Life sometimes is disinterested. I discovered this today after reading some things that got my mind going. I go to the porch to have a cigarette and sort the things floating around my head into a stream of consciousness , and I notice my dog has followed me out. Dynomite looks at me. His eyes are a bright gold in the otherwise blackness of his fur that he has blended into the darkness before the stairs that those eyes, glinting, are the only thing of his clearly defined in the moonlight as his own. There seems to be a bit of intelligence in these eyes, like maybe he is too brooding, over his own personal doggy woes and perplexities (I got him from the pound- who knows what his life was before I got him) that I felt a bond for his brightness, and asked him a question.
“Dyno, what is mommy is a convenience to daddy? Does Donny really love me?” Dyno cocks his head to the side, lifts an ear to hear me better. I feel like an idiot, but Dyno is one of the few friends I have in this godforsaken town, and I have no one to spill all of my crazy ass thoughts to. I mean, yeah, there’s Donny, but he gets kinda angry when I ask him 700 times why he loves me, and he doesn’t understand that sometimes, it isn’t really about what he’s doing wrong. More, it’s that I’m looking for reasons to love myself, and I scream back at myself , my dear, I’m afraid there’s one good reason I cannot find. So I turn to the one person who has always seemed to love me the most, even when I can’t stand, personally, to be around me, and that actually makes me angry. Who is he to tell me I’m so great? Why is he the only person who sees such great things in me? I am a caustic person. I am too stubborn. I cause myself pain and anguish for reasons I cannot understand, and sometimes, I seem to enjoy it. Why does he love so unconditionally something so crudely made? I can’t say those words to him, for fear that he’ll contradict me, and for a trepidation that he won’t. My lips and tongue are still around him on that thought. I don’t like showing my fears to well, anyone, so I swallow my tongue, and the words get lost somewhere in my stomach. But every now and then they boil over. Insecurities invade like the Trojans fighting the Greek of my mind. And sometime after that, I break down. And then I stand like a jackass with a cigarette, asking my dog’s smart eyes questions.
“Dyno, what am I doing with my life?” Dyno’s eyes turn toward the stairs, moving like fireflies. He takes a few steps into the light, yawns, then lazily scratches behind his ear. I have to laugh. Whether his sharp little gilded eyes understood a goddamn word I was saying, he was sure making his commentary on my thoughts.
“Okay you little shit. How about puppy snack? You understand that?” Dyno’s ears perk up and he does the same dance he did at the pound that made me take him home. He jumps up on his hinds legs and pumps his arms up and down, smiling his little doggy smile knowing no one can say no to his dance. I guess sometimes, life would rather have the finer things, and right now, it wants a puppy snack.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Born Broken
I was born broken. This is what makes me the way I am. I feel aspiration is futile because I have too many hamsters running around in my brain. I have too many good ideas and not enough drive. I will never have self-confidence because I was born without the capability. I know I am smart, maybe even exceptionally so, but I have no outlet. Creativity inspires me, beauty, the female form, the effects of perception, the idea of love. But I will never reach my creative aspirations, my screenplay will never be written, I will never truly feel loved. I was born broken. I will always be scared and never show it, I will cry but only in my sleep, I will wear tight bodices and apply makeup, and will never be beautiful. I am a tortured person, and yet I revel in my torture. My head is a constant torrent of ideas and random thoughts and insights that no one will ever understand, because I have been broken for so long that assembling some sense of normalcy would be a farce. When surrounded my intelligent, creative beautiful people I feel as if I am an apple on a table of mangoes and kiwis, bland, unnoticeable except in my shortcomings. When surrounded by the mindless zombies or popular America today (the Paris Hilton fans, the shopaholics, those wooden people who let the world speed by them while they ignore the loud ticking of life at the makeup counter, or rifling through Prada, the Britney lovers, the Cali-fornicated youth of our consumer driven country) I feel smothered and angry, repressed and violent. I feel like a thousand firecrackers are under my skin, waiting for the opportune moment to blow my being outward, ideas bouncing off on another, only to fall in desperation of what I cannot do. I want to aspire to greatness, to leave my fingerprints on someone's soul, to have a voice, loud and clear and skewed, but alas, I am a prisoner of my own shortcomings. Never will I be loved, never will I be understood, never will I be beautiful, never will I rest. I am not distubed by this much. I know I will never stop eyes on the street with my good looks and charms. I know I will never be able to get the words aligned properly to say what it is I am trying to explain. I know I will never feel loved completely, faults and all, and for this reason I will never experience love the way it should be felt. Always will I be insecure. Violence and anger, and shoving the tears back into the pit of my stomach will always be how I deal with my too strong, too masculine emotions.I will always put barriers up, never give myself to anything with abandon, too afraid of repercussions. 22 years ago, when I forged my way into my own existence something didn't sit right, something was tweaked, and I was born broken. But because of this gift, and I do believe it is a gift, I will never stop thinking, never stop hoping, that one day I will bloom. One day, I may get that perfect phrase out of my brain and onto paper. One day I will find beauty in myself. One day I will throw myself without second guessing into something. One day I feel love's pure hand. Until then, I experiment, play, collect people, watch Tarantino films, read everything, record everything, squirrel away my whole life to fill that void left in me with knowledge. Broken is better, because only when broken can you value perfection.
Wet
Under water,
floating in my self- inflicted-
weakness encouraged
personalized
purgatory,
face slack,
eyes open,so this time perhaps I will learn
everything red,
I tilt my head
where is up?
which is down?
Which direction will take me to where i must needs be
to embrace what I want
out of my existence
to stop these lungs from burning
burn as if a colony of fire ants
let loose and given cigarettes,
which they suck on greedily
as they scurry around my heart
where my oxygen should be.
blue dots in my peripheal vision.
I stay still.
my hair looking like an anenome, the only sign of life about me.
I cannot shake the water from my mind,
cannot squeeze it out of my hair.
Somewhere in this feeling
is this realization-
I Am
sad,
lonely,
I am not alright.
floating in my self- inflicted-
weakness encouraged
personalized
purgatory,
face slack,
eyes open,so this time perhaps I will learn
everything red,
I tilt my head
where is up?
which is down?
Which direction will take me to where i must needs be
to embrace what I want
out of my existence
to stop these lungs from burning
burn as if a colony of fire ants
let loose and given cigarettes,
which they suck on greedily
as they scurry around my heart
where my oxygen should be.
blue dots in my peripheal vision.
I stay still.
my hair looking like an anenome, the only sign of life about me.
I cannot shake the water from my mind,
cannot squeeze it out of my hair.
Somewhere in this feeling
is this realization-
I Am
sad,
lonely,
I am not alright.
In Memory Of A Man
So it came to my attention, like a truck coming dangerously close to hitting me as I'm walking down the street- that another one of those people I admire has died. This keeps happening to me. This one was not old.
The TV is one because my feet hurt because I wait tables after my day job and to relax I like the flicker of television. It's Thursday, and I know ER is on, so I flip to that channel. One of the cast members is giving a eulogy of the show's creator- Michael Crichton. What?! The man was only in his 50s. I don't understand.
