Just woke up choking on my own vomit. Bolted for the toilet, need to move laundry out of door to make the distance shorter, the cats meowed at me and milled around my legs as I clutched the toilet. See, this is one reason I don’t like cats. I’m puking and your rubbing against me meowing being annoying and you keep opening the door when I pull it shut. Nemo at worst would follow me then sit far away. He was scared of the vomiting. And as always, Drew sleeps through the entire thing. I’ve never thrown up this much. Since I’ve met him I’ve puked around him… Over 7 times since February. That’s a lot for me. And all 7 of those he’s slept through.
I wish you could see from my mind’s eye. How I perceive things. I hope I never loose my wonder. One more reason I stay away from harmful substances, as well as mind altering ones. I don’t want those things to ever affect or have any sort of hold on me.
I want to be free, to live in the moments He grants us on the small time we walk this earth. Keep myself healthy and fit, no point in abusing this vessel. I will die someday, and I don’t dread that day, but fear does grip at my heart when I think of leaving all this behind. The good and bad. I will maybe be reborn someday. Maybe not in heaven but on earth. But that time is far not near. I will rest in the earth, or on the wind. I don’t care what my loved ones do with me.
The pitter patter of raindrops makes me smile and curl up closer with the covers, I close my eyes, and dream of far off places, my toes stretch out to meet the ground, scrunching as if to pull it closer.
I collect cute, odd, interesting, amusing, thoughful, and just plain weird coffee cups. Not just anyone will do, they have to strike my fancy. I have just over 20 that I hold dear to me. But I don’t have any with me here, they’re all packed up at my house in paper. It makes me sad. My mom talked to me other day when I was sick and asked if I wanted her to come and bring me ‘home’. I was so torn I almost started crying, which I’m actually caught up as I type this, but I couldn’t answer her. What I call ‘home’ isn’t where we live anymore. What she calls home I call unfamiliar. I’ve only slept in my bed there… approximately 10 times. I’ve slept on the couch and in her bed with her more than I have in my own bedroom. I miss home. I miss my house. I wanted to live there forever. With my backyard and open wide side yard, in my small little town. If I wanted to go into a larger town I just had to drive a bit. I loved it. I still love it. The old appliances, the way the wood creaked under my feet, how when the air turned on it pulled all the doors shut within the house, when the sunlight would filter through the glass and fall just so on the ceiling or when cars drive past it makes such a pleasant sound and the lights drift across the walls in a kaleidoscope of colours. I miss my gypsy house. I lived my entire life there from year 1 to year 19. And here I sit 20, 16 miles from my gypsy house with it’s claw foot tub and memories pouring from the cracks in the walls, and the coloured corners from our childhood, mom never allowed dad to paint over those scribblings we made.
My parents worked on that house, I worked on that house. It holds so much of me. The walls would echo with the silence that sits within it now. empty but for some boxes. I can’t picture other people living in it. I just can’t.
I keep tasting milk. Like all the time now. WEIRD.