I'm just a little black rain cloud.

A list of random things that have made me cry about my father's death (months later):

• A Glidden paint store hat
• The selling of his Barracuda
• The new Star Trek trailer
• American Pickers
• Adopting Vera
• A sunset
• Little Debbie Cakes (Oatmeal Pies = His favorite)
• Painting Mom's living room
• Having paint-speckled forearms after painting at Mom's
• Resaving his last voice mail on my phone
• Coffee
• My apartment
• Father's Day 2013
• The thought of having children
• Chipping a piece off of my bookcase that he'd painted for me while I was moving it
• Recommending his chiropractor, who was his best friend, to a friend
• His work building full of tools and boxes
• Grilling hamburgers
• My wedding anniversary
• Hugging my father-in-law
• Seeing a bunny hop across Mom's lawn
• Removing him from my emergency contacts on my work profile
• The photo I had set for his contact photo in my phone showing up when Mom called me because she'd changed her profile photo on Facebook.
• Driving his truck to the shop to be worked on
• Ensure
• Not remembering the last time I bought a battery for my car
• The first warm day of the year

...and, for some reason, today. Just because.

Gray

Hello, lovelies.

Pardon my absence. I've had some rather gray days the past couple of weeks...

...but I'm sure that my colors will come back soon. 

Love.

a plausible finish

there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
or you're tired of getting drunk
and the grass doesn't work anymore,
and I don't mean to go
to hash or cocaine,
I mean a place to go besides
the death that's waiting
or to a love that doesn't work
anymore.

there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
besides to a tv set or to a movie
or to buy a newspaper
or to read a novel.

it's not having that place to go to
that creates the people now in madhouses
and the suicides.

I suppose what most people do
when there isn't any place to go
is to go to some place or something
that hardly satisfies them,
and this ritual tends to sandpaper them
down to where they can somehow continue even
without hope.

 those faces you see every day on the streets
were not created
entirely without
hope: be kind to them;
like you
they have not
escaped.

Charles Bukowski