smoke & mirrors (vulpinegrrrl) wrote,
smoke & mirrors

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I'll type until this glass is empty...

It was good to go home for Christmas. Of course it was good. My Mom is there and The Kids are there and most of my family is there. Somehow, though, it's always so hard to go back. But, it's always so easy once I'm there. Strange. I remember how hard it was when I first moved away. That place was my world, my pond. Now there's that thing that is not quite fear that makes my heart pound and mind race when I think what would happen if I had to move back to my little desert town.

But once I'm there...

Maybe it's the distance that makes me so fond of the little things. The quiet. The mountains. And I swear the sky is a brighter shade of blue. I was tempted to stay through New Year's, but it's not a party if it happens every night...

So. I came back to Atlanta for New Year's where... oh, you know... where I did the things you do for New Year's and it was good and I watched the sun come up and drank expensive champagne that I forgot to pop at midnight with a nice size gathering of my boys. Girls tend to get me in trouble, so I don't mind the testosterone-laden companionship so much. There are only two girls in this city I can see more than twice a week. One that I am fucking, one I am not. One sometimes thinks I'm trying to steal her boyfriend and one that sometimes thinks I'm trying to steal her sanity.

C'est la vie.

New York came and went like the sunrise and sunset.

Meanwhile, the month's almost over and Arm Candy, my favorite cover and good friend, got sent to rehab last week and I'm left feeling sad because I feel selfish because I miss him so. He called me last night and said he'll take me to Europe when he returns and he paused before he said, "so we'll always have Paris". I wanted to tell him how sweet he is despite being so maudlin, but I knew he could hear me smiling over the phone and so I didn't have to. So, instead, I just said "Goodnight, Bogie" because I'm no Ingrid and Atlanta is no Casablanca, despite this blanket of pale purple clouds in the night sky.

The wine is gone, the bedroom calls...
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