Wednesday, October 27, 2010

For Myself, and for Scott...

Well, it's been a long time coming, and I've been craving it, I'm back! Writing a little something for you, and for me. :)

I'm on this journey with my brother, Scott. On August 6th, I flew to Oregon to save his life. He was depressed to the point of (almost) no return, was wanting and waiting to die. He had given up. At nearly 700 pounds, who could really blame him?

For two months in Oregon I went crazy on his ass, implemented a new diet and exercise routine, and chatted with him daily about the positivities in life, the potential he has, the reasons he could focus on to get better. It worked.

I brought Scott back to Vegas with me a month ago. And here's where the story really starts. I've been feeling sorry for myself. I've been feeling like I've taken on too much, burdened myself with the ginormous responsibility of Scott's disease. I've been full of anxiety, full of doubt, and full of SHIT. Last night I realized something that brought me back to reality. A family dinner. So simple, so normal, so very honest, and so, so important.

When I first moved to Vegas, I adopted a brilliant little family almost instantly. Through a mutual connection, these people became my home-away-from-home, my link to job sources, my personal GPS in a city I had never driven in before, and my place to share, hug, and laugh. Last night they all came over for dinner, and Scott was introduced, instantly accepted, and loved as though they'd known him forever. We ate like it was Thanksgiving, we talked about nothing and everything, we played poker and ate some more. We bickered, rolled our eyes, debated things, laughed. We hugged, shared, winked, and smiled. A real family dinner.

After our guests left, Scott and I rehashed the night, laughing about everyone's quirks, and feeling generally satisfied. And then Scott said this, "I just LOVE a family dinner, it's what I've enjoyed most in life, and what I crave!" It wasn't until we were done chatting and I retreated to my room that I really thought about that comment, really thought about what that dinner meant.

Scott has not been to a family gathering for several years. We have a large extended family, and everyone gathers for one reason or another several times a year. I have missed some events because I'm far away or because of work. With Scott's inability to travel, he has missed them all. It has been YEARS since he experienced that camaraderie that comes with a family dinner. Years since he's felt the feeling of "family". And it brought me to tears.

There are lots of things in life we all take for granted without even knowing it. Family seems like it rides the top of the list most often. What Scott taught me last night was that I'm stupid, selfish, and forgetful. What I have been able to experience in this life is Mount Everest in comparison to Scott's little sand dune of life experience. And I am truly grateful for that. But, most of all, I am in awe at the beauty of the journey in front of us. The path we are on now, together, is something I cherish, and something I would never, ever want to give back. Who gets to be a part of something like this, really? Who gets to bring someone back from the brink, and live the process so truly? Who gets to give someone hope, and reap the rewards of that on a daily basis? Well, I do. Me. Wow! What a gift!

I regret to say, the reason I haven't written about all of this since a few weeks into my Oregon stay, is because I've been unable to shake my "poor, poor me" attitude. I was ashamed of it, but couldn't get away from it. I didn't want the world to know how utterly selfish I was. All the while, my friends and family have been telling me how strong I am, how wonderful I am to take on this "project", how great of a person I am for it. And all I could think was, "what the hell am I doing, and WHY am I doing this to myself?" Yeah, not the most humanitarian or selfless way to think or feel. But it was there, so much so that I sort of forgot what this is all about. Don't get me wrong, though, because there is not ONE MOMENT that I've regretted the keep my brother alive, and to help him live that life how he wants to, without the restrictions he has now.

I am of a different mind about it all today. I have finally come to a place in my heart and mind that isn't punishing, but happy...isn't doubtful, but proud...isn't sorry, but thankful. It feels much better to be in this place. It feels right, and productive. It feels hopeful, and I needed that...for myself, and for Scott.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Catch 22

My horoscope today, May 16th, 2010: You seem keen to solve a mystery that continually plagues you. This is the kind of problem you enjoy looking into as it involves doing research into an area that holds a powerful fascination for you. You both love the idea of a mystical relationship with the Universe and yet are frightened of losing yourself in the process. This is your personal Catch-22.

How very true. When I left New York a few years ago, I had begun to start a new relationship with the universe. A new religion, so-to-speak. A new faith in myself. The personal journey from questioning myself to believing in myself was extremely difficult. The constant positive thinking was an intense transition. Up until then, I had always considered myself a pretty positive person, and was literally dumbfounded when something went horribly wrong. After beginning this transition, I realized how really negative I was at times. But I had to give it a try, had to change the way I thought, and felt about life. And so I did. The results have been shockingly transparent and life-changing for me.

