Nice try, February

So February tried to kill me yesterday. I think it gave up because i twarted it so thoroughly with my bad-assedness. It's partially my fault for continually expressing my complete loathing for this most putrid of months, but mostly it's February's fault for sucking so hard. Anyway with 12 hours to go i refuse to back down. Give me your best shot, dick-month.

Here are the two most obvious ways February tried to extinguish my life yesterday. Possibly there were other times my demise was planned, but these two things stuck out:
First, i had to open the BASP yesterday. So instead of rolling out of bed at the last second and trudging over to my boss-neighbor's already warmed up car for a ride, i had to get up early and preheat my own car. It was -24° with wind chill. My car door was frozen shut so i was exposed to the elements far longer than i had planned when i ventured outside in just a hoodie. That could have been an attempt to kill me, but we can all agree it was weak so i'm not counting it. I She-ra-ed the door open and all was well. When i actually started driving to work my brake light came on. My brakes were a tad soft but i wasn't too worried. I knew i probably just needed some fluid - something i could easily remedy between shifts. After the BASP i was driving home, going down Dodge Street hill/curve when BLAMMO! no brakes. None. Gone. Car in front of me, going 35, headed right for a red light. Miraculously, the light turned green and i skidded around the right turn without killing myself or anyone else. Stupid February didn't realize there was no school yesterday. If there had been, i definitely would have slammed into a minivan driven by a parent who had just dropped their kids off at the school right there or plowed through some family walking through the cross walk. I didn't touch my gas and luckily no one was coming from the opposite direction, so i made the left onto Gilbert just fine. I had to blow the stop sign at Fairchild too, and once again lucked out as no one else was at the intersection. I had enough momentum to make it to my neighborhood service station and rolled to a stop inches from the owner's truck. Nice try, February.

But, wait! It wasn't quite through with me. After filling the completely empty brake fluid chamber, my hood wouldn't latch. The main latch was stuck, but the manual one was holding so i decided i could worry about that after works. And i did. I doinked with the piece of shit for 15 minutes and got the son of a bitch to close all the way. Or so i thought. After closing BASP hours later, i hit the interstate to meet up with Reester and Silly Seesters for drinks, dinner, and some games. First semi passes me and BLAMMO! the main latch gives. The manual one held, but the hood was flapping like hell. I put on my hazards, slowed my roll, and got off at the next exit which was 6 white-knuckled miles down the road. I jumped up and down on that motherfucker and banged the shit out of it with a ratchet. It just would not budge. I took the back roads at 45 and avoided having the hood flip up, break my windshield, obstruct my vision, and kill me. Again, well played, February, but i win this round too.

First thing this morning i yanked open that hood and slammed it shut with all the force of a Hulk Smash. Fixed it. Works like a goddamn charm. Guess i just made February my bitch.

10 Years

I woke up today very aware of the date but feeling good. I started off strong, even if i did decide to wear the locket that i barely wear anymore. I got a text from Reester Seester right off the bat that simply read "Love you." I didn't make a connection to the date and thought it was pretty random for so early and perhaps she meant to send it to her husband (failing to realize they would've been driving to work together at the time). Shortly thereafter i received a text from Momster reading "Hang in there, Moo. I know this is a tough week for you." I got a little catch in my throat there with the thought that what happened all those years ago still affects my parents. They lost something that day too.

Work went well on my first two shifts. I spent a little extra time in the baby room (by a little i mean half an hour versus 2 minutes). Yesterday i prepped all of lunch for today and instead of staying in the kitchen all day, i played with and read to the preschoolers for a majority of my shift. I was barely aware of how far out of my way i had gone to make that possible. It was almost like an unconcious tribute to SPK. By the time i got to the third shift of the day, i was highly oversensitive. Being around kids his age was tough, and i don't know why. And i don't know why i insist on saying "he". The sex was indeterminable. What i had wasn't actually a baby yet. A baby is a thing that can survive outside the womb. A baby is a boy or a girl (98% of the time). A baby has skin.

I love my life. I don't want children. But i guess, even if i ignore it 363 days a year (the actual due date is a doozie too), i still wonder what he would look like. Would he be funny, spastic and creative like me, or studious, moody and quiet like his father? Or some combination the world has never seen? Would he have bugged me into getting a dog?

Once upon a time i thought i'd never be okay. But i am. All he ever was was a dream - he's just one that doesn't fade.

What is Loved is Never Lost OR: Full of Sound & Fury

I'm overwhelmed right now. There's a lot going on. I'm not weak or shallow or blind - this is heavy shit happening with and to both my family and me. I'm trying to be a bad ass but, damn! it's for real. So, i need to get a little nostalgic. It will do me good to remember some stuff.

Reester Seester designed this. It has been made into a shirt for who ever wants to to wear it to the annual party held in my brother Michael's memory. Mine is purple and i am so excited to wear it. Let me explain ~

Michael was a life-long dirty birdy. He always included swears in his vernacular from the time i can remember him speaking. The first Easter i can remember involves his vulgarity, even if i didn't know it at the time. Allow a transcript:

Momster: Go upstairs and get Mike. It's time for this Easter stuff.
Me (after plodding up the steps in my footsies, at the tender age of 5, and barging in to 13 year-old Mike's room): Mikey! Mom said come downstairs. We got Easter bunny baskets!
Mike: Go away! I'm playing with myself.
Me: Okay.

I plod back down and relay the message:
Me (to Momster): He's playing with himself.

I was all nonchalant, just telling her what he told me. She went bananas! Storming up the stairs and then yelling at him. I thought it was my fault. Nope. That's on him.

Once when i was in kindergarten, Michael, his twin sister Silly, and I were waiting at the end of driveway for the bus. Silly asked Mike why he kept digging in his pocket. To which he replied, "I cut out the bottom of my pocket so I can play with my balls." Silly said he was sick but I just wanted to know what kind of balls. Did they bounce? Could I see them? He just laughed and laughed. I thought about his stupid balls all the way to school.

He was also the King of Gross. He was always burping and blowing the smell at someone's face or holding someone down and doing yo-yo loogie or farting in their ear. He used to hack up big meaty lugers and cup his tongue like a bowl and let little Samantha, Reester Seester's dog, LICK IT OUT OF HIS MOUTH! I am totally fucking serious. Still holds the title for grossest dude I've ever known.

Anyway, the shirt design. Mike was insanely disgusting and always hilarious. The design up there is a foot with toes spread out, see? That's how you could get him. He wasn't a fan of feet in the first place but you could take off your sock, hold up your foot and spread those little piggies out and he would actually retch a little. If you were near him, he might even scream a little and flail around like a maniac trying to get away. That was awesome.

Miss you, Pickle