I cannot call my American Boy.

Driving in my car tonight, listening to Nirvana because I forgot to grab my Clash CD and Rock had Kurt and the gang in the stereo already. Nirvana reminds me of a very specific time in my life. And I'm thinking that the same can be said for many people. I like the music, still. I really do. Few have been able to match that sound. I'll give them that.

Now where was I?

Oh yes...I cannot call my American Boy. He has suffered enough sleep loss for this Canadian Girl as it is. Poor thing.

And I cannot blog. Well, I guess I actually AM blogging right now, but I'm not saying much. And when I say that I cannot blog, I mean to say that I can't blog about what I want to blog about. Not anymore. Not for a while anyway. I've said before that I hate the feeling of being worried about. I hate the feeling of being thought of. I hate the feeling of concern.

These things are all still true.

So, I cannot blog. Too many lovingly worried people out there, giving old janetk too much thought.

I won't lie and say that there isn't any reason to worry. Believe me, I can look outside of myself from time to time and see this as you see it. I can look outside of myself and look at it through the eyes of a sister.

I know that I need something more. Something smarter. But maybe part of the truth that I never talk about is that I find a certain amount of comfort in these old patterns...like finding an old friend on facebook or something. It takes me back.

So, now where was I?

Right...I cannot call my American Boy. I cannot blog.

I left the house tonight. I had to. I had to get out. Rock worked until late, late, late. He made a nice commission, though. So, he was happy.

As soon as I could, I changed my pants and sprayed myself with perfume and touched up my make up and got out of there. It was the only way.

I went to Fake Name store where I work and tried on clothes and put some stuff aside. Cute stuff. It was fun. It was a good distraction and I realized something.

That might be part of the purpose for me returning to this job...distraction...and a brief and shallow feeling of belonging. Somewhere.

The feeling of distraction was fleeting and when I pulled out of the parking lot, I knew that I couldn't go home, yet.

So, I went to Wal Mart. They are open later, poor souls.

I tried on some bras, found one for nine dollars that fit alright and bought some laundry deteregent and some paper towels. I chatted with the cashier as though I wasn't burning up inside. It was good. It was nice. It was a distraction.

Then I got in my car and started driving.

Nirvana blasted over the crappy speakers.

I hit a skunk.

I felt badly. And it was (obviously) smelly.

I have to look up the skunk in my animal wise book because I also saw one nosing around outside the deck door this afternoon.

It must be trying to tell me something.

The pressure is unbelievable right now. This isn't distracting me enough.

It's time to go.

And now I hear Kurt's voice again...

"And just maybe, I'm to blame for all I've hurt...I'm not sure"