The book that helped me kick-start this whole life change was "The Secret". I still use it as a reference from time to time, but its teachings are pretty well ingrained in my brain by now. Ask for what you want, believe you have it, be thankful for it. Pretty simple, really. I suppose it's the other, deeper tenets in the book that put me in what my horoscope calls my "catch 22". Constant positivity. Constant gratitude. Constant belief in something unknown, something imagined.

I am a person, still, who believes there must be a down to have an up, a dark to have a light. And I also believe EVERYONE needs to have a few bad days. Days to cry, sleep for 12 hours, curl up and die - if only for a little while. There is always a way to find a positive spin on something. But sometimes I don't think the energy I expend doing that is necessarily worth it. Sometimes just feeling the bad, all the way to my soul, is better for me. And, yes, I'm grateful. Very grateful for my life and all the things in it. But, I tire at times, of thanking the universe when bad shit happens. Honestly, I just want to say, "Fuck you, Universe! What's THIS supposed to do for me?!?!?" when something terrible happens. This is my personal "catch 22" I suppose. Trying to keep positive, all the while keeping my soul original. Keeping my thoughts mine, staying REAL.

What I do know, the thing that hasn't ever changed or waivered, is my hopefulness. I believe in so much possibility, so much good, I'm pretty sure it's unhealthy. :) But that, I will NEVER give up. That is the only constant I can claim. And, hopefully, it's the one thing that will last long after I'm when you can smell the rain coming, and think only of the rainbow that may appear.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

For My Mommy...

This Mother's Day, I haven't sent my Mom a card or flowers or a gift. I have been thinking about it for weeks now, and have come up empty-handed. Truthfully, every time I thought of buying a card, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I've always bought a card, always. But this time I feel so much more in my heart than a cheesy card would do justice to. I don't know what, if anything, has changed this year. I don't know why a card won't be enough. But it isn't. So, the only thing I can really think of is to tell my Mom, on this blog, just exactly how I feel about her.
I am 32 years old, I often call her Mommy, and I don't care what you think of that. She is my everything. She is my favorite. She is my strength. So, without further ado, here's a letter to my Mom...

Hi Mommy!!!

Today is Mother's Day. Silly, though, 'cause I feel the same about you today as every other day. I really love you beyond words, but because we are both "words" people, I'm still going to try and put it in writing.

Every time I think of you, which is pretty darn often, I think about how much we laugh when we're together, and it makes me smile. Every time. We have so many inside jokes that I've lost count. And when something creeps into my head from a long ago joke we shared, sometimes I literally laugh so hard I cry...or pee my pants a little. No matter what has ever happened between us, we've ALWAYS been able to make each other smile.

Every time I miss you, which is pretty darn often, I think about how you still rock me in your chair if I'm having a bad day. How you smooth back my hair, and dry my eyes, and wrap your arms around me. How you've done that since I was born, and even though I'm 32 now, and kind of a big girl, you are still there for me in that most primitive way.

Every time I think of you, which is every day, I hope you know how much I love you. I'm a good person because of you. You have made me compassionate, and smart, and happy. You have made me tolerant, and kind, and helpful. You have made me humble, and strong, and passionate about life. You have fueled my dreams, and encouraged my creativity. You have taught me, celebrated me, loved me.

Every time I miss you, which is every day, I remember things we keep just for us, and my heart is filled. No one else knows the significance of ", Mama". No one knows who Jeff Erson is. No one knows how it feels when you "find your HOOOOME". No one knows what most of our stupid stories are, and I like it that way. We are silly, together. So, when I miss you, I close my eyes (except when I'm driving) and imagine some of these exact moments. I feel you here. And it helps to stay the lonliness.

Every time someone talks about losing their Mother, I have an anxiety attack. The mere thought of living life without you here sends me spinning into the abyss. So, instead I think of all the experiences we still have left together. I think of trips we'll take, things we'll see together, squabbling over crossword puzzles, and who took the last cup of coffee. I think of how I give you a nervous breakdown with my crazy driving, and how you laugh at me when I act like an idiot. I think of how, every time I've wanted to be something, you've told me I can. And every time an oppotunity came up, you sacrificed something of yourself to give me a chance.

I think about your life and all you've wanted to be. And I think I have the most amazing Mother on the planet, because you gave all of it to me instead. I hope that one day soon, you'll recognize that you are amazing, and take some of life for yourself. See the world, write a book, find your cabin in the woods and surround yourself with things to read. I hope someday soon, I can show you that your work is pretty much done with me, and it's time for you now. Not to say that I don't still (and always will) need my Mommy. I just want to give you back at least a little of what you have given me. Because you deserve everything that makes you happy.

