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No matter the games he plays or the amount of drinks we have, I cannot, will not let him kiss me. I will hire chaperoning spies to break up any close encounters and one trained black belt in case I persist, resist and fight to the death. Because actions between us that slip my eyelids closed, followed by soft moans, is nothing but a selfish capricious want mimicking a temporary emotional need. Things have been going too well and I'm not feeling very risky right now. Next few months is another story, when I research the cost of sky diving.
Sandy- "So-and-so, please pick up line such-and-such!!!! SO-AND-SO, PLEASE PICK UP LINE SUCHHHH-AND-SUUUUCHHH!!!!"- This is what she sounds like when she has to poop.
Sandy on medication- "So-and-so, you have a call on such-and-such."She says this pretending she were a Viking opera singer with the metal boob plates.
Bob- "Uhhhh. Will someone ...uh... call me to some phone ...uh... somewhere."Short. Shiny head. Mid-life Crisis. Nuff said.
My fantasy - "Price check on prune juice Bob. Price check on prune juice."(Monotone)
...and accidentally pushing page while making Hot Warehouse Guy moan and grunt on top of a desk.
I swallow a horse pill multivitamin and Ripped Fuels, knowing well to expect nausea and jitteriness, in that order. My legs feel squishy when I sit, like thick putty. When I stand, the hamstring is rock hard. I'm drinking tons of water, skipping coffee and skimming drawers for a stray Antioxidant teabag. My blood feels contaminated, but a rush is brewing. I want to be at my best when it fully hits and spreads. The methods I'm using to purify are somewhat mentally satisfying, but the body is trying to figure out why the hell I think shit would work.
"Are you doing groceries?-
"I need a favor."
Before I said it out loud, I heard in my head what it would sound like.
"Could you buy me some"sigh...there's no other way to say it "apples and bananas?-
I pulled the receiver from my ear while she laughed. I could picture her rocking back and forth, but I didn't foresee the following:
"Only if you sing the song.-
"C'mon. I'm really craving some stewed cinnamon apples.-
Painfully reluctant, I caved with a spastic shoulder twitch and broke out in a horrible rendition of ooples and banoonoos.
Somewhere between car payments and attending business meetings I misplaced the last string of imagination I wore on the sole of my shoes. It could be trapped between book pages, but I haven't had time to run to the library. It's not under the bed. Ribbons and greeting cards wait there for obliging wedding or graduation invitations. It's not in storage buried under dust mountains of oil pastels, watercolors and recycled flower paper. I might scan the isles of Toys-R-Us. Try a change of pace, new colors on my laces. Maybe I just drank my creative cells down the drain.
Fridays I'm willing to strike up conversation with the most unlikely fogies and weirdos. There's extra bounce in my disposition. I probably make them think I'm being a bit hypocritical. But no, I'm genuinely scintillating shimmer, sparkle and sugar wherever I happen to happily skip. Sometimes, I even partake in the cucible dwellers' ego male bashing competition over cock measuring talk about who's sold and shipped more what. They wait and see who's side I take and use my supposed innocence to part the losers from winners. Everyone is a winner on Friday, even the men with little wee wees.
Hello Big Fat Doofus.
No! I'm not listening to a word coming out of your wasted breath.
Yes! I think You're a pussy shaped pushover.
This laugh, ah yes, because I just imagined a wedgie slapped over you head, hanging from your three beefy chins.
Wiping my cheek? Because you're incapable of earning respect the way you were never potty trained your mouth on saliva emission.
Nodding my head? I'm perfecting the vision in my head of you gagging on rat poop being carried away on a stretch so I'll never see you again and this place would be... peaceful.
I've been meaning to pro and con him, but I'm slapped with guilt from daring to outweigh imperfections I too have. How do I tell him I've always related thin lips with coldness? That I may come to covet the warmth of full lips tracing my skin, rather than his. But when I see him, my eyes travel down to his large, thick hands that can heat anything untouched on my body. My insides tingle, imagining him fold his fingers around my neck, making way for his thin lips to whisper into my ear what a petty bitch I am.
6+/- months since I stopped thinking about Mr.X. One month since I started talking to Mr.New. This guy shows up. Suddenly my dreams turn intro sweaty nightmares with aching muscles. Too often I wake up believing I had full-fledged heated falling outs with X. The sharp headaches shoot down to the base of my spine and I've grinded away one of my canines (Which I loved. Now my hiss looks unthreatening). Morning take-offs are awkward stumbles as I try to shake the memories trying to make way back in. Mr.New shouldn't have to fight for spots in my dream line-ups.
Same blah everyday faces, but today it seems like they've multiplied. One person sounds like a thousand thunderous voices. The office is bustling. They keep coming up to me to chat or demand, as if they've figured out I know they exist. I look through them, right past the walls, but it doesn't make them leave me. Try to make them think I'm deaf. Ignoring them doesn't make them shut up. They don't realize they've worn my skin thin and made my eyes sulk. If they do, they don't care. Someday, I'll blow up this dump. Soon. Very soon.
