I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Where ever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away...
- "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) by Billy Joel
So, at some point I knew I was going to have to write about this.
You’d think, after the events of last year, that I would be better at coping with this type of thing, but, no. The way I manage just seems to keep changing. The way I grieve? It’s bordering on the self-destructive side of things. What happens to grief when one is no longer merely sad?
This one. It leaves me… bankrupt. I simply want to roll into a little ball.
You see, my life began, again, when Beau came into it. Before that, I was living through a period of an all-time low; uncommitted to continuing – I didn’t see the point. Back in 1996, life as I had known it was over. A vapor. For some reason I was still alive, but wasn’t sure why. I felt I had nothing to live for.
And then, one day, in the fall, I was on my way into a local Menards to buy an area rug to warm up this awful little apartment I had just rented in a shitty neighborhood in South Minneapolis when our eyes met. His were so large and scared. I recognized the look, for it was the same one I had seen that morning in the mirror as I prepared to shave and get on with another day. A frazzled woman was holding him, with a small girl clinging to her side. They were all three just standing there in front of the main entrance to this store. I approached and asked what kind of dog it was and her reply startled me. “Do you want him?”
He was a four month old Rat Terrier/Chihuahua mix brought up from North Carolina. He was absolutely adorable. They had to get rid of him because they had just moved into a motel that didn’t accept dogs. At the time I was not all that sure that I was physically or emotionally ready to take care of a dog, but I told her that I would think about it as I shopped and if the dog was still there when I finished, maybe I would take him off their hands. Truth was, I had already fallen in love with him and just wanted to buy some time. I shopped quickly, for I was really hoping he would still be there when I got through the check line.
He was. And I had just told the woman that I would take him, when this old woman walked up and said “I just lost my dog. I want a new one. I’ll take him.” Part of me wanted to fight for him, but then part of me continued to wonder if I was ready to take on such a responsibility. Maybe the old woman could provide a better home, a better life. Maybe the fates were stepping in to ensure that this little guy had a great life.
So I let the old woman take him. I gave her my number and told her to call me if it didn’t work out. I watched as the little girl cried as the old woman took the dog and the dog’s toys. His name was Bobo.
The next day, as I sort of hoped and expected, the old woman called me and told me to come get the dog. She had four steps she had to go up and down to get to her yard, and she didn’t want to risk that on an on-going basis. I drove to Richfield to pick him up. I was very excited. I walked into her house and there he was; his eyes still as big and scared as ever. But I also caught a glint of something else. Something joyful. I scooped him up, grabbed all his things, and made my way to my vehicle.
Once inside, he settled down on my lap immediately. He wasn’t scared. As we drove away, he fell asleep and I thought, wow, he must be a very experienced traveller. I told him that I would never leave him. That he would always have a home with me and that I would do my best to provide a safe and clean environment. And that he would never go hungry or want for anything.
And I did. I kept my promises. I got my act together and created a better place for him, and in the process, one for myself, as well. Within a year I was out of that crummy apartment and Beau (as I renamed him), had a fenced in yard and lovely place to live. He was the start of my new commitment to life and to living.
We travelled a great deal together. I worried about him whenever I had to travel without him, never quite trusting whomever I arranged to take care of him. I was as protective as I could be.
He survived being attacked by a pit bull. We were walking in a park and the owner of the pit bull lost control of his dog. It was an ugly, messy, scene – one which sent both Beau and me to the emergency room. He survived a series of seizures during his first year. I spent a lot of money at the U of M trying to find out why he would suddenly only be able to walk backwards before rolling into a little ball of pain. It was freaky and terrifying to witness. Fortunately he grew out of it.
He was smart. I taught him a series of tricks, including “Bang, You’re Dead” and “Kill The Baby”. He was a quick study. He loved his toys. And he was nice. He would growl at babies and puppies younger than himself, but other than that, he loved everyone. Trusted everyone, instantly.
He had so much personality. He was one of the few dogs that I’d ever met that actually smiled. He had such poise, too. I’ve never been so smitten in my entire life.
But years go by… and as they do, we tend to take for granted that the one thing that has been a constant source of stability, acceptance, strength, joy, and love – will always be there. The last three years of his life it was like living with a hostile adolescent. He loved his brother Paco, and even welcomed Mona, but when they died, he was the only dog again, and I noticed how attentive he suddenly was again. I think he really wanted to be the only dog. Then Millie came into our lives and took a lot of attention.
