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He slathered my back with a menthol cream. I wished it were Novocain. His hands kneaded away the tight neck and lower back muscles. Professionally, as they're taught to position their fingers in a nonsexual way. Usually, I would feel uncomfortable with a robe and thong where my ass hangs out, but I was hoping he'd get a little frisky. He's the kind of man I'd let hit this if I was thirty-five. Unfortunately, he left the door open in case a nurse checked by. And unfortunately, he found disk 1 & 2 are being swallowed up by scar tissue.
"What did you do today?-
"I used mind control to convert water into wine.-
"Haha... you're so wacky it's cute. Any messages for me?-
"Your mom said you're the milkman's son.-
"Hehe...okay. You're in a good mood. What did the plumber say about the water pressure?-
"Am I pretty?-
"All right. That's enough. What'd he say?-
"Do you think I'm pretty? Or unbearably hideous?-
"So ... beautiful or gorgeous.-
"What the hell? I'm trying to talk here.-
"We're talking!!! And apparently, you think I'm butt ugly.-
"Dammit...This is why you never have lasting relationships!-
Through exhaustive research and incessant interest, I have found and concluded that:
No one cares I just ate the best turkey sandwich ever.
I tried different wording, a re-enactment of the yummy sounds, even a jingle at one point. Nobody wanted to stop what they were doing to share this moment with me.
Therefore, I hypothesize, the surreal delight of my lunch meat was not in truth all that wonderful. Starvation could've led me to believe otherwise. Or maybe bringing back the taste of mayonnaise I no longer remembered. Today I'll try again, with my phone handy and IM on.
Monday is her date night, but I called anyway. She understands...
"Is it really over?"
Say no. Say no. Say no.
Oh no. She's taking long to respond.
That's one profound exhalation...
"I think it is."
This is the part where she stops talking. She lets it sink in.
Again. And again.
Because I keep calling her. As if more opportunities for her to change her answer will change the inevitable.
"It's not gonna work.-
I hang up.
Minutes later, I text her. I'M GONNA CALL HIM ANYWAY.
She never texted back: GO FOR IT. GET HIM BACK.
"Look at the positive side. You don't really want kids. Do you want your daughter to feel about you the way you feel about your psycho mom?-
"I'm not treating her like my mom.-
"What if you marry a jerk?
Your daughter will resent you anyway for not leaving him.-
"I'll marry a good man.-
"What if your boy is born with an ovary?
Can you handle raising a hermie?
What if it's missing the 21st chromosome?
What if you're child turns gay?
What if your baby has sleep apnea at 6 months and dies.
You can't handle that, loquita!-
Dog walker for 5th Avenue old ladies. Lego factory engineer. Special Ed Teacher/Counselor. Advertising for cheese. Carpenter. MAC makeup artist. Fashion Show Event planner. Street side airbrush artist. Piano Teacher. Dental Hygienist. Spinning Instructor. Chemist for organic body products. Waitress/Hostess at high end restaurant. Roofer. Bartender at Bongos. Food critic. Masseuse. Personal image consultant. Errand runner. Baker (specialty in wedding cakes). Shoe Designer. Painter. Full time evangelizer. Suicide line counselor. X-ray technician. Sales at Bath&Body works. Day spa owner. Whatever you call those people that work at star observatories. Pharmacist. Photographer. Sports medicine/health. Hair Stylist. Disney casting. Maid for millionaires.
Her mother must've been stuck to the linoleum floor with dry blood for adhesive, as she stood watching her motionless and helpless. At 11, her emotional development was paralyzed. Her body continued molding itself with breasts and hips. At 17, she woke up to the last memory of pulling up her pants. Daddy gave her hand to a pedophile who's brilliant lure to the mentally challenged is booze and kisses. She is clueless to differentiate love and rape. Her father couldn't care less. Her mother hasn't used her voice since they last time she woke up with a killer migraine.
A Stewy cuddle pillow from Family Guy to represent cynical sarcasm.
Jelly Belly Jelly Beans to represent everything a woman complains about: bellies that look like jelly, sugar, color combinations.
A single red rose. To represent death. Such a beautiful creature will inevitably wilt and die and be long gone forgotten. Biodegrade to rejoin the earth, or be dried up to serve as potpourri. Which will, in time, lose the strength of its scent.
Last but not least, I bought her a pair of white and pink bunny ears, to represent happiness. She has no reason to steal mine anymore.
Sometimes I forget I have a brother. I live my selfish life as if he is unavailable for contact. Phone calls shouldn't be so difficult. Unacceptable! I'm trying to find the connection between us to transition into a better relationship. But I find one not. He's always content; he just goes with the flow. He's in his oblivious world and was born with programmed acceptance of his disabilities. Genetically flawed as he is, still he sees my struggle like no other. If only I could teach him the vocabulary to explain how I could come to accept my own imperfections.
