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The sound of scratching pencil was like a saw to my eardrum.
But I lay flat and counted ceiling tiles.
"Are your parents still together?"asked the man who wouldn't face me.
"Hmmmm. Were you abused in any way as a child?-
"Would you say you were an outcast in school?-
"(sigh)... No. I liked school.-
After a few taps of pink rubber eraser hitting notepad paper he said,
"Why do you think you're like this?-
I sat back up like lightning, slammed him with the sponge bat.
"What the fuck do you think I'm payin you for?-
The drive to the alehouse was either quiet or argumentative. We were starving, thus cranky with headaches. At the light, under the highway ramp, in the bitter cold night stood a homeless man. He seemed an average man, clean shave and decent clothes. He held a sign that said, "HUNGRY-. To the point. No begging, no pleading, no lies. All he needed was a recreated shred of the Samaritan act to get him through the night. I wanted to snatch him in my car and buy him a hot dinner, instead of generously tipping the bartender simply for being gorgeous.
What could they possibly think, standing frozen in shock, at this woman that once carried an attractive childlike grace? Her mascara running, strapless top sliding, lungs ringing. She pointed to the door, avoiding eye contact while she trashed their mess of bottles and wrappers. I don't think she ever heard herself in such a rage? I don't think she ever felt this out of character? When it was all over, she felt arms slide around her shivering skin and a soft breath of patience on the top of her hair. He stayed. They all left without questioning, but he stayed.
The lows are becoming a thing of the norm. I've put away the stimulants. I'm not that girl. I'm someone else. A little bit lost. Finding my way. I know nothing hurts, but I'm so comfortable with the idea of pain, of numbness. I just need someone who will let me hurt. Who will let me embrace the tears. Someone to hold me so tight my bones ache and threaten to fall apart. Someone who finds pleasure in the hurt that makes me the only person I've known. Maybe that is the cure to my disease. The disease I created.
Is it going to be green or blue? Like the translucent colors of your eyes. The left can't agree with the right. Perplexed by what I may find on other side of your undeciding irises. The wonder of the color formations seduce my fingertips. I want to be inside your eyes, whichever one reflects the color of my being. Then you startle my trance with the grab of my approximating wrist. You say the pixilated intoxication of your transmuting eyes is nothing but a mirror of my ability to stand my ground steady. I'll take my chance with the blue.
I should've lived in Manhattan longer. I should've experienced its limitless array of cultures and thousand starving artists. I should be up to my cheeks in scarves with a bright nose and dark eyes poking out. I should lazily walk the streets, pretending I'm a light beam from Times Square when insomnia is my night. I should sit on the fountain at Central Park, swirling my fingers numb while I look up and give names to each falling snowflake. I should have to battle whether to order Chinese or have Indian curry over a mind boggling selection of import beers.
With him I laughed so hard. So hard I cried. Then I laughed when I caught myself crying. With each subject changed, our knees would touch or I'd lightly tap his shoulder. The silences that interrupted weren't awkward. He would say things with the way he looked into me. Beautiful things that made me try to hide the smiling. Smiles for him. That made him laugh. The made me laugh harder. We'd bend and fold with unhindered laughter. I memorized the spaces surrounding us and the sounds of the night, for when I could no longer remember.
Moments like now.
There was an awful stench trailing my way. I knew it was him. He stuck a lollipop in front of my face.
"I haven't sweetened you up in a while."
Because he the stupidest lines conceivable to mankind. Without turning to face him, I snatched it, said thank you as if he was the tax analyst who announces the measly amount refunded by the IRS. I waited for his smell to die out. Then I waved the candy stick around, you know, to release any of his contaminated cooties, unwrapped it, and crunched on it. It tasted like crusty ass.
It took a divine symbol of promise to strike up a conversation with me, to point out an observation. Literally. She pointed up. I started from the tip of her finger that led my attention to the skies. Like a fool, I was staring at the sun. I couldn't see what she was seeing. I searched the sunset painted clouds, despaired by what I couldn't find. She drew half circles in the air on each side of the afternoon star. One rainbow, encircling the sun, broken in pieces by cold air in the clouds. For once, I appreciated her existence.
Am I properly shaven all the way up? Can I make it to my room to change into an intact bikini underwear instead of a fraying edged thong? Is there time to find a matching shirt? What if the emergency staff has cute guys?