Hearing it in my head feels like fuzz on my tongue hissing "T.J.Maxxxxx-. Time warps. I feel like I'm meant to react when the woozy wears. T.J.Maxxx. I can't stop thinking it. Like a straight-jacketed freak repeatedly slobbering, " I didn't do it." Can't blink the sensation away. The x's ssssss sound. It's like that time in the park. The aroma of coconut and black&mild combined. That smell was misplaced in the time line. I wanted to carry it back into allocated history. My brain is begging for oxygen flow, paced breathing. At least it doesn't taste like tomorrow's death.
It's a stubborn mood that doesn't want to upturn. Yet it needs to give. I want to talk to someone. His name took over Missed, Received and Outgoing on my menus. I've inadvertently allowed other numbers creep in. I don't want him want to want me anymore. Maybe I just need him to need my voice. Needs are greater than wants. I'm hoping somebody else who needs to talk will call. Even a wrong number. Any caller other than him. Although I don't need vagary attention from anyone, they're easier to dispose of when they realize they don't want me.
He sat down, swarming the table group with southern charm. I stopped talking. The breathing ceased, thinking died. When my heart perceived a malfunction, it started pumping blood. And fast it pumped. My face flushed pink. My cheeks were on fire. I heard his deep voice as if there were plugs in my ears and I was distant miles to any possibilities to see him clearly.
"I thought I was seated at table 18. Then realized it was 19.-
I thought in my pounding head,
"I don't believe it fate. I don't believe in fate-.
So... what's going on here?
For the other guy, I would go glittery, low cut, easy access. For this one, I'm buying knee-length skirts, modest yet enhancing shirts. Fitted, not tight, outfits. I'm watching my filthy mouth, drinking moderately. Like a southern belle, giving forks a place in etiquette. It isn't difficult at all. Not for him. So, when he takes me to his momma preparing collard greens in the kitchen, in her flour dusted apron, and wear and tear of the ranch, she'll say, "You'll make a fine wife for my baby boy."
And she can pass on her baked biscuits recipe to me.
Once again, I find myself addicted to posting superficial blathering on a blog. I'm a one-mind track with a deviating distraction. The excitement of reading comments, and the freedom of running words all over the place without rules has lead me to abandon and fall miserably behind on 100 words. Shame on me! I even thought of completely giving up my 100 words. Now I find myself consumed with guilt and half-assing meaningless blurbs just to comply with the turbulent month of January. My brain doesn't remember how to try to give a daily clip of what is really important.
How many Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœtoo good to be true' qualities does it take to cover the weird, face-squirming oddities of the one you're trying to fall in love with? I keep trying to run the other way, but history has it, that I never stick to my decision, thus cloning the asshole that Mr.Ex was. My instinct is broken, so I may have to wait longer for concrete answers. I'd like to blame ADHD on forgetting when and where I put my foot down, to later find myself in flight wondering how I got myself in so far from the starting line.
Thing I could've done without today:
Creamer turning into clumps in my cold stale coffee.
Co-worker staring at the opening between the buttons on my shirt.
My mother calling me to finally admit I am crazy after all.
Heartburn from the re-heated pizza I ate for breakfast.
Falling out with sibling via attached document on email.
Valerie canceling lunch plans, when I direly need chicken, then coffee.
Things that made it all better:
Eye doctor generously offered 20% off my frames.
Advice from a younger, but wise long distance buddy.
My mother calling to tell me what love is like.
I'm not as perverted as I thought I was.
People like me more than I thought they did.
Unwillingly, I hurt the people I love the most.
I have a selfish fascination of reeling men in, to let them go.
Others can sense my attemp to improve.
Most jeans I buy have faulty flys.
I'm going to have to get on the pill (birth control) to stop the tantrums.
The tips of my elbows release a cold drop of sweat when I'm at optimal heart rate.
I've need to stop blaming emotional and mental instability for my irresponsibility.
This is what I'm seeing in my head:
His arms hooked around my waist. My arms stretching to break free. My legs kicking frantically. Tears falling to the floor and dampening his grasp but not enough to loosen his grip.
He is steady. Without a worry that with time I will tire and become limp,
right where he wants me.
It's so real I raise my shirt to look for the bruises.
There it is in black and the blue.
I wanted to be saved. I wanted to be rescued. I wanted drama.
Be Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœextremely' careful what you wish for.
It like she's digging through my shit. It's disgusting.
My life and mind are chaotic. The only organization I pride myself by is the systematic way of doing my work, excelling in precision.
But she's poking her bony, filthy fingers in my folders. I can do nothing, while I tense up and my breath starts steaming. Administration allows her to hover my ergonomic territory. I want to slam the waste can on her hands to hear the bones crack and digits from dismembered fingers falling off.
