Faint Warnings

I pulled into the entrance of the remote lot today and almost hit the traffic cone that was blocking the drive. Apparently the lane I'd chosen was out of order. I didn't see the cone in the middle of the lane. It was right there. But it was bleached pale by the Texas sun. No longer fluorescent orange, it was anemic, barely visable. It looked less like a beacon of alarm than something that belonged atop a thirteen year old's vision of the perfect wedding cake. "I want all peach and lime green. And all my bridesmaids will have lime green dresses with peach-colored sashes. We'll have peach punch with floating icebergs of lime sherbert. Oh, it will be just dreamy!"

I tend to think in black and white. And lipstick red. I like my warnings to be just that, shots across the bow. Give me the information. Give me a medication bottle that says, "This shit can kill you if you mix it with..." THAT is good information. Give me a directional sign on the highway that says, "Get in the right lane NOW if you want to get to the airport, otherwise, you're never going to make it." THAT is good information. Give me the truth, don't talk around it. I don't do hints well. I'm not clairvoyant.

Today, I am tired. I haven't slept for two nights. I feel as if I've been trying to decifer hints and words that make no sense to me. I come to work and receive mixed messages. The same is holding true in my home life. Someone fire a fucking shot across my bow. I am looking for a sign, a warning, a direction. I feel as if I'm on this highway and the signs are faded. For now, I'm going to stay in this lane and drive, but I'm running out of gas.