My Game

Wow. Just wow. Here we are again. I'm anxious. Thinking about whiskey. Feeling honored. I have been Miss Cussypants. Really saying phrases that only sailors, and maybe lumberjacks should utter.



Sue, my Sue, my Sue. Rendered me speechless through a text message. A text message!!! Asking me, your local Muppet Baby, to write the foreword in her photography book, if it ever happens.



Now listen closely, and read carefully. Pretend to be me for just a second. Prepare for a shift, being me, is overwhelming. The vision changes, dramatically. And, you feel extra tiny.



Listen, my Sue, is so talented, my words, couldn't even touch the pure wonder of what she creates. Her eye is so extra revolutionary, its nothing to be taken lightly.



I know, now, I know, SHE said, one day, it could, maybe happen.



What really twirls the pasta in my bowl?
Is she, she, fucking believes in me, as much as I believe in her.



Hang on, we are going down a side street.
On a motorcycle.
Through a jungle.



My Angie!!!! I fucking miss her. I haven't been able to see her, much less talk to her, and I need her. I need her to take a walk with me on the wild side, have a picnic, wear galoshes, examine necrotic skin, lust after handsome men at the Ingles with me, use me as an excuse, write a long love letter to, I just fucking need her.



See? Cussypants.


When can it happen? Not going to a wedding in Charlotte this weekend. Am staying put as far as I know. Maybe invited to come see you. Hiking in NC tomorrow, after my meeting. Maybe butter the corn on both sides. We should grill out. I think so. Whatever. I am somehow going swimming this week. In a creek or river, in the mountains, I am, going to lay out, and let the freckles rise to the top. I'm sure of it. I miss you, and I'm just going to leave it at that.


Some thing's about to change. I can feel it.