What I should've been thinking is:
What did I take to upset the medication? Am I passing out or will this pass? But I couldn't think much beyond the cold sweats, the shivers, and the spinning room of fading colors. On my knees, I scrambled into the shower and felt around for the cold water knob.
She has a feeding tube taped from her cheek, dug up in her nose, shooting down to her stomach. She had a red, swollen, puss filled sty on her delicate eyelid, the size of her eyelid. Her torso area is round and awkward - not like most babies with smooth bellies- from the many times they've opened her ribcage. She keeps her tongue hanging out to dry, which is fine because she doesn't have use for her taste buds. She's still my favorite. I don't worry one bit, because her mother fights for her. To the death, for her life.
My winter collection is what I call it. The albums I play in my car that match the season. Both fondness and memories turned taboo are attached to the songs. The harsh cold is phasing into placid warmth, and the summer spring/summer collection is due out. I've bought many cd's to replace the old ones, but none of them gained any significance worth listening to. The old ones are too close to a home that I've left far behind. Maybe I'll just concentrate on the sound of the road and the fresh bloom of flowers. I'll make my own music.
The full priced bathing suits are back on the racks. I cringe. At home, I stare down the problem areas in the mirror. I cringe. Last year around this time I was so small. Although I have less fat, more muscle weight, it is still the increased number on the scale that is frightening, not the improved look. I never feel uncomfortable in a bathing suit, but were a wave to reveal a show, I damn well better get an encore and a free dinner. Time to buy SHAPE magazine for BURN THAT FLAB WITH JUST 10 MINUTES A WEEK!
3 Teenage punks in the backseat of my car. I'm dropping them off at home, at their excrement scented, ignorant fathered, mother-less home.
We're messing around. We're laughing at age and time.
"What are you gonna do when you turn 30?"They just finished mocking my reaction to almost 23.
"I'm gonna get botox, liposuction and a breast lift."Don't they know I'm immortal. (Immortality still requires high maintenance upkeep).
Maybe I can extend my undying vitality to them, so when time passes, they'll forget the shit they deal with in their prime.
They should be young at least once.
Here, anonymously, I can hide from those who see me open my mouth with intent to spill, only to swallow a pocket of silent air to burst inside of me. I can't bring myself to tell anyone how I really feel about him. Fear of the jinx, or of jumping the gun. But I can't keep it inside either. I'm holding back. He's giving enough for the both of us. It's too new, too soon. There's nothing to say about the situation in general. It needs to be left alone to play out by itself. With that, I leave it.
In my head, I've created a spider chart about the series of books I want to write. Children's Books. I'm don't like kids, but I love their uninhibited imagination. It's not tainted by limits that society imposes. In the middle of the circle it says, "Furry Creatures"- try out name. Extended by a thin black line, the bubble says, "The Bunny Who's Ears Fell Off."The story tells about a little rabbit's search for replacements i.e. cat, elephant ears. Somewhere along the adventure of his travels his tail plops off, so he gets fitted for a mane, deer tails, etc.
At the foot of the door, an old lady that required walking assistance planted herself in resistance. From the inside of the office was her babysitting mother, tugging her, ignoring her pleads. She seemed tired of persuading so she demanded she "just get in. You've made it this far."The old lady protested in silence but sighed surrender, hefting one weary leg in at a time. If I had known my diag-nonsense beforehand, I would've whined and complained my way in as well. Reading my novel in the waiting room, I had no idea what was to enter my world.
Borderline Personality Disorder. My demented theory was proven right by someone with diplomas leaning against the dim lit walls of her office floor. Bi-Polar traits. Great! I'm psycho after all. Everything that could've been good, my "condition"has exploded into a disadvantage and an unsurpassable task. I'm not willing to dish my new findings to anyone, but I'm comforted I have excuses for the bad relationships, drinking, and the pile-ups. There is one person I have to confess the truth. How do say it? "So... I know why I can't love you like a normal person!"This will be interesting.
Are you kidding me? Analyzing dreams is a demon provoking method. Let them frolic in your sleep, as long as they die while you live your day. Reduce daydreams, otherwise you can practically hear their waking yawns and stretching arms preparing to menace the peace we work for. They're here. This has been their domain for quite a length of history, but how to you think we're able to fight them? It's up to us when we decide to unleash them. All there is to interpret is that if we don't die in our sleep, we won one more battle.
