a stroke at midnight: the proof

Today was possibly the longest day of my life. Many murky things abound, many unsettled things. But many good things, too. Many possibilities. Many things started that seem to be gelling and coming together with a certain scary ease.

One of the issues I've been having at work, along with several others, may soon be coming to a head. Whatever the outcome, it's how it's got to be.

But the worst part was that I couldn't think straight. I would have preferred to stay home, in bed, waiting for the post man. No, the post man doesn't always come twice. In fact, around here, he doesn't come at all. At least, not that I'm aware. And certainly not with me; it's a woman for crying out loud!

But it was what the post man would be bringing; the proof of my very first, self-published, Print-On-Demand book, through lulu.com.

When I opened the mail box, there was a largish box just laying there beneath all the other mail, most of which was garbage. Since my partner orders a lot of stuff through ebay, his comics, and so on, I thought, maybe it was something he ordered. The box was way too big for my little book!

But when I pulled the box out and saw who the shipper was, I nearly pissed myself. Lulu!

Shaking, I tore ass down the street to our townhouse, waved quickly at a neighbor who looked like he wanted to stop and talk, and rushed inside.

Once inside I was besieged by three dogs and two cats; all meowing and barking and spinning in circles and clicking their nails on the floor. I thought I would go mad. But I had to take care of them first because our three dogs are demanding bitches. So are the two cats.

When either one of us gets home, there is no relaxing. There is no racing to the bathroom to pee or checking messages, or e-mail or flipping through what came in the post.

So I lifted up the baby gate, let the girls out back and hurried to the kitchen. First the cats, then the girls. By that point, Emma, the oldest pug, was scratching incessantly at the back door. It's really quite annoying at times. It was especially annoying today.

Somehow, the short amount it actually takes from start to finish, seemed to last longer than usual.

Then, finally, they were done eating. I scooted them out the door, locked them out to do their business while I sat down at the kitchen table to do mine.

First I looked at the box, waiting like an idiot. I guess I was savoring the moment. Will it ever be like this again?

I ripped open the box and there, sitting inside, in a protective plastic wrap, was my very first book ever. A red cover, with white lettering.

a stroke
at
midnight
A Collection of Gay Erotic Stories.

I used a pair of tweezers (they were the first thing available to me) to gently tear a gash in the plastic. Then ripped it off and held my book in my hands. My book. It feels so good to say that.

I opened the cover and flipped through each and every single page. I looked at the title page, the copyright page, the page numbers, the type face, the point size, the thickness of the paper, the look of the cover.

And I shook inside.

I was so completely and totally overjoyed that all I could do was simply . . . sit still.

It was one of those things, one of those moments, that was meant for me and me alone, to experience in my mental and physical solitude.

Even now, several hours afterwards, the book is sitting beside me as I write this, like some superstitious amulet. And I simply don't know what to say. I can't seem to put it down. I feel ecstatic, as though there are endless possibilities now!

And yet I'm frightened.

That's right. You read me right.

You see, the process has started. The ball is rolling. The things I wanted to implement so that I could eventually leave my full-time work and do my own thing. Or at the very least, afford some extra time so I could do what I want, to do some legitimate writing . . . well, that time is here. At least the start of it. And I actually still wonder; am I ready? Am I not just ready, but willing, to stop the "Woe is me?" To stop the dreaming and wondering what if? Am I truly ready to live the life of someone who has absolutely no qualm about starting something, having it fail, fall on my ass, then stand up again and shake myself off?

But more importantly, am I ready, and do I have what it takes, to live the life I've always wanted, to try things and actually succeed?

I know that this is not the end all and be all of my life. It's just another stepping stone. Hell, if that was all there was, I might as well just ask whatever is out there to take me tonight and be done with it.

But I know life is about more than just waking up early and getting to work and being a little bee, carrying out someone else's wishes. I know there's more to life than catering to some theatre snob who is an absolute prick (or cunt) and thinks that because they were born into money, a specific religion, ethnic group, or any other kind of privilege, that they deserve, deserve, deserve.

There has to be more to life than just cashing in your paycheck and dreaming of a better life. Right?

I guess I've just been flinging so much shit that I'm now surprised some of it has stuck and it's actually starting to form some sort of picture. I just can't see what it is just yet.

So? What happens next? I've calmed myself down for one. I've also taken a deep breath. And now I will close my eyes and leap into the darkness that lies before me. I just hope there's something there to catch me.