Scaramouche, Scaramouche. Will You Do the Fandango?

For those who haven’t quite figured it out yet, I’m in a serious relationship with music. Have been for awhile now. Just something we like to keep on the “DL” in effort to filter out the noise from others’ expectations. It’s more intimate this way. To not…care what others think. To do…whatever it is we please.

We’ve had our share of disputes. Our deafening awkward silences in the car. Our screamingly loud arguments that solved nothing. But there’s also all the warm and fuzzies, the bittersweets. The lyrically choreographed teardrops that surprise you when you least expect it. And the good times with clouded memories of living wildly, acting obnoxiously.  It’s a love/hate relationship. One that heavily relies on perfect timing. Just like everything else, right? Just like…everything else.  Continue reading

Pretty Wings and Leftover Birthday Cake

If you haven’t listened to “Pretty Wings” by Maxwell in a corner somewhere while stuffing your face with leftover birthday cake and crying black mascara tears… I’m pretty sure you’re doing it wrong.

Did I lose you? (pauses) Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that that happened. In my life. Tonight. And I’m still able to write about it. And laugh about it. And cry some more if I really, really wanted to. (TBD) Continue reading

A Leap of Faith and Going All In

When I accepted this job, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. I knew I’d have to work with Veterans. That I’d have to go into their homes. That I would have no idea where I would be going. I knew what I was getting myself into. “It’s called a leap of faith”…right, John Locke? A leap…of faith, indeed. Continue reading

Let me tell you a little story about when a woman loves. And I’m not talking about that melodramatic kind that fuels off insecurities and is easily mistaken as “passion”. The ones who obsessively text and call 99 gazillion times to show that she loves you. I’m not talking about the love of wives portrayed on reality shows. Then angry ones, the criers. That’s a whole other level of “love” I’m not going to get into.

I’m talking about the ones who love for real. The ones who hold back their tears and face each day with their heads held high. The ones who pack you diapers, Boost Plus supplements, snacks and insulin every time you leave the house. The ones who bathe you, dress you, feed you and stay by your side just so you never have to know what it feels like to be alone. The ones who give up their lives. I’m talking about the ones who watch you lose yourself, but stay. The ones who are suffering, but stay. The ones exerting every ounce of their physical, mental and emotional strengths but find a way to recharge by morning.

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The Irish from Baltimore

He hates it here. It’s only been a few weeks and he hates it here. He’s a 31-year-old bachelor living downtown. Downtown…and there’s nothing. He was referred to some seafood place down the river and thought it was crap. He was drinking some kind of craft beer, rocking some kind of sports cap, backwards…but I didn’t even care what kind of beer nor which sports team he was loyal to (which usually sparks my curiosity with solo-barrers) because he was too damn caught up on taking 40cc shots of his Haterade.

I tuned this guy out the second I realized he was drowning himself in his indoor pool of pessimism. And don’t get me wrong, I tried helping. I kept telling him to ask the locals, to stay open-minded. But it was too late. He already had this preconceived notion of the characteristics of this city without giving it real chance.

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