No. Not really. I have threadbare recollections of my 5th year on planet Earth. But I DO recall year 12, in North Vancouver, when my friends and me were ushered out of doors until at least dinner time. North Van’s geography includes Grouse Mountain. Grouse Mountain includes sprawling evergreens and giant-ass hills. We lived halfway to the summit on Montroyal Blvd. My friends Susanne and Jason Sumpton lived two steep blocks up and four over on Blueridge Rd. We all had fabulous backdrops for childhood. The bike ride or skateboard ride down to Hardy’s, the corner store, filled with scrumptious penny candies was magnificent! 80 degrees steep. The pedal home was treacherous, even then. Even for my young and healthy lungs. Yes, I was 12 that year and was the boastful and teary recipient of a second-hand bicycle. I loved it. Green and sparkly with a banana seat to boot! I rode the shit outta that bike. My brother and father taught me to ride. I rode to Jason and Susanne’s house a lot. One spring day, Susanne and I imagineered a grandiose-but tangible-plan.

The dirt coaster.

Susanne had a cool yard. It angled downward for half a block, sporadically laced with majestic evergreens and thick juniper bushes. But there was this one path, this one path that we saw clearly as the answer to our boredom. We both envisioned a theme park ride. (We’d both only ever been to one theme park in our lives-the PNE). A ride that would go super fast down the trail and eventually slow down into lovers lane. We both had crushes on boys just then, and perhaps this was the REAL purpose behind our plotting…

We had everything SO figured out. The size and shape of the cars that folks would ride in, the speed and thrill everyone would enjoy. We never even thought of charging for our ride, it was enough of a thrill for us to thrill us. And you.

We saw our vision metabolizing in real time and we never questioned whether or not this was a fantasy. It was real. It really was.

I suppose that’s why I can still be stirred to remember it. Even now. Even after a hundred lifetimes.

I still dream in dirt coasters. I sometimes believe I can make things happen just by my own sheer will. I still can see with pristine clarity, our vision for that fantastic ride.

Unfortunately, our dirt coaster never came to fruition. I think Susanne and Jason followed the straighter and narrow trail as I was called to travel down the nefarious path…

Ah, but such as this life. A dirt coaster at every twisty turn…

Who would’ve guessed that some dumb commercial could bring me back to the realism that I once believed in?

The dirt coaster.

I bet it would’ve been so freakin’ fantastic!

I catapulted myself as I can, and tend to do so easily, to that place of imagination. Lu and Vern never noticed a thing. I’m so good like that-living and acting and performing inside my own world.

The place of fiction and fantasy… Here I am! Over here! Read my stories, they’re very good and oh so heartfelt.

I then imagined the character from Ratatouille, in full diabolical form; Anton Ego (aka Peter O’Toole), grinning at me. He finds error in the very first sentence of my very first story. “I can find fault with the first word of your first sentence” says he with sly lips and pointy fingers and British drawl.

I had a physical and tangible reaction to my imaginings just then. I felt it. I felt doomed. I felt like shit.

I can’t write. Shit. I’m the laughing stock of cartoons for Christsakes! I got scared. I vowed then not to offer up my posts for Ego’s of any kind. I will never earn a living as a writer, despite my family’s best hopes. I’m too scared of everyone who’s better than me, smarter, and more delicate than me. My dream occupation exceeds my grasp-I’ll not ever be the female version of Anthony Bourdain. I’m just not that great. I just can’t swallow that knot in me that whispers sour and bitter nothings in my ear.

God, please don’t judge me for what I write down. It’s primitive, I know. But it’s always been what was good enough for my weak and faltering ego. It is always my heart and fast spinning mind that writeth before my fall.

Perhaps one day I’ll show up at your writer’s workshop. Perhaps I won’t even give a Ratatoulli’s ass if I’m the worst writer to ever grace your presence. Alas, that day isn’t today. I’m my own nemesis, my own Anton Ego. Sans pointy fingers and British verbiage but wealthy beyond measure with sly lips.

I’m still a whacky, mindless wreck at times whom acquires knots in her stomach just before doing the thing she loves most- eating with friends, cooking for family.

Food prevailed over knots last night, and my folks never knew the difference. I just smiled at them and internalized their adoration. They love me-words or not. There’s not a reason on Earth to subject them to my psychotic little fear…I’m folding up the Folio now, our plates arrive, just in my time.

I’m still gonna claim this as a victory.

I’m not gonna stop writing, fighting and talking. I have to. It’s in me. Whether I suck or not. It’s my mental diarrhea.

I write shit. But it’s my shit. Can’t I ever just be satisfied with that? Well? Can’t I?

