Laugh a little

That ray-of-sunshine in my life, the beautiful S, tells me that my blogs are always too serious. This is true and characteristic of my personality. But I can be funny, I think. People often tell me I'm funny. I wonder why, when I sit down to write something, it all comes out so dark and depressing. Is that the true inner me? I don't think so. I just use this to vent all that stuff that you can't say to anyone out loud. I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately and it's become clear to me that we're all doing that, saying the things that we can't quite say out loud. Some of you are just better at making them humorous than I am. Okay, you're a lot better at it.

Honesty is a scary thing, but it's where I feel most comfortable. Not sure what that sentence means at all. But here's an interesting thing: Out of the blue, I get contacted on Facebook by somebody who makes some reference to me stopping traffic and wearing a bikini to paint a house when I was in my 20's. I think it was when I was in my 20's. I really have no idea, absolutely no idea.

I remember that I lived in Brantford for a couple of years, I even remember that I stayed in a room in a house owned by this old couple. Well, I didn't remember it until she told me, but now I remember it. But that's it. And the memory exists for me this way: Was it a movie I watched? A book I read? A story somebody told me. I have detached from all of this so long ago that it has nothing to do with me.

Whatever happened, all the things that happened, I left my past behind and I built a life "of sorts". Wish I had a past, more of a past that I remember, but I just don't, and I'm not willing to try anymore to remember it. What I do remember is how fucked up and miserable I was and that's enough for me. I was floundering in the dark for way too long.

I suppose the eve of my nephew's wedding, that Ian-Bean who I love, has brought out the melancholy in me. Those are years I do remember, years that I treasure, but I don't get to be a part of it, not even a small part. They tell me that my ex-husband is their uncle. I have all kinds of intelligent responses to that, but my immediate one is pfffftttttt. Let me say this "out loud": Every birthday present, every Valentine's and Easter chocolate, every homemade treat, every sleepover, every Christmas present = made by me, bought by me, wrapped by me, delivered by me. He's not your uncle, he never was your uncle.

I did the unspeakable, the unthinkable two days ago: I woke up crying. Yeah, you could have knocked me over with a feather on that one. I woke up with tears running down my face and all these thoughts running through my head. Because I want to fix it, I want it to be better ... yes, better for me, I guess. That's selfish, I know. So, here is the only place that I put my thoughts, my feelings about this, because, if I say all of this out loud, I would disgust even myself, let alone the people around me. There is no fix for this, no band-aid; just push it down and, when it rises up, push it down again.

But the beautiful S ... and, OMG, she is so very beautiful ... will represent, and that handsome boy of mine will be her escort. Wow, they validate me. Accckkkkk! I shouldn't say that even if it is true, should I? But they do. I bask in their shadow, I admire them from afar and up close, and I will remain devoted forever.

So, I'm going to end this post with a joke just to prove to that beautiful girl that I maintain a sense of humour:

A blonde was driving down the road listening to the radio and was quite
upset when she heard blonde joke after blonde joke. A little way down the road,
she saw another blonde out in a field rowing a boat. The blonde stopped her car
and angrily jumped out yelling,
"You dumb blonde bimbo! It's blondes like you that give the rest of us a bad name! If I could swim I'd come out there and give you what's coming to you!"