I actually did put whiskey in the lemonade.

Boston, then a pool of blood, made me hate my city. There's something in the air that feels rotten lately.
Martinis, then a chilly conversation, gave me a lot of hope. Hope for much, much more than all this. A three-dimensional existence. This existence is more, believe it or not, than quoting. I quote less and less these days; I write more and more these days. (That said, I will assert that everyone who cares about words should listen to the Mountain Goats. John Darnielle makes sweet, sweet love to language every time he opens his mouth. I don't care what anyone else says.)
I want to be quieter. I want to speak with a manner in which only my bottom lip moves toward, then away from, my front teeth. Also, when I'm seriously making a point, my nose would bend slightly towards my mouth. I would bite my lower lip when nervous. I wish I could speak like that, but I can barely use the language anymore. Despite shortcomings like that, I'm a sweet girl; I should really be nicer to me. I'm always blaming myself for things! It's true because I am always apologizing. "Sorry", it turns out, is my default word. I use it to mean all kinds of things. I say "sorry" when I mean "excuse me" or when I am embarrassed or angry. Mostly, however, when I say "sorry" I mean "I love you." See, in the event of regret, I regret deeply. I've never not regretted being in love. I am terrified at the potential of my own love. I am also terrified of dying. But I am dying. And I am terrified. I am, therefore, dying terrified. (Whether or not I would rather, I will not live forever.) I can't get comfortable or I might die and not notice.

This is a song. It might be called "Carbon Monoxide"...

I woke up to sunshine
And I thought about gas jets
I thought about carbon monoxide
I wondered that I'm not dead yet
I wondered that I'm not dead yet

I stirred 'cause you were beside me
And I thought about cars in garages
I thought about discovery
All kinds of ways to fall asleep
All kinds of ways to fall asleep
I put whiskey in the lemonade
Hoping that you'd stay
I played Death Cab For Cutie
So we could sing our pain away
But you don't like that song
You don't like that song, do you?
You don't like that song
You don't like that song anymore, do you?

I fell asleep at two-fifteen
After telling you to think about it
But we had bad, bad dreams
They were all about our old life
They were all about our old life

I woke up at six
And the streetcars sounded like horses
It's been a long time since
I've been out of this city
I can't remember real horses

I put on Death Cab For Cutie
Hoping we could sing away
There's whiskey in the lemonade
Have a drink; will you stay?
But you don't like the taste
You don't like the taste, do you?You don't like the taste
You don't like the taste anymore, do you?

There's whiskey in the lemonade
But you don't like the taste
No, you don't like the taste

"What did you do out there. . .

. . .what did you decide?
You said you needed time,
You had time."

I left Ypsilanti when it smelled like old gym lockers. That happens when it rains.
Trembling in my Ford Escort, I discovered how Noah probably felt during those forty days. (Later, I imagined I could commiserate with Moses in his journey to find the Promised Land. Why one city needs so many overlapping highways is beyond my comprehension.)

There was not nearly enough Mondrian at the Warhol museum, however, an exhibit I nearly overlooked proved to have the highlight of the excursion.
I discovered a cafe - not that it was in any way hidden - where smoking is allowed, regulars are kind, the internet is free, and the coffee doesn't suck completely. On the other hand, there were far too many of young people with silly faces, compensating for their self-perceived lack of social prestige with loud squeals and cigarettes, and a left-wing pretentiousness in the decor.

I acquired new lipstick and a pair of plastic earrings, growing nervousness about the state of my car, perspective on my own town. Perspective especially regarding the quality of coffee, the ease of navigation, and a place to call home, whether in the smiles of my friends, patterns in nightlife, or a small apartment on Hamilton.

I would be lying if I said I didn't think of you all the entire time.
I only do things when I am ready; I will be ready to be home next time you see me, thus, very happy to see you.

Because, you know, when I said "I'll take it," I meant as is.

"You can't hide behind social graces,
So don't try to be all touchy-feely..."

Really. I don't have any illusions about anyone.
Among our redeeming qualities - admit it - we're mostly trifling assholes.
At least you, and I, are in good company.

It was discussed, recently, the manner in which one may learn from discussing things with, and listening to various people. I have thus decided that in my dealings with people who tell me stories, tell me various interpretations, exaggerations, or reiterations of happenings, I have learned, consistently, about behavioral patterns. Patterns in which to behave, and in which to never to behave.
On the other hand - and to keep myself from sounding overly critical and obtuse - I can only assume that there are people learning the same thing from me.

I only hope you realize how much you can learn.

Carry on, my wayward [Ypsilantaholic] sons.


("...Those people who smile too much, watch their eyes,
I only know 'cause I'm like that sometimes...")