forgive me, if you wished for depth
At a quarter after one I sit here and wonder why it gets so lonely when I come home by myself to my chilly and empty apartment.
my storybook lover, you have underestimated my power, as you're sure to discover
I'm listening to Paul Simon right now, and resisting turning on the heater because "I'm about to go to sleep."
When I sit in the early evening with my girls and eat and watch Prime Time, I feel as though no moment alone will ever resound with the lonliness I feel right now.
No sound in my world but my own music and the typing of my fingers.
I really love my girls, and their love, and the food they offer, and I miss Ashley (away at a conference).
And I love karaoke and my bartenders, bouncers, the emcee, and the regulars, and the good response I evoke from the crowd when I perform.
But now I'm home, and it's lonely and cold.
So... my father's new wife is buying Cub's tickets for June and she bought me one, too. Good wife-of-my-dad, I guess.
How come a bastard like my dad found love before I did?
Don't worry, NYC - and my friends therein - I'll visit soon because I'm beginning to long to see my kids. I just have to wait for warmth. The next time I'm there I want t-shirt weather in the City that Never Sleeps.
And dear IUB reader-annonymous, please keep reading, but just know you are killing me with confusion. I see the strange hours at which you inspect my journal, and I'm fraught with curiosity and what colleague could be so well informed of my life. Glad you are so consistent, but I wish I knew to whom I should be giving tribute.
