So picture me.  Running.  In the wee hours of the morning.

I'm wearing big brown boots, knee-high socks covered in clovers, a green button up shirt and, for no reason other than to be obnoxious, suspenders.  All day I get clever straight people saying "green lederhosen, he must be irish/german" which is funny in that it's neither clever nor true nor what I was going for.  In fact, until about last year, I didn't even know I was Irish.  Right now, however, no one is really saying anything aside from "why is this white boy dressed as a leprechaun sprinting through the back alleys?"

Which is a pretty good question.  With a totally sensical answer.  The leprechaun-ness was mostly Josh's fault, we agreed earlier to annoying irishday outfits - only to get stood up by him all day as i weathered looking stupid by myself.  Something JP didn't let up on, as i was fourty-five minutes late to impromptu brunch getting dressed for it.  The running though.  I dunno.

I remember in my head wanting to make sure that JP and Josh wouldn't find me, so I did a lot of zigzag patterns through unlit alleys.  I was feeling robbed of plans (jp fought my gay plans at every step) robbed of sharing ugly clothes duty (josh spent the day with sarah's abandoned kid instead) and I would be damned if they got to steal my late night jog through the depths of the seedy underbelly of denver too.

How no one robbed a crying kid dressed like an asshole, too drunk to run straight, google maps-ing his way through the alleys on an expensive iphone is anyone's guess.  I even drunkenly moved my car four blocks so they couldn't find me as I planned on sleeping there all night.  Survival Skills 101.

Luckily Donnie picked me up, like a total knight.  I had tatertots and fell asleep on the couch.  Tyler also gave me some pills that he said were "super concentrated weed" which for all I knew meant cyanide, but eh, i'd been drinking for ten hours straight, what's a little rat poison gonna do that this drunken tumbling mess couldn't handle on his own.

So yeah, St Patricks Day 2012 - WOO. HOO.

I got to talk most the stuff out in my head the morning following as angel-in-disguise Domenic cooked me breakfast.  Their kitchen was quiet, birds were chirping outside, and I was completely free of duty.  So much of my life feels like trying to please JP and Josh, and their exact opposite agendas, that doing what I want without consequence has become something of a rare gem.  And I'm sitting here reeking of liquor, hair whipped up like a meth addicted hurricane victim, chit chatting with a guy who just got home from a romantic hotel tryst.  And feeling like a butterfly who just crawled out of a cocoon. 

Of course I was a complete asshole to the two most important people in my life, who desperately tried to find me after I set down my horchata martini and walked the hell out of the nail salon place.  I feel a good amount of loss of control of my life, what with me being forced out of the home we've made for two years, in a city most my friends have abandoned, standing to lose my best friend when he finds out we weren't really all that great togeather.  Crying kittens drowning in half filled cement pools over here.  It's tough.  So.. you know, the one thing I can always control is self destruction; and it's bombs over bagdad in that department.

Like the last few weeks, where josh and I have made a habit of being pissed at eachother every single weekend.  Which counter-intuitively frames the amazing times we've had having fun with eachother.  We've made Luchadore Costumes with sequins, flowers, and ten pounds of hot glue; we've stitched togeather matching 70s outfits complete with skanky blond wigs and enormous grandma sunglasses; we even drank fourloco together as we crafted up sorority girl wigs that would gag a drag queen.  We've also furiously fought back and forth about him turning around and going back to boulder when he found out JP wanted to hang out with our friends instead of gay bar hopping.  And got into a fight about him keeping things from me that turned into a black-out puke fest for me that I don't remember even half of.  It's the dumbest.

I know it's all because I'm scared of losing him; feeling that every time he's disappointed we're not going out is going to turn into him finding people that aren't me to do such with once he's in the city.  Feeling like each little annoyance is going to turn into a massive fracture once we don't live together.  That by and large my use in his life will disappear once the ease of doing something with the guy next door goes away.  And so, logically, my best bet is to get upset and push him away when things get shakey, such that when he actually leaves it won't be such a heart break.  Which is total amateur sorority girl reality tv show logic, but it's hard to see that when you're caught up in the moment and running on autodrive.

Through dark midnight alleyways.

Wearing brown boots and enclovered socks.

Obviously I give myself too much credit when I think of myself as smart, calm, and collected.  I'm pissed that I don't have the power to give JP a job in colorado, or force Josh and I to stay best friends, that I don't have the power to stay in this house with my brothers, the power to live in a city with everyone else, the power to sell or rent my house in a way that won't burn through my entire savings.  I make a big deal out of being in complete control of my life and have a reasonable expectation that the people around me will fit into my plans perfectly.  And when they don't, and when I can't, I silently lose it until I can drink enough to let go and set fire to the rain.  Which, obviously, you can't do.  Cause it's water.  Fat adele, you are no scientist.

But things will change, things will be the same.  I'm handling it one brainful at a time, and until I have an *actual* crisis in my life with which I can look back at this and laugh my ass off, I will do my best to not act like a complete selfish fool to those people I'm madly in love with.

BUT I WILL NOT STOP DRINKING YOU CAN'T MAKE ME

Lion.  Out.

One Year. Six Months.

Just laying there. Naked on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, back arched over the edge, exhausted and dripping with sweat.

Or holding onto his body with both arms, my neon underwear pressed up against his pajama pants.

Sitting on the couch, holding hands, tv glow burning into our retinas. Enormous blankets preventing us from moving and accidentally doing something productive.

Sometimes sitting on opposite ends of the room spilling out our guts with alcohol soaked breath. Sometimes there's tears. Sometimes it feels like things are at the end. But only for a second. Only until one of us realizes that the other isn't going anywhere. That the strongest swords are made in the hottest fires. That the greatest wonders killed their fair share of humans. Ammunition spent, gunpowder blown, we're back into eachother's orbit.

I'm back to kissing the back of his neck with his body pressed into my belly. Whispering goodnight into his ear. Saying I Love You at the end of a phone conversation.

Taking pictures of all the memories I want to keep.

Laughing over the sound of clinking glasses. Smashing controller buttons in hummingbird rhythms. Summoning treants and shadow cats. Saving the world against the elder gods.

Looking into his blue eyes in the morning when he tries to not smile.

Laughing until he does.

I love you JP. Your lesbian music, your tip toeing, your smirking eyerolls, your distaste for brined vegetables, your hate of tracks, all of it ;)

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