Beau knew I loved him. I told him often enough. I would imagine my life without him and simply ache. I didn’t know how I would handle it.
On a crisp, Sunday morning, I had the dogs out in the front yard with me, talking with a neighbor over the fence. The conversation ended, I took Millie back in the house, but left Beau to sniff around the front gardens. A few moments later, I heard Beau make a lot of noise. Some people were walking two large dogs past our front gate. Beau must have been racing up and down the length of the fence. Suddenly I heard him yelp, as if he had been hurt. I raced to the front yard. The people with the dogs were walking away, as they did, one of them said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not that bad.” But it was. I picked up Beau and knew, right then and there – it was the beginning of the end.
Multiple trips to the emergency vet and my regular vet. Not a good candidate for surgery; enlarged heart, age. Nothing they can do. The pain meds make him loopy. He can’t stand to pee. I sleep on the floor next to his bed. The vet takes him off the pain meds. He’s in a great deal of pain and cries. I put him back on the pain meds. Six days of this. No more.
We make that final trip. I talk to him. The vet gives us lots of time to say good-bye. I tell him, “I always thought we had more time.” He’s 14 years old. 14 years, 4 months, 19 days. I didn’t have a birthdate for him, but I estimated that he must have been born around April 1st, so I chose that as his birthday, and we celebrated it every year.
My little April’s fool.
I handle it all much better than I thought. At least, on the face of things. But secretly – and now, not so secretly – I’m crushed. My self-destructive tendencies are running a bit amok. I do a great job of covering it. But it will catch up to me. Sooner. Later.
The house is so quiet now. No more shedding dog. No more barking as I prepare the dog food. One less dish to prepare. No more hopeful glances from across the room. He was only 10 lbs., but emotionally, he took up a lot of room in my house.
Yes, I regret not taking him for more walks (he loved them so). I regret choosing to do things over spending time with him. I regret that I couldn’t make him the only dog in my house. He had a wonderful life. That’s what everyone tells me. But I know it could have been better.
And mostly, I blame myself. Had I not left him in that front yard he wouldn’t have twisted his back. He’d still be here. He was a very healthy 14 year-old. He was the best dog, ever.
Millie and I manage. At first, she spent a lot of time looking for him – trying to find his scent. She’s blind, but she knew something had changed. I don’t think she misses him much, if at all, now. Still, the house seems so quiet. And when I’m not there, I’m sure she notices that being alone is different without Beau around.
I notice it, too. Even with Millie sitting on my lap, I feel, very much – alone.
So, I haven’t been able to write much since August, 14th, the day Beau injured himself. My mind feels fragmented; my focus non-existent.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t want to regroup. I don’t want to hunker down. I don’t want to refocus on something more positive. I don’t want to go to therapy. I don’t want to go to the doctor’s. I don’t want to take pills. I don’t want to do… anything.
I don’t. And then I over-indulge in something that is not healthy. I do things that don’t feel good.
But then – I don’t feel much. Not much of anything. So, does that mean I’m handling it? Does that mean I’m doing okay? It’s like waiting for the flood wall to burst. Am I punishing myself? Or is it because I can’t feel anything… so doing something that makes me feel worse, something hurtful… is feeling something bad better than not feeling at all?
So, what happens to grief when one is no longer merely sad?
Stay tuned.
And like a ship out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me
I broke my fuck-back.
What?
Yeah, my fuck-back. It’s hard to describe, but I will give it a shot. It’s a little movement a bottom can do with the small of their back in order to ‘fuck back’ on their top’s dick. It’s as if the bottom is flicking his tail bone up and down. Done very rapidly, it can produce the most amazing effect. Done slowly it’s like milking a cow’s teat. It’s sort of akin to a dance move they do on Family Guy in their parody of “Can’t Touch This”, where it looks like they are skiing.
Anyway, mine is broken. I wrecked it fucking this cute little Columbian who is half my age – something I have taken the trouble to point out to him on a number of occasions, but, hey, he wants what he wants. I have no clue what this kid sees in me. We fucked once before about a year ago. I had a great time, but the apartment we played in gave me the creeps. It was messy and in a really crappy neighborhood. The entire time we played I worried that someone was going to steal my car. After that first encounter (which was quite good) , he’d hit on me all the time, but I’d beg off, not wanting to park my car in that neighborhood. Is that bad of me?
