I know general consensus is that WordPress is better, but I disagree. Sure, it’s got fancier seeming bells and whistles, but I’m used to Blogger and I like it way better.

There are so many things I could do on Blogger than I can’t do here. Java scripts for one thing, and also because WordPress just limits design creativity way too much for my liking. Stale is a good word. WordPress feels stale.

These new digs are simple and clean and pretty enough, but it’s boring. I must be able to spruce at my own free will.

So, that’s my new project. I will probably do it tonight. I’m going to copy the few posts I have here to there, and then I’ll pass out a new link.

I know, I know. Seems hasty and rash to move back, but I’m nuts like that.

Stay tuned.

ps. I heart Blogger. (gasp)

But, that’s okay.

Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!

(not exactly original or creative, but whatever. it works)

But, there’s a funeral coming up. He hasn’t passed away yet, but it’s imminent, and to say that I’m terrified doesn’t even scratch the service.

My life has never known security, stability, or anything dependable except for him. He was a father to a fatherless little girl, but he was always a grandpa more. In a life of constant chaos and never feeling like I was supposed to be there, he delighted in me as if I was the only person that mattered.

It’s taken me forever to be able to write this much about it. My own heart might stop from the pain. I open my mouth to speak about it and my tongue stops working. I can’t imagine being in a world without him.

I have to go to the funeral, and I will. But I will be sitting there in that church all alone.

I’m the only single person in my family. The only divorced person. The only single mom. Everyone will have someone sitting next to them to lean on. Everyone but me.

I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can face it. I don’t think I will even be able to stand up.

If it wasn’t his funeral, he would be the one sitting next to me.

I saw him today, and leaned over him to kiss him. He reached his frail arms up and put his hands on my cheeks. He looked in my eyes and told me everything would be okay. I told him I love him, and he said he knew it. He said he knew that I loved him more than anyone else does, and I didn’t know he knew that. I laid across his chest, and he wrapped his arms around me. He told me to let it out, he told me to cry and he patted my back while I did.

I don’t think I can breathe.

At one point my son came in, I told him he could watch whatever he wanted and tossed him the remote.

Then I was walking on a sidewalk downtown. I crossed the street and suddenly someone turned off the light. It went pitch black as I was stepping onto the curb.

I wasn’t scared. I might have been but I didn’t have time to consider it, because in the very moment it went dark I was pulled.

My left arm was grasped by something. I didn’t feel anything on my skin, not a hand or a rope or furry monster mitt. I was pulled though, and I felt that.

I was raised up by my left arm, and the weight of me attached to it was very real. I actually experienced the movement. It was jarring, swift, and certain. There were several tugs. Like the something was positioning me, putting me back in right place.

I realized that I wasn’t awake then. I knew I had been dreaming. The remote was still laying on my stomach and an hour had passed on the clock.

It’s several hours later now, and I’m still thinking about it. I really did FEEL it, it happened.

I don’t really miss the old me though, because there is no old me. I’m the exact same chick, I just moved to a new address.

If my lifetime of journals were splayed before your eyes, you would see more randomness than you could handle. No doubt you would have more questions than answers too.

You’d see stories. Creative writing. You’d see poems. You’d see exhausting diatribes. You’d see emotional meltdowns. You’d see love letters to people who will never read them. You’d see scribbles, and doodles, and pressed dried flowers. And all of that would me.

You should not proceed with any sort of expectations here. I refuse to promise to be predictable, or interesting, or even entertaining for that matter. I do promise to be me, flowing freely without the ties that bound me.

This new blog is just a new journal. It has a different cover and different size and different shape and different weight. This is a new chapter in my life too, and I like that a lot.

You might not recognize the me you think you know sometimes, and that’s okay.

Just roll with it, because that’s what I’m doing too.

The sly silver fox with icy blue eyes, who calls her ‘gorgeous’ to hear himself say it. What is she going to do?

He asked her to wear her hair down everyday. He likes her coffee. She has such a ‘soothing’ voice he says.

Brazen assumptions. 

Enter the fine balance – her dignity in one hand, his ego in the other.

She knows how to walk this line. 

Experience hasn’t taught her nothing.

Is second person style annoying, I wonder? Or is it just different?

‘You’re still testing the water,’ I say to me. Just relax.

I feel inspired to be creative. I feel like breaching the boundaries of my fantasies, and my facts, and my fiction. Go for it more, and explain less.

Feel the difference, be different.

There is so much more. This girl who seems so exposed holds fists full of secrets. She still controls it. She gives what she gives on purpose.

Reinventing is what’s happening. Not her though, just this.

Has it really been four days? Funny.

Her creepy silent curious foes are suddenly consumed. This little perk of her abrupt vanishing act wasn’t expected. It seems that going dark shined a big bright light on the lurkers. They are calling themselves out. It’s brilliant.

‘Just wanted to tell you I’m thinking about you’ means ‘I can’t spy on you anymore, let me back in!’

No chance in hell.

When asked how new anonymity felt, she exclaimed ‘GREAT!’ and she meant it. It’s more than a breath of fresh air, it’s the gift of a new beginning.

Ahhh, free at last.

Learning to be anonymous. Write anonymously. Selectively anonymous? She has her suspicions.

To tell her stories, mysteriously. How liberating.

She isn’t sure if she can pull it off, and she knows there is much more to it than this. But she did it. She leaped, unfettered.

It was a long time coming. The weariness of being watched by hateful eyes was eating her insides. She has to write though, and she has to write about her life. She can’t not.

She’s going to be braver now, and she’s going to be stronger. She’s smarter.

She’ll tell it according to her, and she will not debate or excuse herself to opposition anymore. 

She is revived.

Everything is new again. Anonymity included. Tricky business, this is.

My toe dipped, my foot splashed. The water feels fine, invigorating even.

I’m going to dive in. This is the plunge.