Shmanielle, Part I and the Cunning Fennec Fox

8 September 2013

Hello Patient Readers...

      Terribly sorry I haven't been keeping up on my blog as well as I have wanted to.

      What are your thoughts on the poems?  Like all poems, I fear that these two mean more to the poet than they do to anyone else... and I suspect this is true of all poetry.  At any rate, I do hope that you obtained something from them, even if it's simply a better understanding of me and my terrible mind.

      I have been busy as of late.

      Several things have occurred over the last few days, several points herein that I will attempt to make.  This first post, dated by me as 8 September, was written before I had the whole story, so bear with my ramblings, please. I am trying to keep things chronological, as this to me is the best way to conduct narrative.  Another posting that will completing part two of the telling of this event will follow shortly. 

     Shall I continue?  Are you ready?  Splendid! 

 

      There is a woman that goes to the same meetings I do... we'll call her “Shmanielle.”  Anyway, Shmanielle got my number from the Phone Tree- now those of you who are not in sobriety or happen to not be a Soccer Mom, a Phone Tree is a list of people in your group and their, well, telephone numbers.  This is how Shmanielle had my number.

      So she texts me on Thursday, Thursday last, the 5^th, I believe it was, and commented on the thunder that accompanied one of the rare thunderstorms we get here in the Pac Northwest, one of which was transpiring right at that moment.  Then she asked me if I was going to watch the game (Broncos vs. Ravens).

      The sound of rain and thunder peace me right on out, so I had dozed off as these texts arrived on my phone.  Some time later I responded to these texts by telling her just that: I had fallen asleep.  “Too bad I wasn't there...” was her reply.

      Now, I can flirt along with the best of them, and I was undaunted.  “Well,” text-ed I, “I doubt that I would have gotten much sleep if you were here...”

      Long story short, we flirted some more, and she invited me over to “watch the game.”  Now, I have roommates and she has roommates and neither one of us had the ability to host any games, so we “rain-checked” - get it? Ha Ha, planning a more thought-out get-together for some time later in the weekend.

      Then there's a text on my phone early Saturday AM (12:02): “Hey whenever U get this text me OK?”

      I text-ed her back a few hours later, as asked, and still to this moment have yet to hear back.  The only thing I can think of is she must have heard about my Dangerous Past and decided it wasn't worth looking into, this rehabilitated, healing Me...

      No problem, just another wasted weekend.  I need no one's validation to define me.  No one's faith in me (or lack thereof) will ever make me stray from my new becoming. Remember, I used to help heal the world, and I can do it again.  That broken, fucked-up me is dead and buried.   I am, as I have stated before, not the worst thing I have ever done.