Don’t have much to write. Better, don’t want to write much.

Lately, a little whisper of homesickness has crawled in. Not really, though, because much is comfortable here. It’s still a work in progress this moving your life thang. Still something I haven’t quite mastered. Still a bit rough around the edges.

For years, I worked at making myself comfortable with myself. Some of that involved walking away from people who I just didn’t like much. Life being short and all, and so many reminders in the form of mortality cropping up, I just wanted to stop wasting time. Why sit and listen and be chatty and try to accommodate shit that made you unhappy or uncomfortable or nervous or angry or whatever fucking negative energy could crop up, right? Life = short, so assholes must not be tolerated.

It’s a great theory, anyway. Cut back on wasting time and spend time with folks you like. Bring positive shit to yourself, you know, by seeking out the ones who understand. I tried comedy and writing publicly to try to find those folks. Mostly it worked.

Now, those people are there and I’m here.

I knew when I moved making friends might be one of the hurdles. Mostly, I understand. On occasion, though, it just gives you the old kosmic blues.

When I thunk out the grand plan, though, the one in which I grabbed some gusto and eschewed idiots, it was kind of a solo vision. The natural course being the natural course, I met a cool guy, probably and precisely because I deliberately changed my path.

(A friend once warned me, on the occasion of her wedding, no less, the minute you decide–that’s it, fuck it, bad boyfriends and all, I’m taking charge here and now and living my life alone and on my own, no terms, not prisoners, not regrets, the capital THE man would show up. At the time I scoffed.)

Anyway, in the great grand plan, it was easy to figure out what I wanted (relatively) and what (and who) I’d avoid. Yeah, easy. If you don’t like peas, just don’t buy them, eat them, cook with them or look at them. Same with racists, for example. But, fucking hell, what do you do if your man, your guy, the person you like hanging with the most really likes peas? Or racists?