Wanted: My Mojo

Tuesday I was back from Portland, my eyes were swollen shut.
Wednesday I got hit on my way to work.

Thursday I fell apart in Berkeley.

Friday I imploded in the bathtub.

I should maybe back up and say I had a couple of crucial and much needed epiphanies along the way. It was one of those jarring weeks, where just like in the cartoons someone slid the floor beneath your feet and you comically fell through all nine circles and flashed on all the nightmares and woke up in one piece in your bed on Sunday and it was hot. The Santa Ana rolled in to town to huff and puff and blow all the clouds from the sky so that all there are boats on the bay and green and green and bridges and storied glass.

When the engineer left he took my mojo with him and I didn't even know I was missing it. I have spent the last eight months cocooning in a comforting misery, not so abject, just not feeling it, not really feeling anything at all.

I want it back. I want it fucking back. I want to own it, I want to wear it, I want to dance possibly inappropriately in it. And once I have it back, internets, I promise you, that I will never, ever, ever let it go for any other man. I'll never surrender to thinking that the magnitude and the grace of my love would ever be enough to sustain me and a man. My mojo is my own, my own rose, my manifest glory, my godliness, my power. And I fed it all to a torch I carried for a man who doesn't love and who played me for a fool.

I want it back, I want the mojo back. I want the joy and I want a life without fear. I want burgeoning possibility, I want to feel lovely, magnamanous, and coy. I want to rock this body, my own body, even with these extra pounds. I want a life without shame. Fuck suspended animation. I want my mojo back and I want magnificence, I want life.