nobody knows what waits for the dead

I am sitting here, devoid.

Devoid, as in-scooped clean, empty, utterly unfilled.

Here, as in-the deserted underbelly of the Silver Slipper Casino. The only things out here are a tiki bar, an infinity pool, one lone fisherman guy, and a beautiful, cloudless, windy day.

I am devoid, and I am here, and I am 33 years old.

Maybe it's dramatic (and as I'm writing this I'm mentally scolding myself for being just so) but very little actual writing ever got done by being bland or non-expressive. The trick is to express it just so. However, I am losing just so.

I know, I know. Get over it, you whiny asshole. Stop whining. Do something. Nobody wants to read a blog bloated with grief.

Well, I don't give a fuck what anyone wants to read.

Yesterday was my birthday. I went to work. My coworker got me some sparkly stuff from Fleurty Girl. I got birthday hugs. They all clapped when I left and yelled 'Happy birthday!' and it was nice. My grandma called-she made me gumbo and potato salad for my birthday, redeemable whenever I got back to L-Town.

Got in the car, went to Walmart for travel shampoo and conditioner, got on the road. Bay St. Louis is not as far as a drive as Biloxi and the Silver Slipper (which I've never been to before) is isolated at the end of a long road. Stacie called. That was nice.

Got here, met up with Mom, who kindly got me a room to hang out in for the anniversary of exiting her womb. Got presents. Answered Facebook birthday messages (something I always try to do) and found out that the food court here offered a Cuban sandwich (something I crave constantly) so we went and ate that. Tried to get a room for tonight but they're all booked up. I went and sat by the pool while Mom gambled. It's one of those infinity pool deals and it was pretty cold but I didn't care. Went back to the room, got sparkly, ate steak at a nice place with Mom, came back to the room. I read about Columbine and roamed my hotel room restlessly-the room didn't come with a bath and when I can't have a bath, I start getting anxious. It sounds stupid, but it's my version of a Xanax and without it, I can't calm down enough to sleep. I had Jack, but I wasn't in the mood to drink. Drinking has lost it's oomph since Destin. So has photography. So has writing. Not that those things are always obtainable and enjoyable, but all of my energy goes to putting one foot in front of the other. Trying not to be alone too much. Swimming. Shameless. Work. Home. Chat.

Chat, where people are dropping like flies. Funny how much that used to matter to me, like I could worry about a single person leaving, and in the span of two weeks, three or four people just left. I've accepted that it's like trying to hold smoke together, and that's how it is. Woo-sah.

I left my Mom sleeping last night around midnight and tried to come to the pool, which boasted 24/7 access, but it was closed. Tried to go and get myself a hot chocolate with raspberry, but it tasted like warm dishwater, so I just came and laid back down. Maybe tomorrow will be better, I reasoned. Sometimes birthdays are just off.

And when I woke up I felt like this. Tabula rasa. Which is annoying, I'm sure-but a hell of a lot better than the shit I felt last night. When Mom finally wakes up and we go eat champagne brunch and we go home, I'm going to pop some St. John's Wort and try to be productive, try to play a little Assassin's Creed, try to shake off this irritating little emo monkey on my back. Contrary to popular belief, I do not like being sad and I do not like being defeated. I have been both before and I have gotten over it. I like being busy. I like going out and seeing the world and carving out a little place for myself within it. I like getting in my car and taking a road trip and blaring my music and headbanging in the car and that tingly feeling in my fingers when I get a good shot with my camera. I like being stupid with my friends in chat. And though I might act like I don't, I like being hugged and held and kissed. It's hard for me to reach out for it, and it's hard for me to ask, but I do need it. I don't like limbo. I don't like having to guess.

I am thirty three years old yesterday, and I am done chasing. I am done being the first one that reaches out.

That is the one thing I know and the one thing I am going to try my fucking damndest to hold onto.

I'm not going to fucking beg.

I'm not going to put myself fucking out there.

I deleted one person out of my life for fucking with me that way and I am not afraid to do it again.

Tiki bar. Salt air. Gulf breeze. Keep looking forward. Halloween party. Christmas. Con. Le Mis. After that, all bets are off. After that, nothing is for certain.

What I do know for certain, though

Is that I want to fuck up a lot of bacon, so I'm going to go jump on the bed and annoy my mother into bringing me for breakfast. Because it was my birthday, dammit.

And I don't want yesterday to define it.

-Rae