stories, we've all got em'.

I like how every person has a story.

And how when you were in first grade, and you still wore Mary Janes with white ruffle socks, and you stared at that Vietnam veteran with only one arm. Your mom told you not to stare and later she might explain that you don't judge a book by it's cover. At least my mom did. At least she did when I wore white ruffle socks.

Then later I learned that that man had a best friend, and he lost his arm saving someone he loved. He didn't seem so scary after that.

My sister has a story...it kinda looks like mine did. She and her husband and their little baby are staying with us. It hurts to read a story about someone else when they're so close to you. I hate waking up at night and hearing them fight...it reminds me of our old fights.
So I spend my nights sweating, cuddling close to the Musician.
Just stop reading.
But you can't when it's true life.

Men, sometimes are such animals.
I know us women can be bitches...but the fact that some men make women hurt and cry so badly at times makes me wish I were a lesbian. Okay...maybe that is extreme and a lesbian lover could make me hurt and cry like men have...but still, my point is, I hate it that my sister's husband hurts her. ...and sometimes men look like poison kool-aid.

Today, I woke up super early...like 6am. hehe. And I drove the Musician to work. It was still dark out. We held hands in the cold, and kissed with warm lips and chilly nose tips. Then I drove home alone listening to Regina Spektor sing about how I belong arm in arm with my Musician. I watched the sun rise as I drove into my driveway. Then I saw Trav next door picking up his newspaper wearing just his robe. I smiled a goofy smile and went inside my house not saying anything.

I feel rusty at this.