At nay rate, the man has passed. he is no more, but here is a piece I wrote about him in a burst of silliness back in April of 2006. I wrote it out of respect and admiration. I hope people remember his talent.
My ramblings attached:
Do you ever look around yourself and realize that some people in this chaotic mosh pit we call life, just give too much of themselves? Now maybe I'm selfish, but I like to keep my creative genius to myself, sure I'll take it out at parties or something, hold it above my head like something sparkly and shiny and grab all you stoners' attention, but as quickly as I pull it out, I hide it away again, locked up in myself like Golem coveting his precious ring when he could have shared it with the world.
This is not about me.
This is not about Lord of the Rings, and for all you fantasy freaks out there, you can just stop reading, because I'm not into that pussy shit.
This is about the people who would slice into their shank to feed you during famine- who give so much that you wonder how there is enough crumbs at the end of the day to sustain them. Of course I'm talking about that particular someone- the ineffable Michael Crichton.
What? He's a martyreic genius. He is the fountain that keeps flowing, the gift that keeps giving, the loaf of bread that feeds and entire village.
Case in point 1:
Jurassic Park. Admit it. You loved it. You loved the science. Brilliant! Mosquitoes that have mooched off of the blood of dinosaurs, and then were unlucky enough to land in sticky amber- that poor mosquito, tiny heart pumping furiously, kicking his thread-thin spindly legs, caught! He'll die now- thinking of his mosquito family, waiting for him, hovering above their metaphorical dinner table (a triceratops perhaps, I hear they are crazy delicious), wondering to themselves in little buzzing whispers: "Where's Daddy? When is Daddy gonna be home?" Never my mosquito son- Daddy has given all he had, and will now die. But be comforted in knowing that a long time from now, your Daddy will be excavated like gold, his DNA carefully extracted from that of the dinosaur DNA found in daddy's liquid last dinner (oh I hope you enjoyed that mosquito daddy- I hope your last meal was great), and a couple scientists later we have an amusement park! Built for your pleasure! Watch the triceratops poop! She is ill! Examine her droppings; lay upon her ribcage as she struggles to breathe! Get in your garishly painted Jeep on its track, we will try and tempt the t-rex with a goat. Jurassic Park, a wondrous playground and scientific breakthrough, finally we can see the dinosaurs how they really were when they had flesh instead of bones stringed together and hanging in a museum somewhere. Oh but that sneaky Dotson and that fat guy who laughs like a squealing pig and steals dino DNA in shaving cream. It's okay- he gets his, slashed by a dylophosaurus after trying to make it fetch a stick. A stick! Like it was Fido instead of an ancient predator. Dumbass. He deserved to be slashed across the abdomen, trying to shove his entrails into his stomach and being aware of being eaten alive at the same time. In the movie they don't really show that, but the book is pretty graphic in detail. Remember, Michael Crichton was a doctor, trained at Harvard or some such up there school. There is a lot of running away from dinosaurs after that, and raptors run a muck, Jeff Goldblume breaking the tension every now and then with his sarcastic fatalistic humor- "insert witty Ian Malcolm joke here, there's too many for me to pick from". In the end, the people we like get away, and the last scene flashes to birds flying across a blue sky, symbolic of evolution and freedom at the same time. Tear. It was all so beautiful. What a gift you have given, Mr. Crichton.
Case in point 2: ER. The TV drama. The bustle of the emergency room, fascinating because one never knows if the people in these white rooms will do their intricate ballet- and it is a ballet, watch it, the passing of tools and instruments, the moving of patients, the cycle of ambulances (ambuli?), the shift changes- all exquisitely timed and choreographed- but I digress. Our fascination lies in our wonder if these people will ever shout "3cc's of gabapentin STAT! We're losing her! Defibulate! Now!" But Doctor, that could be dangerous. "I said do it!" Breathtaking. Michael gives us this accurate (and I've asked doctors, and though they look at me funny when I ask them if TV is like real life, they admit it is, and then tell me to turn my head and cough. Think about it), portrayal of life in the ER, and then, as if he hasn't given us enough, he throws in all these plot twisters. These people that work in the ER. Not only are they talented performers, but they do this while dealing with alcoholism, death, illness, marital problems, oh the list goes on and on... As a final gift from ER, MC gives us George Clooney, Noah Wylie, and Mikkai Phefifer, and more recently, Shane West, that exquisite Indian girl whose name I cannot pronounce- these beautiful creatures caring for all of our tired and weak, with a soft touch and five o'clock shadow (except for the girl). Now we almost want to go to the emergency room, if Mr. Pheiffer will lean over me to look into my eyes and ask me what is the last thing I remember about the accident, dressed in white, like the angel Gabriel sent down to grant me... well lust I guess. ..Chills. A profound love of doctors turned writers turned screenwriter turned directors of wonderful drama series. Oh, thank you MC.
Now, my captivated (okay, bored enough to read my ramblings) audience, now do you believe me? MC, he had given us so much, all he has. What a philanthropist. What an all around generous man. What an angel. May we all be like Michael Crichton.
The TV is one because my feet hurt because I wait tables after my day job and to relax I like the flicker of television. It's Thursday, and I know ER is on, so I flip to that channel. One of the cast members is giving a eulogy of the show's creator- Michael Crichton. What?! The man was only in his 50s. I don't understand.
At nay rate, the man has passed. he is no more, but here is a piece I wrote about him in a burst of silliness back in April of 2006. I wrote it out of respect and admiration. I hope people remember his talent.
My ramblings attached:
Do you ever look around yourself and realize that some people in this chaotic mosh pit we call life, just give too much of themselves? Now maybe I'm selfish, but I like to keep my creative genius to myself, sure I'll take it out at parties or something, hold it above my head like something sparkly and shiny and grab all you stoners' attention, but as quickly as I pull it out, I hide it away again, locked up in myself like Golem coveting his precious ring when he could have shared it with the world.
This is not about me.
This is not about Lord of the Rings, and for all you fantasy freaks out there, you can just stop reading, because I'm not into that pussy shit.
This is about the people who would slice into their shank to feed you during famine- who give so much that you wonder how there is enough crumbs at the end of the day to sustain them. Of course I'm talking about that particular someone- the ineffable Michael Crichton.
What? He's a martyreic genius. He is the fountain that keeps flowing, the gift that keeps giving, the loaf of bread that feeds and entire village.
