Loyal subjectives.

The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path
The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more
And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forbodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon
The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me.
And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

It's one of those days where the only place I feel calm is facedown on the lawn hoping the sun will just hurry up and go down already and usher in night so we can get the whole day over with sooner rather than later.

The grass is crunchy. It's covered with frost.

Come on, Poem, get up before Pyro gets home and takes my head clean off for letting you lie here in the cold. 

Tell him I dismissed you. 

You think that will matter to him? Because I don't think it will.

Doctor Sleep and First Contact.

Jumping back into grown-up Danny Torrance's life only to find he is still a predictable mess was sort of cathartic. I'd be a mess too, if I were him.

But honestly I think I like him that way. What I didn't like was the overly simplistic, predictable way the story unfolds after Danny realizes that a child with the shining is trying to contact him. I didn't like anything that happened after that and I certainly didn't like the ending, which was wrapped up so neatly it may as well have had a bow.

Those moments at the onset were fantastic but mostly it seemed as if Stephen King wrote this purely to make a screenplay writer's job easier down the road. I hate even saying this, but it was certainly no Joyride.

Joyride is a goddamned masterpiece. This was a good idea gone awry.

Onward and upward as Preacher says, who always said I should read more and I try. I've just started Not Dead and Not for Sale by Scott Weiland. It's very good so far. Surprisingly good and surprising too.

***

Ben walks down the hill to say hello after his morning meeting. New-Jake walks beside him. I don't think I like that all that much, it might have been better to have someone who isn't already a friend, because all this means is that Batman gets an update every time Ben and I have a conversation. When they reach me (on the porch, cleaning paint brushes), Jake heads inside for coffee at my urging so Ben and I can talk because I decided that's the way it's going to be. Within earshot if we're yelling but otherwise somewhere else.

And I'd like to yell but I can't. Ben is being great. He's accommodating and using his manners and being very respectful, hardworking and kind. Generous even. But he's not being Ben and I keeping waiting for Ben but I think he killed my Ben and left Borg-Ben in his place. Borg-Ben is not the sort to start a food fight or eat my lip gloss. Borg-Ben isn't quick to argue and is even quicker to forgive. Borg-Ben doesn't have any quirks at all. Borg-Ben is a hard worker and a neat freak and a doer of laundry and a solitary churchgoer and a perfectionist and I don't know where the fuck he came from.

I guess it's all profoundly reassuring to Lochlan and maybe to Caleb too. Caleb still won't let Ben come home so maybe the behaviour is an attempt to win his life back or maybe he's just numb. I hate it though. I want to throw a plate at his head and tell him to wake up. I want to take the front of his shirt and haul on it, swing on it, stretch it out and hang off it until he laughs and comes to his senses. I want to take his eyes and make a window in my brain where I show him all the hard parts, all the times where he could barely contain his emotions, whether it be sadness or exuberance or both but I really don't think Borg-Ben would understand so instead I walk over to the front door, stick my head into the house and call for New-Jake to take his alien back to their planet.

New-Jake looks confused but I can't explain. I just tearfully wave him away and go back to cleaning my brushes, wondering how this is happening when I wanted my Benjamin back, flaws and all. I don't think I care if he's straight or crooked but no one wants to hear that, trust me.

But honestly.

Batman shrugs when I ask him about the house. It's a good investment. It's worth a lot more than I paid, to be honest. I underbid heavily and now it's mine.

I am pleased for him but also confused. We've lived here for almost four years. Why now? 

I needed to be out of the city. I'm getting old, Bridget. And you need a few more allies with power, I think. He shrugs. He's never egotistical about his influence but he trusts it.

Forty-five isn't old. 

Sometimes it is. My bullshit tolerance is down. I want to have peace and quiet and be left alone. 

So you came here?

Yes. Your noise is sweet. It sounds good. There's a family dynamic here. The guys are my friends. I think I'll settle in. I'm too busy to join in much but I'd like to be around more. 

Are you-

I don't mean I'm going to make a grab for you, if that's what you're worried about. I don't think your affection for me is that strong and while I would like to have a companion at this point I think just having you and the rest nearby fits the bill.

What changed?

You aren't interested. I think if I had made a move earlier you might have considered me. Back when you were twenty-two. But I was too busy. We've had some fun though, haven't we?