The Devil went out that night to play. A meticulous mousetrap laid out to produce losers, not one lousy winner. Our conversations were mostly toneless monologues. The tears were beginning to flood. The phone broke. Days apart. A friend coincidentally in town. A bad mixture of medicine and gin. A dance much too writhing. A line crossed. A secret kept. A secret out. Late confessions. An unforgivable mistake. Am I the victim? Is he the victim? Yes, but not exclusively. Everyone, lately, is lost in a labyrinth, a dead end, quicksand. He cheats the players, but he's good at it.
He held the x-ray to the light of the ceiling, while I lay horizontally on the table.
"This is what a normal neck looks like. A healthy C curve to hold the weight of the skull.-
My shoulders blades loosened up in relief.
He flapped the film in the other hand up.
"This one is you!-
I swear he paused with pleasure, announcing the diagnoses.
"It's completely straight. It's headed the reverse direction.-
My joints constricted with tension.
Or my brain cracked.
He must've showed me the wrong one.
He just scheduling me in to see my collection of thongs.
Preparation began with a 3-step procedure to exfoliate dead cells, tone and hydrate my canvas. A foundation brush evenly spreads a light layer of a nude oil-free base. A puffy brush set the plane with translucent loose powder. The fun begins. The brow bone is accentuated with pearlescent beige. A light sweep of shimmering soft pink glides on the eyelid. A creasing brush shadows a contouring subtle brown and extends a tid past the lid. An amethyst line draws thin at the lash of closed eyes. When they open, a bright eye no longer looks tired, but full of expectation.
Give and you shall receive, right?
It's about giving it your best shot,
giving your all,
give to the poor,
give a little bit.
A little bit more.
Give, give, give.
All this giving you would think there should be some take.
But gradually you start to give in,
to give up,
and you find yourself giving a damn about not having a bit to give.
Your supply gave up all it had to give.
Your soul has no give,
because while you were busy giving and giving,
they took it all.
Movies like Wizard of Oz, Clash of the Titans, The Watcher in the Woods. Anything about legendary creatures, sea monsters, mysterious locations...I believed it and I was terrified. I don't even remember Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â½ the movies I saw. I just remember dragon-fish melt into freedom from a glacier, tiny men that spun gold, sad girls who appeared in mirrors, dolls that came to life. They scared me shitless. Years went by. My ears rose every time a tale proved false. I was disappointed these were all creations of imagination. It meant I'll never see a mermaid, a fairy, or a unicorn.
There's a man that works in the same industrial park. I've never met him, only the back of his salt and pepper head. I know him because my car ends up behind his at the traffic light before the road to town. Everything about him irritates me. His box shaped car. His precise exit at 5 on the dot. The silver fishplate stuck to the back of his square black SUV. His unmoving loyalty to 5 miles above speed limit and not a notch above. The fact that I might be as predictable, because I always end up behind him.
I will never forgive you for making me think I wronged you, when it was you fooling the hero in me.
You coaxed her from her warm sanctuary leaving her skin to freeze in your cruel world.
I almost saw it before it happened,
but your sleight of cold hands,
too quick for a soul who's been trying to slow down to catch up to your inconsiderate strides.
I don't know who possesses more power:
You, turning fire into ice.
Or me, maintaining solid and steady in such a frigid state, while you burn a hell of lies and deceit.
Every time my throat tightens, remembering the humble surrender of my dignity, begging forgiveness
....I will imagine you sitting alone at home, jerking off to girl-on-girl porn.
I never thought myself the type to wish misery upon anyone.
Then again I gave you credit as someone who would never, unconditionally, treat me inhumane.
Have the decency to display a shred of maturity toward the only woman on this earth that was staking her happiness to accept you for the freak you are.
When you're sad, lonely, wiping yourself with a towel...
you're gonna regret those last few calls you ignored.
The themes of my dreams have categorized themselves throughout the years.
The ones that are unafeccting are the cataclysmic end-of-the-world destructions and paradoxical world wars, or planes and pianos falling from the sky.
When cops pull me over, I plead in vain, my life subsequently crumbling.
Bossman confrontations because of net surfing and game downloads.
The ones I can't shake off:
Reconciliations with exes.
Dead rabbits, hamsters, mice, chinchillas. Surrounded by bloody corpses everywhere, over and under.
Random get togethers with kids I went to elementary and high school with. Some I know, some were just faces in the halls.
The dentist agreed to file down the top row of my teeth, despite vanity being my motive. The front two are rounded at opposite edges. The bilateral to those have worn down significantly short. My canines sawed away completely. He won't have to do it anymore. I've been having nightmares again. In the rumble of the grinding, and the clicks of the clenching, the upstairs flash of pearly whites (occasionally a yellow tint from daily coffee doses), have receded into a neat straight line. Not to mention, I also wake up with a dull static ring in my right ear.
I'm alone with my thoughts again. They're looming, weaving and winding inside out of each other. The same thoughts I twisted and tied yesterday, then untied. They still had the folds molded from the original thoughts so I'm trying to flatten them out. I should call a 900 number. 3.95 a minutre to spew out the excess talk nobody will listen to. It needs to get out somehow, before the tightening cause too much pressure in my head and it violently implodes. Cause I'm so sick of that stupid love song and the guy in love the stripper.