Then I'd go right back to work, in silence, without the senile grim reaper.
Today is definitely an up day. Hooked up to hyper focus, I can accomplish anything with an already established routine. I've been cracking jokes, making spreadsheets for meal plans, and shopping lists. Correspondence caught up and check list on bills checked off. Trying to do as much as I can before the switch goes off and the clothes start piling up, 15 minutes becomes too far too drive, and my speech begins to lull and slur. This morning I had ice cream for breakfast. If I have a few more hours of charge, I'll have a three-course nutrition packed meal.
Privacy is key when I need to cry without reason. Last night, I kept postponing my bawling session for the right moment. I isolated myself to let it happen. I felt an outburst of tears on the tip of the iceberg. A knock at the door interrupted the release I'd prepared for all day. The lights were on. They knew I would open. I tried disguising with a smile much too much, giving away how I really felt. They asked me what's wrong... and my body couldn't hold it longer. I hated them for forcing me to ad-lib a reason.
Now it's just an addiction. I don' t care to continue, but I've made it this far. A one month gap would be failure. To stop, would be to quit. And I'm no quitter. There are new things ahead. Do I leave this for that? Am I that fleeting anywhere I settle in an get comfortable? I will stay. I am faithful. It's probably another up and down and I'm somewhere vacillating in the middle, struggling to ignore the lure of something new. Because all that is new fades in shine. How many times does it takes for me to figure that out.
My audience applauds me. I smile, but when I bow and lose sight of them, I straight-faced in worry. I'm not fond of liking this attention. It's new and inviting, it's entertaining. But something else will comes along to outshine it. The crowd's laugh becomes muffled and they're getting bored. I cannot please the crowd. No one can. The show must switch out to move on. Anyway... they are just as new to me, as I to them. I lift myself back up to face them. I should let them know now, I'll only be here for a limited time.
When this posts, if I manage to read all of it without hurling in the nearest toilet bowl, I might stay. If it's the same thing, repeated over and over, in different ways... I will not tolerate it. I'm sure I could find a comparison that shows the benefit of seeing things in different angles, maybe something about a diamond. But I really don't care to hear it. I've never cared for diamonds anyway. Yet... I do love something brilliant that catches the eye. There you go! You see, I've said that 1000 times. I hate redundancy. I hate redundancy.
I've say everything I mean to say. Until it becomes more than words for filler, but something that explains why I've stopped offering trivial details that add up to dilemmas and headaches. I guess you could say I've isolated myself. I might be in the same room with a crowd full of people. I'm still there, but with a vacant smile. Some of them light up to my carefree persona. While they enjoy my company, my mind ruminates on why I can't care any more. I don't care if they light up, as long as I'm feeling so dark.
This younger version of me caught my liking. She would dance her own rhythm to the songs. The light hit her brunette hair, turning it golden every few seconds. She spoke confident, fast and wildly energetic. As she did, she sensed my intense interest, glancing at me from the corner of her gleaming eye. She turned to me, smiling. I blinked at her. With that, she knew I have been that girl once. Suddenly, her expression shifted. She looked down, feeling naked and exposed. I led her to the dance floor, letting her know that the pain eventually will fade.
When he didn't reply to my question is that I realized the receiver was repeating an eternal busy signal, I was twirling my own hair, the tears had dried and the bottle was empty. The following day I had a new hairstyle, my body reconfigured, my faÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â§ade bright and new. The furniture was rearranged, the pictures reprinted on gloss paper, and the friends didn't look at me with that look of concern.
Now that empty space is still empty, and I haven't figured out what's missing, but I'll be damned if I become bitter and gray before I find it.
It's baffling exhausting how yesterday the world was out to get me, then today I'm top of it. It's exhausting that my face is the one wet with spilled tears, but I sob just enough to convince everyone else it will be ok. This hit or miss optimism has me spinning. Has others screaming. Tomorrow, I will be telling the doctor some history about my mother. I'll probably giggle my way through it, maybe engage in some maniacal laughter, until my body collapses. I'm looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the drugs. Life is relatively good, I think!
Here we go again for another round! How many times must I start over? I've severed them away. I've let my numb state of mind consume every little detail that happened before I started blaming every man. Yesterday didn't even happen.
It's been quiet here, calm. Too much. Something will stir soon. Something will begin the sway of new waves. I'll grab control of what I never had and never again shall a tempest drown me out. I'll command storms to pacify into soft rains. My paradise awaits me. It will bloom by the toil of my earth stained hands.
I rested my palm in the middle of my chest, few inches from my heart. I could feel the pounding from my head to my toes. I can taste the warm blood circulating inside me, building speed. My desire rise as my hopes did. I've felt this so many, many times before. The descent is faster than my mind can process. It crashes with a chilling electric surge. I'm still alive. What goes up must come down. I'll get to the middle when someone takes my hand over my mouth, and stops me from releasing the shrill sound of fear.
The Tip Jar