It's three in the morning, and what better time than this to realize that I'm such a xanga asshole. I log on constantly and curse you all for not leaving substantial blogs, and then i tinker away without leaving one my own self.
you know, a redhead like me really wasn't constructed for heat like this, but i'm proud to say that im sweating myself into a more comfortable tolerance level. it comes from working in the fields, i suppose.
last week i would reach a point around eleven or so in the morning where there was actually just no possible way i could be any hotter, or sweatier, dirtier or more red in the face, and after i conquered that plateau of pain i was alright, and it actually became a good thing.
and im getting SO tanned which also never happens to those of us on team pasty, those of us who hail genetically from cold scottish moors, etc etc. but here i am, past the point of burning now, with such bronzed arms that mouths have been dropping where ever i go.
even though i love love love working in the fields, with my fingers knuckle deep in soil, tilling weeds, filling wheelbarrows with flats of bright perennials, and driving that lovely big white van around the country side with my straw hat and aviator's on, this summer is a strange one.
the same thing happened at christmas, and each month on the anniversary of his death this year. i have been overwhelmed by sadness at my dad's death, and i didn't expect it. at christmas i plowed into those sentimental, cinammonny days like a goddamned cocky asshole who wasn't going to feel any differently just because of what day it was, and i fell all apart.
and now here i am, unravelling again.
but the difference is that i kind of know the game a little bit more now. i used to panic when my edges started to fray and unwind and the more i came undone the more panicky i got that i wouldn't be able to sew myself up again and repair the damage.
now i know that this is a game of two steps forward, one step back. the process of grief is not a straight journey down a straight road, but rather a walk through a carnival fun house and sometimes it seems as though i have ended up where i was before, but that is an illusion.
even if things feel the same, i am still, always, moving forward, and there is a lot of comfort in that. | 