There I was, ranting an hour's worth. A week's worth of bottled thoughts - chaotic - hoping to be categorized by a professional. The office was buzzing with loons. Hungry drug pushers were striding in with briefcases and samples. The phones were off the hook with emotional dramas. It didn't hit me until that evening how tired he must have been, but how damned well he handled the craziness. He dragged his hands down his head and eyes, finally displaying frustration and blew out, "Stop saying you need to fix yourself! You're not broken!"The synapses clicked. I hope to retain it.
The blisters on the insides of my thumb and forefinger are almost invisible. The match I put out that night is healing. I want to put it away.
But now there's a rough patch of scabs on my knee. Dry blood and swirly purples.
This life won't let me get away without nasty reminders of the stupid euphorias. It's bad enough I can't remember why or what happened, but it must be branded on my skin for all to see that I created a public disturbance.
In thirty days, a second-hand will elucidate how I managed wrist and ankle lesions.
My brother sent me an email. It had 4 emoticons. A pizza, a heart, a camera, and a smiley.
Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœi hope you get well soon'.
That's it. He said it all. Suddenly, living back at home doesn't sound so mortifying.
Well, yes it does.
But having being forced into a quality life for his benefit is the best incentive yet. Movies, shopping, dining, the beach... all the things I didn't do before, I'm getting a second chance.
I wonder what story my parents created.
I'm sure they protected him from details.
Even if they didn't, he will never judge me.
People in this office are math geniuses.
My rabbit dug out dry bloody skid marks running down the veins on my wrists. I was unexpectedly "out"for a week. Co-workers have been giving me hugs, and calling me in to "chat-.
I've demanded accommodations in ergonomics.
They'll put it together and conclusively add up: she's a pitiful, dysfunctional, self-cutter.
Incomplete equations cannot be solved by their lacking speculation.
I inwardly ponder with a mad-hatter's giggle smothered in haught,
"The things they must wonder as they piss on existence by the bubbling water cooler and the hissing coffee maker.-
This day I resolve not to touch the stuff for 365 days.
Or energy drinks.
Only at the completion of the term I will reassess my control over emotions and maybe insert a dark ale here and there.
No No Fears, Full Throttles, and Sparks. Off the list for good.
Some cases I might buzz, some I might sign my life away.
I'm not going to wait until I must be bailed out to turn this path around.
The only person able to temporarily exonerate this commitment is A when she turns 21.
If she cares to ever forgive me.
A hiatus. Finally. One week come and gone. The perfect time to come down with food poisoning and miss the baseball game. Notice the sarcasm? Sleeping in, embracing the pace of everyone else's life, tanning by the kiddy pool, sipping ginger ale or any beverage without mood altering effects, What Not to Wear marathons, the few that cared and some that didn't, shopping with pauses, book browsing, book smelling, tasting potential, chewing slow enough to count each bite, crying without audience. All with a price. An introduction back to reality. A heap of files. Uninspiring music from today. Night fall.
Hard and fast I crashed, I admit. The dizziness, the loopiness. Squinting to focus on the beautiful light. These miraculous healing powers we employ came into play, and soon I realized the light bright blue sky, not like they eyes I thought he bore, shabby gray with freak-of-nature spotted grays. Abnormal separations in his tiny, tiny teeth. A shriek too feminine for the size of his head compared to his legs of stalk. Words persuasive to any one in recovery from a silly trip. Ah, how clear it is now, his kiss is so easily duplicated by your average Joe.
You haven't run out of words. You haven't said it all, explained everything, set up your secrets as solving puzzles. Gravity challenges ascension, faceless demons drag you around, dreams claim your eyelids. You're afraid of saying them, scared of echos. You're don't want to justify, relive it, create a ghost. You think nobody reads the nonsense you write, the shit you buy, the abnormal growth on your elbow.
You're wrong. I want to know. Everything you share reminds us we are still a human waiting to become dust. Screw details! If you don't write for you, do it for us.
I feel like strawberry fields. It's in the summer breeze that blows through sweet white fluttering blossoms. Toddlers run through the rows as southern mothers collect buckets for homemade jams, jellies and pies. I will always remember picking them in a warm wash of sun. My arms are dripping with juice droppings. Ripe jointed ones never to be packaged and sold. Verdant ones never even hinting a slight conversion to pink. I want to squeeze them into strawberry wine, drink them chilled, consoling them with whispers, that falling down into the soil in their prime and immaturity wasn't in vain.
How to re-connect to a song/album you disobediently attached to a person you were warned about...
*Stay away from the song. Determine the quarantine by time and a half of your relationship with X.
*Don't involve any one. Just you and the music.
*Pick a different location/situation/time in your life. Driving to a new state, cleaning your house for a party with new friends.
*Only under fair weather i.e. sunny day, starry night.
Sing so hard, it tears lung tissue.
Immediate results not guaranteed. Attempt again in one month. If painful symptoms continue, please seek professional help.
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