I'm a pretty darn amazing person, if I do say so myself. But it's not me who can take most of the credit for that. You have poured so much love into me - all my life - and have created everything I am proud of about myself. I am your Opus, Mr. Holland. I just hope I can show you someday what an impact that will have on the world. What an impact YOUR love will have. What all your sacrifices were for.

So, for all the times we've laughed, or cried, yelled at each other, or hugged. For all the worries, and jokes, and time, and distance. For all the kisses on my boo-boos, and spanks on my butt. For all the pride in your face, and the care in your heart. For all your expectations and dreams of what I might become. For all the faith you've had when you shouldn't have. For all the times you put me first. For all the times you put me in my place. For the intelligence you stressed and the care you demanded of me. For all the Sunday crosswords and dinners you cooked. For every last piece of you that you've given to me. For being that one person I can ALWAYS count on for a real answer. For being my Mom, and all that has meant to you, and all it has meant to me...

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you much more than these words, and much, much more than my luggage. ;)

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Face it, Facebook....I Love You

Facebook. Fantastic. Is it only coincidence that these two words start with the same letter, and are alliterately similar? Methinks not so much a coincidence, after all.

What has Facebook done for me, you ask? Ohhhh, my dear, let me count the ways this product of the information super-highway has enriched my soul....

Facebook has given me a link, sometimes literally, to people I know, people I knew once, people I want to know better. People. Lives. The whole entire UNIVERSE, it seems. Maybe this makes me pathetic. But at least I'm in good company. :)

There's a lot of funny things about facebook, and funny ways to learn about people. For instance, you know by the information on your home page who has a business, kids, is married, is hopeful, is having a bad day, is going skiing for the weekend. I know more about some of these people than I ever knew when I knew them before. I know more about some of these people than I ever wanted to, in fact. Then there's the game addicts, the Farmville, Casino Land, Aquarium Master, Mafia Bosses. My current gauge of how interesting people's lives are is by visiting their profile. If more than 3 out of 5 recent posts are from these silly games, I know they must be lacking a little...or a lot of SOMETHING in their lives. Maybe just imagination?

On the other hand, stumbling upon my profile, one might find a random spattering of genuinely crazy rants, links, music, pictures of my cats, mundane status updates, drunken episodes, and perhaps something funny every so often.

Which is better? Being a truly open book and uncovering all of one's laundry, whether it be dirty or smelling irish-springs fresh? Or playing games and keeping your privacy settings wired like you house the Mona Lisa within?

I don't know the right answer, I just know what's right for ME, right now. And that is letting go, and letting people in. Letting myself be judged, read, seen....and not care what people say or think about any of it. Except, of course, when it's a good thing they say. I am addicted to seeing people "Like" my status, or comment. My heart picks up a beat or two when someone initiates a chat, or sends me a real message. Getting a friend request holds so much power sometimes, it's electrifying. Getting denied a friend request is disheartening, yet freeing and allows me to let go, figuratively, and literally.

One of the only Facebook applications I use is Iheart. I love it, which is the essence of the thing, I suppose. I send hearts to people because I want to say "hi" or "i love you" or "whasssup!". I send hearts to as many people as I can, as often as I can. I admit, I send hearts to people who send hearts back because I want to get hearts too. I send hearts to help Haiti, because they look pretty, to make someone's day, to let someone know I'm thinking about them. I send hearts, and I'll likely never stop. A few people have told me not to send them hearts anymore. Callous. Cold. Who doesn't have room in their lives for a heart? Really? But it's actually no big deal. I just send them to other people.

Facebook has brought people back to me that I will cherish forever, has gotten me closer to family, has reminded me how important the human connection really is. Facebook has also taught me that, in some circumstances, I was right to not want some people in my life. That their existence is made up of a lot of bullshit I don't care about, and never will. In snippets, Facebook provides a window into people's closets, journals, and secret hiding places. It is a place to share, and weren't we all taught as kids that sharing is caring?

This crazy forum is a place to cry, laugh, raise an eyebrow, learn, and play. It's a vessel upon which we sail in and out of each other's lives, as often or sparsely as we so wish. But for me, sometimes, it makes me ever so lonely. REAL human connection is what I crave. A touch, a smile, a hug, a story in full, a clink of the glass, a high five, a tissue handed over, a shared bowl of popcorn, a giggle-snort in all it's glory. Facebook makes me long for these things more than ever sometimes. But as it is, I'd rather have it virtually, than not at all.

