{Hiccup}

Drinking in the morning is tricky business. If you're not careful you could end up standing in the kitchen at 3pm waiting for a mug of beer to answer your questions. And the 120 Minute IPA takes FOREVER to reply. Only a seasoned third-shifter can pull off a good pre-noon drunk.
{hiccup}
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Yada, yada, yada.
You've been drunk during the day before. Big frickin deal, you think. We're all proud of your impending alcoholism, Joleen Doreen, now move along to the moral of the story.

Joke's on you, asshole, I have no morals.

I used to have them. 

Scruples.
Ideals.
{hiccup}
Ethics. 

I traded them for lifetime supply of bad decisions.

A large number of bad decisions should be called a gross. My 14-year-old likes to say my life is "Groddy" but I'm certain she does it more to irritate me than as an actual term of measurement. Gross seems more appropriate.
{hiccup}

Bulk rate bad decisions at a bargain!
Gross never looked so good!
C'mon down to Joleen Doreen's,
We got 'em by the barrel!

My poor choices have been oak-aged. In that, I grew up in the woods. (Look, it doesn't have to make sense, ok? Don't see me poking holes in your origin story, do you? Just accept the inevitable hillbillying of the moment.)
My judgement is not always sound.
{hiccup}
My judgement is sometimes sound.
{hiccup}

My judgement has never been sound.
{hiccup}
But I never expected it to be, what with the noise in my head and all. I turned it all off once. The racket. The ringing. The static. The silence was more than my creativity could bear. The stillness gave me cancer.

Of all of my flaws, the melody of my mind is the most beautiful.

Feels like inspiration.
Let's do shots!
{hiccup}
I poured three. We'll assume that you guys had at least the first two that I just drank. After this, we stop counting. There's no telling who drank what. Nobody likes snitches.

I don't regret much. But when I do, it's a chorus of rioting stupidity. The only thing that can block the rampage of a stubbornness such as mine is a very thick blanket of booze. The alcohol needs to permeate the air of mystery surrounding why I do such dumb fucking things.
{hiccup}

Yep.
Time to throw cat shit out the window, or whatever you flatlanders say.
(editor's note: the daughter informs me that the phrase I'm looking for is "throws caution to the wind." Seems foolish to me. The wind is going to blow that caution right back in your face. Nope. It's definitely better to throw cat shit out the window.) Whatever.
{hiccup}
Time to drink.

Sure, it gets rowdy from time to time. But every once in awhile you need to toss back the booze at the asscrack of dawn and let the shitface shine. Every now and then again you gotta get tuned before noon. Here'n there you should slosh'er up with the mornin light. Because how else are you going to forget all the dumb fucking things that drinking got you into the night before? 

{hiccup}

And the sober things?
Well.
I still ain't ready to talk about those. Those are the ones that we brew our own beverages for. My resistance to making good decisions is 100 proof.
{hiccup}
Scratch that, it's 190 proof.

Doing dumb shit is as American as Apple Pie.

{hiccup}

Empty

Of all the things I've done- remembering back the years-
of all the days long gone, wasted on my fears. 

Beneath the sky at night, resting on consideration,
waiting for the sight that comes from contemplation. 

Scan the clouds of day, staring down tomorrow;
hearing things I say, buried 'neath the sorrow.

Of all the dreams that fade- driven 'way by morning sun-
of all the choices I've made, to the feelings I've outrun. 

Emotions drown the sound of mocking in my mind;
compassion run aground by the soul left behind. 

The mistakes I make are beautiful, from the other side.
Yet insecurity can be cruel; confidence has died.

Of all the time I've waited- and waited and waited-
of all the self I've hated- and hated and hated. 

Understanding drained, feelings depleted.
Regretfulness gained, disgust completed. 

Bringing hope to start. Falling fast apart.
Hallow is the heart.
Hollow is the heart.

Apple Butter

I check accomplishments off my list, one by one, as I earn them throughout the day.

• Wake up √
• Healthy breakfast √ 
• Don't stab an asshole in the face 

Still early. Don't want to jump the gun on checking off that last one.
Sometimes we have to ask ourselves whether or not we have an angry reason why. We do, you guys. Totally do. Turns out that 90% of the time MY "angry reason why" is what I like to call "other people." Not you. You're obviously cool. I can tell by the way you're reading the hilarious posts on joleendoreen.com. You know what's what.

What?
We were where?
That's right, at why.
And determined it was actually who.
So there's that.

And now here we are.
Back at Why.

It's apple butter season, that's why.
Turning ten pounds of yard work into jars of the sweetest sauce that toast has ever known is enough to make this country girl restore her trust in man. Kissed with the slightest hint of sassafras and cooked to perfection, apple butter breaks down barriers of dissatisfaction in my brain. While the pot of ripe fruit sits and simmers my senses undergo an assault of false content. Happiness swirls around in notes of cinnamon and nutmeg. As a Joleen Doreen, I have no choice but to succomb to the euphoria that erupts from every tiny bubble of the lightly boiling mixture.
The fog of elation is thick during canning season. I try to shake off the jubilation, but it clings like the scent of cooking apples. I could run from it all, but godamit if I don't get blinded by the brilliance of the falling leaves the moment I step out the door.
Optimism is upon me, bearing down with the force of October.

I'll probably die before I figure out how to live.

Like the apples in the pot, I've been reduced to mush. The success of creating a glorious batch of apple butter has clouded my perception of reality. I actually, for a brief moment there, believed things to be right'n good. Through the haze of hopefulness I missed the telltale signs of a bad apple. And it was bitter.
So fucking bitter.
All it takes is one nasty taste to throw you off altogether. Then you're left with a love of nothing you want to swallow, and a whole mouthful of it.

Some things turn out to be so distasteful you want to cut the sorry sum'bitch who is givin' it to you. But alas, it happens, developing a liking for something poison. The lesson here is ya'll need to take a good look at what you're puttin' in your mouth.
And never trust management.

Apple Butter turned out great though.

Love, Joleen Doreen

I know the type you like.
Dangereously damaged.
A sprinkle of instability on a mountain of stubborn strength
Under a blanket of insecurity.

I know the type you like.
Vulnerable to weakness.
Lost upon a sea of doubt aboard a ship of character
Beneath a sky as blue as eyes.

I know the type you like.
Self-destructive creativity.
Walk away from coming back without turning around
Never leaving.

I know the type you like.
It's Me.

Pickled

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Orange

When the trees call home
They blow and billow and cry.
When the leaves fall aground,
among the carnage stands I.
The air swirls crisp.
Warmth- not a wisp.

When the trees call home
They sway and mumble and chatter.
When the branches hang low,
beneath the sad arms I shelter.
Sunlight flashes.
Memory- ashes.

When the trees call home
They shimmy and shake as they sigh.
When the night grows long,
be with them to dance will I.
Daydream- over.
Love, October.

Hard at Work

My Desk.