Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 I just wanted to make a post with that title ( since I can’t put it on a t shirt ), and also a public service announcement. 

  “Drawn into the stream, of undefined illusion, those diamond dreams, they can’t disguise the truth…” — Level 42, There’s Something About You When I broke up with my boyfriend five years ago, he told my mother “I hope she finds herself.” (That’s what he thought I was doing, going to find myself?) Well, I found Jesus, instead…and then I did find myself (Here I am!). No, really. I wasn’t being true to myself in that relationship (no offense to him). I think most women can relate to that. We try to change ourselves in order to be deserving of love. And we probably do shit that piss men off, like talk too long on the phone (and too much in general), take too long in the bathroom, etc. But it’s part of the package, just like we put up with them monopolizing the tv watching sports.  I’m being cliche (and stereotypical). And I digress.  I have never felt more like myself than I do now. I had to go through all that drinking crap and weed smoking to find out that’s not who I am, ...

 Sometimes I think the universe is trying to speak to me.  Not literally (hello, Universe? it’s me…). I can’t help but connect the dots sometimes.  I got a little manic after my breakup five years ago, and I started connecting all the dots I could think of, which led to some weird poetry and drawings (I tried to show them to my dad and he was like, get that shit out of my face! Lol, that’s my dad. So I would read them to him so he had  to listen. And then he made me go to the hospital. I digress…). Anyways, I’m a little more hinged now, so the dots don’t make me crazy, even though sometimes I think I am on the verge of a huge epiphany (did you know one time I thought Eminem was gonna discover me and buy my poetry? To quote Bell: “‘must have been some weed.’”). I appreciate the dots, wherever they are leading.  I got sober on Good Friday of 2024. That wasn’t the official day I quit drinking (it was sometime that same week), but it was the day I went into the hosp...

I think I am done with the Satan stories. What started out as a fun story about a one night stand gets really ugly. I realize that. I take full responsibility for posting this on the internet, but I dare anyone to judge me, for my poor taste in subject matter, to the choices I made, to the people I fucked over, for the reasons I drank, etc. If this story doesn’t resonate with you, then you’ve never been in the gutter, and probably consider yourself too wise to end up there. Then this story (and maybe this blog) is not for you. I’m lucky I’m alive to write these stories, and I take pride in my ability convey them, with a touch of humor, objectively and subjectively. I don’t write for the masses. If you don’t think John is the hero in all of this, then you can’t see the forest for the trees. Every alcoholic has to decide on their own to get sober, to “see the light” (or in my case, scared enough to get help), and make a commitment and keep that commitment (relapse is always possible. I d...

 If it wasn’t for you I’d be dead/ you picked me up and fed/ me, Bought me lots of beer/ and whiskey/ does that make sense?/ would you enable a friend/ like a girl on the street in a dirty dress?/ Beats me…/ i wanna forget that mess/ never look back/ and also confess: I’m so grateful/ even though it’s hard to say I’m sorry/ for all the painful memories:/ falling off the toilet/ and pulling out my hair…/ eating all your burritos/ I’m sure you were scared/ when I got so skinny/ that my clothes didn’t fit me/ I couldn’t stop/ and I couldn’t slow down/ god knows how many pounds/ were missing/ the silver lining was the kissing/ even though my mouth/ tasted like beer and cigs/ and you couldn’t even touch me/ without me getting sleepy/ had to walk a mile up Riverside Drive/ just to please me/ while I smoked all your menthols/ and pounded my head/ against the wall/ I’m so glad we fixed that hole/ it made me sick/ to look at it/ and the broken window/ you covered with a wolf blanket/ sorry ...

 “You take it on the run baby, if that’s the way you want it baby, then I don’t want you around…” —REO Speedwagon I didnt know why this guy was buying me beer, but I wasn’t about to question it. To me, it was a gift from the gods, even though I was never properly grateful. Much later on John revealed to me that I did something really cute that just tickled him to the bone, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was for a while. Finally he admitted, “when I got you a case of beer, you asked me innocently ‘is that for me?’ and when I said of course you said ‘thank you so much!’ and gave me a hug.” Silly. I barely remember that scene (all it takes is a hug? (Although I do remember walking out the door with that whole case in my arms and enjoying the beer at Ross’, and carrying it with me through the night)). I was giving lots of people hugs at that time, my pathetic way of trying to ingratiate myself with them (and I’m really not a hug person). I did a lot of weird shit, which wasn’t funny-...