He's trying so hard to make up for Cole. I let him off the hook so easily. Yeah, we did. 

Good.  

So you're just going to be around?

I'll be Caleb's conscience. 

That's a tall order. A man like that doesn't have a conscience. 

He does, Bridget, he just rarely invokes it. 

You're defending him?

Knowing what he fights against, yes. 

In runes.

Busy watching Jace and Valentine duke it out shadowhunter-style on the big screen. When it's done I'll watch it again. Come back tomorrow for big feels and big words because right now I'm busy being a teenager and no one at this age can put into words what happens inside their minds and hearts and make it comprehensible.

I know I never could and sometimes I regress.

Another debilitating argument and we're left stripped down and starting over, finding scratch from which to build a life on. Finding something that reminds us why the fighting is the least important part of us, and maybe is a painful way to grow and nothing more. Everything holds even when the words cut so deep I think I'll bleed out before I hit the ground and instead of having the courage to be cruel in return I fold like a birthday card, flat on the table.

Not a pushover, I'm just not a worthy adversary. Everything disappears and I can't focus and the world becomes a blank white void, cold and desolate. Then the fear rushes in like the wind and I can't catch my breath. The focus shifts to surviving it and then gradually the color floods in like ink in water, clouds of hues I haven't seen up close to know they were this beautiful before.

Loch caves in, regret washing over him in inky blacks and blues and red. He thinks he's being generous when I am stupid and selfish, I guess but really I'm just trying to breathe here for the fear, oh the fear. Make it stop because I think it might be killing me.

What are you afraid of, Bridget? It's Jake's voice in my head and it makes my eyes sting and burn. I can see his face, smiling gently, helpless and yet still trying to help because he didn't know what else to do but organize perpetual rescue and none of it was ever enough and I look up into Loch's green eyes and wonder if I'm going to destroy him too and I don't want to do that. I don't want him to end up like the rest and why can't I breathe?

His promises echo-bounce off the walls and around the room like a magic trick and I stare at him, gulping in lungfuls of oxygen while he wonders what the fuck he did that made me like this.

(It isn't you. It isn't you. It isn't you. I can't not be afraid. I can't find familiar things. I can't believe a word of this life. I can't manage at all right now please don't look at me like this but don't go anywhere either please. Pleasepleaseplease.)

He works around me, my hands clenched into the front of his shirt, bunching up flannel and t-shirt and pure heart. I can't let go but I've tried. He puts my headphones in my ears finally and finds a playlist and presses play and I let go when I realize I can grab the melody instead, hanging on for dear life. His arms go around me and they form a sort of full-body armor and then just for those few minutes the fear subsides. The promises hold. The fight is over.

ROCKmaninov, bitches. It's what's for breakfast. And lunch. And snacks. No, wait. Pachebel for snacks.

Yes, this.

No messing around today. Today's the eight-hundred-bucks-an-hour-but-only-if-you-wear-the-skintight-grey-wool-dress sort of day where I play Executive Assistant (because Personal wasn't important enough) in order to assist the person who executes me. I mean my company that I don't want.

Are you still keeping track? Because I'm not.

I chose Rachmaninov this morning because it pleases Satan to no end. And because it fills my brain without hurting it and that's a great thing.

But I'm not working. I'm tracking down cute cellphone accessories (DOUGHNUT. CAT. THINGS.) and being awful and texting with Sam about things like wedding dessert because It doesn't have to be cake, right? And I texted back a threat that might land me in jail because YES IT DOES and then Matt texted me with a warning not to threaten bodily harm over pastries but I thought he said pasties and I spit my coffee all over the place and Caleb looked up quite sharply from his desk and tried not to crack a smile.

But he failed. Oh, yes he did.

And Lochlan isn't returning messages because I told him I was working and he said no and then I said I wasn't passing up a green and he didn't say anything again and I'm at the top of his shit list but I can make it up to him later with money and kisses because he loves me in spite of the fact that I'm me, apparently.

And I can't breathe in this dress, therefore the lightheadedness.

(Chaconne hurts my brain, okay, there. I admit it. God so beautiful.)

Bush league.

When the future's architectured
By a carnival of idiots on show
You'd better lie low
If you love me, won't you let me know?

