pain and strain and the mundane

I did the class on blogs and learned I should entitle these entries such innocuous and flowery shit, but I still have a tendency towards poetry, though a lot of it has been washed out of my mind with those big surgeries I had in 2006. I forgot to mention one of my exes from NYC wrote me a few months ago as he had found one of my poems in storage, one of my cocktail napkin poems, that is--and decided to come find me on Facebook. It was a pure nostalgic check-in, I assume, because we did not become friends there, he just messaged me through the messenger. No idea how, though, as I keep that shit locked down. This was August, though, and I left the shit show that is Facebook from the end of October to the middle of December. I am not sure if I should have ever come back, to be quite honest. I still happen to know more about what is going on with the world given my copious news consumption--people still share shit as new I read about weeks ago. The fury and hyperbole driving things is still very relevant, as ...