So, to sum it up, I guess I can really say that Facebook has made my life a richer thing. It has created energy within me that wants to reach out, wants to KNOW people. Facebook has been, for me, a time-warp, a capsule opened up, a journey into unexplored territory, a connection. A blissful field of flowers; wise, beautiful, hopeful, funny flowers. Every day I pick a bunch, and LISTEN to what they write, and feel. Every day I find something on Facebook that makes me smile, frown, laugh out loud, or grimace. And sometimes, I find my own story, right in the middle of someone else's sentence, or photo, or link.

So, I'll be the first to say it - loud and proud - I LOVE YOU, FACEBOOK! Thanks for being the pod for my peas, the sun to my flower, the lighter for my cigarette, the spigot on my box of complete me.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

A Heavy Heart...A Sad Truth

When I decided to move to Vegas, a lot of my friends were quite worried for me. Not because of the crime, not because it was so far from home and I'd be all alone. But because I like to gamble. Somehow I ended up with a network of friends back home who neither have the slightest clue about gambling, nor the slightest interest in it.

I, on the other hand, have been gambling since I was a teenager. As soon as I turned 21, I was working as a blackjack dealer, and fully immersed in the gambling culture. Most of my family have been big-time gamblers for years. I've spent all-nighters with my Mom, aunts and uncles, cousins in one casino or another, cheering over a blackjack, playing the numbers in roulette, punching buttons on a machine, or bluffing at big pots on the poker table. We've all exchanged loans when we're stuck, pulled each other away from games when it was time, rejoiced in big wins, looked on as our stubborn loved ones dumped sometimes thousands of dollars into the great wide world of chance.

So, I suppose my friends (and family) were at least somewhat founded in their concerns for my move to this city of temptation. But what most degenerate gamblers don't know is that gambling can be, and often is, a problem for them. I knew this about myself. I owned it. And I knew that I would try my hardest to not let it get the best of me here, or anywhere. As every true gambler has been totalled by the chances they take, so have I.

There have been very few times since I moved here that I have put more at risk than I should have. Those times were devastating, and an unhappy reminder that, as a gambler, I walk that line every day. The line that defines the housed and the homeless, the sick and the well, the broken and the free. The line, that if crossed one too many times, takes it all away. Fortunately for me, my time in Vegas has been tied to a pretty strict budget, and I've made a priority of my bills, my rent, and my financial well-being. Such is not the case for most Las Vegas residents.

After living here for almost two years, I am still quite shocked when I discover a degenerate gambler who's unfettered addiction is otherwise well-hidden. Last night, a poker player of mine, upstanding guy, sweet, funny, caring, seemingly responsible man, reminded me that even the best of us can wind up being the worst of us. It was a heart-wrenching, sad, and ugly reminder.

In Las Vegas I have seen my supervisors steal from the poker players and dealers, a young girl I worked with try and steal from the casino cage, my favorite poker room manager get hauled out of Planet Hollywood for embezzlement, leaving a 7-month-old baby behind while he goes to jail for the majority of her life. All of this to support an addiction to games of chance. My co-workers sink their paychecks into slot machines, the men I meet and date sometimes drink too much and play until they've emptied their wallets. Everyone is susceptible to devastation, and most cradle it in their arms like a crippled child. They protect their addictions, and smother themselves with a hope that has no foundation, a hope that only gamblers hope - "I'll get it back this time". And still, as much as I've seen this all my life, it still takes me by surprise when it happens to someone I care about.

It's a lonely existence here, and a frightening prospect that there's really no one you can trust. No one. A degenerate gambler is generally a really good person, locked in hell. They steal. They lie. They beg and borrow. They pay you back so that they don't look like a degenerate gambler. And then they borrow again. They win a little and lose a lot. They worry. They hate themselves. Their food tastes like cardboard. Their alcohol tastes like holy water. They are ashamed. They are alone in a city with millions of other people just like them. They are sick. And they will always be here. Some come here because they are already this way. But most come here for opportunity, and end up in this life...working for money to gamble with, paying payday loans off, to borrow from other ones, always consumed with thoughts of money, and how to get enough to gamble with, always waiting, wanting for the big win.

My heart is heavy for my friends who, like many of us, have crossed the line and are no better off for it. The people who's potenetial could be unlimited...anywhere else but here. The people who's hearts are made up of gold...but would cut it out of their own chests to pawn it for cash.