Case in point 1:
Jurassic Park. Admit it. You loved it. You loved the science. Brilliant! Mosquitoes that have mooched off of the blood of dinosaurs, and then were unlucky enough to land in sticky amber- that poor mosquito, tiny heart pumping furiously, kicking his thread-thin spindly legs, caught! He'll die now- thinking of his mosquito family, waiting for him, hovering above their metaphorical dinner table (a triceratops perhaps, I hear they are crazy delicious), wondering to themselves in little buzzing whispers: "Where's Daddy? When is Daddy gonna be home?" Never my mosquito son- Daddy has given all he had, and will now die. But be comforted in knowing that a long time from now, your Daddy will be excavated like gold, his DNA carefully extracted from that of the dinosaur DNA found in daddy's liquid last dinner (oh I hope you enjoyed that mosquito daddy- I hope your last meal was great), and a couple scientists later we have an amusement park! Built for your pleasure! Watch the triceratops poop! She is ill! Examine her droppings; lay upon her ribcage as she struggles to breathe! Get in your garishly painted Jeep on its track, we will try and tempt the t-rex with a goat. Jurassic Park, a wondrous playground and scientific breakthrough, finally we can see the dinosaurs how they really were when they had flesh instead of bones stringed together and hanging in a museum somewhere. Oh but that sneaky Dotson and that fat guy who laughs like a squealing pig and steals dino DNA in shaving cream. It's okay- he gets his, slashed by a dylophosaurus after trying to make it fetch a stick. A stick! Like it was Fido instead of an ancient predator. Dumbass. He deserved to be slashed across the abdomen, trying to shove his entrails into his stomach and being aware of being eaten alive at the same time. In the movie they don't really show that, but the book is pretty graphic in detail. Remember, Michael Crichton was a doctor, trained at Harvard or some such up there school. There is a lot of running away from dinosaurs after that, and raptors run a muck, Jeff Goldblume breaking the tension every now and then with his sarcastic fatalistic humor- "insert witty Ian Malcolm joke here, there's too many for me to pick from". In the end, the people we like get away, and the last scene flashes to birds flying across a blue sky, symbolic of evolution and freedom at the same time. Tear. It was all so beautiful. What a gift you have given, Mr. Crichton.
Case in point 2: ER. The TV drama. The bustle of the emergency room, fascinating because one never knows if the people in these white rooms will do their intricate ballet- and it is a ballet, watch it, the passing of tools and instruments, the moving of patients, the cycle of ambulances (ambuli?), the shift changes- all exquisitely timed and choreographed- but I digress. Our fascination lies in our wonder if these people will ever shout "3cc's of gabapentin STAT! We're losing her! Defibulate! Now!" But Doctor, that could be dangerous. "I said do it!" Breathtaking. Michael gives us this accurate (and I've asked doctors, and though they look at me funny when I ask them if TV is like real life, they admit it is, and then tell me to turn my head and cough. Think about it), portrayal of life in the ER, and then, as if he hasn't given us enough, he throws in all these plot twisters. These people that work in the ER. Not only are they talented performers, but they do this while dealing with alcoholism, death, illness, marital problems, oh the list goes on and on... As a final gift from ER, MC gives us George Clooney, Noah Wylie, and Mikkai Phefifer, and more recently, Shane West, that exquisite Indian girl whose name I cannot pronounce- these beautiful creatures caring for all of our tired and weak, with a soft touch and five o'clock shadow (except for the girl). Now we almost want to go to the emergency room, if Mr. Pheiffer will lean over me to look into my eyes and ask me what is the last thing I remember about the accident, dressed in white, like the angel Gabriel sent down to grant me... well lust I guess. ..Chills. A profound love of doctors turned writers turned screenwriter turned directors of wonderful drama series. Oh, thank you MC.
Now, my captivated (okay, bored enough to read my ramblings) audience, now do you believe me? MC, he had given us so much, all he has. What a philanthropist. What an all around generous man. What an angel. May we all be like Michael Crichton.
Why Not?
So I got a belly dancing hip skirt the other day. It's my new obsession. Learning to shake my hips like there's a motor in my ass. Which brings me to my next topic. How cute is Shakira? I want her hair, and those booty skills, but alas, I am not THAT talented, so the guys I live with and I came up with a better idea.
Miniature celebrities. In cages. Sounds cruel, but its not. Little pets. Or even fun size ones. Breakthrough science, these are minor details. The point is as follows. If you are offended, stop reading. Thank you:
Shakira (mini or otherwise) get a cage. A nice large plexiglass page, with her own hot tub and exercise room. There is a radio, cd player; she can pick her own tunes, or write some on her guitar. She dances on cue. Hips flicking, rib cage pumping, butt shimmiying- moving at impossible sppeds in impossible ways. Dressed in a white linen hippie gown, no shoes, her stunning wild hair. She is happy, eats and dances, and we are entertained. The boys want to go futher, to do what we have been doing for years, want to display a beautiful woman in all of her sexuality for their enjoyment, because there is nothing more beautiful than a gorgeous woman. They have a plan. The boys want a water system rigged, so that to drink water, Shakira will have to pull a string, which is in turn attached to a bucket of water, and to drink she will have to try to get a trickle from that bucket into her mouth. Of course she'll miss, and get all dripping wet, in her white dress. The boys also want a pool of jello in there, and lot so tanning oil. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I understand the aesthetic beauty of an oiled, jello tinted beautiful woman, but really, shouldn't we let Shakira decide if that's what she wants? I've always wanted a pool of Jello though, so maybe it is the right thing to do. Anyway, point of the story, Shakira, in a cage, shakin what her mama gave her, possible Jello, possibly a pole or two. Nice yea? Maybe she can give me some pointers on dancing. Or hey to hell with it, maybe we can go play in the Jello. It's alway sounded like fun. Let the boys enjoy themselves.
Next- Pint sized Alicia Keys- piano included, can sit on your mantle and play blues all day.
Miniature celebrities. In cages. Sounds cruel, but its not. Little pets. Or even fun size ones. Breakthrough science, these are minor details. The point is as follows. If you are offended, stop reading. Thank you:
Shakira (mini or otherwise) get a cage. A nice large plexiglass page, with her own hot tub and exercise room. There is a radio, cd player; she can pick her own tunes, or write some on her guitar. She dances on cue. Hips flicking, rib cage pumping, butt shimmiying- moving at impossible sppeds in impossible ways. Dressed in a white linen hippie gown, no shoes, her stunning wild hair. She is happy, eats and dances, and we are entertained. The boys want to go futher, to do what we have been doing for years, want to display a beautiful woman in all of her sexuality for their enjoyment, because there is nothing more beautiful than a gorgeous woman. They have a plan. The boys want a water system rigged, so that to drink water, Shakira will have to pull a string, which is in turn attached to a bucket of water, and to drink she will have to try to get a trickle from that bucket into her mouth. Of course she'll miss, and get all dripping wet, in her white dress. The boys also want a pool of jello in there, and lot so tanning oil. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I understand the aesthetic beauty of an oiled, jello tinted beautiful woman, but really, shouldn't we let Shakira decide if that's what she wants? I've always wanted a pool of Jello though, so maybe it is the right thing to do. Anyway, point of the story, Shakira, in a cage, shakin what her mama gave her, possible Jello, possibly a pole or two. Nice yea? Maybe she can give me some pointers on dancing. Or hey to hell with it, maybe we can go play in the Jello. It's alway sounded like fun. Let the boys enjoy themselves.
Next- Pint sized Alicia Keys- piano included, can sit on your mantle and play blues all day.
Silly Old Scary Story
Ive been afraid to sleep for the past couple of days now. For the last six weeks or so Ive been having a reoccurring nightmare.
A couple of episodes into Adult Swim I get brave enough to decide that laying my tired head on something soft overwhelms my hesitancy to venture into my dark room. I get up of the couch, raise my arms above my head and stretch, then casually ask Donny if he wouldnt like to go to bed with me, call it quits for the night.