He’s cute. Well, more than cute… he’s a biological wonder. Very handsome, with perfect skin and not a pound of fat to be found anywhere on his little muscled being. His dick is just average - 6.5”, but he knows what to do with it, and that’s what really counts. Totally dedicated to topping, he exudes this machismo thing and takes his fucking very seriously. I admire his commitment. And his technique.
So, Friday, after my Kick Boxing Class, I decided to cool down with some yoga moves, during the course of which I decided to try a few things I’d seen on-line that younger, much more flexible bottoms are able to do. I was on a mat in the back of the class room and even though others were milling about, I figured, since I was doing a bunch of yoga poses, no one would have a clue what my real inspiration might be. I’m on my back, trying to bring my knees down on either side of me when I feel a slight pull in the small of my back, and not the kind of pull that one should feel or would every want to feel. I decide it must be part of my getting limber and persisted a bit more before giving up and moving on to some basic crunches. But that was the beginning of my fuck-back’s fall.
Later that night, the Columbian hits me up on-line. He has all new pics and at first I don’t realize it’s him. In fact, it’s not until after I have agreed to meet him that he reminds me about who he is. He’s now living in a much nicer part of town, so I have no qualms about seeing him.
I arrive at his new place and… it looks kind of like his old place, as in totally dis-shelved. The kid may know how to fuck, but housekeeping is not high on his priority list. I ignore the mess and make my way up to the bedroom. He tells me to make myself comfortable and that he will be up shortly. I strip, put on my cock ring, have my poppers at the ready, and a little tube of lube. Then I get on all fours and point my ass toward the staircase for maximum impact as he comes up the stairs. It does the trick. He’s on me in a matter of moments. He orders me to climb on the bed.
Throughout the night he comments on how beautiful my hole looks (eh, eye of the beholder?). He’s verbal, but in a strange way. His English is very good, without a trace of an accent, but he mumbles, so whenever he asks me a question or makes a demand I have to ask him to repeat it like an old woman who’s hard of hearing.
He just recently returned from a long visit to Columbia. He’s even sexier than I remember. I just love staring into his eyes as he’s fucking me. They’re so dark and rich, and tinged with just a touch of evil. It’s a little like getting fucked by the devil. His body is perfect. And so young! Too young for me, but he has a thing for me. I know he can do (and does) much better than me. So I should just take it as a compliment that he wants me at all. And I do. I simply lose myself and let him drive. He likes to be in control. He won’t kiss me. But he likes spitting in my mouth. It’s like a dominance thing - it puts me in my place. It also makes me feel cheap and disposable. Sigh. Sex is so complicated sometimes.
We start on the bed with me on all fours on the bed. He just wants to stand behind me and look and play with my hole. He teases my hole with the head of his dick before ordering me to turn around and suck him. Like I said, he’s not much in the size department, so I make quick work of it, and soon have him hard as a rock. At this point he orders me to turn around and pushes me down on the bed. He enters me roughly, in one fell swoop. Fortunately the poppers are nearby and my ass is all lubed up with his spit. That’s another odd thing about him – he doesn’t like lube. He likes spit. Throughout the hour that we play, he is constantly spitting on his dick, in my hole, in my mouth. His hygiene is, despite the general state of his household, impeccable, so I don’t mind his spit at all. In fact, I find it kind of sexy.
So he pounds away on top of me, and I am suitably swooning, what with the poppers and the general tone of his attack. After a bit he has me roll onto my back. He enters me again and gets really intense. Our eyes lock and I just know that he’s coming into the home stretch soon. Not that I worry. Last time we played, he came three times, so I am pretty confident I can get a second load out of him. He spits in my mouth and mumbles something I don’t bother to ask him to repeat. He keeps changing up his game just enough, adding a few swoops here, a few turns there. It’s nice. I take the time to really notice his body and appreciate his skin. Everything is so tight and muscular. Not bulgy muscles, but lean and fine. His body is completely hairless. He has beautiful hair. I run my hand s through it, running them down his back to his taut, pounding ass. He’s picking up the tempo and his eyes are staring intensely into mine. Then he rears up and back and freezes as the first spurt of cum hits my insides. He rams into me with great deliberation seven more times, pausing between each, while making tiny sounds of joy.
