Confession: I wrote this months ago but never published it. In my pain + lortab + wine – pants equation, however, it really fits the bill tonight. Enjoy.

It’s a strange place to be, where I am right now. In my head, of course. This chair is quite nice and quite familiar.

It’s as though my funny and irreverent self is sitting on the couch, watching beloved NCIS reruns and stuffing her face with delicious salty goodness.

I’m sitting here watching her, giggling a bit in my heart, but I don’t join in, because this mood – this sweet, sentimental, sappily alliterative mood – is simply too delightful to leave.

I have too much to do today: work and obligations I needed to do yesterday and the day before but was unable to do for frustratingly mundane reasons. I anticipated a panic attack, a hormonal freakout, a desperate desire for sedatives.

Don’t worry; there’s always time for that later.

But I can’t bear to let this go just yet.

Goodness, it’s silly. This warmth I feel from tips of my paint-chipped toenails to the muscles in my cheeks that I just now realize are achy from smiles. I awoke with a smile in my eyebrows, on my lips, in the hollow of my neck, far more easily than my usual bout of grumbles and stumbles and crusty eyelashes.

I could blame one of my very favorite writers for sucking me in with her words this morning and then encouraging me to wallow, responsibility-free.

I take direction well.

I could also blame the very decorative man I dreamt about last night in wonderfully graphic detail.

It was a good dream.

Or the four-legged beasts who all wanted to love on me at the same time first thing this morning, all 150 pounds of combined snuggin’.

I do love a good snugg.

But really, I think it’s your fault. Yes, you.

Yeah, I know, I’m writing again for me; it’s what I’ve always loved; I’m finally back here; and every other touchy-feely phrase that fits. And many fit.

But you know, I’m writing to be read, to be heard, to create this wonderful community I’m madly in love with. Grammar be damned.

And you read. And you hear. And I’m reduced to this sloppy, gooey mess of OMFG INTERNET LOVE.

Even if I haven’t published this yet. You will. YOU WILL, DAMN IT.

And that? Is grand.

I have bricks of furniture and walls.
Mortar mixed of paint and fabric.

I have foundations of nostalgia and desire.
Plumbing made of photographs and journals.

I’ve got wiring strung of taut muscles and dripping sweat.
Windows paned in age and eyelashes.

I have fancy hats and rolling pins.
Acres of books and whiskey.

There are more baskets than picnics we’ll ever take.
But at least one hanger per memory.

I have pens and pencils and markers to spare.
With lightness and being to float.

I’ve got spare rooms and bedrooms and enough room for you.
But Ms. Scarlett did it in the Conservatory.

With the rope.

I have baggage and sadness and sweetness to boot.
And boots and sandals and tears.

I have light down from fixtures of crystals and love.
Skeletons in closets of papier mâche.

The blades of my fans flex in the shrug of my shoulders.
With wind made of kisses and sugar and fear.

And then there’s my bed.