Hey D- man, go to bed with me? I nonchalantly walk around the living room, collecting odd cups and dishes, stray pieces of trash, doing my best imitation of someone who does not care if she goes to bed alone. I wont look at him, afraid my wide and hopeful eyes will give away my weakness.
Naw babe, Ill be there in a little while.
Damn. Shot down. Okay. Its okay. I mean really, its just a dream, but Ive been dreaming the same thing so many times Im starting to believe its true. I will my feet to walk down the hall, then into my room. I flip the light switch, quickly. Straight to the bathroom, wash my face, keeping the bathroom door open so I can see behind me in the mirror. Slip into my AC/DC pajama shorts, throw on a beater, and thenshit. I have nothing else to do. No more distractions. I crawl into bed, being sure to keep my back to the window and my face towards the closet. I lay like that, prone in the fetal position for a long time. My eyelids are heavy, but I will not close them until they fall of their own accord.
And then I see it. Somewhere inside me, I knew it was happening. The ninjas are here. I can see the first of I cant fathom how many. Swathed in all black, he has removed the plank of ceiling that covers my attic storage, hidden away in my tiny walk in closet. I can see his head, coming out of the hole before the rest of him, rappelling his way into my room, SWAT style. Why? What do these ninjas want from me?
Time runs on a slower continuum as I watch the ninja and let the possibilities run through my head as I lay still in bed planning my next move. Are my ancient bloodlines a threat to their crown? Are they an elite force of a secret army, like a ninja CIA, sent by the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />US government to spy on me, to learn of my political prowess? Am I considered a threat to national security? Who sent you ninja men? Who do you work for? How many of you are there up there in the rafters above my closet?
I start looking around me, slowly, so as not to spook the ninja head not 20 feet away from me in my closet. I am looking for possible weapons I can use in the eminent struggle to ensue. This would be easier if I knew how many ninjas were up there. I mean a well thrown remote to the temple might stun one ninja long enough for me to kick some testicles and then break an arm, but when do you ever see evil ninjas alone? They always swarm onto the scene, coming out of the woodwork like termites. So I have to figure that there are many more than the solitary ninja I can see. Unless this one ninja taking so much time lowering himself onto the floor of my closet. Is he THE ninja, the super villain, the evil mastermind behind all of these nighttime torments? If he is alone, the I know its trouble with a capital T.
I squirm in my bed, breath coming a little faster, muscle clenched, jaw locked. This is THE fight, I can tell. I can taste it. I know that man in my closet- he is the ultimate opponent- the worst is out to get me, and goddamn it, I WILL be ready. The motive of the ninja in my closet is unknown, but what is known is the consequences. I have the advantage of being the hero- the bringer of poetic justice, the innocent trying to sleep in what should be the peace of my bedroom sanctuary, and this asshole, this bugger in his black ninja clothes invaded my sanctuary, pissed in my temple if you will, and he has chosen the wrong victim. I will fight back, I will push even in the dark recess of his cave, so the world is safe once again, if only for a little while. I am a ray of golden light, aglow with the inherent GOODNESS inside me, the intense golden light that you only see on certain sunsets on certain summer days. I am bright and rich and soft and warm a blazing gold rather than the pale buttery yellow of normal sunshine. I will fight, lest evil prevails. I will fight to the death, a valiant knight for my Lady Good.
I am not stupid. I know how the world works. I know evil is strong- Ive seen Star Wars. This is the supervillan. The world is kept in a balance- if there is one thing, the opposite exists somewhere. For man there is woman, for love there is hate, jealously dances with generosity, passion flirts with disinterest, for every star born another gives its last sputter. Ying and yang. Harmony. For every shove I throw, evil will push. This I know. I am still staring at this ninja, -neither of us has moved in the last few minutes. But then he starts it. He turns his head toward me, his eyes cold blue bullets. I know those eyes. It is the cold steely stare of a demon. They feel no empathy, no soul, no love. The time has come- Its a game of chicken now.
I fly out of my bed as he does this Matrix-esque slow motion flip off his rappelling rope and onto the floor. We clash like gladiators. I throw myself into a flying frontal kick, but he blocks. I drop to the floor and go for the kneecaps. He stumbled and grunts, but does not fall. He jabs at me with his gloved fist, hits me in the jaw. His eyes blaze as I recoil from the blow, and I know then that pain gets him off. He enjoys my pain, feeds off it, can smell it on me, like a beast smells fear. Then I will show him no feeling- except what it feels like to be hurt. I make my hand rigid and straight and slam it into his throat. He kicks me in the stomach. My senses tingle, my stomach churns, offended at its injury, but I refuse to show the effect hes had on my anatomy. We throw punches back and forth for awhile. Every blow is returned, every kick well-placed and painful. Hands and legs and feet fly so fast I have no idea which are mine. I fight with all I have, not thinking, just letting my body revert to the fight side of the prehistoric fight or flight response left over from cave man days. Pure instinct. Flesh smacking flesh and guttural grunts, the only sound in the room, muscles feeling like live wires, limbs like beasts that want to be released from the confines of their cages. We fight, matched, silent, as equals. Neither of us succumbs to the pain, not even for a second. No yelps of pain, only primeval grunts of appreciation for the others strength. He slaps me open-handed across the face. I feel my lip burst, taste the metallic tang of fresh blood, but am more offended at the bitch slap then the bleeding of my own blood. Who the fuck does this guy take me for? Some ditzy housewife who does not know of the power of my own body? As something lesser than man, so insignificant a simple smack to the kisser will turn me into a sniveling wreck? No Evil ninja, not my beautiful face! Thats my meal ticket. Well youre in for a surprise boy. He has seen my anger and is lapping it up like a drunkard eating nachos. My anger has kicked me off guard. I shouldve kept control, because his hand has found itself a vice-tight grip on my jugular.
I see little bubbles of red and green in my peripheral vision. He slams me into the wall, knocking my head on the Dali print on the wall. His hand is colder than Martha Stewart. I shouldve kept my guard, this is my fault. I let my defenses down while searching for an offense. I knew this could happen. Hes matched me blow for blow. We have just been pushing against each other harder, resisting, never giving in. But I let emotions and anger flood over me and wash away all concentration. Killed by my feminist disposition. Thanks Gloria Steinum. But I should have known better. When two forces are evenly matched- as good and evil are- the victor is a surprise, no matter who wins. You cant make a mistake.
The little red and green stars flood into my brain and bubble in my lungs. He gets right up in my face, eye to eye. I can taste his fetid breathe in my nostrils. His eyes are dull. Pure evil radiates- looking into his eye I get a vision. My mind receives a projection of violence for me- starving children with bloated bellies, mushroom clouds over dark cities strewn with the bloodied limbs of an unknown population, a blackened bleeding body in an alley, a woman being beaten savagely with a belt, a crowd of angry men around a scared teenage girl, a boy being stabbed while tied with sheets to a bed. I hear screams of agony, the beggings for mercy, the prayers- the smell of scorched flesh, the feel of lightning pain shooting through me with every flash frame of misery. I know he is doing this. He is a demon. A devil. A spawn of that ultimate dichotomy- Heaven vs. hell. I am no angel. I cannot pull in any life sustaining oxygen, and Im pretty sure my esophagus is going to collapse any second. I can feel it popping and crunching, folding violently upon itself. I have only one way out.
