February is unforgiving. It's biting cold and balmy all at once; one minute you are too hot in the Sun and the next you have spent three hours under the cascading moonlight hitting your face and feeling the chill in your bones. I'm planning ahead, between 17-24 February will be the last bout of cold hitting the face and that's when we'll know it's done for this year until January, for those of us who survive to see the face of it. The only redeeming part about February is that the sky puts up a show daily to compensate for all the rest of it and that somehow makes life bearable. For a lot of people, alcohol does it and I can't believe, I'm saying it on this page, it's the sky that cuts it for me. 

Someone asked me a moving question last evening—could I share a time in my life when I was truly elated—and it shut me up. I took a while to respond but only gathered the real answer a few hours later when I was changing to get into bed. In the absence of brevity, I'll hold on to the response until I am coerced into answering it again but really—what is fucking joy even? Is it when you've blown a chunk of money without consequences or question, that which was all yours to do or is it when you find a person to share time with and gloss over benign details in life, or is it when you find a quiet moment in an otherwise mellow evening, where you almost didn't show up and by the end, you're just glad your risks paid off. 

I don't know a situation any better than the one I am living in it. As a 12-year-old, I remember long summer days of being on the Outer Ring Road, riding in the backseat, and wondering if my life will ever change and move from taking that road to another one. When it finally happened and I was traveling to the other part of the city to hit college, I was begging to go back to the first place. I find myself begging for a closing date on taking the highway daily. It feels like I step out daily and have traded all my ilks for walking in a room that seems as unfamiliar as a friend's wedding. You know 10 odd people somewhat closely and you remember the others, the bride party, and the groom pack through their actions and outfits. The office is a lot like that wedding, you're tired but things are rolling. 

I had grand ideas to write and the biggest urge to word vomit. Now, not so much. I passed out twice while writing this and then napped twice in the two car rides I had in 48 hours. The only time I didn't want to sleep was when the moonlight illuminated the contours of my date's body; men who have style, have it all. Maybe one day I'll actually find a way to remember words and thoughts outside of the contours of a body stuck in my demonic horny head.