Rated R for Language

Listen up, kids, I've gotta address something here: I swear. Yes, it's true! I know you find it hard to believe that this innocent little angel could possible utter a "dang" let alone a...oh, I dunno... "fucktard" (one of my favorites). Anyway, I just thought I should get that out of the way so that those that had a problem with it could just stop reading...my blog entirely.

With that said, I shall begin!

So last night I stayed home for a little bit after work because my mom was making dinner which has become an event in Casa de Loco over here. It's like, "Oh em gee, mom's making dinner! Stop the presses! Cancel all my meetings, Marjorie! Tell the President I'll call him back!"

I mean, that's an exaggeration. But it's close enough.

Anyway, my mom was all pumped because we were having shrimp etoufee which we've never had before. She's on the phone with someone and I'm lurking in the kitchen staring at the pot wondering WHEN, OH GOD WHEN IS IT GOING TO BE DONE!? and, as usual, listening to my mom's conversation of which I can only hear her half:

"Yeah, but I mean, maybe it wasn't from his childhood that makes him act like that. Maybe it was something in early adulthood, you know? Like, something nobody ever talked about."
"Yeah and the alcohol and drugs."
"It's just so sad. Where are they holding the funeral, now? Do we know yet?"

And I'm all, WTF? because I just then, after about 1o minutes of eavesdropping/drooling, had realized that she was not talking about someone we know; she was talking about Michael Jackson. Seriously.

And you wonder why I used to ask if he could come over for breakfast: It's because my mom has always acted like Michael Jackson is a part of my family!

Then, last night I had this totally upsetting dream about him involving a glass door and crying, but we won't even get into that because I have only posted on here thrice and TWO THIRDS OF MY BLOG ARE POSTS ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON. This is apparently affecting my life much more than I was originally aware.

Death affects me probably more than it affects the normal human population. And that is where my commemorative tattoo comes into play (Whenever I hear the word, "commemorative," I think of $250 worth of Seen on TV plates with pictures of Elvis on them. Weird, right?).

You see, it has been a little over six months since my only uncle, my dad's baby brother, hung himself in his cell of the Macomb County Jail. And it feels like it was yesterday.

I still cry myself to sleep. Often.

I still burst into uncontrollable sobbing whenever I hear a Queen song or watch Jesus Christ Superstar (a family Easter tradition, and total fave movie among ex-Mormons).

I still can't handle hearing about my dad, a devout Atheist, asking my stepmom where she thinks Chris is right now. Or when he calls me and tells me to take care of my little brother and sister because they need me and his brother, his baby brother, his only brother is gone. I can't listen to him cry at night. I can't listen to him drink a bottle of wine and talk about it. I can't listen to him tell me "[he's] not mad, [he's] not mad": a (sort of) direct quote from the suicide note left for the siblings ("Don't be mad. Don't be mad. I'll be ok [sic] now.").

The feeling is just as raw now as it had been the day right afterward, and I cannot deal.

So I am getting a tattoo.

I have always held a connection with Winnie the Pooh. He comforts me and reminds me of easier times. Plus, we're both short, chubby, and a little slow in the verbalization of our thoughts and often come off less intelligent than we are.

Thus, because of these two factors, I am getting this, a picture of Christopher Robin taking Winnie the Pooh upstairs at bedtime along with the words, "I'm not mad" tatooed upon my flesh.

Because Christopher Robin is just going upstairs to bed.

He'll be back again tomorrow morning, ready to play.

And that makes me feel, just a little better.

Love,
Katie