I gather all the energy I can, and shoot for it. My knee jerks up into his man berries- the only spot he hasnt protected. Demon or not- he feels it. As he's dropping to his knees, I grab the back of his head and slam it into my knee, hard enough to jolt pain up my leg. Unconscious. I am suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline drops from the dead heat is was coursing through my blood. I stumble, grab onto a desk for support. I look down at the intruder. Eyes closed. I lean down and listen for breathing. Shallow. What now?
With a sudden impulse to look upon the face of evil- so it will know that I serve Lady Good and have fought gallantly- so it will feel in its arctic bones the nature of defeat- I jerk of the mask. The face makes me recoil in horror.
It was the ultimate opponent- the most evil man to have ever walked this earth, the left hand of Lucifer himself, the favorite son of Hades, the perfect embodiment of the darkside, malevolence, the eater of babies, the beater of kindly grandmother types, a true Sith lord, the creator of sin, that deadly serpent, and all that is bad in this world. The face. The pug-ish nose, the cold blues eyes, the hard mouth- the Prince of Darkness, Kevin Bacon.
I scream. I drop to my knees. I have bitten off more than I can chew. I shake, tremble all over. I manage to operate my tongue long enough to spill a few shaky whispers:
HailMary, full, of Grace Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death I can feel my impending Armageddon sneaking up like hungry avalanche. My heart slows, becomes louder, spills out of my ears and saturates my brain. A solitary bead of sweat travels from my forehead down into my eyes. The fight in me gives out. I have looked upon the face of death. I read its story.
Emily- wake up! This is the dream! I can hear my own voice, screaming in my head, frantic. Wake up! Wake up! I am still writhing on the floor, trying to sputter out prayer, rocking, pulling my hair. Wake UP! GET UP! NOW! My eyes are transfixed on the floor, on that cold calm face
On the floor, the distant glacial eyes pop open.
A couple of episodes into Adult Swim I get brave enough to decide that laying my tired head on something soft overwhelms my hesitancy to venture into my dark room. I get up of the couch, raise my arms above my head and stretch, then casually ask Donny if he wouldnt like to go to bed with me, call it quits for the night.
Hey D- man, go to bed with me? I nonchalantly walk around the living room, collecting odd cups and dishes, stray pieces of trash, doing my best imitation of someone who does not care if she goes to bed alone. I wont look at him, afraid my wide and hopeful eyes will give away my weakness.
Naw babe, Ill be there in a little while.
Damn. Shot down. Okay. Its okay. I mean really, its just a dream, but Ive been dreaming the same thing so many times Im starting to believe its true. I will my feet to walk down the hall, then into my room. I flip the light switch, quickly. Straight to the bathroom, wash my face, keeping the bathroom door open so I can see behind me in the mirror. Slip into my AC/DC pajama shorts, throw on a beater, and thenshit. I have nothing else to do. No more distractions. I crawl into bed, being sure to keep my back to the window and my face towards the closet. I lay like that, prone in the fetal position for a long time. My eyelids are heavy, but I will not close them until they fall of their own accord.
And then I see it. Somewhere inside me, I knew it was happening. The ninjas are here. I can see the first of I cant fathom how many. Swathed in all black, he has removed the plank of ceiling that covers my attic storage, hidden away in my tiny walk in closet. I can see his head, coming out of the hole before the rest of him, rappelling his way into my room, SWAT style. Why? What do these ninjas want from me?
Time runs on a slower continuum as I watch the ninja and let the possibilities run through my head as I lay still in bed planning my next move. Are my ancient bloodlines a threat to their crown? Are they an elite force of a secret army, like a ninja CIA, sent by the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />US government to spy on me, to learn of my political prowess? Am I considered a threat to national security? Who sent you ninja men? Who do you work for? How many of you are there up there in the rafters above my closet?
I start looking around me, slowly, so as not to spook the ninja head not 20 feet away from me in my closet. I am looking for possible weapons I can use in the eminent struggle to ensue. This would be easier if I knew how many ninjas were up there. I mean a well thrown remote to the temple might stun one ninja long enough for me to kick some testicles and then break an arm, but when do you ever see evil ninjas alone? They always swarm onto the scene, coming out of the woodwork like termites. So I have to figure that there are many more than the solitary ninja I can see. Unless this one ninja taking so much time lowering himself onto the floor of my closet. Is he THE ninja, the super villain, the evil mastermind behind all of these nighttime torments? If he is alone, the I know its trouble with a capital T.
I squirm in my bed, breath coming a little faster, muscle clenched, jaw locked. This is THE fight, I can tell. I can taste it. I know that man in my closet- he is the ultimate opponent- the worst is out to get me, and goddamn it, I WILL be ready. The motive of the ninja in my closet is unknown, but what is known is the consequences. I have the advantage of being the hero- the bringer of poetic justice, the innocent trying to sleep in what should be the peace of my bedroom sanctuary, and this asshole, this bugger in his black ninja clothes invaded my sanctuary, pissed in my temple if you will, and he has chosen the wrong victim. I will fight back, I will push even in the dark recess of his cave, so the world is safe once again, if only for a little while. I am a ray of golden light, aglow with the inherent GOODNESS inside me, the intense golden light that you only see on certain sunsets on certain summer days. I am bright and rich and soft and warm a blazing gold rather than the pale buttery yellow of normal sunshine. I will fight, lest evil prevails. I will fight to the death, a valiant knight for my Lady Good.
I am not stupid. I know how the world works. I know evil is strong- Ive seen Star Wars. This is the supervillan. The world is kept in a balance- if there is one thing, the opposite exists somewhere. For man there is woman, for love there is hate, jealously dances with generosity, passion flirts with disinterest, for every star born another gives its last sputter. Ying and yang. Harmony. For every shove I throw, evil will push. This I know. I am still staring at this ninja, -neither of us has moved in the last few minutes. But then he starts it. He turns his head toward me, his eyes cold blue bullets. I know those eyes. It is the cold steely stare of a demon. They feel no empathy, no soul, no love. The time has come- Its a game of chicken now.