I’m gasping, too, and hard as a rock, but know enough to stay quiet. Whenever I get too loud, he covers my mouth with his hands – more controlling behavior (but, again, I find it sexy). I’m not sure what it is about the noise that bothers him – whether his need for quiet is a matter of taste or a matter of necessity because someone else might hear us, but I play along as directed.
He is almost apologetic about having come so quickly – only twenty minutes have passed, but I tell him not to sweat it, that I know he’s good for another load. His shrinking member would lead one to doubt this, but I waste no time taking that spent dick in my mouth and begin working some magic on it.
It never occurs to me that he won’t get it back up, for there is something very mercenary about our sex. The difference in our ages almost dictates that he service me, and that I comply and accept however he wishes to treat me. My little stallion doesn’t disappoint. After about five minutes, he’s back to life, not that he ever really went limp. That is the wonder of the young… the never ceasing hard on.
This time he orders me onto the floor. Onto a rug. So normally, I’d refuse. Rug burns are not my idea of a good time, but he’s in charge, so he calls the shots.
It’s very odd, because the age difference is not the only imbalance that exists between us. I am also a full six inches taller than he is. His frame is smaller than mine, too. I like all types, as you know, but it is rare that I find someone who is smaller in stature than me who wants to dominate me. When the occasion arises, I tend to give into it. This difference also accounts for some of the odd positions we find ourselves in. I can twist myself around at my waist while he is fucking me doggy style. I saw this position in a video on line, and because I can do it, I went ahead and tried it with him. It worked. You cannot imagine the sweat he was working up. It literally poured off him, making his body all sleek and glistening.
On the floor, he starts fucking me doggie style, than pushes me down and fucks me like we’re a couple of experimenting high school jocks. Then he flips me on my back and gets all intense again. I can tell he wants to blow his load and get it over with, but can’t cum, so he just keeps working harder and sweating more.
Then he flips me face down again. This time we make enough room for me to fuck back onto his dick. And he loves it. This is hard work, but I am more than willing to go the distance if it helps my top get off. I do about eight sets of 32 rapid fire back tucks and then I take a breather while he fucks me doggie. Then I position myself to do some rapid fire back tucks, but instead I slow it way down, literally milking the hell out of his dick. I’m squeezing my hole for all it’s worth and he is loving it. We do that for a good ten minutes. By that time he is super worked up, rolls me on back, plunges in and does the whole intense stare in the eyes, spit in the mouth, working it up, working it up, rear up and SCORE! Shoots his load deep in me, making those odd mumbly sounds of his.
He stays in me while I jerk myself off… he really gets me hard as a rock. I shoot all over my chest and stomach and… he climbs off. He is one soaking mass of man/boy.
When he is done with me he is done. Period. End of game means get the hell out. I get up, and realize instantly that I have done something to my lower back. The pain is sharp and it takes me quite a bit of effort in order to upright myself and correct my posture. It takes me a few days to realize it is my fuck back that has gone out. I dress quickly, not even pausing to wipe the cum off my chest and stomach because there is nothing to wipe with (I left my wet wipes in the car – a sign that I was out of practice in the sleazy hook-ups department). He walks me to the door and is already on his cell talking to a friend of his. They’re headed out to the clubs. Heading to my car, I don’t look back. It is what it is. I don’t fool myself.
Maybe this all comes off a bit clinical, a bit cold – but I’m not going to pretend it is anything other than a strange little power play between two totally different people with nothing in common other than the need for an orgasm and the means of achieving it.
Who knows, once I get my fuck back…. er, back – I’ll try to find something a little more my equal. Or not. If he im’d me right now and told me he wanted my ass?
Who am I to refuse?
There was an Australian study that came out recently that claims that for every one hour of television a person watches they lose 22 minutes of their life expectancy. The study included 11,000 people who spent an average of 6 hours in front of the boob tube a day. Contributing factors sited were the mindless eating that accompanies heavy TV viewing and the lack of physical activity involved. It was concluded that those who habitually watch a significant amount of television programming run greater risk for obesity and chronic diseases such as cancer, diabetes, and heart disease.
There was also a Harvard study that found that watching television two hours per day puts one at risk for developing type 2 diabetes; increasing one’s risk by 20 percent. It also increases one’s chances of developing heart disease by 15 percent. More than three hours of TV? You increase your risk of death across all diseases.