Sam has traded pancakes for waffles today. No mountains, no roaring snow-bonfires, no bagpipes. No kilts. Maybe something more refined. And maybe they should change the date, he's pretty busy over the Christmas season. It's hard enough to find other ministers to fill in without several week's notice. And also it will be hard to plan a honeymoon without booking things far in advance.

Waffle waffle waffle...

Stop it, Sam. We walk and I keep looking up at him. I'm getting lovely views of his Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to swallow the idea of a future in which it isn't Sam but Sam-and-Matt. No more autonomy, only fifty-fifty splits and negotiations. No more I but we instead. No more fretting about wedding plans because soon they'll be married and that will be that.

He covers his face with his hands and drags them down until they fall away and he looks even more tired and more worn now. No haircuts and no shaving this month have left all of my boys looking like savages. I love it. Sam is incredibly cute with his caramel curls and darker beard.

A judge then? Have your ceremony in an office, no decisions required. 

A little too UNspecial. I want it to be perfect, I just don't know what perfect is for us. 

Close your eyes. 

Why?

Just do it! Have faith. 

Punny little thing. Okay. Closed. Now what?

It's a overcast cold day off in December. What are you doing?

We're listening to music by the fire. Coffee's made. Maybe some jazz on. 

There you go. A cabin, roaring fire, and a very rustic and quiet Christmas wedding. 

I know. I keep leaning that way I think. 

A flannel wedding!

Yeah. 

Don't forget the pancakes. 

What is it with the pancakes?

I like the way you make them. 

Why?

They're shaped like bunnies. 

Oh. What? I didn't make them like that on purpose. 

You...really? And here I thought I was special. 

You are. 

Apparently not special enough for bunny pancakes. 

Bridget-

I think you need a new best friend. Apparently I'm not worthy of breakfast shapes. 

Sure you are! You just have to ask and-

Oh, Sam, if I have to ask then there's no point. 

This, Bridget. 

What?

This is why I'm marrying a dude. 

I thought it was for the baseball. 

What? Baseball? Huh?

The pitcher/catcher thing...

BRIDGET! 

WHAT? 

It's like a progress bar, this engagement. LOADING LOADING LOADING

December 21st. That's a good day to get married, right?

That's what Matt said and Sam, who seemed like he wasn't actually paying attention, sat up, closed his book and said It does. It sounds like a really good day.

Then they sat there grinning like fools at each other until we all jumped on them.

Finally. A date. A plan. A...month? JESUS. This is like that time when Jacob gave me mere days notice for the smallest wedding the world has ever seen. This will be slightly larger but not by much. They have a few ideas in mind and they're all wonderful. Including breakfast. Wedding pancakes. Things involving flavoured coffees and candles. Winter sunrise. Kilts and Ben's pipes and snow and mountains and I don't even. Gosh. I just don't even.

I've been married too many times to never have planned a wedding (fun fact!)

And now the teasing has begun, because everyone keeps asking Sam when he's going shopping for THE DRESS.

I want to smack them all and cry with happiness at the same time.

Sam I love you to pieces. I hope you know that.

Back to class, children.

Dear lord, let it go. For the record, Caleb said I yelled YOLO and pulled my pants off, swung them up and they got caught at the top of the fountain. Then so I wouldn't feel awkward Andrew, PJ, Duncan and Loch (I know! WTF.) threw theirs too.

We are getting too old for bachelor parties even though that was the first one I've ever been invited to.

Thanks, Samwise (who is still sleeping even though it's four in the afternoon but Mondays are his Saturdays so it's okay. He does not drink but he stays up far too late for his own good).

'Twas fun.

In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss.

Not even going to talk about how I wound up doing karaoke on top of the kitchen island at three this morning in my underpants and a t-shirt that reads Runt of the Litter but it happened and I think there might be video.

Who ever brought the Jaegermeister needs to take it away because damn. I thought I was doing a stellar job covering These Dreams but in fact I was not.

(Consensus is no one was paying attention to my singing but instead the lack of pants.)

(I was not the only one not wearing pants.)

(The fountain outside is wearing four pairs now and there is one pair on the roof of the garage. I don't know how they got them up there. I cannot run with the big boys and I never ever seem to learn that, but at least I know I look better without my pants on than anyone else.)