Sunday, February 28, 2010


For whatever reason, I am filled with the lightest, happiest bit of sunshine this morning. I suppose it could be I'm still a bit intoxicated from last night, or maybe that my morning headache has gone for now, or maybe because I'm listening to Jason Mraz - "I'm Yours" over and over.

It could also be, that after close examination of last night's events, I realize I escaped death, most certainly. I'm alive today....thanks angels.

Let me start over, and tell you a tale of a fun, wild, spectacular, and lucky evening...

In my sweatpants and t-shirt, without a bra, and my hair still wrapped in a towel, I embarked on the adventure of cooking dinner for my neighbors last night. Fried chicken and Janelle's Famous Mac 'n Cheese. Yummmmm. I had planned to change clothes before they all arrived, but as the story usually goes....I didn't have time. No matter though, it wasn't a dress-up event, and I could've really cared less, to be honest.

After much wine drinking, and gobbling of yummy, cheesy, fried, and gooey goodness, a spontaneous game night broke out with Cranium Turbo - a must-have for any home! As most of the time, we are quite lame and don't play any games or do anything fun except drink and chat and smoke, we had a bit of a rough start. But soon enough, we were all laughing, doing charades, drawing pictures with our eyes closed, ridiculing each other, giving high-fives, and did I mention...laughing?

There's rarely a time when I get together with friends that something random and humiliating doesn't happen to me. And this was no exception. At one point, I got up to talk to a friend on the phone, and my sweatpants caught on the chair, uncovered my bare ass, and mooned my guests. It was nearly enough to kill us all....we were in stitches for at least 30 full minutes. At one point I started singing "Pants on the Ground" and we all lost it a little bit more. It was one of those giggle-fests to top the charts...the more I laughed, the more they laughed - the more they laughed, the more I laughed....and it went on and on until we were holding our stomachs and crying and almost pissing our pants. Good times.

So, after all of that excitement, my plan was to go out with my friend Pamela to a Reggae club close to my house. The neighbors retreated home with a big pile of giggling leftovers, and I embarked on the task of getting ready to club it! After calling Liz, my Hair Guru, and getting advice on what to do with my hair for a Reggae outing, I whipped myself into a hot little package, and went outside to meet Pamela for my next adventure.

She had told me it was wear I did. Pamela and her friend Princezz were in the car, dressed like Nubian Queens, beautiful - their hair and bodies were wrapped in rainbows it seemed. From their ears dangled ginormous works of art, and they were adorned in silver things, and gold things, and pretty things galore. Needless to say, I imagined the Reggae club scene in "Never Been Kissed", and hoped beyond hope that I wouldn't end up being the crazy white girl who dances on the stage with a pink boa after eating the special brownies...

I climbed in the car, and after seeing these two women in all their African glory, I said, "Damn, I don't have any Reggae clothes." To which Princezz replied, "What EXACTLY are Reggae clothes?" Oops. Shit. Pamela, my saving grace, piped in, "She just means she's got no colors, that's all." Princezz seemed to understand this inside bit of information, so off we went happily to the club, and I was forgiven my near-racist remark.

The club was a dingy little hole-in-the-wall bar, with a Reggae band playing in it. Good. Perfect. For whatever reason, maybe because I was new...or fresh meat, so to speak, it seemed everybody in that bar wanted a piece of me. An old Rastafarian man in the band, two or three guys watching the band, the lead singer of the band, a couple of other randoms, and a little asian woman.....I swear to God I had a neon sign on my head that said "Elixir" or "Sex" or maybe even "I'm Easy". Shit, I dunno. But I was like the flame, in a moth pit. Sometimes I love nights like that. One guy told me it was all "in my eyes", that he could see EVERYTHING. Hmmm... Two or three of them gave me their numbers, and I danced with so many people I was sure I was floating at one point. I ended up picking the lead singer. Cutie for sure, great kisser, and for the last song he sung my request - "No Woman, No Cry" while we danced and kissed and twirled together...talented young man to accomplish all of that at once, actually. ;)

Fun is a small word to describe such an experience, but that's what it was.

My brush with danger, and possible bloody death occurred in the parking lot of the club. Everyone was packing up, and we were all planning on heading to another club. There were several cars getting ready for our caravan. On the opposite side of the parking lot were three Mexican gangsters that had been fighting for some time. My singer had attempted to approach them at one point, but retreated with the news that "it's none of our business, we don't see it". So, we went along with our own business and forgot about the potential gang war about to break out.

