moody blues

I really wanted to hate Hank Moody. Three episodes in to the first season of Californication I wanted to stop watching. Here's this guy who stands for everything I hate about someone- selfish, sleep-with-anyone-who-will-spread-for-him, egotistical, the whole nine. But then, I began to love him. I'll let all of the aforementioned slide because, I mean, really, the dude's just lost, I can't really blame him for the crutches he chooses to live on, I've got my own.
I don't know what it is, but I want to be his friend. I don't know if it's because he so aptly portrays the struggling writer (even though I want to hate him when he bangs out a novel in a weekend) or the undying love he has for his daughter and his baby momma and his relationship to both, I can overlook the rest on the basis of just those things. Because really, that's what we all do with many relationships in our lives, people don't meet our every expectation and I have found myself way too many times looking the other way when lied to my face and still loving friends through their indiscretions no matter how much I hate them.
It's gotten me thinking about what others may over look about me, but I pick myself apart enough. I'm aware of my flaws, I just have to stop pretending other people aren't. The difference between Hank and I is that although we're both aware of our own bullshit, he's unapologetic about it. He does what he feels, when he feels it, deals (or doesn't deal) with it later. But he wears them like a badge on his chest and his heart is rolled up in his sleeve.
So here they are, I care too much about what you think, I'm so self-absorbed that I've become a flake, I say I want to live this big, full life, but I continually find myself ignoring my phone and opting for a night on the couch with my cat, I seek approval from anyone and everyone, my expectations of you are way too high, I sometimes say I'm a writer, but I rarely write, I feel like you really want my opinion and I'll give it to you anyway, every day I wake up and say I'm going to be better and I go to bed mad at myself for lying again.
So, there you have it, call me on it. I promise I'm working on it, but, shit, old habits die hard. I just might not apologize about it anymore, right, Hank?

ghosts

I've always feared them, and, now, I find myself choosing to live with them. Daily. I allow myself to be haunted over and over again of my ancient past just to have it back momentarily. But, when the moment passes, I am left with such a raw, longing feeling. Leaving myself to deal with the gut reactions to tell the ghost what I'm feeling the next chance we run into each other in attempt to bring him back to my life. Telling myself if I'm just honest about how I feel, no doubt that would be enough to breath life back into him.
The truth is, life has gone on and almost always will and the past that I so desperately want back is the one I've just created. The beautiful, rose-colored one with all things neatly and perfectly arranged. No problems. Perfection. Instead of channeling those things into the here and now, instead of seeking real, tangible possibilities, my only desire is to revive the past and make it right.
Always, always fucking ghosts.
I fear the future now, even though, as I was told over dinner, it's happening every day. If I would just tell the present what I need to and let go of the past, I could be moving toward a rose-colored future (when I wear the right glasses). The words never come, hell they haven't even found a page until now for far too long.
I fear altering my present so as not to later discover more ghosts that I'll want to hold close for their fleeting comfort.
All of them are lessons learned wrapped in beautiful packages of hindsight tied with a neat bow of mistakes made. I should leave them as they are. But, once the knot is loosed and tossed aside all I am left with is the beautiful gift of what I really wanted it to be.
It's a painful, self-destructive, non-productive attempt as a better life.
Says the girl who always says (and believes?) "everything happens (happened?) for a reason.