Holy shiz, yesterday was Big Mouth’s first year anniversary. Time continues to mystify me.
I started this blog shortly after my wedding was called off and I returned home from Europe. The first post was both an apology and a goodbye letter — an apology because I felt like I fucked a lot of people over in my runaway bridehood and a goodbye letter because I would soon sprint back to Europe under the guise of needing to “find myself” — the empty claim of every 20-something runaway ever.
I wasn’t as candid then as I am now and there’s finally enough distance for me to be honest about what happened.
Admire my hairy wrist. Thank you.
Hi. My name may or may not be Leif and I’m pretty sure I’m addicted to men.
But not the good men. No, the good men terrify me. I’m addicted to the addicts, the alcoholics, the emotionally abusive, the eternally confused, the self-loathing, narcissistic, nihilistic boys for whom I come second. Or last. Or never.
Apologies for the disappearance. I’ve been meaning to write since I got here, but haven’t had time. And when I do have time, I’m too tired to do anything but sleep and/or visit one of the many bodies of water around the island. I’m working right now, actually. I’m supposed to be doing dishes or frying samosas or something. Whoops.
I’ve been at Potager du Nebbio for a week now and it’s vastly different from my Barcelona experience. Potager is an organic farm and restaurant near Saint-Florent, Corsica. We share the property with donkeys, sheep, chickens, baby chickens, two dogs, a zillion wild cats, and enormous hornets that sneak into our cabins at night and spasm around the lights. On my first night, “Sage” and I bonded over our attempts to either kill or capture the two hornets that greeted us after work. It ended with us sprinting to our bedrooms and praying that they wouldn’t sneak between the gaps in our doors.
It took 26 hours to get to Barcelona. The Chicago storms led to a two-hour flight delay, which meant missing my connecting flight, which meant sleeping on a bench and walking in circles at the Dublin airport for 10 hours. Fortunately, I made a friend on the plane who compared airline chicken consumption to chewing on a condom. We stayed up all night and she babysat me while I slept on the bench, to the disdain of the occasional businessman.
While drinking coffee in the terminal, a woman with yellow teeth, an eyepatch, and hands like tree roots from rheumatoid arthritis approached us and sat down. She asked where we were going. I told her I was going to Spain and she said,
“I almost moved there in 1979, but my partner drowned beforehand. That’s why you don’t mix swimming and bourbon.”
Warning: The foundation of this blog is vulnerability. If my honesty is something you’re hoping to exploit, you’re better off watching Teen Mom. Greetings from the northwest suburbs of Chicago. I am trying my hardest to not talk shit about Arlington Heights, but I guess I just did. I arrived here last night after spending the weekend in Milwaukee, which happened to coincide with Riverwest’s 24 hour bike race. It was nice to take part in another 3 a.m. underwear ride, despite the fact that I was wearing torn up granny panties. Tmi? Sorry.