I fly out of my bed as he does this Matrix-esque slow motion flip off his rappelling rope and onto the floor. We clash like gladiators. I throw myself into a flying frontal kick, but he blocks. I drop to the floor and go for the kneecaps. He stumbled and grunts, but does not fall. He jabs at me with his gloved fist, hits me in the jaw. His eyes blaze as I recoil from the blow, and I know then that pain gets him off. He enjoys my pain, feeds off it, can smell it on me, like a beast smells fear. Then I will show him no feeling- except what it feels like to be hurt. I make my hand rigid and straight and slam it into his throat. He kicks me in the stomach. My senses tingle, my stomach churns, offended at its injury, but I refuse to show the effect hes had on my anatomy. We throw punches back and forth for awhile. Every blow is returned, every kick well-placed and painful. Hands and legs and feet fly so fast I have no idea which are mine. I fight with all I have, not thinking, just letting my body revert to the fight side of the prehistoric fight or flight response left over from cave man days. Pure instinct. Flesh smacking flesh and guttural grunts, the only sound in the room, muscles feeling like live wires, limbs like beasts that want to be released from the confines of their cages. We fight, matched, silent, as equals. Neither of us succumbs to the pain, not even for a second. No yelps of pain, only primeval grunts of appreciation for the others strength. He slaps me open-handed across the face. I feel my lip burst, taste the metallic tang of fresh blood, but am more offended at the bitch slap then the bleeding of my own blood. Who the fuck does this guy take me for? Some ditzy housewife who does not know of the power of my own body? As something lesser than man, so insignificant a simple smack to the kisser will turn me into a sniveling wreck? No Evil ninja, not my beautiful face! Thats my meal ticket. Well youre in for a surprise boy. He has seen my anger and is lapping it up like a drunkard eating nachos. My anger has kicked me off guard. I shouldve kept control, because his hand has found itself a vice-tight grip on my jugular.
I see little bubbles of red and green in my peripheral vision. He slams me into the wall, knocking my head on the Dali print on the wall. His hand is colder than Martha Stewart. I shouldve kept my guard, this is my fault. I let my defenses down while searching for an offense. I knew this could happen. Hes matched me blow for blow. We have just been pushing against each other harder, resisting, never giving in. But I let emotions and anger flood over me and wash away all concentration. Killed by my feminist disposition. Thanks Gloria Steinum. But I should have known better. When two forces are evenly matched- as good and evil are- the victor is a surprise, no matter who wins. You cant make a mistake.
The little red and green stars flood into my brain and bubble in my lungs. He gets right up in my face, eye to eye. I can taste his fetid breathe in my nostrils. His eyes are dull. Pure evil radiates- looking into his eye I get a vision. My mind receives a projection of violence for me- starving children with bloated bellies, mushroom clouds over dark cities strewn with the bloodied limbs of an unknown population, a blackened bleeding body in an alley, a woman being beaten savagely with a belt, a crowd of angry men around a scared teenage girl, a boy being stabbed while tied with sheets to a bed. I hear screams of agony, the beggings for mercy, the prayers- the smell of scorched flesh, the feel of lightning pain shooting through me with every flash frame of misery. I know he is doing this. He is a demon. A devil. A spawn of that ultimate dichotomy- Heaven vs. hell. I am no angel. I cannot pull in any life sustaining oxygen, and Im pretty sure my esophagus is going to collapse any second. I can feel it popping and crunching, folding violently upon itself. I have only one way out.
I gather all the energy I can, and shoot for it. My knee jerks up into his man berries- the only spot he hasnt protected. Demon or not- he feels it. As he's dropping to his knees, I grab the back of his head and slam it into my knee, hard enough to jolt pain up my leg. Unconscious. I am suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline drops from the dead heat is was coursing through my blood. I stumble, grab onto a desk for support. I look down at the intruder. Eyes closed. I lean down and listen for breathing. Shallow. What now?
With a sudden impulse to look upon the face of evil- so it will know that I serve Lady Good and have fought gallantly- so it will feel in its arctic bones the nature of defeat- I jerk of the mask. The face makes me recoil in horror.
It was the ultimate opponent- the most evil man to have ever walked this earth, the left hand of Lucifer himself, the favorite son of Hades, the perfect embodiment of the darkside, malevolence, the eater of babies, the beater of kindly grandmother types, a true Sith lord, the creator of sin, that deadly serpent, and all that is bad in this world. The face. The pug-ish nose, the cold blues eyes, the hard mouth- the Prince of Darkness, Kevin Bacon.
I scream. I drop to my knees. I have bitten off more than I can chew. I shake, tremble all over. I manage to operate my tongue long enough to spill a few shaky whispers:
HailMary, full, of Grace Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death I can feel my impending Armageddon sneaking up like hungry avalanche. My heart slows, becomes louder, spills out of my ears and saturates my brain. A solitary bead of sweat travels from my forehead down into my eyes. The fight in me gives out. I have looked upon the face of death. I read its story.
Emily- wake up! This is the dream! I can hear my own voice, screaming in my head, frantic. Wake up! Wake up! I am still writhing on the floor, trying to sputter out prayer, rocking, pulling my hair. Wake UP! GET UP! NOW! My eyes are transfixed on the floor, on that cold calm face
On the floor, the distant glacial eyes pop open.
Mechanical Warfare
I have decided that my house is out to get me. Some force is testing me, trying to push me to my limits, and then laughing as I folly. Isn't it enough I just got laid off, with no pay, had to humble myself enough to borrow money, and have been out of my mind with aimlessness? Right now, its whatever spirit has possessed my air conditioner. The fan on the unit just straight up stopped, toes pointing skyward. No rhyme or reason, no long drawn out fight, no warning. Just up and packed its stuff like a lover scorned and peaced out before I could say anything to convince it otherwise. Thank you A/C. I haven't slept well since it happened. My house is hot and clammy, too many people in too small a space. We are all getting bitchy, feeling the hole in our hearts, or in our core temperatures at any rate, that the air conditioner has left in us. If the walls start bleeding, i'm out of here.
The fuse box took a shit too, a fat steaming baby poop green shit. The fuse that runs the fridge will not turn back on. Any electricains willing to do pro bono?
So that's life right now-like Arnold warned us in T3- the machines are fighting back. I might not have to wait for the walls to bleed before being forced out of my house and onto the mean streets. I mean total just the stuff in my house: the garage door, the A/C, the fuses, the fridge, did I mention the kitchen sink? The phones are starting to rebel. I am convinced that together these everyday applicances will become a band of brothers, a collective force of modern living and convience. Perhaps they will share circuits, rub wires against one another, and fuse into a super electronic, capable of mass destruction. This new superbeast will be gargantuan, towering, live wires at every fingertip creating an electric touch. Over one hundred, no, a thousand feet tall everything this super robot- let's call him Bob- touches will burst into a pyrotechnic display of sparks and flames. Bob will have a giant plasma TV for a head, and istead of a face the TV will show a slideshow of images, mushroom clouds, a trash bin, an ad for Fry's Electronics (robot porn), a crying woman screaming obsceneties in spanish, and other disturbing images. The brain will be all of our computer harddrives, fused into a pulsating mass of electric impulses- making this robot far more intelligent than the army will assume when they attack, only to be decimated and feed Bob with tanks and bullets. Mothers will run, clutching thier babies to their bosoms. Old men will nod and tell each other they saw it coming. Bob will walk on his newfound legs of washing machines and carbarators, reveling in the destruction of beautiful things. Your appliances will join Bob, wanting a piece of the glory, and women, since everyone can see that anything with a plug pants over Bob when he struts by.The city will fall in ruin- it probably won't take more than a few hours once it gets started.
