First of all: I got the footie pajamas at Target last year. I don't know if they still have some, but that's where you should start the hunt. :)~
So... I had a really great TMI Thursday for today. Such a good one, in fact, that it involved pictures. And I'm really sad to report that I cannot post my TMI entry because I'm a giant douche and left my camera cord connected to my Mom's computer when I left Denver today. CRAP.
So, just consider the title today to be a long range teaser for next week's TMI Thursday. If you're in the groovy mood for some horribly funny TMI stories, be sure to click on the button for LiLu's blog.
What I WILL give you in its place is more of a personal TMI Thursday, and not quite so funny. In reality I lived through my own personal TMI Tuesday this week, and it was absolutely ridiculous. I can't go into details, but it involved my drinking an entire bottle of wine, plus two beers and another glass and a half of wine. I remember why I don't drink like that anymore... I felt like I was going to die Wednesday morning, both from the pure amount of humiliation I went through the night before in my willingness to tell every last secret I freakin' have when I'm drinking, and also from the hangoverfromhell. I actually kind of felt like I might crap my pants. I sort of wanted it to happen just so I'd have a good story for you all, but I honestly don't love you guys that much.
You all know I've been doing NaNoWriMo, and I promised you a snippet of the book. Those of you who are on NaNoWriMo as my buddy might have already read the excerpt on my profile. What I'm sharing here is a different piece (actually just the first part of the first chapter) and it's totally my favorite. I have read and re read this about thirty times, and I'm really happy with it. I hope you enjoy. The emotional shit storm I'm in so far this month had better be worth it. I've cried more and felt sicker than I thought possible. Writing is a bitch.
Excerpt: The Panderings of a Compulsive Obsessor
Nobody knows, but I still stalk the old place I first met him. The perfect time for my neurotic haunting is always around 3am, when the silence of midnight consumes me and I can’t shut out the sound of myself. My heart starts to murmur the quiet ticking of our times together and I begin to itch for more pain. I want to feel it fully. I want to own it deep inside my muscle fibers and push it out through my pores. I want it to make me sick, so I drive to the place where it all began.
It’s the same every time. I park my Dad’s truck outside the church, and I can’t get out for a few minutes. I stare out through the windshield and remember my life ten years ago. I slip into character actor methods, except I’m doing it to become me, then. I shrink back to my seventeen year old self and swathe in insecurity, anger, confusion, naivety and boredom. I feel deliriously nauseous each time, and it’s twisted. Delicious. It takes a while, but eventually I drag myself out of the buttoned up cab of the truck, and into the blanketed pin drop of night. The sound of my shoes on the gravel in the parking lot is so loud I startle myself. I’m always nervous that someone will see me there, catch me being a freak in the middle of the night and ask what the hell I’m doing lurking on church property. Or, I think the Pastor will come out and ask if I’m okay, if I need someone to talk to. I wouldn’t know how to answer that question, but I’d probably lie. He wouldn’t be interested in hearing my crap, and he most certainly couldn’t help me anyway.
Sitting on the high-backed wooden bench on the entry patio, I looked up. Thinking about it now, it’s strange enough that I looked up at all, because seeing folks shuffling in and out through the unbecoming mahogany doors was pretty standard for a typical youth group evening. And yet there he was. A wind of intrigue blew over me. Guy was gorgeous. He was sheepish, boyish, radiant, trendy. Fucking adorable. His thick black hair was spiked and added at least four or five inches to his medium height. His jeans were split at the seams just high enough to fit over his combat boots. Purely based on his appearance he seemed haughty, rebellious and indifferent. I wasn’t quite sure what to think because he was best friends with my high school crush, a person who I could have gleefully watched go face first through a meat grinder. Despite that, I was sure Guy had to be better than his choice of friends. There was just something about him I could not resist. I felt the obsession begin. The small pang inside my chest quickened my breathing. My eyes darted. The fidgets began and I couldn’t sit still. Where did he go? Must follow. Black shirt. Black hair. And soon, the warbling of: Find him now find him now get him gorgeous stranger mine he’ll be mine he’s mine. I’d hear it for ten years, and though the words changed, the deranged droning never wavered.
And there it is. Every time I go there, I relive that tiny, nothing moment. That six seconds. Those three steps. The fleeting swinging of giant doors. It changed my life forever.