terrific. No pain with sexual activity?

No, none.

Jacob looked at the floor. We had expected a lecture. My doctor tends to do that.

Looks like you're doing very well. A model patient. Good luck with everything, you two.
Dismissed because physically the scars will fade. Emotionally the scars will fade. It's a contest, a marathon between my body and my mind now to see which one can claim resiliency first. My body always wins these races and my head plays catch-up forever.

When I look to Jacob to gauge his reaction to the doctor's placating reassurances, the fluorescent glow of the lights on his skin makes the dark circles beneath his eyes appear that much deeper and the hard set of his chin reveals his unspoken disappointments. We should have been sitting here hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time. I hate those lights. The whole time the doctor was droning on in his professional voice all I could do was think about how cold those lights make the world, bathing our flaws in unflattering radiance.

This closure marks more step on the path to our future. We got through it. I'm planted back firmly on my axis, spinning with just the right angle at the perfect speed. There are no injuries to get past. No surgeries to heal from. No heartache to overcome, no death to grieve for. No fear of reprisals. No medications. No alcohol problems for Bridget at present.

Mark this date in history.

When we got home, Jacob took my coat for me and hung it up and we walked into the kitchen from the back porch and he closed the door. I turned back and looked at him and he was staring at me. Staring like he had never really seen me before. It was the same look he gave me that day in the coffeeshop back in 1997, the day he couldn't take his eyes off me. The grin that said he liked what he was seeing, a lot.

He laughed shyly, and put his hand up to rub his thumb on my bottom lip, like he does when he loves me very, very much and he's thinking.

Princess.

Yes?

Where do we go from here?

Up, Jacob. Up.

Yeah. Because there's nowhere else to go, is there?

I love you, Jake.

I love you, princess. And I thank God for you, every single day.

Pot, kettle, black.

I'll admit, I wasn't so impressed with Jacob's behavior yesterday. I never expected him to call from the airport to tell me he had been drinking and couldn't drive his truck home. You don't expect that from Jake, and besides, his birthday was barely a week ago. He's on some sort of destructive roll here.

The good Reverend is afraid to fly and it's worse than it was in August, because this time he was flying alone, and he is no longer comfortable with that. He's afraid he will die and leave us alone here on earth to fend for ourselves. God only knows, Bridget can't seem to fend for herself.

His solution was to have a couple of drinks onboard the plane to relax a little lot. Which is four drinks on the ground and far too much for Jacob, famous for not being able to hold his liquor.

He said he will not fly alone again. Ever.

His own very rare fragilities and weaknesses concern me. They astound me because I feel like I have become his biggest flaw. His excuse to fail at something that he used to be good at or seek out often because now he must stay behind and defend and protect poor little Bridget.

I meant fragile miss Bridget but I was too frustrated to even find my usual words, let alone spit them out in the proper order last night, this morning, an argument that keeps us traveling in circles since his return.

Christ, Jake. If you're going to give up everything you love for me then you're soon going to simply resent the ever-loving fuck right out of me and we won't be any further ahead. Maybe you're using alcohol to dull the pain over the choices you've made because I make you miserable.

So how do you think he responded to that?

Yes, he laughed. Again. He seems to think I'm funny when I'm mad. And I'm not, I'm frustrated. My goal was not to end up with Jacob simply so that I could ruin him too. He's not weak, my God, he's walked through fire to be here. He can withstand just about anything. He's strong and good and beautiful and I have come to realize that he isn't very strong at all sometimes, that I can push him over with one finger.

I'm not giving up anything, princess. I've just come to such a wonderful place in my life in which I know exactly what I want, and that's you. Traveling away from you and the kids for more than a day isn't something I need or want to do. And the pain from my life choices? Maybe if you'd wear your damn hearing aids you might have heard me for the past six months telling you how goddamned happy you make me. But you're too stubborn for that! Oh and if you're going to fight with me about alcohol, you'd best look in the mirror, princess. Besides, I'm home and I'm not planning to touch anything else for a good long while.

Okay, maybe not with one finger but I have my ways. When I figure out what they are, that is. He wins, again. Surprise, surprise.