She finally laid down a track. I listened intently to her melancholic mellowness and the echo of the piano in her hall. More subliminally, I paid extra attention to the choice of chords, choruses and its repetition. I could've made music more meaningful than she did. I have melodies stored within so haunting I can make you shiver. But I gave up enhancing the skill it takes. Because to release is a scary thing. Because to release is vulnerability, and I don't want to you to hear my weaknesses. It's enough I'm giving you a written means to see them.
I have a therapist. Like the complicated personas depicted in movies. Doctors, brokers, CEO's. It's inducing a feeling of grandeur and accomplishment already. It's my turn to strip apart my past and construct an organized future with the leftover pieces. She's burning holes in my wallet, but at least she can help me tap into that girl. The exuberant girl with a thirst for creativite imagination. Consider this a chemical or a sugar rush. Whatever it is, I'm wriggling in place, anticipating a new ability to enjoy every angle of this life worth dissecting. It's been a long time coming.
If only I could remold my body to slip myself into the speaker phone's shape, slim myself into invisible particles, to travel a few hundred miles alongside electricity at the speed of sound and pop out through the tiny dots of your receiver. Rematerialize myself to the girl you know, maybe a centimeter off in height from the commute. Have your muscular arms lift me up, hold me still, wind my legs around your waist, suck on your neck, and cling to you like a parasite. You give me life when my blood coagulates and gets trapped in my veins.
It's been a while since I enter a nightclub. I don't plan going unless I have my man at my side. Long distance makes this slightly impossible. There are consequences when I enter a warehouse with laser lights dancing wildly and vibrating bass from my heels up to my hair in that flickering darkness: a vixen possesses me. Her body controls my actions, my mind helplessly watches the sin as I'm cornered into a predicament with a stranger. We lock eyes for a brief second, then his slivering hands and other parts rhythmically slide to see what I look like.
He's not here today, so I choose to slump into a frump. I got my raggedy t-shirt, dingy headband holding back untamed hair, and bleach-stained jeans. But I'm setting out that little black dress. I'm lining up pencils and liners. Mentally preparing the look that makes him sit back and smile into oblivion. A drop of gloss on the wavy tips of my locks. A gunky layer of shine to spread on the lips he likes to taste. A bright blue outline to bedazzle the brown he will be fixated on all night long. All for him. Some for me.
No one on this road talks on phones or fiddles with the radio buttons. Overpaid engineers built the narrowest lanes in the most traffic-condensed, transfer-trucking, hospital-leading area of the city. They've got me gritting teeth, making steering wheel fingerprint molds, and clenching kegels. I guess I won't tell the therapist about this stress, because to my left I see a man with the wrinkled look of constipation. At my right is a soccer mom driving an empty van tensed up in tears. I bet the laughing man watching by the sidewalk, munching on his sandwich is the stupid project manager.
After I read about a Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœcondition', I re-do my profile until the symptoms match. Then I start fitting everyone else's personality or a similar Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœcondition'.
Doesn't everybody have trouble remembering certain emotions?
Who doesn't have a hard time focus, especially is this multi-faceted busy society?
I don't have this one, the doc says I so, but everyone and their second cousin twice removed doesn't enjoy quality of life.
Whether its coke, alcohol, shopping, men, chocolate...it's always something.
I needed a professional diagnoses, but I'm sure everyone can take medication for something or other.
He's getting married. Not to me. They say she looks young. Younger than I am. She probably has recently sprouted breasts. I've accepted that I'll never stop thinking about him. Unless I see him eating scraps with mud penned pigs, or find him mourning profusely because he led himself into a personal loveless hell, I'll still know that I would've married him without hesitation and brought him peace like no woman ever could. There is no letting go. But I can push him aside and welcome the man who accepts me with all the insanities I've accumulated over the years.
5 minutes. It's my hell. A digital clock will taunt at my patience. A ticking pointer will alter the pace of my heart beat until I burst.
"It's 12:00 o'clock.-
"No, it's not. You're late! You're fucking late! It's 12:05."
Punctuality is organization.
Time is constant. I need consistency somewhere. I can't control what I eat. I can't control how I feel. I can't control what you feel. But by God, I can be on time.
And if I say I will be there when the party starts, you can expect me there 5 minutes before it starts.
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