So long, Marianne

Pretty sure you all know that’s a Leonard Cohen song. Feels like I’ve always listened to Leonard Cohen. Superman is a big fan. He and I went and saw Leonard Cohen together. It was our birthday present to each other the year we lost Wonder Woman. She was a fan too, in fact, his music was chosen by Wonder Woman for her funeral. I rarely listen to Bird on a Wire these days.
Moving on:
It’s Friday, again.
Was an okay week, as far as weeks go.
Sometimes they’re just okay.
Sometimes all the things that lurk in the dark circle like sharks.
Sometimes it’s just a lot and I’m tired.
Other times everything fades away and I have to find my spark, light a fucking freaking torch, and get on with it.
Sometimes it’s anger that surfaces. Bit of a wasted emotion though when it’s the world I’m angry at, I mean really, the world don’t give a fuck rats arse. Let me tell ya, Leonard Cohen is not the right music for this. Nope. Not by a long shot.
Sometimes I just want to listen to music and not think about how shitty life can be. If I think about it for too long then this little fucking Pollyanna type voice starts saying shit about how grateful she is to be a Kiwi and to be in NZ, and how everything will be okay, and My Knight will be able to come home soon, and then the bitch starts playing the Glad game … and her voice sounds a lot like mine. And, people, she knows diddly squat and needs to STFU.
What fits is The Steve Miller Band, Rock’n Me.
Bet you didn’t expect that, haha.
Actually what’s working right now is the play list from Qubyte.
It’s got just eclectic enough to work for me and kinda matches the see-sawing lunacy of this year or this week … both, probably.

I was reading some scenes from Qubyte today, using some as examples of pacing, actually. And you know what? It’s a fucking good story. There I said it. 🙂
This has stuck with me all day.
This is from a chapter called: Friends will be Friends.

“Lee!” I plunged my Glock into my holster and strode across the room to him. Andrews slid to a stop on the other side of Lee’s slumped body and searched for a pulse. Bloody wrappers from dressing packs strewn near Lee, combined with his blood-stained his hands, told a tale.
I saw no one else. Where were they?
I tapped Lee’s collarbone. “Hey, eyes open!”
Andrews nodded at me. A pulse.
“Cowboy the fuck up, Davenport.” I opened his torn shirt to reveal a saturated wound dressing on his abdomen. I lifted the edge and saw more blood. Nasty. I reached into the nearest drawer looking for dressing packs, figuring they were close enough for him to reach without moving far. I ripped one open and jammed a thick wad of gauze on top of the soaked mess in his stomach, pressing it firmly against him. “Oh man, I don’t wanna find myself wrist deep in your guts again, Davenport.”
“Again?” Andrews said.
We watched Lee’s face. His eyelids flickered but didn’t open.
“Again,” Lee croaked. “What can I say … she … is enchanted by my entrails.”
“Glad, you’re not dead,” I said, smiling.


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