Strange night. I dare not turn on the television, even though I will. I know me.
Glitchy. Off kilter. Sideways.
Am I the only one? Can you feel it too?
Somewhere between Bryan Adams and Peter Frampton on the playlist. May the clouds I offer bring rain in the coming days. Could that be it? Did she forget how to make clouds? Hell, I AM a Cloud. So strange, but not in a bad way.
I wanted me and the wife to hyphenate our last names when we got married, because it was more about a union than ownership. The aliens are never going to talk to us (I don’t care what Dr. Phil says) if we can’t see past our primitive beliefs; whichever one you claim.
I guess I get it. Some women are so in love that they can’t wait to take a man’s last name. That’s cool, if you’re into that sort of thing. Three chicks did it with me once upon a time. Sam and I are different.
Most rebellious couples cosplay as Bonnie and Clyde. We’re more like Master Blaster from Mad Max. Three seconds; break neck. She points, I devour; as it should be. Hulk smash, and all that jazz. Anyway, Cloud-Miller seemed more like a joining rather than a merge. The more peaceful sounding of the two.
It’s who we are. I fought myself tooth and nail for five years saying it wasn’t so, but here we sit. Together at seven years of marriage. My first lasted a year. My second? Six years. My third? Six years. All three of them were full of fights, break ups, separations, affairs, etc. Sam is lucky number four. You claim there is no such thing, but I say poop upon you, kind sir.
I killed that guy when I changed my name. Horrible person. Brilliant writer, but just unpleasant to deal with on several levels. It was fun. Oh, yeah; fun as hell a time or three, but overall unpleasant. Would not recommend. Two stars out of five on a good day.
Seven years. This time, I was the problem child. Writing clique drama, book convention parties, sloppy drunk podcasts (before sobriety), the whole Six Flags/Starving Zoe fiasco. I strangled that fucking writing career with my bare goddamn hands, and cried the whole time. I did that shit to myself. I was riding high with an agent and everything, and I drank it away. Starving Zoe shall live in infamy, though. There’s that.
The world will be a wasteland after the apocalypse, and that book will just be blowing in the breeze down a random street; unscathed.
I asked Sam the other night if she was in any way disappointed in how things turned out. With my writing career, I mean. She got on the elevator mid-way, so she saw the high-water mark (chef’s kiss). She also saw me, the person, at my absolute lowest. It was the climb that attracted her, I think. Thrusting my nails into the splintered wood as I ascended the proverbial barrel; leaving behind the depths from which I wallowed a bit. It looks sexy when you put it in writing.
Regardless, I was professionally someone else when we began dating, and I was certain there were expectations within the relationship as the natural progression of one’s career may take in any of the artistic fields.
My writing career was co-dependent of my alcoholism. As I endured sobriety, I wanted to spend less time pumping out books and attending cons, and more time with my family. When it all finally poofed, like the fresh fart it was, I turned in slow-motion, dropped a match, and watched it burn in the reflection of my sunglasses.
I mean, I’m lying. I’m writing shit now. I don’t know where it’ll take me, if I’ll offer it to a publisher, or if I’ll seek out a new clique to strongly dislike within a year or two. The UFO people are already fighting. Imaginary drama. Social media clowns.
Or maybe I’ll just trap myself in this corner, getting old and crusty, like one of the great minds from time’s past, pecking out life’s final thoughts upon this unforgiving keyboard.
These conundrums were so much easier to navigate when they were soaked in sauce, but I’ll endure the added difficulty. I have a Sam, you see. Seven year Sam, unless my timer runneth out in the next couple of weeks.
The key to a successful marriage in a social media world? Complete and total isolation. Or, from their point of view, “Uh, yeah. They’re the weird couple, and maybe we shouldn’t hang out with them anymore. Did you see the rubber chicken nailed to the pentagram above their front door? What was that?”
No shame. None.
To most, 1865 was an eye-opening year. The American Civil War was officially over and the soldiers fortunate enough to survive the bloody conflict returned home to collect the pieces of their former lives. To young Arizonan, Robert Jack, the fateful desert homecoming marked the end to all he once knew. Forgiveness is overrated. Death is final. Revenge, however, dances between the fine lines of mortality and eternity. Love always finds a way.
Goodnight, lovelies…
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