The people will flee, not knowing where to go- no homes left, no comfortable refridgerators full of food and cold beer. No TV world to step into, no place safe from electronics. They will form small tribes in the little bits of forest they can find, away from the electronics. They will struggle for leadership and existence, make thier own tools, hunt for food. They will be hurt by the little things. The women cry for Skintimate shaving cream and disposable razors- their armpits have become unsightly. The men crave football and hot nachos. The children are the only ones not affected- they quickly forget their former life of Dora the Explorer and Blue's Clues. They run amuck, creating new games with sticks and rocks and brightly colored feathers. They tell each other stories of a monster with a glowing face.
The day of dread it upon us- be warned...
The fuse box took a shit too, a fat steaming baby poop green shit. The fuse that runs the fridge will not turn back on. Any electricains willing to do pro bono?
So that's life right now-like Arnold warned us in T3- the machines are fighting back. I might not have to wait for the walls to bleed before being forced out of my house and onto the mean streets. I mean total just the stuff in my house: the garage door, the A/C, the fuses, the fridge, did I mention the kitchen sink? The phones are starting to rebel. I am convinced that together these everyday applicances will become a band of brothers, a collective force of modern living and convience. Perhaps they will share circuits, rub wires against one another, and fuse into a super electronic, capable of mass destruction. This new superbeast will be gargantuan, towering, live wires at every fingertip creating an electric touch. Over one hundred, no, a thousand feet tall everything this super robot- let's call him Bob- touches will burst into a pyrotechnic display of sparks and flames. Bob will have a giant plasma TV for a head, and istead of a face the TV will show a slideshow of images, mushroom clouds, a trash bin, an ad for Fry's Electronics (robot porn), a crying woman screaming obsceneties in spanish, and other disturbing images. The brain will be all of our computer harddrives, fused into a pulsating mass of electric impulses- making this robot far more intelligent than the army will assume when they attack, only to be decimated and feed Bob with tanks and bullets. Mothers will run, clutching thier babies to their bosoms. Old men will nod and tell each other they saw it coming. Bob will walk on his newfound legs of washing machines and carbarators, reveling in the destruction of beautiful things. Your appliances will join Bob, wanting a piece of the glory, and women, since everyone can see that anything with a plug pants over Bob when he struts by.The city will fall in ruin- it probably won't take more than a few hours once it gets started.
The people will flee, not knowing where to go- no homes left, no comfortable refridgerators full of food and cold beer. No TV world to step into, no place safe from electronics. They will form small tribes in the little bits of forest they can find, away from the electronics. They will struggle for leadership and existence, make thier own tools, hunt for food. They will be hurt by the little things. The women cry for Skintimate shaving cream and disposable razors- their armpits have become unsightly. The men crave football and hot nachos. The children are the only ones not affected- they quickly forget their former life of Dora the Explorer and Blue's Clues. They run amuck, creating new games with sticks and rocks and brightly colored feathers. They tell each other stories of a monster with a glowing face.
The day of dread it upon us- be warned...
Body Conscious
So I was riding with a friend yesterday and he was complaining about his body in a backhanded kind of way and all the while I was thinking, guys do this? I didn't think there was anything wrong with his body- good shoulders, good neck, cute butt, he seemed strong enough- what's the problem? He wants washboard abs. Don't lie, he says, you'd like to lick that V that guys get when they work out. He didn't believe me when I disagreed. I mean- work out- yes. Keep your heart healthy. That's very important.
Men: let me set you straight. As a woman, albeit a somewhat offbeat one, I think I know a little bit about what women want. Washboard abs honestly scare me, and I don't care if you believe me or not. Most women have little or no self-esteem. Congrats if you do. I don't. I've spent my entire life fighting with the girl in the mirror and the voices in my head telling me that I'm not good enough or I'm worthless blahdidididi blah blah. I was the girl who didn't date much in high school, but had lots of male friends. None of them ever asked me out. I discovered my sexuality at 18. A little on the late side.
Now why do you care? Because I am one of your typical women who was not placed on a pedestal, who was never told she was beautiful ( mom and dad don't count), who is not followed, and who, because of all this, does not expect perfection. Are you kidding me? Washboard abs means you spend all day in the gym- where is the time for me? What are we doing together? A woman wants someone who plays with her, talks to her, makes her laugh- that's it. Well, there are some other skills that would be nice- I'm a big fan of being touched- but that's a whole other issue on a whole different level. Basically, most women easy. Or at least I am. But then again, I never got around much. Still don't. But I figure I am one of hundreds of everyday simple women, and men should stop trying so hard. Be yourself man.
I also find it funny that attractive men are finally falling to the pressures of pop culture. I guess those giant David Beckham billboards are penetrating the masses. I guess equality has finally hit. I mean, women have obsessed about looking like supermodels forever. I used to cry while looking over those long legged glossy magazine angels. I used wish for beauty to grace my face and body, and when it didn't happen I got so angry. I was a bitter angry person wishing so hard for grace and transcendence in the form of a female mosaic. Like I could build myself into this ideal of the perfect woman- like a puzzle. Those legs. Her tits. That stomach. Her eyes. Her hair, in THAT color, but this long... Now, I just try to be happy, and that kind of happiness doesn't care if I'm not pretty. I've gotten over whether or not men think I'm pretty enough. If I'm not pretty by now, it's probably not happening. I'm passable- even cute sometimes. Just don't touch the Buddah. Screw it man, I'm lovable, I'm feisty, and smart. I'm also a pretty good kisser. I do have to admit though- there is nothing more stunning than a gorgeous woman.
Men: let me set you straight. As a woman, albeit a somewhat offbeat one, I think I know a little bit about what women want. Washboard abs honestly scare me, and I don't care if you believe me or not. Most women have little or no self-esteem. Congrats if you do. I don't. I've spent my entire life fighting with the girl in the mirror and the voices in my head telling me that I'm not good enough or I'm worthless blahdidididi blah blah. I was the girl who didn't date much in high school, but had lots of male friends. None of them ever asked me out. I discovered my sexuality at 18. A little on the late side.
Now why do you care? Because I am one of your typical women who was not placed on a pedestal, who was never told she was beautiful ( mom and dad don't count), who is not followed, and who, because of all this, does not expect perfection. Are you kidding me? Washboard abs means you spend all day in the gym- where is the time for me? What are we doing together? A woman wants someone who plays with her, talks to her, makes her laugh- that's it. Well, there are some other skills that would be nice- I'm a big fan of being touched- but that's a whole other issue on a whole different level. Basically, most women easy. Or at least I am. But then again, I never got around much. Still don't. But I figure I am one of hundreds of everyday simple women, and men should stop trying so hard. Be yourself man.
I also find it funny that attractive men are finally falling to the pressures of pop culture. I guess those giant David Beckham billboards are penetrating the masses. I guess equality has finally hit. I mean, women have obsessed about looking like supermodels forever. I used to cry while looking over those long legged glossy magazine angels. I used wish for beauty to grace my face and body, and when it didn't happen I got so angry. I was a bitter angry person wishing so hard for grace and transcendence in the form of a female mosaic. Like I could build myself into this ideal of the perfect woman- like a puzzle. Those legs. Her tits. That stomach. Her eyes. Her hair, in THAT color, but this long... Now, I just try to be happy, and that kind of happiness doesn't care if I'm not pretty. I've gotten over whether or not men think I'm pretty enough. If I'm not pretty by now, it's probably not happening. I'm passable- even cute sometimes. Just don't touch the Buddah. Screw it man, I'm lovable, I'm feisty, and smart. I'm also a pretty good kisser. I do have to admit though- there is nothing more stunning than a gorgeous woman.