At some point I decided I needed to go home instead of to the next club. I was pooped, and it was 4am already. Most everybody was in a car at that point. I wanted to say goodbye to a few of the band guys. I ran up to this black car, windows tinted, but the driver's window was open all the way. I dove in and hugged the driver. It was the meanest of the Mexican gangsters...the instigator from earlier. He instantly had his hand on a big shiny gun, but I think was so surprised to have been hugged instead of hit, that he just yelled at me instead of shot me. That was nice of him. I guess there really is something to be said about a good hug.

Pamela drove me home, she and my singer came upstairs to get leftover chicken and try and convice me to come back out. I bid them both farewell, dove into a couple chicken legs myself, explained all the commotion to my freshly woken-up roommate, took some advil, and went to bed.

It was only this morning that I fully realized the extent of craziness that occurred last night....all of it. And all I really have left to say is.....


Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Generation X

I have always thought of my generation as the best. I'm not sure if other people, in other generations feel the same way about their own, or if it's just me. But to me, generations before us were a bit clueless, and generations after us, a bit spoiled.

Us X'ers have seen and done a lot of things in our lifetimes. We've gone from Atari, to Nintendo, to the Xbox. We've gone from Repulican to Democrat to Republican, and back to Democrat. We've seen the Berlin Wall come down, the Towers collapse, Katrina, and Haiti, just to mention a few. We've gone from rotary phones to cordless, to cellular and beyond. We remember HAL, and today, use a computer that fits in our pockets.

We adapt, we hope, we yearn for even more change. And we love. We are forgiving, strong, and talented. We explore, we work, we challenge ourselves.

Today, on Facebook, a fellow Gen X'er said it all...."you can turn off the sun, but I'm still gonna shine". -Shelley Purves Scarborough

That sentence, my inspiration for this blog post, sums up how I feel about my generation. We will always overcome loss, pain, and strife. We will always rise above. And we will always be grateful for the world we live in, and how we live in it. And if we don't like it, we'll change it.....because we can. Because we shine without sun. We rock like no other generation! We are unique, if only in how hopeful we remain, and how much we believe in ourselves.

Thanks Shelley!

Saturday, January 9, 2010

"I love you" - What does it really mean?

I realize that in my life, on a daily basis, I say "I love you" quite a bit.

I've had a lot of friends throughout my life who save their "I love you's" for special occasions, or for what they'd call "true friends" or family. I understand that, to a point. But, why reserve love? Why hold back? Why not just let yourself feel it, and say it, and feel it again when it's said back?

What does it mean, "I love you"? For some people I think it means, "have a good day", or "take care", or "goodbye, talk to ya later". I just finished a chat with a good friend of mine, and at the end of it, we both said our "I love you's". I'm pretty sure it meant just that, especially because this particular friend was one of those who, at times, reserves the statement for important people. How do I feel about that? Important.

Does "I love you" mean more from people who reserve it for the "special" ones in their lives?

What do I mean when I say "I love you"? Sometimes I mean that I love your spirit, your humor, your beauty, your smile, your friendship, your caring heart. Sometimes I mean I love that we can relate about something. Sometimes I mean I love that you love me. But, regardless, I always mean it. And I say it A LOT.

There are infinite ways to love. There is infinite opportunity to love. It is the most important thing in the world, to love someone or something.

Are there different degrees of love? Or is love just love. I love my cat. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my cozy bed. Shall we lump them all together, or do we somehow create a love chart to define the difference, the importance of each thing loved? I could never say I love one person more than another person, even though I might like one more than another. But, a love-ranking system for people just seems like it's missing the point. Either you love someone or you don't, right?

The only thing I know for sure about love is that it's the right thing to do. No, it's not always easy, and no, it's not always fun. Sometimes it's downright awful. But for the most part, love is all we need. Love for our children, love for our friends and family. Love for ourselves. Love for our work, our home, our pets, our coffee creamer. Every bit of love we feel for, or from another thing, or what keeps us going.

If you got shot in the heart, you'd die. The heart is the symbol for love. Coincidence? If you got shot in the love, you'd surely die. For, what would be the point of living without it?

Love something or someone today - and tell them (or it) about it. Even if that means you have to say to a slice of cheese, "I love you!"

Today, I've already told the coffee pot I loved it, my cousin, and a good friend heard it too. Now I feel like calling everyone I know and saying it some more. Dr. Drew, sign me up! I have a love addiction! ;)

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