I guess God needed her more than me.

"For a mother the project of raising a boy is the most fulfilling project she can hope for. She can watch him, as a child, play the games she was not allowed to play; she can invest in him her ideas, aspirations, ambitions, and values -- or whatever she has left of them; she can watch her son, who came from her flesh and whose life was sustained by her work and devotion, embody her in the world. So while the project of raising a boy is fraught with ambivalence and leads inevitably to bitterness, it is the only project that allows a woman to be -- to be through her son, to live through her son."

Mom, I really miss you.

I'm kind of mad at you though. Cause you know. You made me promise the near impossible task of not getting upset, and you know me. A promise, is a promise, is a promise. Oh and you made me promise not to get that other tattoo. Cheater. But you know me. I'm not THAT mad at you.

Not like that time I got my head stuck in the bike rack at McDonalds. Remember? I was five. You were pretty pissed off. Or that time when I was six, and I got into that fight with that older kid. Remember? We had to sit in the nurse's office during the Pledge of Allegiance cause I had a bloody nose. Remember?

What about that time I came home drunk, and I woke you up to tell you I was drunk. Good times.

Don't worry. I also remember the time you swallowed your pride and cleaned other people's houses to make ends meet when I was seven. You thought I didn't know. But I did. I'm genius Mom. But you knew that. You always knew that.

Oh, and sorry about the time I broke the window. Or the closet door. Whoops.

I told you once, and I'll tell you again. Mom - I'm proud of you.
And no, I dont want you to touch my laundry, cause you always bleach everything and destroy my clothes.

Yes, I ate lunch. No I didn't eat dinner yet, it's only 4.
No, I don't have a girlfriend, but there's this one girl... What? No, she's not Vietnamese. She's Chinese. They're less crazy Mom. And oh so pretty. No, not prettier than you. Yes, you're talking too much. I know, I know - it's what you do.

Don't worry bout me Mom. You built me for this.
Promise.
I'll take care of everything.

Rest now Mom. You deserve it. You earned it.
Tell everyone I said hi.

Oh and Mom...

Thank you.
For everything.

I love you.
Always.

We aint sick. We ill.

This trip made no cents.
Gamblor the God of Gambling was not with us this time.
Recap.

However, ducks fly together: fun was still had.

• Push up drinking game - invented.
• Spontaneously waking up, at who knows when, and dancing around sleeping roommate then going back to bed - doo-wopped.
• Goose. Breakfast of champions.
• When life gives you a bottle of Crown and cold Coke bottles, what do you do? You make a bootleg funnel out of magazine subscription cards.
• Apparently male strippers eat at Chipotle.
• The foundation could not contain the awesomeness within. Many a roofs were raised.
• Naked ladies, young and old, with a side of beers [beerses?] for lunch. Yep.
• Pretty girls - met.
• Pretty girl with a boyfriend - met - but not it!
• Did I mention ducks fly together?
• French people sleep early, and call security. Fair warning.
• Cup cake eating contest. Lost.
• Make yourself useful. No!
• Bust! Bust! Bust! Bust! Bust! Um, what's that equal? Bust? YEAH!

Ah Vegas...

When I left you at the gate I didn't know what to say.
Confused.
In my absence perhaps we'll grow fonder of one another.
Perhaps we grow apart.
Next time you see me, tragedy will have befallen me.
I will be different.
I will need saving.
and deep down... I secretly hope you can.

Vegas.

I dream in color.

I stare out the window of seat 14F.
Looking down, the city lights lay juxtaposed against the stars.
Looking down... they are the stars.

Towns become the milky way.
Cities become suns.
My imagination begins to run rampant and I make up my own constellations.
The most beautiful one I name after you. Yes, you.
The ugly ones I name after you. And you.
You can decide who you really are.
If you really need help, I'll lend you my prosthetic hand - If I had one.

Note to self: get one.

Lightning tears the sky apart.
Much like when a lovely girl destroys a boy.
It's awesome.
He deserves it.

I look ahead now.
I'm eye-to-eye with Orion's Belt.
Uncomfortable with looking at another man's crotch I look up.
He is smiling.
Awkwardness ensues, and I look away altogether.

I shut my eyes and wonder what it is she's doing.

The plane lands.
I really have to piss.

I really wish the person next to me wouldn't hog all the arm rest.
Fat fucker.

Don't feel like finishing this.

I have tried over and over again to express my thoughts on my mom's imminent passing.
And.
I can't.

I don't know how.
Eloquently.

At first, I get angry.
Then secondly, I get angry.
The after that, I get angry some more.
Three times the angry.
Perhaps more.

Watching a loved one die, is a lot different than having a loved one die instantly.
It's frustrating.
[John] Maddening.

The other day I came up with what I thought would be a good solution for all this anger.
I'm going to start smoking.
And I'm going to get lung cancer. Just like my mom.
And then I'm going to only take the harshest form of chemo.
And I'm going to beat them both.
And then I will laugh.
And I will stand triumphant.

Because that is what I do.

I laugh.
And I stand triumphant.

However... I was told that, that may be a bit too morbid. "Not a good idea." "Awful."
So... I guess I'll try something else.

I'm out of ideas.

I guess the Social Worker recognized my predicament, or she was just doing her job, and gave me a book on the stages of "Grief." Surprisingly, "good" was not listed.

Alas, I am no Charlie Brown.