moments from the weekend

Moments and thoughts from this past weekend.

Apparently I was in need of some gay man love because I went to see, "Brokeback Mountain," which was beautifully sad, and "Transamerica," great movie and performances.
I went with my gay friend, then went to the gay bar later that night and talked with my gay friends. It was a gay love-fest.

I discovered that I still know all the words to, "Ice, Ice Baby," and "Crazy for You." I can also still rock out to them in my car and look like an idiot while I do it. Yet, still not care.
Which, how is it possible to remember words to a song that you haven't heard in years, but what I did yesterday? No so much.

"Shaun of the Dead," and "Harold and Kumar go to White Castle," are hilarious. Apparently I have low-smart-ass humor running in my veins.

Trying to bring in groceries in four inch heels when you live in a walk-up, is a pain in the ass. Literally.

When asked if I want 12 oz of Boulevard Big Irish Ale for $3.00 or 22 oz for $4.00, the only reason I hesitated, because I was taking the last drink of my beer. Um, yeah, that's a tough one.

When Billy told me he was going to leave his entertainment center in his apartment because he didn't want to and didn't feel like moving it into his new place, therefore losing his deposit and again, not caring about losing the $500.00, I realized he and I are no longer in the same economic bracket. When I offered to come and take a chainsaw to the entertainment center, therefore removing it from the apartment, could I then get the $500.00? Um, no.

Ever evolving friendships. People who come into and go out of our lives. Why and how? They come at a time when we need that person, but why do they leave our lives when they do?

Painting and how I got started. James came over one night this past fall with all of his stuff and I just sat and painted. I picked it up from there. I've always been artsy, but I can't draw with a darn, (as you may have noticed) but I love it.

Writing, I've always been a writer. Always. For as long as I can remember, but started again with my non-fiction writing class this past summer and the fact that I was in a wheelchair and couldn't do much else. Where it went and why I stopped? No idea. All I know it that writing is what I am supposed to do and be with my life. I can't describe it. I need it. It's my outlet. I would be lost without it and perhaps this is why it has taken me so long to be where I am. However, who cares, at least I found it again.