Oprah tried to tell me. She did.
She said, "Lindsay. The universe is going to try, like, one more time. And then it's going to start screaming its cosmic head off and things are going to get uglier than your forearms after a 'play' session with Griffon." (Or something like that, Oprah says a lot of things.)

The rails, you guys - the rails. I went so far off of them that I couldn't tell what they were anymore. Just bones in my peripherals, that's all anything was. Last night I was driving a motorbike way too fast around some beautiful gardens, and then I went right off the edge into deep blue water. Then there were some broken pairs of glasses and a funeral parade of Scientologists dressed in Victorian clothing and also I didn't get wet in the water somehow. Or maybe that was the night before last. I don't know. What I do know is that right now, it's a little hot here by the window, but it's nice to watch the neighborhood do its Sunday things and know that Griffon is laying behind me with his feet straight up in the air digesting his first breakfast and that later I'll make tofu scramble and banana pancakes and go for a walk with a person who loves me even though sometimes I self-destruct for weeks in a row.

And I'm more than ever grateful to be a part of a universe that isn't afraid to raise its voice. I don't want to be either, anymore. My truth is just as valid as anyone else's - and if I violate some social rules, well then. I'll have interesting things to say to my journal.

You know who else talks to me is Allen Ginsberg:

"Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening."