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Eddington's photograph of a solar eclipse, whi...

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Okay that title sounds a bit snotty but I guess that’s how I’m feeling today. I should keep hatch marks on the wall to keep a count of the friend’s I’ve been killing off slowly, one at a time. I’m so good at it! Seriously if you need to clean house of some naughty pals, just give me a call and I can get rid of them for you in less than an hour.  It’s so easy you won’t believe me!

Remember my little rant about boundaries? Well, draw a line with a human being and watch them run.  Don’t suggest you be treated a certain way, demand it. Don’t allow people to walk all over you then scratch your head wondering why you feel bruised.

I had to draw that line with strength yesterday and I feel pretty darn rotten about it today but there is always a hangover when you lose someone in your life. You have to mourn the loss of a fantasy because clearly the person you loved wasn’t who you thought they were, or they changed for the worse. Heck maybe they crossed the line one too many times. Know what I mean?

My specialty is narcissists. I’ve already established that fact so many times it makes me sick to my stomach. But I’m not going to kick myself because I’ve got lots of people in my life who love me and think I’m nifty. (Nifty is a sweet word.)

The hangover from the loss of someone you care about is a mixture of things but mostly the pain comes from desiring something you will never have and being so attached to that desire that you suffer. As I pointed out to my newest enemy, Einstein put it well when he said, “The definition of insanity is doing something over and over and expecting a different result.”

Well then I’m insane because I expect my friends to treat me with the same respect and love in which I treat them. But in today’s world I come off as demanding. I expect too much when I want people to respect each other, have manners, compassion and empathy. Fresh out? Then hit the road because you will never make it with my crowd.

Yesterday I was cleaning out my studio and I came across a box of photographs. Photographs are dangerous because you can get stuck in a time machine that can be painful. You see all these people that have come and gone from your life for various reasons. Usually I avoid this box but yesterday something drove me to take a look.

Mixed between photos and negatives (if you are younger than 30 you may have to go look up what a negative is.) were three envelopes yellowed from age. My heart skipped a beat and I picked them up – momentarily worrying that they were not what I hoped they were.

Sure enough they were letters from my departed friend Scott Wannberg. 29-year-old letters and poems typed and scribbled on hotel notepads, and ancient paper. I sat down to read these words that were specially written just for me and was once again reminded of who I was, who I am…and that I am lovable.

Scott made a song out of me, encouraged me as an artist and happily invited me into the club of creativity. That mischievous poet was lurking in my studio yesterday because he must have known that I was suffering and needed some music, a dance, a magical riff of swing: a hootenanny.

So I may have lost another friend yesterday (not to death) but I gained my dignity back. Thanks to my departed pal Scott.