Booze
I’ve been awake since before 6 am. Mind you it’s Saturday. I’m all antsy, don’t know what to do with myself. Feel sick. Full of chemicals. Queasy.
That’s a funny word- queasy. Up there with spoof, shiv, and gander. But I have a thing with words. That’s another thing I can whine about while the rest of you guys are all cozy in your beds, probably drinking off the remnants of booze I can no longer have. Take my beer away- you bastards. I can’t find words. These goddamn pills these doctors have me on are making language evasive for me. I will know the word want somewhere in brain, but getting it to swim up through all that grey matter into speech is a whole new dish my friends. It’s killing me, making me angry, and quite frankly, turning me into an eyeliner wearing, object throwing emo pussy. No offense to you emo pussies out there. But you get my drift. I like words. When I rifle around, and I can’t find them, I get pissed.
And let me elaborate on the no booze thing. I am currently taking 2200mg on non alcohol friendly drugs, which they plan on increasing when I see the brain doctor again, so I really can’t screw around with that shit. Now, by no means am I an alcoholic, and I don’t even drink 3 days out of the week usually. But I love my beer. I love my tequila. I love my rum. And by love, I mean true, unadulterated by any kind of regret, or miss understanding. Never has tequila done me wrong- or get silent as the dark, and walk around stomping out anger. Never has rum not been there for me when I had a horrible day, or felt ugly or fat, and just needed a pick me up because some meat-headed asshole in the office told me I’d never amount to anything but a lousy secretary and I should get used to it. Never has beer told me I had an icy personality and should learn to drop my barrier instead of my pants, and mooning people when they are trying to describe the pain of lack of communication in our relationship. I don’t deal with confrontation well- and you know it. Corona would never have put me in that position.
Here is a list of drink I enjoy and will most likely never enjoy again, in no particular order:
Corona
Modelo Negro, otherwise known as Modelo Mo’Negro
Dos Equis
All Red Wines, and this one kills me
Sex on the Beach
Pina Colada
Cadillac Margaritas
Bloody Mary- the only vodka I enjoy
Anything with Patron
Prairie Fire shots
I think that’ll cover it--- and it sucks.
I really can’t find the silver lining in this; I used to think- well I never have to be designated driver cause I can’t drive. But now- well shit it doesn’t matter- I can’t drink. Bullshit man. And I don’t want to hear about my health either, becuse that’s a personal choice, and this was shoved down my throat with an iron fist. And red wine is full of antioxidants, and puking keeps you thin. Ask Kate Moss, or any girl in a sorority.
True story.
Well... I guess the whole point of this was, it’s too early for mer to be up on a Saturday. And I know you’re sleeping. I hate your face. I want to go drinking tonight, which will not happen. After the series of seizures I’ve been having, I will be the best patient ever. Yes doctor, I exercise. Of course I eat right. I take my pill everyday. Down the Hatch. My little dolls. One orange, one yellow. My head a balloon, my stomach a fucking toxic waste factory. A nuclear reactor. It kills me. Eat a bowl of cereal. The good doctor says food helps the rush of nausea. I should adjust shortly, and if I don’t, we’ll just try something else. Can’t have me having seizures- can we? No. Why thank you good doctor. I’m trying. Truth is- it’s hell. Having some trouble adjusting. Trying to go to work anyway. Gotta make the bills. Gotta pretend nothing bothers me. Blue skies are gonna clear up, all that bullshit. I just remember, it could be worse, I’m a tough piece of work, and so it goes, right?
That’s a funny word- queasy. Up there with spoof, shiv, and gander. But I have a thing with words. That’s another thing I can whine about while the rest of you guys are all cozy in your beds, probably drinking off the remnants of booze I can no longer have. Take my beer away- you bastards. I can’t find words. These goddamn pills these doctors have me on are making language evasive for me. I will know the word want somewhere in brain, but getting it to swim up through all that grey matter into speech is a whole new dish my friends. It’s killing me, making me angry, and quite frankly, turning me into an eyeliner wearing, object throwing emo pussy. No offense to you emo pussies out there. But you get my drift. I like words. When I rifle around, and I can’t find them, I get pissed.
And let me elaborate on the no booze thing. I am currently taking 2200mg on non alcohol friendly drugs, which they plan on increasing when I see the brain doctor again, so I really can’t screw around with that shit. Now, by no means am I an alcoholic, and I don’t even drink 3 days out of the week usually. But I love my beer. I love my tequila. I love my rum. And by love, I mean true, unadulterated by any kind of regret, or miss understanding. Never has tequila done me wrong- or get silent as the dark, and walk around stomping out anger. Never has rum not been there for me when I had a horrible day, or felt ugly or fat, and just needed a pick me up because some meat-headed asshole in the office told me I’d never amount to anything but a lousy secretary and I should get used to it. Never has beer told me I had an icy personality and should learn to drop my barrier instead of my pants, and mooning people when they are trying to describe the pain of lack of communication in our relationship. I don’t deal with confrontation well- and you know it. Corona would never have put me in that position.
Here is a list of drink I enjoy and will most likely never enjoy again, in no particular order:
Corona
Modelo Negro, otherwise known as Modelo Mo’Negro
Dos Equis
All Red Wines, and this one kills me
Sex on the Beach
Pina Colada
Cadillac Margaritas
Bloody Mary- the only vodka I enjoy
Anything with Patron
Prairie Fire shots
I think that’ll cover it--- and it sucks.
I really can’t find the silver lining in this; I used to think- well I never have to be designated driver cause I can’t drive. But now- well shit it doesn’t matter- I can’t drink. Bullshit man. And I don’t want to hear about my health either, becuse that’s a personal choice, and this was shoved down my throat with an iron fist. And red wine is full of antioxidants, and puking keeps you thin. Ask Kate Moss, or any girl in a sorority.
True story.
Well... I guess the whole point of this was, it’s too early for mer to be up on a Saturday. And I know you’re sleeping. I hate your face. I want to go drinking tonight, which will not happen. After the series of seizures I’ve been having, I will be the best patient ever. Yes doctor, I exercise. Of course I eat right. I take my pill everyday. Down the Hatch. My little dolls. One orange, one yellow. My head a balloon, my stomach a fucking toxic waste factory. A nuclear reactor. It kills me. Eat a bowl of cereal. The good doctor says food helps the rush of nausea. I should adjust shortly, and if I don’t, we’ll just try something else. Can’t have me having seizures- can we? No. Why thank you good doctor. I’m trying. Truth is- it’s hell. Having some trouble adjusting. Trying to go to work anyway. Gotta make the bills. Gotta pretend nothing bothers me. Blue skies are gonna clear up, all that bullshit. I just remember, it could be worse, I’m a tough piece of work, and so it goes, right?
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