Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 The night is punctured by sips of a peppermint tea and drags off a cigarette. I wrote a short essay about grief.  And I’m wondering what really matters: do I want to spend my days writing blog posts while revealing my life to the world? (“Inquiring minds wanna know”) There’s something so self satisfying about this venture, I have to admit. My ego lights up just as much the dopamine receptors in my brain (did you ever think writing could get you high? I’m here to tell you, yes it can! (I am not endorsing that, by the way)). If you’ve read enough of my rambling, you’ll notice a recurring theme: I’m chemically dependent, past reminiscent, and a literary junkie. I only hope there is a place in the world for this type of work. And I don’t know where I’m going with this.  This could be just a phase, or it could be my life’s purpose. The first reason is likely, and the other is far fetched. I’ve gone through a couple fads thus far. I got really into gymnastics as a kid after wa...

  I’ve realized that I am no longer grieving. I don’t know how long it takes someone to grieve. My father has been gone for three months now. But it feels like I lost him just yesterday. I wouldn’t know the difference if it weren’t for my mental calendar of time. And I’m glad time is passing because I really don’t want to live in the grief (Crying constitutes one of my only exercises). It gives me permission to move on (I know that’s sounds bad, but I don’t mean forgetting, I mean healing). It does not however make me love him or miss him any less. I get triggered by things that remind me of him, or remind me of his death. When I hear Van Halen I think of how much he loved that music and wish he was hearing it too (I believe he still can)). When I eat a tasty dish I think wow he would dig this, I wish he could try it. From ice cream to pasta (dad was a foodie). Things that make me laugh make me wish he was in on the joke. Somehow I think he is  experiencing these things...

 We went to the Daytona Beach Bandshell tonight, cause it gets kinda boring here at the trailer. And we like Chicago. Chicago Rewired and REO Survivor and Co. played the songs of REO Speedwagon and the band Chicago. And guess what? Both bands are the same dudes, with an added horn section. I’m getting immune to the excitement of hearing live music at the bandshell, but I keep going. It’s not a bad way to spend the summer. But I guess I can crank any of my favorite songs off you tube with a pair of good earbuds, than listen to mediocre hits in public. I’m just picky. And my dopamine system doesn’t function properly without “alarming” amounts of caffeine. Which is why I usually get a coffee at 7 eleven.  Gotta pregame. We spend a lot of time on the boardwalk smoking, before the show begins, and during the break, and if they’re playing a bad song. A lady saw us having a puff and figured we constituted the “smoking section,” so she decided to join us but didn’t say much to us (hey...

 I never thought there would be perks to living in a trailer park, but specifically of living on a street with high property value. There’s probably over one hundred homes here, but there are only eight trailers that line Riverside drive (the new Rodeo, by the way), that get their own address and mailbox (the rest of the park is chopped liver (I’m only kidding)). It’s a privilege and a perk, and I’ll explain why.  Riverside is the road that runs along the river. And the dock, the infamous dock that my posse hangs out on, is on that river. Our trailer is caddy corner to the dock, so it’s a hop skip and a jump for me to walk out there. Why does this matter? If I have to use the bathroom, of course! I can’t just piss off the lower dock like the guys do. I like a cold beverage, too. And I might have to run in the house for another one. I might need bug spray. I might have to get paper to burn. I’m running inside the house all the time (for: a new pack of cigs, you guessed it), so ...

 Breaking news!: “ The internet has made writers obsessed with becoming writers instead of writing: are we spending more time looking like writers than actually writing?” That is the title of an email I just got in my inbox, from The Stories Club written by author Lina (no last name given). And it caught my attention. Because it’s slightly funny and probably true. Are some of us just posing as writers? How, even would you do that? The article says these people buy fancy journals and spend their time in cafes ordering fancy coffees. Posing as a so called writer, but not doing the work. Playing the part. For attention, for ego boost, for I don’t know what. Perhaps it’s the new craze (“oh is that your novel you’re working on?”). I wasn’t aware of it. I can’t judge anyone for craving a cappuccino (make mine a double espresso!), and if it makes you feel pumped up to loiter in a coffee shop, do so by all means. And now I am suspicious of my own identity as a writer. Is it legit? I’m guil...

 Three years ago my hair was in knots.  I wasn’t just having a bad hair day. I had chosen, consciously or subconsciously, to forgo brushing my hair in order to focus on my one priority at that time: getting drunk. I always had a sweaty beer and a menthol in my hand as I traipsed around Riverside park. I wore my hair in one of those messy buns on top of my head, like an athlete or a ballerina would (but I had a completely different occupation (you could say I had the job from hell)). It was easy to wear it that way, as it kept it from being burned by a lit cigarette, and really I’ve never been a girl to wear my hair down a lot; I don’t have enough good hair days to wear it down, and I do have “puffy” hair. It’s been confirmed: I have thick hair. And it was about medium length then, cause I don’t recall having a hair cut in a while. The last cut I had I did myself in 2021, buzzing the back of my head and trying to do a short bob with bangs. I butchered it and it looked like crap...