Chasing White

Monday morning, and the heat's blowing. I'm drinking cold water. Awake for hours now. Baby Girl woke me up at One-Forty, screaming, crying. Why? I don't know. She hasn't been sleeping well. It's always too hot here, or too cold. I dress in her warm jammies, but then the heat blows, and with blankets, sheets, it's far too much. So I don't run the heat and she gets cold. I can't win. Couldn't fall back asleep. Laid in bed. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts on my lack of writing these past few days. How I've barely been online at all. Only once since Thursday, but I was drunk. Insanely drunk...

For the last time, I swear.

No drinking for NaNoWriMo.

I've settled on a title:

Noah, by A. B. Chairiet

I hope it will be publishable.

Tis my goal, Love. My big goal, like an illuminated bulls-eye, swinging and swaying on the end of a string.

I want to shoot it in its center.

Catch the white rabbit. Join him for tea. And not be beheaded by the evil queen otherwise known as writer's block, giving up, getting stuck on chapter three...

I aim. But how do I shoot the center when the circle swings and sways?

There's so much to do beforehand. So many loose ends to tie, and friends to say hello to. No goodbyes, though. I'm not leaving. I couldn't bear the loneliness now...It's getting so cold, so quiet. The hum of the fan and the lull of the heat. The sound. The warmth. I need this and you and friends.

I've been so busy in reality.

Spent the weekend with Baby Girl. Cooking, cleaning.

We went to a party on Saturday. No slipping down embankments. No happy families making me jealous, or sad. I sat in the floor of a tiny living room with lots of loud mouth fat-ass women and quiet redneck men. Obnoxious children. A baby who just turned one years old. Cake. Ice Cream. No thank you, I don't want any, and the fat women give me dirty looks.

When you get older, one says, You'll realize it doesn't matter.

And they all laugh.

I don't care how old I am, being fat and unhealthy is never wise, and when she's on her deathbed at thirty five having a triple bi-pass, maybe she'll think twice about giant slabs of cake with ice cream and cookies and Coke, and casting dirty looks, rolling her eyes, and mispronouncing my daughter's name...

Oh, she said, upon my correcting her.

That must be a family name.

No it's not a family name. It's just a God Damn Name! Now eat your puckin' cake and tell your obnoxious little monster children to shut the puck up! They’re so shrill, my head's aching.

I hate parties. I hate stupid cake and stupid people and stupid families that are boring and obnoxious and I'd rather stay home with Baby Girl and be quiet and lonely than go amongst people who are loud and ordinary.

I love when my dreams come true in a way that corrects my prior thinking.

I only hope the bulls-eye isn't really swinging or swaying.

I hope the white rabbit's in reach.