We're up. Still. By "we" I mean M—, E— and myself. We're on our own this weekend, and it's been pretty chill. I left them to their video games and tumblr accounts for a couple of hours and explored the East Canyon, (for all the time I spend in solitude you'd wonder why I ever think this is an issue) then came back and took them to one of my favorite restaurants on Center St. for dinner. Much vegetarian fare; it helps when feeding E—. Then we motored up to Barnes & Noble for Housekeeping for me, a new sketchbook for M—, and CDs, Arcade Fire for E— and two for myself, both film scores, of course.
So here we are, listening to Alexandre Desplat's Moonrise Kingdom and if I'm feeling really adventurous we'll break open Hans Zimmer's Rise of the Dark Knight when that's over.
What am I waiting for? Why do I insist on telling myself there's anything to figure out?
You are 38. You've been married three times. You can't keep a relationship together, or perhaps more fairly, you couldn't choose a decent man if you had the chance. You are mentally ill and no amount of claiming "I'm stable" is going to change that. It's a lifetime thing, hun. So yes, you're smart as sin. You could pull off 28 if need be. You can be a real dazzler. But you're a scalding mess, babe.
Hold on to these babies while they're around, while they like you. Because once they've flown the coop, you WILL be alone. And it's going to be that way for a long, long time. Cry it out now, because I will not put up with your wussy namby-pamby weakling wantingness. It's unbecoming. And while you may be an emotional basket case of relationship wreckage, unbecoming YOU ARE NOT!
Now that all that's straightened out, go read a few more passages from Tao Te Ching and go to sleep.