At the most, I watch three hours of television a day. That’s not an average. It’s just the most time my ass can stand sitting on the couch. I would say, overall, I am more like two hours a day – which is still quite embarrassing. Though it should be noted that during commercials I frequently get up and do housework, cook, or do laundry.
In light of the findings above, I’ve decided to bring up a yoga mat and a pair of dumbbells and put them in my living room. I plan on doing crunches and lifting a bit during commercials in order to combat the sedentary aspects of television viewing.
Not sure how to combat the mindless eating part. For, you see, I recently discovered that my blender is not just for fruit and fruit juice. I have been making things like pesto, salsa, and guacamole. I love it because it tastes so fresh. It also takes very little skill. It’s pretty fool-proof stuff, as in, whatever I happen to have on hand seems to do the trick. Last night, I made guacamole: an avocado, a couple of peppers someone gave me at work, some black olives, half a tomato and a little orange juice to get the whole thing spinning. The peppers were much stronger than I had anticipated, but it was still delicious and I ate about 3/4ths of what I had prepared with natural tortilla chips I heated in my little countertop toaster oven. Okay, so maybe not that healthy a snack and maybe I over ate a bit, but it tasted so good.
Point is, if I work on portion control, maybe this type of eating won’t have too much of an impact on my physical self, especially if I start off-setting it by pumping a little iron during commercials. Granted, it would probably be best if I simply left the television off and went outside, but with winter coming – I ‘m thinking that’s not gonna be happening except when it’s time to shovel..
The reason this television study caught my eye was because I have been thinking a lot lately about why it is that as we get older we start caring about our bodies less. Is it an act of surrender? Do we just give up? Or is it the logical outcome of what takes place because of the aging process? When we’re young we don’t necessarily think about our bodies – because they pretty much takes care of themselves. Once our metabolism and hormonal balances shift after age 35, because we are in the habit of taking our body’s resilience for granted, maybe we just never change our habits and slide quietly and stealthily into obesity and slovenliness.
I was talking to this guy I have known on and off for the past 5 years. We both share a similar taste for sex outdoors and anonymous encounters in general. He’s short and cute. And aging. In fact, yesterday, when I saw him at one of my usual haunts, he looked a little older than usual. Oh, his face still has its boyish charm, despite the day’s growth of graying stubble he chose to wear on his particular outing. But one of the reasons he’s kept those boyish looks is because he is also gaining just the slightest bit of weight and allowing his flesh to go soft. He commented on what good shape I was in – which made me question why he would think I was in that great of shape. I’m not. I’m okay, but nothing to comment on. That’s what got me looking at what he’s allowing himself to fall into – the middle-age body slide.
He asked what I do to keep in shape and I told him about zumba, my step classes, and my current work out regime. He told me about his adventures at the YMCA in his youth and the ethical conflicts involved when talking with a sixteen year old on Grindr. Huh? I was a little appalled (about the sixteen year old), but then ethics is not exactly the dude’s strong suit. He’s married and has children and, yes, I need to start avoiding him. I walked away wondering just when he was going to start paying attention to his body and get some common sense.
I judge, because I do believe I’m starting to slowly gain some common sense. Last weekend I decided I would start avoiding going on-line to hook up for sex. It is such a dehumanizing experience and even when I do happen to land a fish, I am usually disappointed in the quality of the sex. Not to mention all the time it takes. I mean, yes, sometimes you luck out and hook-up with the first strike, but in general you are looking at three to four hours with no guarantee of a pay off. I could do something better with my time… like watch television!
Or take care of my body.
When I began considering giving up sites like bbrts, Manhunt, and Adam4Adam, and avoiding the places where I habitually run into people like the guy I mentioned earlier, I also had to question my motivation for working out and taking care of my body. And by taking care of my body – I mean eating right, keeping my consumption of alcohol to a minimum, along with trimming fur, maintaining skin integrity, etc. It made me realize I need a new motivation. Sex can’t be it anymore… because I need to find validation for myself in a different way.
