All You Need Is Love, 2.

I am thinking of bringing Literary Slumber back. A curious comment on the Apple-Mantini Challenge video acted as the intra-web muse for me to play Google Analytics Sleuth. Somebody visited this website on January 2nd for twenty six minutes, and took a special interest in the posts marked with the tag "Rosemary". This one'll be the first one in a long while.

I am very proud of myself, reading those old Rosemary Posts. For one, they are beautifully written. A majority of the words were created in response to some harsh shit*, and to create such coherent responses out of mental disarray is extraordinary. There are excerpts that still jump out at me, about wanting to go back to school and the desire to be a writer. Funny how it goes.

One post in particular may have had a particularly awful impact on my life- the one entitled "All You Need Is Love." I remember that entry being taken the wrong way, thus sparking a slew of slanderous responses and the halt to any civil communication. It was written during a time when negotiations may have still been possible. There is the possibility, I suppose, that it wasn't taken the wrong way, and the truth of the situation became unbearable for the reader- though I highly doubt that scenario.

See, during the time that I wrote that I was going through a lot of pain. That doesn't make the entry any more malicious or any less genuine. I did not write it to hurt anybody, and I still stand by every word. The point is, though, that during those Summer months I was the one feeling the paralyzing effects of the spotless-less mind, she wasn't... yet (*remember the 'harsh shit' reference?). She was still experiencing the honeymoon phase of her recent honeymoon, and something as feeble as what we went through hadn't hit... yet. A few months later that changed. It was too late, of course.

I tried to explain how I felt during the older conversations, and she tried to explain how she felt during the later conversations. They were the exact same pains and emotions for each of us, just on a delay for one of us. There were promises of trust made

Then I'm informed by an officer that a call was made claiming that an earlier call had been made- and any amount of remaining trust was left in the eternal sunshine.

There are still days (nights to you people) when the thoughts ache, though they're much rarer. I can say that this is being written during one of them, though it's the first of the month thus far- that I can recall, anyway.

There is a lot for me to be happy about, so that helps what was essentially a constant search for distractions. I think the happiness has won. I can look at everything as a means to what's to come. Sometimes I catch myself hating Las Vegas, wishing I had never moved out here. Then I remind myself that under those circumstances there would be no We Hit & Run, and I wouldn't know the people that I'll always remember as the best friends I've ever had.

To steal a phrase I would have never of otherwise used if not for moving out here:

I believe in We Hit & Run; Real Kid Radio.

Everything I've ever thought of doing- from singing to writing to even the retail shit I'm doing now- I've never believed I could accomplish anything from it. I believe I can accomplish this.

I want to major in English when I go back to school. I want to pursue the whole writing gimmick, and I want to master this language. Yet, I find myself censoring a large portion of the literary universe out of my mind.