Damn you Michael Jackson

Passengers aboard flight 062609, this is your captain speaking. Yes, it is a smidge after six in the manana, and yes, I am still awake. Ohhhhhhh screwed up sleep schedules. I could probably stop sleeping in until about an hour before I am usually expected at work (3:30-4:30 P.M.) and then I might not encounter this issue, but as always, all in due time. If you haven't heard because you're in a coma or a hermit, Wacko Jacko, or Michael Jackson passed away today at cincuenta anos old, and although I greatly appreciate his innovation and the thriller album, I am almost drowning in the number of condolences and regards that have been made toward his death on my facebook, as if people have said in his wake, "Well, God bless his soul, because in death, mega-hit songs are greater than or at least equal to the que paso'ings at neverland ranch and beyond." If I follow this life equation, then I just need to hurry up and do something insanely influential and epic in some arena of life and then I can start doing whatever the hell I want to after achieving cult status, like finally doing an 8ball of coke or running around smacking elderly people and babies in their cabezas for no real reason at all. But enough on Michael, I already gave him my headline, so there is my tribute. Oh, and to be fair, my regards to Farah Fawcett and Ed McMahan as well.

Today was altogether somewhat uneventful, until the latter part of my noche, when following work and a 2 mile jaunt, I saw that the Pacers drafted Tyler Hansbrough of UNC with our lottery pick (thumbs up), & then as I strolled into our local Applebee's to grab some pre-workout fuel, I was met (and unfortunately in my case in my cut-off xc tee that I've been rocking since I was 15 & the shortest, tightest nike running shorts I own (well, this might not have been unfortunate), with my mexi-crush, the Jugador staring at me in his stupid little way that he has perfected so well, a mixture of acknowledging my looks and yet remaining somewhat dead around the eyes just to make sure that I can never read him, EVER. I chose to sit 3 of his co-workers down from him, opting out of the vacant stool next to el, and spent the rest of my meal there trying to decipher the spanish around me (which I'm good at, but they know that to some extent and speak really rapido or with slang when they want to lose me), acting & speaking flippantly to him, and using the Dos Equis that they bought for me to try and wash the taste he puts in my mouth out. The taste is a potent blend of "I honestly can't believe he is still denying me, even a hang-out", mixed with "I honestly can't believe I even still slightly trip over this muchacho," topped with a pinch of salsa.

I wasn't able to be in a bothersome state of mind for long following this little meet and greet, as baby sister showed up for 2.5 seconds to drop something off to me before heading home, pain etching her beautiful face, the evidence of some sort of heartache just beginning to collect under her eyes in almost invisible, although not to me, traces of eyeliner gone astray. She put up the "please don't ask me about this now" hand as I started to interrogate, but not quite before her eyes began to nadando just the slightest bit, as if they had jumped in a kiddie pool. I didn't push then and just let her go, as I knew exactly where she was at, in those vulnerable, volatile moments in one's life when not even a public audience can keep the floodgates at bay, where a simple word or even sideways glance can cause a crack to become periods of utter devastation. Although the wiser part of me understood as she walked away that one does not understand the depths of his/her heart at quince years old, would look back at 25 like myself and laugh at those initial betrayals of young love, I also understood that age is not a determining factor of the pain that can befall one who has fallen under its spell, false or fleeting as it may later turn out to be.

I remember my first love, at 18 years old, a tall, pot-smoking, pizza hut ripping off, older than me free spirit who I fell for unabashedly, sharing our first kiss in the parking lot of his workplace, me against his transam, his lips on mine to get me to finally "shut-up." It was a whirlwind month, one in which I came home every chance I got from IU to see him my first semester there, watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory drunk together, for me both off the cheap beer and the intoxication of feeling like I did for him, and saying my first "I love you." And yet, as quickly as it began, it was over, and I found myself one night crying, sobbing really, outside the door of his apartment, thrusting a handmade cd at him, begging and pleading with him to not let some "misunderstanding" break us up, break my heart, and yet he stood, stoically, calmly asking me to just get in my car and go home, to get it through my head that we were done. I would go on the rest of my freshman year in Bloomington, although having graduated in top of my class, president of this and that, most likely to succeed, sleeping through my classes, and eventually dropping out of college altogether for the longest time. So yes, "She's 15," I told myself, but yes, I hurt more over a one month relationship right out of high school than most of my following years long pairings. I found out through the trusty legalized stalker that is facebook a week or so ago that my first love, the Dreamer as I will call him, is expecting a baby boy. I don't know if you ever read this, but if you do, I wish you the best of everything.

So I headed home to meet her, and she filled me in on her boy drama with me putting down 4 cups of coffee (might be part of why I'm still jacked up) and her over a decadent, pain-easing brownie concoction, in which we both ended up crying sporadically, she over this boy, and me over her hurt and those of mine past. The first time she started to cry, when she was reading a text that he had sent her apologizing, and I subsequently began to follow suit, I said, "Damn it Michael Jackson," as if he was the reason for our tears and we began to laugh, deep, round belly laughs, which would continue on through the rest of our conversation, reiterating one of the most beautiful truths of life. Yes, people will get in close enough to our hearts to set up shop, plunge some claim into a portion of it. And yet, despite the pain that can come from allowing this pillaging, this camping out, with a little bit of perspective, a dash of hope, in some cases forgiveness, and a sarcastic, joke-cracking friend or family member, you can laugh through the tears, move on, keep loving. And as I know, so deeply know, even seven years later you may still think back to that person, those people, but if you refuse to let it make you bitter, you will love someone even better for the pains of your past.

Keep loving people. It's all we've really got.

& now, the 60-40.

1. Good- I will be unveiling, probably later today, or early tomorrow A.M. about this time, hopefully before, my new summer love project, which I have already got the ball rolling on a couple of potential dates as early as next week.
2. Good- One guy is mid 30's and a sports agent and the other is mid 20's and in his final year of med school.
3. Bad- I heard the most inappropriate M.Jackson joke today, so loco that I won't even put it on here (but if you're around me, feel free to ask & I might indulge you) and I couldn't stop laughing at it. I don't know what that says about me.
4. Good- My bff at the sushi bar, Angel as I will call him, when told of the king of pop's passing, did his best attempt at a moonwalk and said (picture short Mexican guy who is a vocal Christian), "Ayyyy, he is now doing a moonwalk to the infierno." Hahaha, omg.
5. Bad- The Pilot didn't come home from Miami today as I had hoped he would.
6. Good- I found out that my 9 y/o cousin (who is the most adorable blend of Filipino and Black) is coming to live with sister and the 'rents and I for the next month. I am going to take him around the 'Haute & see if I can pass him off as my son.
7. Good- I had a brief conversation on the phone today with my ex esposo and we were cordial as all get out.
8. Bad- Hearing his voice made me somewhat sad for better days and better talks.
9. Bad- I honestly need to get some freaking sleep.
10. Good- I'm going now. But just for the record for all you Pacers fans that are worried about Tyler being the wrong guy to draft, he will fit into our system just fine. He is fundamental, a hard-worker, comes from a well-coached UNC program, and brings just the type of image and attitude that the Pacers need, to become like teams of past and not reminiscent of the Trailblazers and other punk squads of yore.

Xoxo to all, and to all a good nite.