I am of a certain age. Sex is not what it was, because I’m not landing the hotties by accident the way I used to. I know this is true because recently a black dude on Adam4Adam told me, after seeing more pics of me than I had on my profile, that I wasn’t his type. Now this black dude was ten years my junior, but he was not that good looking and also, his mid section had a tiny pouch. I thought I was being generous by overlooking the little Buddha belly in the making he had going on, only to learn that I wasn’t his type – translation – I’m too old and ugly. Well, I can’t argue with the ugly part – but my bod looks damn good for my age, and certainly much, much better than his sagging ass. So, obviously, I walked away feeling a little wounded and bothered. Yes, it is well within his right to say no – I take no. But it had been yes up until he saw more of my pics. See, initially it was he who had been pursuing me. So was this some mind game he was playing? Or truly a case of – after having done further research, changing one’s mind?
What did I walk away with? One – I need to not put so much value in the opinion of people I encounter on-line. I mean, if that was his best picture – the one with the little pouch, then imagine what he probably looks like in person! And two: I need to stop seeking validation via the internet and hook-ups in general. I need a new focus. I need some new motivation. I need to meet better quality individuals.
As far as taking care of my body and working out? I’ve decided I just need to please myself (and my standards are pretty high when it comes to me). I need to stop thinking in terms of what others think or what kind of attention having a fit looking body might get me. Not only is it time to start turning them down, it is also time to maintain that which they ain’t getting! As in – see this? Not for you, boo!
Yeah, I know – I’m all over the map with this, but I really do feel rather hopeful for the first time regarding my sexual addiction. I see the sex I have been having for what it is – the wrong kind of validation. Empty and meaningless sex leaves you feeling empty and without purpose. Constantly basing my self-esteem on the type of encounters I have been pursuing is a lot like an endless road trip where the destination ends up not worth the drive. In any event, I have this pure sense that I am in the process of changing again.
This summer? Not one of my favorites. I gave up Twin Lake and the prairie early in the season because they mowed it all down and have begun to blacktop all the dirt roads. They also cleared out all the wonderful shrubbery on the hill that leads down to the lake. It looks so manicured and depressing. No more wild woods. So, time to adapt. Like all wildlife, the cruising gay must adapt to their changing habitat or perish. This cruising gay? Is going to curtail the bulk of his cruising. It will mean finding something else to do with my time… other than watching television.
So in light of the changes at Twin Lakes and the prairie, I hung out at one of my other cruising spots, deciding to sun where no one else suns. I developed a new habit of going there, and had some fun, but also a lot of not-so-fun encounters. In fact, I probably walked away in the midst of fooling around more this year than any other. Usually I like to see it to the end, but all too frequently, I could tell within five minutes of getting busy that sticking around for the ending wasn’t going to be worth the effort. In fact, I noticed that I’d begun to focus on how much work I had to put in to get a dude off, rather than enjoying the experience – which I think is a sign when something ceases to be fun and becomes work. Since I’m not getting paid for it… what’s in it for me? I’d rather get my tan on. Or watch television.
Going forward… I have a few buds I will try to stay in contact with or not… not sure. And there’s always Friday nights at the warehouse. But, hmmm. The STD thing makes that problematic. Maybe I need to take my act to a different venue altogether. I know I don’t want to do the bar scene and I don’t want to be a politically active gay or a gay chorus member, or do theatre. I don’t see myself on a volleyball team or a baseball team. Volunteer work? Ummm… there’s that word again: work. And I do a lot of volunteer work via my job and the church, so spiritually or karma-wise I got that covered.
So what does that leave? NO. I am not dating. Ugh. Kill me if I ever try to date again – that is so… not me.
So now what? Well, I plan on concentrating on this little writing project I’ve been working on since May. If nothing else, it’s good brain exercise. Nothing will probably come of it, but I am trying not to be tied to outcomes. I just want to see if I’m disciplined enough to finish it. I’m at the halfway point. So, we’ll see.
I could concentrate on cultivating my non-sexual relationships. I have friends. I just never see them. Recently I did make a real effort to change that and ended up spending a few evenings with a couple that I haven’t seen for two years – we had dinner, shopped and hit the bars. I also have my family to consider.
And my remaining dog. She needs a lot of attention. More on that at a later date.
So, it’s not like I don’t have places to put my energy. I have even taken my second bedroom and converted it back into my music room. Maybe I’ll start writing music again, who knows?
But I don’t think you’ll see me in chat rooms for awhile. Or cruising on-line or in the parks. See – I recognize when the pay-off is no longer there for me and value myself enough to know when I need to find a new outlet.
That’s hopeful… right? That’s common sense. Like not over-eating or watching too much television and avoiding the middle-age body slide.
Well, wish me luck!
I promised I would never leave you
