You missed me. I can tell.

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Sorry about the radio silence. It’s been A Month At School. Suffice it to say that I barely had time to scratch my ass, but I’ve got a killer portfolio and only a week and a half of classes left.

It seems that I’m being published. Just a short essay (maybe two, I forget) in the back of Barbara Bretton’s next Sugar Maple book. It just blows my mind that four years ago, I didn’t have any idea she existed, and now, because she’s awesome and I’m awesome, it’s a major confluence of awesome. I wrote up my bio for the wordiness that I wrote:

JEREMY BREDESON is a professional administrative assistant (who has very strong opinions about certain fonts — I’m lookin’ at you, Comic Sans and Papyrus), the high priest of one of the oldest cybercovens on the Internet, knits like a fiend, and plays video games like a teenager in his copious spare time. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, with his husband Leon and their very spoiled pretty, pretty princess dachshund, Belle. You can find him at (though, you may want to turn off your judgements; he has very few filters and has a mouth like a sailor) and on Ravelry as technocowboy.

Sounds about right, yeah?

Let’s see, what else?

One more quarter of school. If things go the way they should, I graduate on September 9. I CAN’T WAIT. I tossed in a random for-the-hell-of-it class (Elementary Spanish 1), because heaven forbid I stay with a 12-credit quarter. No, has to be ELEBENTY BRAZILLIONTEEN. I went in to talk to one of my teachers (well, okay, not talk; I went in to FREAK THE HELL OUT on her and nearly start crying) yesterday and was told that I’m one of the department’s best students. That’s an amazing feeling, to be honest. I’m proud of the work I’ve done, and I don’t need the recognition. It’s nice to hear, but it’s not needed. I’m in a couple of classes with people who are either graduating next week or with me, and the sheer amount of crazy talent that these people put out is daunting. It also makes me proud to be in school with them. We will rule the world, you know.

Speaking of, have you seen this commercial? Yeah, exactly. Because this is something that admins have known FOR.EV.ER.

I’ve got a few knitting things going on: a mystery shawl-along, three pair of socks (YES, SCOTT, YOURS, TOO), a hat (THIS ONE, TOO, SCOTT), a red hood thingy, two Christmas stockings, and a couple more market bags. I’ve got a few things in the wings, too, that OMG I’M NEVER GOING TO BE DONE KNITTING. I have to get a couple of bags done for a couple of my favorite teachers as thank-you gifts when I graduate.

My running has fallen by the wayside, sadly. I’m going to try to kick myself in the ass about it, though, after the quarter’s over. I’m moving on to Week Two in C25K, and hopefully, I’ll be able to keep it going. I have faith in myself to get it going.

Family by choice

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So, I was digging through my computer tonight, and I found this little piece written by a fantastic friend I’ve had for … good lord, 16 years. I’m not sure if she still reads my blog, but this cross-posts to Facebook, and I know she’s over there.

Way back a ways, when I was in college, I found myself working in a coffee shop. I don’t even remember how I got the job… I’m pretty sure it had some kind of informal beginning, with me being in the coffee shop at the precise moment that someone didn’t show up to work, and poof, I was behind the bar, pouring coffee. It was a fine arrangement for me, seeing as I was coming off a bad relationship and this gave me a new place to hide, new people to talk to. The shop itself tried hard to be artistic, with all wood floors, stained glass windows, lots of nooks and books and games, and plenty of furniture and jewelry on consignment. But despite the efforts of the owners to attract what they had hoped would be a more highbrow, intelligent crowd of college students and young writers, mostly they got high school kids taking advantage of the fact that the place allowed smoking, a few of the local crazies, and other various outcasts, loners and people trying to find themselves. And so, several nights a week, I’d find myself seated on a stool behind the bar, serving the occasional coffee or cookie, reading a book, getting paid for being bored.

From my spot behind the bar, there was a door to my right that led down a long hallway to stairs leading down to the main entrance on the street, and on one particular day, I heard that downstairs door fly open. Lots of heavy, purposeful walking followed, and I swear, I could feel the energy of some terribly intense person making his way down the hall. Then through the doorway burst this skinny guy with a huge grin on his face. I don’t remember what he was wearing, and I don’t remember exactly what he said to me. I only remember that he had these crazy brownish yellow contacts in, and that within moments he had pulled up a stool in front of me, made a brief introduction, and then produced an issue of “International Male”, walking me through the spandex and fishnet laden pages, showing me his favorite designs. I obliged, was polite, and thought the whole thing amusing. And as quick as he had arrived, he was gone.

But then it happened again. And again. Every day a variation on the above mentioned encounter. And being stuck behind the bar, with a set work schedule, I couldn’t get away from him. He knew where and when to find me. He had a quick wit, a sharp tongue, and a sense of humor that never failed to make me laugh, both at him and at myself. Soon, that slam of the front door was followed by a salutation of “HEY BREEDER!!!” And somehow, I wasn’t offended. There was simply no place to run. This crazy gay guy loved me, and was determined that we would be friends.

Over time, a short time, we did become friends. I learned that his overt homosexuality was a by-product of being “outed” by assholes at his school, which led him to do quite the conga right out of the closet. He learned that I was a sad person in need of some laughing. We spent days playing cards on the porch, nights out at the gay bars or doing a little porch diving into snow drifts. There was the introduction of friends, the comforts after failed relationships, and I even got to pin his boutonniere on his lapel and stand next to him during his first wedding. But then, as I do from time to time, I moved far, far away.

And you know what that little shit did? He e-mailed one of my new professors at graduate school and told him to take care of me, since he couldn’t anymore. It’s a whole other story, but I can say that I felt loved from over a thousand miles away.

I haven’t seen him in years. He’s moved and moved again, and the miles still stand between us. But we live our lives, we e-mail, we catch up. He’s never far from my thoughts, he’s still very much loved and missed, and one of the best friends I have. And we’ll see each other again someday, have a few drinks, and maybe, if I have the time and can find one, I’ll bring him a copy of “International Male”, and see how the years have changed his tastes.

I love you, too, Breeder, and I miss you a ridiculous amount. Much love, big hugs.