Not... well. But alive. And recovering. And damn it, someday I'm going to get the whole story from someone who isn't using a pawful of aussie slang every other paragraph, and find out what the fuck happened, and I will be a MUCH happier Jax then.

I'm listening to, of all things, country music... a song by Trisha Yearwood called "Walk Away Joe"... it's kind of old-ish, maybe mid-80's, early 90's... not quite sure. I just know it's been stuck in my head for a couple days and I wanted to hear it. The first time I heard this I curled up and cried for an hour straight.

I remember watching the music video for it. I remember hearing it playing on the radio on a rainy day when I was driving somewhere with Caleb. I remember listening to it in a cafe, drinking quickly-cooling coffee and staring out the window, wondering why I hadn't jumped off a bridge yet, wondering what I was going to do when I got up... last few cents spent on the coffee I was holding, no plans, no real desire to go anywhere else... nowhere, I thought, that wanted me.

Funny what memories come to me when I'm sitting here. My mind is a near-blank when I WANT to remember something... but when all I'm doing is sitting, music flowing through me, it's as if I can see my entire life laid out, see every threadbare, tattered, half-patched inch of it.

I remember walking along Interstate toward Rie and Forrest's place, to the attic I lived in, being amused by the pimp who tried to hit on me, hitting him up for a ride instead... not caring what happened, really.

I remember walking home from Blood Moon with Caleb, Julie, Richie, and... was it Flower? Or Clayton? One or the other, I know. Must have been Flower, reaching for my collar, and my glare, his apology, Living Dead Girl laughing at him for such a stupid slip-up and Slash standing in the doorway as we came into the parking lot... Painful to think back, sometimes.

I remember walking up to the door of Rie's parents' house, eager, trying not to SHOW how eager I was, trying to act like it was every day I got to hang out with the Beautiful People, do the things I had wanted to do for years, talk with people who didn't think my hungers or tastes or dreams were strange. Climbing the stairs to the attic-space where we gamed. I remember meeting Rhett at one of those games, drooling, making a complete idiot of myself, and being convinced he thought NOTHING of me...

I remember the taste of blood, over and over again. Fresh, hot, licked from a wound... cooling, licked from my fingers or his or hers... filling my mouth, lips bloody, huddling, wanting to run, not daring to... the scent of dried blood on the sheets, on my clothing, everywhere, until I thought I would go mad from wanting and hating...

I remember my dad driving me into Portland, to the house off of Interstate. We were crossing the big freeway interchange over the river, and the sun was setting, and all I could think as I looked out at the city was that I belonged here. Not... not as one of the people living a good life, exactly. Not one of the yuppies, the businesspeople, nothing like that. I didn't - I don't - deserve that, really. I've done nothing to earn it. But... street kid, grunge girl, punkhead working in an eclectic bookstore, sharing a house with a few other people, cats and tie-dye and spiked leather collars... that's home.

That's Portland.

That's me.

Hi, and welcome to tonight's Tour Of Insanity, I'll be your host... and remember, I'm not only the host, I'm one of the freakin' attractions... *sighs, curls up* Tired, hurting, and oh-so-confused and yet... and yet...

...ehh.

Never mind.