Musing over Muses, or, Detox-Driven Girl-Blogger on Girl-Blogger Love

It's day eight in detox. And I think it's working. 


The first two days were predictably awful--me moping around in dumpy t-shirts with no make-up on through twitchy bouts of dopamine withdrawal, voluntarily isolated in an empty space that felt weirdly wired with a thousand eyes sardonically watching each pathetic example of my LAMENESS. It probably looked a bit like "check in" day on the shit show that is HBO's Celebrity Rehab, only no one confiscated the stash of klonopin I stuffed in a balloon and hid in my anal cavity and Dr. Drew was no where to be found, which is sad, because if he had been around I would have screwed that sexy, sensible, silver-haired poindexter until he took to his Twitter account and sent out a 140-character mayday for help.


Fortunately, around day four a few landmark things happened, one of those events being a relentless night of insomnia which would not be beaten into submission by anything, including two of the previously mentioned anally-stashed klonopin. So, like all sleep experts recommend, I stayed up until dawn going through the archives of my favorite bloggers.  


By sunrise I was delirious, overwhelmed with words and wit and bad puns and really fucking great bad puns and poetry that doesn't suck and pictures of assless leggings and months and months of the banal shit we occupy ourselves with on a daily basis that, in the hands of lesser personalities, would probably make me want to eat an entire balloon stuffed with butt-benzodiazapines...but doesn't, because when filtered through the prism of certain people it all becomes twisted, fascinating, relatable, and sometimes outright funny. And the best of it was written by women. 


Sleep-deprived and barely lucid, laying in someone's empty bed with dawn lapping at my face, my brain spun a wild, tongue-in-cheek Sapphic monologue, a talent-crush fantasy strewn with hyperlinks:


"I need an escape from my self-absorbed prison, where I let male guards piss in my cell and then ask why the floors are so sticky. 


Maybe I'll take off to Texas and have a torrid affair with the Hipstercrite, plying her with PBR until she blacks out and I can steal from her closet. But only after her cool Austin buds bail us out of jail, because if she (and this brain) and I meet and alcohol is involved we will inevitably get ourselves arrested...


...or maybe it's about staying local and fucking My Soul is a Butterfly's Hannah Miet like a palindrome, which is fine because she likes shit like that that. And when I'm through I'll loll naked and tangled in her sheets, praying she'll read a stanza of the poetry that flows through her as naturally as blood so I know what real poetry sounds like out loud... 


...I could marry The Sassy Curmudgeon, especially after this brilliant piece of insightful comedic foreplay, but someone beat me to it and she blogs about him frequently, and he really looks better with facial hair than I and I couldn't deal with the competition...


...I would fall for Ashley of lesbifriends, but it would never work out since her lesbian pals would find my bisexuality suspect and tear us apart like Tony and Maria (Toni and Maria?). So I'll just read posts like this on a fire escape "somewhere" (ha, get it? Oh man. Musical theater jokes. You hit the jackpot today guys...) and love her from afar...


...Meg of Blackberries to Apples is a good Southern girl who'd never tolerate my crass Northern bullshit, not even if I toned it down to write her name in the snow in romantic calligraphy like a proper suitor, but I can still watch her writing climb upwards like ivy and say that I knew her when she was a seedling...


...I've known Jenny of At a Loss for Words long enough to know she'd never biflingual, but I can certainly lay here and pray to see the world through her eyes someday, since I'd be beautiful enough to take pictures of (inside and out) if I could learn to quiet the sharpest words in my head... 


...and the first thing I'll do when I remember this ramble is thank the logical, unstoppable phenom that is Jessie at 20-Nothings, because she told me and taught me to write a blog, and opened a world beyond my old journal, and helped me find minds that make me feel crazy moments are okay, as long as you can make other people  laugh at them."


Then I finally fell asleep. I think.




So far the time in detox has done several things, some I don't totally understand. But I do understand it's made me want to spend more time in the company of minds like the ones listed above and fewer hours sequestered away obsessing like some far-off Rapunzel with an Aeon Flux bob and binoculars, as tends to happen when you get distracted by things without boobs.