Peace out for now.

Got a card today. Made me laugh. Made me sigh. Laugh-because you ‘get’ me. Sigh-because you’re there.

I ponder over October mornings, I swim fast inside October nights.

I DO miss you. I DO long for January to show her lovely face. Within her; yours.

Yes, I adore your winter hue. Your Ram-perature and cable knit pics.

I’ll make us warm, my darling. Promise.

I’m your comfy Snuggie, but you’re so much more to my weary bones.

January is a prayer to me now. A Christening, a wish.

Let’s find our tree. Let’s blow the effin’ roof off tradition, baby.

I’m going to cry on Christmas, just so you know. It’s gonna kill me to miss you- can’t even kiss you. God, what a sap I grew up to be.

BTW- Do you have the Timmex for me?

I need to hug you now.

There are bits and pieces and portions and parts of my life that I’ve not yet written down here on my “digital journal.” Years and months and ages of pages of me are omitted. No, not because of any lesser significance. Merely because I’m older now, more prone to the release of several measures of youth. Measures that I need to recall, but measures that goeth before my fall. I fell alot, y’all. And took prisoners along my descent. It’s just that I’m so far removed from that era, I forget so easily. I just don’t recognize that Dee anymore. But still-it behooves me to recall, if nothing more than a method by which to keep myself firmly planted in the garden of sense and rooted in the land of justice. Here we go kiddies…

Barb. 1995. What an eff-fest THAT was. I was a carbon-copy of a fiasco, those days.

Then came (anonymous). I saw her at the ball field and there/then was the beginning of my undoing. Schemed, planned, cavorted and manipulated my way to a first date. I tripped and fell into her without once looking ahead. Without ever looking back. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.

It’s been more than a decade since I’ve really put my mind to analysis about those days. But as I press and prod my brain to recall, it all comes readily back to my frontal lobe.

This is another one of those: ‘to be continued posts.’

Bummer. But I’m really weary this week.

I’m feeling beat down a bit and I very much miss my girl in Pa.

Nevertheless, I’ll continue this story. Probably tomorrow, since I have an entire glorious day to enjoy football and my narcissistic self. I have much to say on this very topic. No, silly. Not narcissism, Deeiscoolism!

See y’all then.

Ok, so I didn’t quite fit myself or my words into the aforementioned timetable. I must have needed to sleep because I missed a couple of other engagements too. Oh well. C’est la vie. The story WILL get told. (Without any persuasion from any peanut gallery attendees, either. Ahem!) No worries, I don’t often look backward with disdain. Only “aha” moments and life lessons. Except for that one time during a thunderstorm…

So this woman appears. Out of my nowhere, out of this blue. She leaves me a message, leaves her feet marks, even. Does she forget how much I remember? Just how long ago and far away we were? She does not even know me now, yet feels the sanctimonious justification to bark out a solemn diatribe toward my oblivion.

Duck this, dodge that. Preach this, type that. Tell me, Grasshopper: What would the MASTER have me do? ‘Tis MY blog, these, MY thoughts. ‘Tis my seen and unseen narcissism. Leave it. Take it. But don’t fucking judge it. You really haven’t looked at this lightening bolt lately.

Perhaps; “Loveiscool” will be the calling card for your own blog-ful journey?

I remember the poetry, I recall the twisting turns. I remember the maelstrom of chaos, the artful, passionate spurns.

I left it behind, I left it for good. Manage your own lightening bolts, baby. But don’t blame me for your burns…All history does not go down in the book of greatness, my ****-bearing, darling.

Some things, are the kinder left unwritten.

But really…

What WOULD happen if?

What would happen if those dastardly Dee-maker’s never had left me? What would happen if folks never lied straight in my face? What would happen if you said what you felt? What would happen if you shoved a blue crayon up your nose? What would happen if JFK woulda ducked lower? What would happen if I wore a Vera Wang gown and I had a wedding day with you in it? What would happen if I just totally said Vera Wang when I’ve really no idea what that means? What would happen if Lolita scrunched her legs up underneath her and made me think she’s dying? What would happen if the girl who said she needs to; “just get herself well” really just needs to ask herself what would happen if that happened? What would happen if I said I loved you?

Nothing, you idiot. Because I’d never fucking say that in a blog…

I’d be brave enough to make you feel it, know it and get it. I’d mush your face in it like a Wisconsin snowball fight during the first shivers of winter.

Hey you! Can you hear me now when I ask your opinion in my educated and adult state? Can you undo your prejudice long enough to get me?

