Fuckin' Snowing

It's snowing to beat the band right now (which I wish I could watch, since I never liked The Band much anyway). It'll be dangerous as hell out there, since there's a fair amount of ice, with nice slippery snow coating it. More dangerous for walking than driving, but I shudder to think of the drunks on the roads and sidewalks tonight contending with something more confounding than their own doubling vision.

But, it really doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere, and since my superpowers haven't seen fit to come through yet, I can't save anyone I care about. I'm still lobbying for the laser vision thing, which wouldn't do much to save anyone; it'd just be so kickass.

It's been a long time since I really enjoyed the holidays. New Year's has never been that big of a deal, since I rarely hang around drinkers, and the beginning of yet another year of the same isn't much to celebrate if you're not a few sheets to the wind. There was the year we hung out with friends and ate junkfood and watched bad movies...now that I think about it, that might have been any one of the last decade of December 31sts. It's like any other night, really. Why do people have to make a big deal out of it? After living through twenty, thirty or more of them, what do they imagine is going to change? Every resolution gets broken. Every year brings more shit. I know, they want to think that things will be different, but I can only lie to myself so much.

New Years has always felt like a lonely holiday to me, and I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I've not been in a crowd of drinkers. Maybe because I'm always lonely. The friends I'm spending this holiday with don't know anything is special, and I imagine they don't care. I'm advancing daily into my crazy-cat-ladydom. If it weren't for the people I see through my job, I'd totally lose my ability to deal with people, become even more of a recluse than I already am, and start snarling at the mailman through the door. I wasn't invited anywhere for this holiday. No wonder I feel like snarling and biting. What friends I have left are either too far away, or can't get past my snarky shell.

The Whore

My muse is a whore, and I have no coin. Blood, sweat and tears make her cry with laughter, at my expense, at my ham-fisted butchering of cliche.
I feel the tickle of inspiration at the end of my nose when I am up to my elbows in soapy dishwater. The whore teases me and takes pleasure in my frustration and discomfort.
Behind inspiration, and a little beneath, is something darker and frightening, a cold that will turn your insides to dust and leave you hollow. It always comes in her wake and pulls me down, under and away from myself. It beats me about the head and neck until inspiration is the furthest thing from my mind.
One might think inspiration and depression would be something like opposite states of mind. They almost seem polar, with inspiration not infrequently inciting the possessed to mania. For me, they are the bait and switch. I reach for it, stretch, until I can't hang on any longer, and fall straight into the pit.

from puppy...

It's cold in the kennel. Oh, the air is warm enough, so mom and the little ones who poke and pinch won't complain and leave before they've had a chance to see us all. But the concrete below sucks out all the heat right through your feet and leave your poor toes curling to keep flesh from touching the ice cold floor. And it's nice enough in summer, but I might be the only one here who knows that. If they're lucky, they'll be lounging on shag carpeting in a week. Me? I'm bound to be here still. Not that it's so bad. I could be in one of the bags I see the big guys hefting, those men with the dark eyes and the hard voices.
I shouldn't complain. Food here comes without a fight, without searching and scraping and running with my cheeks tented over the discarded treasure, drool flying behind me and fouling my ears. God help the fellow that comes between me and food, even this discount kibble. In here, cars signal a ticket out, the ride to freedom. They were always a ticket out, just not necessarily a ticket you wanted punched. When I was younger I thought they were animals too, big and mean and uncaring, so cold that they wouldn't even stop to feed on the bodies they stalked and bowled down.
No, I wasn't born here, though many were. They never seem to grow up here either. They're dragged off by simpering humans before the milk moustaches dry.