She Was Just Whistlin' Dixie and Walkin' with a Can of Bug Spray

     These next few posts will probably be very short, and I may even miss a few days here and there.  I have plenty of excuses:  I tend to not write as much when I'm not in an episode; business is picking up and my bosses think I should be busy with that; I just got a slew of books I've never heard of to read about literature I have memorized; I get too easily distracted by the internet; etc.  But I do have things to write about... mostly good things, too.
     I just got done laughing my ass off at the article and comments over at Mommy Wants Vodka.  Today's post was on being a klutz and/or having to make up excuses for the remains of injuries.  I confess, I, too, am a trip to the E.R. waiting to happen.  The article made me reminisce about all my fun injuries:  slamming my finger in a car door because I was trying to flip off and get in at the same time; opening my dorm door into my face and breaking my nose; getting glass stuck in my foot because a stray cat touched my leg, scaring the crap out of me, and I dropped the glass while screaming "You rob me, I'll kill you;"  walked into a stop sign because I was looking for a four-leaf clover...  Sadly, there's more. 

     Aside from a serious case of distraction, I have recently borrowed books from the library.  I do this often, because I'm poor.  The two I have now are by Umberto Eco, and they cover, well, I don't know, I haven't started yet.  I am introducing myself to literary theory.  Looking for information about what I do with literature, I had a friend and a former professor recommend books.  Between the two, Jackpot!!!!!  Maybe I'll really learn something now.  I mean, besides how to read.  I was in my third year of college when I took this amazing class and felt, literally, like I had just learned to read.  I was an English major, so it was kind of a big deal for me.  I can't wait to go to grad school!
     I have a problem keeping friends.  I meet someone, and if the "like" is mutual, we become friends.  That's easy.  I am a terrible friend.  First of all, I hate text messages, and rarely respond to them- but I drunk text all the time.  Second, I'm not very reliable as a supporting person.  I support most arts, and I will go to public readings, performances, exhibits, and shows.  I rarely go to things I have to pay for if they are "those types" of things.  Third, I am also not really good at comforting the unhappy, angry, bereaved, etc.  I'm a great drinking buddy.  Fourth, I have a history of losing friends because I am crazy.  I have lost friends because of unfounded suspicions, mishearing things, being too clingy, and sleeping with them, or trying to. 
     It's rare for me to be friends with someone for more than two years.  I hate to admit this, but I'm sort of bewildered by my relationship with DaVinci.  I mean, the wedding was kind of sudden, so I'm always waiting for it to implode.  Like he'll wake one day and realize we don't belong together.  If he does, he's right.  If he doesn't, well, I married someone who puts up with me.  I love DaVinci; he's such a trooper.  He's brutally honest, and tells me when he thinks the crazy is coming on, even when it's just me.  He's also a little mean, and on more than one occasion has lied to make me think I'm crazy.  Granted, he confessed later after he found out that I called my sister in tears thinking I had started having delusions (which would be new for me, but not unexpected).  It was funny, much later.  Much, much later. 
     So, I sometimes expect that it was wrong to marry him.  Both of us being children of divorce, it's not something we'd ever consider.  He's ten years my elder and interested in things that bore me to sleep.  Somehow, though, he's perfect for me.  I don't trust my opinions, normally, because I have slept with too many people (numbering more than I will admit to anyone- if I could remember them all- and including 4 females).  Everyone else thinks it was a great idea, including him!  So it must be right.  He's the only person I know of who would have stayed with me through my:  running away in the rain barefoot and in pj's, trying to run over him with my car, applying to grad school, etc.  And the really fucked up part, he's always right.  I mean, ALWAYS.  He's only been wrong about a few things:  the definition of "impeach," a few wrong moves in bored/card games like Mancala and Cribbage, and just how dangerous I can get during an episode.  He's learned from each error he's ever made, and makes fewer and fewer mistakes as the days pass.  It's eerie.  So, he was right in choosing me.  Had to have been.
     And I lucked out.  I probably would have married anyone.  That's a very scary thought for me.  I would have married anyone.  I would have married The Pretender, and lived my life in Vegas being treated like an unfortunate excuse for a trophy wife.  I would have married The Poet, and have to spend my life in this city that I'm trying to escape.  I would have married EverSmile, who would give up on me after a few uncalled-for events.  I would have married PunchDrunk, who would have taken all my pills and lost all my money.  I would have married anyone.  And I lucked out.  I married the one guy who makes me smile every day.  He tries his hardest to make things consistent, so that I can detect changes in myself.  He loves me, and asks me questions.  He allows me to be his lover and his whore, without making me feel obligated or guilty.  He lets me buy him presents for his birthday, and introduces me to new things.  I've married the man who lets me love him. 
     It doesn't get better than that realization.
     Today's theme was brought to you by a Pinterism, "lists."