Nope, didn’t think so. But it’s okay. I have my own resources now. People/places/books and life tools with whom I treasure, people who try to find the answers to what would happen when I ask. No matter how juvenille and foolish they secretly think I am.

I always and ever want to know what would happen. That’s just me. Someone snuck an almanac into my petrie dish. I used the dictionary and encylopedia as floatation devices to swim upstream.

What would happen if I said I just don’t give a fuck anymore?

Would you still try to prove me wrong?

 Promise.

 It’s smooth sailing from here on out…tick tock, time is a gift.

I have another friend. A friend who spent an entire vacay day lugging me around to various points of disinterest.

I like my friend. Even though she spills her coffee and acts all nervous and drives a truck bigger than my ego…bigger than life.

I like her cow lick. I like her hands and her smile on me. I hate that I couldn’t be a better host. That’s really not me. Not how I roll.

It’s nice though, despite all protests from my immediate peanut gallery, to hear someone, see someone and feel someone. Someone who actually LIKES me.

“WTF? Likes you? Seriously? Are you kidding, Deedle? Someone actually ‘likes’ you? Geez. (Deep and forlorn sigh). You mean you’re worthy of such enrichment? Yes, yes, I know. I realize that for years I’ve been lecturing you about the ifs ands or buts and the ups and downs and the there and back agains of lonliness and solitude and downright wrongness of ’single-ness’. But I really wasn’t prepared for you to listen! …”

Your ridiculous cacauphony of stupidity is resonating now. In my cavernous ears I’m ignoring you…

Y’all bitch and moan over my years of isolation. You moan and bitch over my recent acquisition. I’ve acquired nothing, you fools. Nothing at all.

I got to have a nice day. Nothing more. I just got to have a nice fucking day. You won’t have to search your mailboxes for the wedding invitation. No need to go off in search of the registrar at Bed Bath and Buttholes, either. A nice day. You get that? A nice goddamned day.

A kind person was generous and loving and open to me. Brought me 10 Yankee hats, even.

Get the fuck off. Get off my case. Because you know there ain’t no pleasing you. And I won’t even lift a finger to try anymore.

If you think you’re losing me, in whatever capacity you might perceive, you’re not. You never were, you never have, you never will.

I’m just asking that you, for once, feel happy for me.

I have a friend in Pennsylvania. And if you play your cards right, you will too.

Enough already, y’all. Really. Enough.

I had a good day. That’s good enough for me.

I went because it was important to my family. Important then, obviously, to me. I watched Lu and Vern walk down that same aisle, same church, years ago. But this felt different to me somehow. Why?

Perhaps because the groom and bride were closer to me in age? Was it because I sat alone-as I have so many times before-in that looooong wooden pew? I bet it really had more to do with a certain “grill” of a girl, I’ve been up in these days. The one who lives away…away from here. I felt the lonely in me last night. I truly did. It felt ouchy, even.

I didn’t plan for it, really. I never do. But we shook hands just then, and…well…it began.

I feel whacked out and crazy of late. Don’t ask me why. I prefer the quiet and steady calm control of my lazy days. Since years ago, many many years ago. I gave up on the Disney fantasy that forces its bullshit into our brains and the brains of our children about ‘true love.’

“ No, my dear. Snow White is just not effin’ real. Build a bridge…and get over it.”

For me, it’s about trust. If I trust you, we’re good. You got me. We’re on. On like Donkey Kong. But when you lie? It’s off. But that’s just me, it’s how I roll. Can’t seem to help it. Not that I’ve ever really tried. Never cared if it wasn’t cool with you, (just as effed up as why I don’t date smokers or kiss girls who are drunk) I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense. Good for you if you know I’m a hippocrite…

I guess I have to admit that when I start out in bullshit, I can only hope to end up wiping myself clean. I’m really NOT the moral litmus test for your life. I never gave a shit about your husband, wife or partner. Only cared about myself in its midst…

…Until today. But only because it takes away my perception of control. Yes, I realize that control is an illusion, Dr. Freud! Nevertheless…

…did I mention that I hate girls? Just stay away from me please. I’m good, I’m fine.  Fine without you, really. I have my dog and my friends and my family to hug. Oh, and I almost forgot about my bug to lug. Lolita is easy, unlike you. She needs what she needs, plain and simple. She never dresses up in fancy shoes or pleated pants. She doesn’t ever doubt me or ask if I’m true.

Unlike so many of you…

Please just leave me alone. I’m fine. I’m good. Really. Was good and fine until September…

Let’s unshake and leave it at that.

I fancied myself willing, but really I’m not that interested…

Life, so low, is just where I wanna live.

(The risk outweighs the reward) And that’s just fine with me.