A two and a half hour walk to cover all things missed over the last month or so of secrets sharing, when J-Canary said “I have come to accept that I have zero chill with men. I rev at 100, and if they’re not reving at 100 with me,” then they need to find another damned parking lot, I finished.

Hope springs eternal in us both, as we make our way through the cesspools of men in this and neighbouring cities, still believing that, and being driven by the possibility of finding that one nugget of integrity, mercy, hotness, and all-around with normal problems like he-doesn’t-put-the-toothpaste-cap-back-on, rather than legit some wild identity crisis hidden behind the guise of modern liberalism, but is in fact deep-driven self-loathing.

LET ME TELL YOU, the cesspool diving, IT IS NOT EASY. And ‘cesspool’ because I am being generous with my today language. The only upside? It makes for hilarious and stop-in-your-footsteps conversation.

I think, primarily, because it gets easier as we age to not leave any room for any kind of shit. Like the last situation in which I found myself, over the course of 12 hours, I was basically turned into the Road Runner, up in the air, wheels spinning and out the door faster than you can complete the alphabet. The moment my antenna went up, I asked the questions I needed asked, in order to complete the picture which had previously been blurred. Answers in hand, and the puzzle which I’d been trying to piece together coming fully to light and I. Hand to God. Fucking. Ran.

In fact. Right over to my friend’s place where I basically barricaded us in his small office and shattered his own moment of afternoon zen with my wild energy just fully aware that what I had originally believed, was not to be believed.

Just last year, I would not have Road Runner-ed, I don’t think. I would have instead rested my head on the shoulder of Hope a little longer until God picked up my sad and sorry ass and threw me out of a window, far away from any shoulders, Hope or male. Along with not taking, or allowing for shit as we age, we are also far more comfortable being unapologetically who we are, and making certain that the spaces we create are only of peace, clarity, and the type of kindness our hearts need to rest (since not all hearts find their peace in the same spaces). Natural caveat here is that, in the interest of giving situations a chance and the room to root, beginnings are precarious, demanding that we allow space for the truth to show itself so that we might positively identify whether we’re dealing with something worth pursuing, or a thing which is better left in our rear-view mirror.

Bringing me full-circle back to my beautiful J-Canary, and the ownership of who we are, and what we bring to the table, as well as the reasons we stay, and the ones we leave.

Does your engine rev at 100 every single step of the way and with every new encounter? Then my hope for you is that you never pump any brake if so doing diminishes from your presence; better that you are a blur to those who could never see you, than a clear image to those who don’t wish to see you in your fullness.

You are in best company, when you are in honest and authentic company, my loves; yours alone, before all others.

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