Category: Introspection

William Shakespeare wrote “Love is not love which alters, when it alteration finds. Nor bends with the remover to remove. Oh No! It is an ever-fixed mark.”

I’ve been following the controversy surrounding  statements made by the COO of a certain fast-food chain with quite a bit of interest, not because I give a fig over what he thinks. I don’t really give a fig what MOST people think, actually. Opinions are like asses…everyone has one, including me.

What concerns me most I think is that, once again, someone is trying to tell me how to think–Telling me that the way I think is wrong, and using the bible to try and prove their flawed argument. Guess what? I’ve read mine too.  The bit that sticks out in my mind is where Jesus said “Love one another as I have loved you.” It’s all over the new testament. He didn’t specify “do this unless you happen to disagree with one-another’s lifestyles, then go ahead and hate the fuck out of each other.”

Who are you to tell me how and who to love? And that unless I love the way you do, that I am wrong? Who died and made you king (or queen) of the universal laws of love anyway? And why in the actual fuck should the COO of a fast-food chain even publicly state a position on same-sex marriage? Last I checked…um…he wasn’t the one in charge of the country. Every one of his supporters wants to cry ‘freedom of speech’ for him. So we’re going with a legal angle? I’m pretty sure that publicly stating a position on this issue has GOT to violate EEO laws all over the place. Has anyone stopped to think about that? Kinda makes me wonder.

People used to wonder which side of the fence I came down on, and I deliberately let them keep wondering b/c no matter how I answered, technically it would be a lie. I spent 40+ years hiding large bits of myself, denying the way fully half of my heart yearned for affection, because once upon a time someone told me it was wrong to feel the things I felt, and made me feel small, and guilty for feeling them. Well damn it! I’m sick and tired of feeling small and guilty and just fucking WRONG. I’ve had a belly full, people.

So here it is, the big reveal: I firmly believe that love is love. I don’t care if you’re male or female. If I love you, I love you. And if you feel the same way about me, and we choose to express that love in a sexual fashion, then great! It’s not anyone’s business but our own.

That said, I am not a fan of the institution of marriage, and have no plans to marry anyone ever again. Largely because I had a REALLY bad experience in a heterosexual marriage, the details of which I will spare you. But I have hetero friends who have fallen in love and got married, and I fully support them in this. Something like 50-percent of all hetero marriages fail, but neither that statistic nor my personal feelings about marriage move me to protest their love.

What I’m trying to say is my friends who are in same-sex relationships should have the same rights as my hetero friends. Let them get married, if they choose. Why not? What will it hurt? YOUR hetero relationships/marriages/families are in no way endangered by the decision of same-sex couples to marry. If you don’t like same-sex marriages, then don’t marry someone of the same sex. Plain and simple. And as for the morality/biblical implications? That’s kind of between the people in question and the creator, isn’t it? I mean it clearly states in the bible (in the 10 Commandments, Exodus, look it up) “Judge ye not lest ye be judged.” The great I Am is the ultimate judge. That’s in the bible, too.

As for the fast-food chain I mentioned? I’ve never eaten at one, and I have no plans to do so.

What I do plan to do is try my hardest to change the world by expanding one small mind at a time. I am proud to be who I am. I’m me, and that is exceptional. I will not be afraid, any more. I will not hide any more. I am who I am, and that is stronger, and more powerful, than you can ever begin to imagine.

Be fierce and strong, be fearless, be you. Take your love and spread it through the universe…


I had a dream about my mother, just before Samhain (SOW-en). For those of you who don’t know what that is, on the Celtic calendar, it is the celebration of the autumn equinox–the time of the final harvest, when the land lies fallow, until spring. On the Christian calendar, it’s somewhere near Halloween. Among other lore attached to that time of year, the veil between this world and the next is thinnest. That part is important, so remember it.

I digress.

I had a dream about my mother. My mother passed to the other side of the veil four years ago, the past June, and I haven’t dreamed about her, until now. We were sitting at the kitchen table, in the house where I grew up, drinking coffee and talking, as we often did. She suddenly looked at me, and said in a tone that I had come to recognize as her “don’t give me any crap” voice, “Reba Lynn, clean up your mess!” With those words ringing in my ears, I woke up.

I took this to mean that I was to get on with my life, instead of floundering about helplessly, as I had been. I am a strong woman from a family of strong women. We pull ourselves up by our boot-straps (garters?) and go on.  It’s just what we do. After all, I am a Furgason (long story, but Ferguson is misspelled, I know) and a Gibbons. With lineage like that, I can’t be anything other than what I am, right? Right!? Right.

