"Write, you fucking animal!" my mind screams at me.
The manner in which life switches shit up on me is ridiculous... it honestly goes from lackadaisical days of (calm) monotony to sudden fucking explosions in my face.
Seems like anytime I decide to take a break, wether for mental health, or physical health... it winds up being a bad idea because life gets crazy and my more comical or interesting posts have to get tossed aside because someone is dying or fighting or... destroying someone's life.
I'm back from Hometown... sick as fuck, AGAIN, but fuck it, I'll write.
This break was sudden. My brother came to town after finishing his two-year Athens post, on the 23rd of August... or something close to that.
He brought his Greek friend with him... who drove me insane because he was the most stereotypical Greek man-- misogynist AS FUCK. I wound up giving up my side of the house, so the dudes could feel comfortable and whatnot (I'm too goddamn considerate). Once my brother left on his ten-day cross-country drive (showing his Greek friend around this wonderful country), I returned to my side of the house to see the fucked up mess the guys left behind. To keep it short, I'll just say I was barfing while scrubbing snot off the walls of my shower (if you blow snot-rockets, let it be known I fucking HATE your deplorable, disgusting ass... you fucking inconsiderate animal).
ANYWAY, while my brother was in Vegas, his conversations with family members encouraged him to go to Hometown, despite being heavily frowned upon-- uh, almost illegal-- by the State Department. SO, on a whim, with exactly four days before the date, we decided to drive down to Hometown, and have my brother meet us down there by air.
SOOOOO... in four days, it was decided that we would all be going to Hometown for the Patron Saint festivities.
Fast Forward to the night prior to my departure, and you have me receiving that text from my friend, my adoptive brother (I have a few of them, but he may have been the first). That text fucked. me. up.
His mom is the one who received the terrible news... and I fucking love that lady... like, she's one of my all time favorite adults... fucking BEAUTIFULLY sarcastic, but also so loving and caring, it fucking hurts (this soul has been trampled in the most traumatic way... how can she still cary so much kindness in her heart?).
The shell-shock followed me for about four days, it had me clinging to my parents like a newborn baby.
Mexico was a welcomed breeze of serenity... with the ever-present saudade that place elicits in me.
The place is greener than EVER, with cascades of water everywhere (probably commonplace back when the Spaniards "discovered" it in the 1500's, and why they named it after the Basque country... totally not what it has looked like these last 30 years). I'd wake up to a sweet view of morning fog rising from the enlarged river, and went to bed to the sound of a rushing river... or raindrops-- there was hardly a night where my nostrils weren't treated to Hometown's enchanting petrichor.
The festivities were quite subdued due to two deaths in town... and as previously mentioned in older posts, Hometown funerals gut the fuck out of anyone with its achaic traditions (the different styles of tolling the bells for a death is haunting. The sound resonates through the entire town for about ten undisrupted minutes each time). The nine days of festivities (actually, it's more like 12) passed by without much drunken debauchery from the men, unlike the ridiculously frustrating disaster from last year.
So... things were mellow... and melancholy. I had the break I didn't know I needed, and my sadness was quiet and calm, rather than the chaotic frenzy it can sometimes be.
Though I arrived home sick as all hell, I was not sick at all in Hometown. My sickness was only lightheadedness after vomiting my brains out at the start of the trip (though violence down there is basically down to zero now, I still find myself nervous out of my mind when I think of driving though that sierra in the dark. While they seem to be venerated in the states with all the fucking shows, real life narcos are goddamn motherfucking terrifying and hardly as amusing as the Netflix shit).
Now to pick up on where I left off with real life... where does a girl even start?
The manner in which life switches shit up on me is ridiculous... it honestly goes from lackadaisical days of (calm) monotony to sudden fucking explosions in my face.
Seems like anytime I decide to take a break, wether for mental health, or physical health... it winds up being a bad idea because life gets crazy and my more comical or interesting posts have to get tossed aside because someone is dying or fighting or... destroying someone's life.
I'm back from Hometown... sick as fuck, AGAIN, but fuck it, I'll write.
This break was sudden. My brother came to town after finishing his two-year Athens post, on the 23rd of August... or something close to that.
He brought his Greek friend with him... who drove me insane because he was the most stereotypical Greek man-- misogynist AS FUCK. I wound up giving up my side of the house, so the dudes could feel comfortable and whatnot (I'm too goddamn considerate). Once my brother left on his ten-day cross-country drive (showing his Greek friend around this wonderful country), I returned to my side of the house to see the fucked up mess the guys left behind. To keep it short, I'll just say I was barfing while scrubbing snot off the walls of my shower (if you blow snot-rockets, let it be known I fucking HATE your deplorable, disgusting ass... you fucking inconsiderate animal).
ANYWAY, while my brother was in Vegas, his conversations with family members encouraged him to go to Hometown, despite being heavily frowned upon-- uh, almost illegal-- by the State Department. SO, on a whim, with exactly four days before the date, we decided to drive down to Hometown, and have my brother meet us down there by air.
SOOOOO... in four days, it was decided that we would all be going to Hometown for the Patron Saint festivities.
Fast Forward to the night prior to my departure, and you have me receiving that text from my friend, my adoptive brother (I have a few of them, but he may have been the first). That text fucked. me. up.
His mom is the one who received the terrible news... and I fucking love that lady... like, she's one of my all time favorite adults... fucking BEAUTIFULLY sarcastic, but also so loving and caring, it fucking hurts (this soul has been trampled in the most traumatic way... how can she still cary so much kindness in her heart?).
The shell-shock followed me for about four days, it had me clinging to my parents like a newborn baby.
Mexico was a welcomed breeze of serenity... with the ever-present saudade that place elicits in me.
The place is greener than EVER, with cascades of water everywhere (probably commonplace back when the Spaniards "discovered" it in the 1500's, and why they named it after the Basque country... totally not what it has looked like these last 30 years). I'd wake up to a sweet view of morning fog rising from the enlarged river, and went to bed to the sound of a rushing river... or raindrops-- there was hardly a night where my nostrils weren't treated to Hometown's enchanting petrichor.
The festivities were quite subdued due to two deaths in town... and as previously mentioned in older posts, Hometown funerals gut the fuck out of anyone with its achaic traditions (the different styles of tolling the bells for a death is haunting. The sound resonates through the entire town for about ten undisrupted minutes each time). The nine days of festivities (actually, it's more like 12) passed by without much drunken debauchery from the men, unlike the ridiculously frustrating disaster from last year.
So... things were mellow... and melancholy. I had the break I didn't know I needed, and my sadness was quiet and calm, rather than the chaotic frenzy it can sometimes be.
Though I arrived home sick as all hell, I was not sick at all in Hometown. My sickness was only lightheadedness after vomiting my brains out at the start of the trip (though violence down there is basically down to zero now, I still find myself nervous out of my mind when I think of driving though that sierra in the dark. While they seem to be venerated in the states with all the fucking shows, real life narcos are goddamn motherfucking terrifying and hardly as amusing as the Netflix shit).
Now to pick up on where I left off with real life... where does a girl even start?
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