Thankfully, the little work I do is considered essential. So at least I have a place to be now and again.
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Posted by myfinalheaven on 01 March 2017 - 06:40 PM
I've had a drink with Christian(Myfinalheaven) and aside from both our awkwardness auras colliding at times(and admittedly, my needless heckling of his living room setup. Seriously though, why that lamp?) it was pretty okay. I think. Shit, what if it wasn't. [anxiety font]
It went okay, Fred. I promise. It was good to see you and get wasted with you. (a drink?)
Posted by myfinalheaven on 23 January 2017 - 04:57 PM
I would buy no one, good sir. I merely sing praises of beauty through acrylic conduits. Alternatively, I'm like an art school nerd version of Daario Naharis, I draw for beauty. Derfio Naharis. Yeah. YEAH!
Is that a thing people still do, though? Can one buy another? Will anyone ever buy me? Tell me the things of the world out there, Christian.
Posted by myfinalheaven on 23 December 2016 - 04:58 AM
Christmas is weird this year, GTU (that's the acronym and fuck you). I haven't really noticed its approach. The past two months have been a straight up blur of work, the best hashish out of BC and wine. I'm supposed to give gifts to my family in a couple of days and be presentable but I keep tripping over the wine bottles that sit under the keyboard. She always pushed me to clean the place, you see, and without her it's a mess sometimes.
I've started drinking a lot more. My discount at this job is astounding (the mark-up on wine in Canada is criminal) and recently it's straight up free from my manager. I've always been fonder of the cannabinoids but free booze is free booze, right? I think I understand what my father found so addictive. Enjoyable, sure, but nothing like my dear sweet ganja. Don't let me down, Justin. I'll stand on guard for you, bro.
I've been doing more music - we're all dedicated guitarists, right? My job allows me to sing to myself in downtime and I've started really developing my ear and voice. Music is awesome. For anyone who has advanced their knowledge of theory by themselves - how did you do it? Can you recommend be a book or method? The ex left her keyboard behind and it's such a useful tool to have on hand. It's odd - she was a wonderful pianist but she always treated it like it was something forgotten. I never had a musical connection with her, despite my efforts.
And seriously - if you're ever in my neck of the woods and need some booze on a particularly popular and busy street, just give me your I.D. when I ask for it. It's my job and I swear I'm not racist or anything, I'm just trying to prevent theft. I've developed this relationship with the homeless through this job, its interesting. I thought they'd be the problem when I started but I'd rather deal with a poor man than an entitled gas executive, you pompous piece of shit. I don't care if you drive a fancy car, that doesn't mean shit with me - give my your ID so people don't call me racist. Anyway.
It's strange to realize that your job is reenacting your childhood. I have experience protecting people from angry and violent drunks, you see. It's even more emotionally satisfying when they have the same wanderlust and deep seated need for male kindness as my baby sister, god damnit. Therapy doesn't disappear your wounds, it just teaches you to bandage them.
I have spent time talking to a former drug runner (so he claims) in a wheel chair. He begs outside the store sometimes. His name is Billy. He rolls up to the automatic door one day and cries out to me "I'm not retarded!". The affluent customers treat him horribly. The few tooth he has are rotting, his face is etched with wrinkles and he usually has various wounds about his face but all he wants is someone to look him in the eye and talk to him. They're a clear crystal blue and rather pretty, to be honest. I don't ever wanna be homeless, guys. It's a social death.
There's this street artist who scratches the paint off the back of mirrors to generate this gnarly negative image art and sells them in front of my store. It's cool but I get some customers who act like they'll give them AIDS if he breathes on them. The homeless are people too, y'know. Anyway, this guy have me my first Christmas card of the year that'd he hand drawn in half decent calligraphy - it hit me hard when he gave it to me. Christmas feels so small and insignificant this year, guys. She was the one who put up the fake tree my mother gave me, she was the one who decorated. Christmas meant so much to her, and that was one of the things that inspired my love for her. To see her slave over 30+ handmade Christmas cards was inspiring. She didn't want anyone to think she'd forgotten them but she always spent longest on mine.
That was one of the things that I always enjoyed about being the man she loved. Regardless of the nature of the event or holiday, I'd get a handmade card from her. It was never rote or formulaic - each one contained genuine emotion and intent. She had her own stamp and would seal each letter with wax - an "R" as her signature. I haven't thrown them out. I don't know how I'll react when she gives me one at my mother's. She'll make sure it as the same as everyone else's, as mundane as possible. I'll still keep it in my wallet.
She moved out in November. I broke up with her in March. It was weird - we didn't speak for about a month until we slowly emerged from our anger and just became roommates and friends. I miss having nightly dinners with her over an episode of QI. I became used to the ease of an emotional exchange with someone you've spent years experiencing. That's hard to let go of. I broke it off, I'd do it again, but fuck it hurts. She'll be at my family thing on Christmas because where else is she going to go and I have siblings to spare - she can have a couple of them. I certainly wouldn't be cool with her going to her fathers, the piece of shit that he is. I'm not not looking forward to it but sometimes I just like to let a wound sit, you know? I'm pushing that rock, friends, but sometimes I fucking hate being Sisyphus.
She left the place to me. My foam mattress was soaking up mold from the shitty carpet in the spare room I occupied so I moved out into the space she left. My mattress sits in the corner and my computer and chair sit in the place she slept in. I miss the cat, you know? She was a bit ornery but she'd accepted me as the male of the house. I even got a cuddle once or twice and she'd let me pick her up, as long as I was warm enough.
I miss her pear shape, y'all (woman, not the cat). Her lush hips and ass bloom from her impossibly small waist and in the resulting sexual frenzy and aggression there was an unexpected mutual emotional satisfaction - it took years for her to use the safeword. The snuggliest, softest Small Spoon nature ever birthed, my friends. A handful emotionally, but more put together than I. Her mind is quick, feisty and will call always out a bad argument or stupid statement. I will ever count her my friend and confidant. But fuck, the negative space she left behind in this apartment just sucks the air of the place sometimes. It echoes more than it used to - those blanket curtains she put up for her "room" absorbed a lot of sound. I miss you, R. Life is less vibrant without you.
And so this is my early "fuck you" to 2016. I had to jettison the most significant relationship I've ever had and America committed suicide. I would have died for your sin, my southernly brothers and sisters. Are you out there, Major? I'm straight up worried about your mental state, bro. And yours, Fred. I'm always worried about you. I'm sorry, Sean. Are you out there, can you hear this?
Anyway, I hope 2017 is an upswing for us all. I will roll my heart up. This is a general Christian beacon of snugliness going out. Peace.
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