In a week and a little more, I will be 41 (or as I PREFER to look at it, 21 with 20 years experience). Having clearly lost what little of my sanity is left, I have signed up as a full time student in the AA transfer program at my local community college. I intend to study history. I am quite lucky, as I have some very supportive friends, and understanding children. I am profoundly impressed with my own audacity. I also refuse to think about how many opportunities I have wasted, in my younger years. But like many priviliged (read: spoiled-rotten) children, I fail to appreciate anything until I have to work for it. My parents paid for the first go at University, which I failed at. I will be paying for this one, and failure is not an option– Because I proved to myself what I am capable of, when I really want something, and I want this more than I want air. I can be frightfully single-minded when need-be.

I have moved back to my hometown, and am finally settling into my new home, at least for now. I miss the sunrises and sunsets and the wonderful people out on my hill, but things will be more convenient, as I am working and going to school here. And amazingly enough, the sun still rises and sets here, too. And I am reconnecting with old friends whom I haven’t seen in years. Life is coming together.

I am cleaning up my mess, mama.


I’m having a serious catch up with a six-pack of Coors, tonight. I’m not drowing my sorrows, if that’s what you’re thinking. As I take a moment to reflect, I’ve no real sorrows to speak of. My life is going pretty well. So, this is a celebration of sorts. Monday, the ex (we’ll call him “PIMA” — it’s an acronym, yes) and I go to formally file for divorce. Tonight, I’m celebrating the fact that, in 60 to 90 days, I’ll have my freedom, and my name, back.

But that’s not what this blog entry is about, really.

As all y’all know, I tend to write about what I think, or rather what I’m thinking about at the time. I’m kind of a stream of consciousness person. And tonight, I’m thinking about me–the me I enjoy being, and my friends, or, well, one in particular. Kind of wondering where he’s at, and if he’s doing well. We’ll call him “Cowboy”, because that’s what I have called him since the night we met.

This is a love story, of sorts.

I was out with my very good friend, and brother-from-another-mother, the Master-Chief, for a girls’ night out. We’d killed off a fifth, or two, of good Kentucky Whiskey, and decided that breakfast was in order. We were sitting in the all-night diner, when the best-looking man I’ve ever seen walked in, under a big, black Stetson (which will come into play, later). He was surrounded by his usual entourage of friends, because he drew people the way ripe bananas draw fruit-flies, but he wanted to converse with Master-Chief, so he ended up at our table.

I’d like to say he was a tall drink of water, but he wasn’t. I’m several inches taller than he, but that doesn’t signify, because his personality was large enough to fill a room. All dark hair, and darker eyes, olive skin, and finely-chisled lips that just really needed to be glued to mine for several hours. I’ll admit I was smitten.

That big, black Stetson was taunting me, so I put my big-girl panties on, and reached out, plucked it from his head, and set it squarely on my own (Mind you, at this point, we’d been introduced, had shaken hands, exchanged hello’s, and that was it). He looked at me, a smug grin on his lovely face, and informed me of ‘the Rule’–if you steal the cowboy’s hat, you’ve gotta ride the cowboy. I looked at him, pulled his hat down low, and replied, “Alright, then.”

As it ended up, we did kiss that night, in the parking lot, as he re-claimed his hat, with a promise of “I’ll see you later.” (which he kept) But it was four months of intense flirtation before the naughty bits occurred. We called it ‘foreplay’. In my mind, he was my cowboy. And I guess he’ll always own a small piece of my soul, simply because he brought out the best in me.

I often wonder what happened to the lovely, free-spirited, outgoing, vivacious, self-assured woman that I was around Cowboy? I also wonder, will I get her back in my divorce settlement? It wasn’t something I worked at (I wish it was that easy!) but rather, something I just became.

I haven’t heard from Cowboy in a while–largely b/c PIMA didn’t understand the nature of our friendship, and we kind of lost touch. Yes, I loved him, after a fashion, but to be perfectly honest, I think I was more in love with the boost he gave to my ego. I asked him once why we never became more than what we were. He told me, “Because I am afraid I’ll screw it up.” And perhpas he would’ve, or maybe I would’ve. Who really knows? So I am content with lovely memories of Cowboy, and of the me I used to be.

So, in the finer words of Christian Kane, “I’m not drinkin’ to drown anything, I’m just drinkin’ to drink.” Cheers!

I bid you peace.