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My discs are slipping. My memory’s fading. My hands are shaky. My vision’s blurry. I’m falling apart! I want to be like Cher and stop the clock. I want to turn back time. I want to have another chance. I should have lived differently. I should have made other choices. I should have taken another path. I wish I would have known then what I know now. I wish I knew now what I should know now. That would make it better. But, alas, I did not. And the other path will always be the road not taken.
Don’t dare use your voice. If you are stupid enough to exercise your right of free speech, you deserve to be arrested. Don’t you know that speech is free only when you agree? (There’s no charge for the Johnny Cochran rhyme). Don’t picket at MacDill AFB or your car will be towed and you’ll be riding in the paddy wagon. Love it or leave it. If you don’t like what they’re doing, why don’t you move to Iraq? (Then you’ll be victimized by American foreign policy!) The protesters shouldn’t be arrested; they should be gassed. Yea. That’s the American way.
The pit is deep and dark; the walls are smooth. There is no ladder. No rope. Nary a soul around. Above, a glimmer of light beckons, a beacon of cruel hope. If April is the cruelest month, what is November? Or, even worse, December? Wicked sister months that bitch-slap you like there’s no tomorrow. They're the heartbreak hill of the yearlong marathon. In order to make it to next year, you’ve got to use your strength, press your luck, screw your courage to the sticking place. Just run to what lurks on the other side of New Year’s Eve.
The tooth is out there.
The whrrr and grinding of the drill shaves my molar down. I see it drifting off in dust against the bright hot light. It is now a nub, a shadow of its former self and it is ready to be crowned, but not like Her Majesty. The first, (very) temporary, crown (which I will a few hours from now pull off accidentally during a frenzy of flossing) is made from powder and tastes like chemicals. It is bitter against my tongue. The real one is made of metal and, what?, I don’t know, something else.
Why isn’t everyone furious? His Royal High Ass, King of Snots Jeb Bush has manipulated our most sacred right: voting. At his order and with the assistance of Her Highness K. Harris, nearly 100,000 people were erased from Florida’s voting rolls without process and with no justifiable reason. Even though this happened just in time to get the Clown Prince W elected, it is still in effect for this election. So now Jeb is the beneficiary of his own deviousness. That’s it folk: Democrapy in action. And we have the nerve to complain about elections in other countries.
That’s it. We’re fucked. The good news: When everything goes to shit next year, there will be no one else to blame. It’s difficult to accept that so many people are blind to what’s going on. But, you get what you vote for, so for the next few years the very very rich will get richer, CEOs will have assistance in avoiding responsibility (and jail) for plundering their companies and stealing from investors, and our civil rights will be considered a pesky annoyance. In Florida, an amendment to protect pregnant pigs passed, making yesterday a big day for pigs everywhere.
As you no, I have had troble atending class this simester because the dr. says I’m a nemic or some thing. Please have patients with me as I must past this class with at lest a grad of B. Is their any x-tra credit I can due? I have enjoyed the 2 or 3 classess I have come too very, very, very much and I think your a great teacher. I dont no you to good, but I can tell that your a very, very nice person. I have tolled all my friends to tak you’re class to.
It’s Friday, total vinyl old-school day on wmnf community radio (88.5fm. all the way on the left side of the dial). The Soul Party with Steve the Hitman and the D-O-C Doc is coming at me from 2 until 4. The Jackson 5: “Who’s Loving You?” Dionne Warwick: “Walk on By.” Curtis Mayfield. Donny Hathaway. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. The Maestro Barry White. Behind the songs is the gentle snapping and popping of imperfections on the vinyl. The struggle can be found there. You just need to look and listen hard enough. You’ll never hear that on a cd.
It’s getting pretty bad when I’m shown photographs of myself from last month, but I don’t recall being there when the photo was taken. Today, I saw pictures from the Halloween party and I had absolutely no memory of posing for half of them. Granted, I was drinking, but not that much (I don’t think). I guess I’ll just sum it up to getting older (but I’m only 45!) People seem to accept that excuse. It’s scary when others agree that 45 is old. But wait. Maybe they smile because it’s so absurd. Yea, I’m going to stick with that.
House hunting. House hurting.
What possesses people to put ugly tan carpeting over hardwood floors? Or to nail carpet strips into a perfectly innocent terrazzo floor? These idiots ruin their house. I’ve seen more houses that have been violated by amateur interior designers, converting a dining room into a bedroom. Then there’re the victims of trends. The house with all green bathroom fixtures. The 1923 bungalow with glass block portals and wrought iron railings. The brand new retro bungalow with a front door that opens into a kitchen. A kitchen for the love of God! Where is the taste patrol?
It is a shame that many of our rights are vanishing, the rights that these people fought for. In Tampa last week, several people were arrested for protesting! It’s a bit ironic that our administration, most of whom have never risked their lives for anything except drunk driving, are so ready to go to war. It’s an insult that the Attorney General thinks it’s acceptable to have secret evidence. What a slap in the face to Veterans to have a president who attacks a Web site critical of him by saying “there ought to be limits to freedom.”
since feeling is first and your heart has been broken too many times, where do you go to turn your life around into what you want it to be? those game playing posers won’t pretend not to ignore you. you want something but are afraid it will never come. or, you want something and are afraid it will. nothing from nothing leaves nothing. you got to have something. you’ve got to pay your dues if you want to sing the blues too. what will it be? lay it on the line or take it to the limit one more time?
Camp town ladies sing your song. Belt it out. Don’t let the notes get caught in your throats. I want to hear the soaring song of the ages. I want to see the air quiver. I want to feel the sympathetic vibration in my gut. I want to be moved. Tap your toes. Clap your hands. Everybody polka. Dance in the moonlight. Give the dog a bone. Sing until the dogs start howling along in their mournful baying way. They want their voices heard, too. Tap you toes all the way home. Give me a pitch and sing, baby, sing.
The top 15 reasons why I want to live alone.
1. No one to bother me.
2. No one to bother me.
3. No one to bother me.
4. No one to bother me.
5. No one to bother me.
6. No one to bother me.
7. No one to bother me.
8. No one to bother me.
9. No one to bother me.
10. No one to bother me.
11. No one to bother me.
12. No one to bother me.
13. No one to bother me.
14. No one to bother me.
15. No one to bother me.
No more troublesome trees. Get them out of here. They cause forest fires, you know. While we’re at it, let’s let the air go to hell as well. We really don’t need it anymore. Oh yeah, let’s install some electric bleachers in every prison. Spark ‘em up, fellas. And why not get rid of some of those lazy homeless vets. They have outlived their usefulness, especially now that they don’t pay taxes anymore because they don’t have a job. We need their tax money so the really rich can keep theirs. It’s the new world order; it’s the American way.
I want a house with hardwood floors, with a medium-sized yard and with trees in that yard. I want more than one bathroom. I want a nice, bright kitchen. I want a front porch. When I move in, I want to bring two of my kitties over from my mother’s and adopt a puppy. I would like to sit on my front porch when it’s cool outside and watch the world go by. I want to hang up a wind chime and listen to it gentle sing in the breeze. Is all of this too much? I don’t think so.
You’re like a tooth that aches, an ear that’s filled with wax. You’re a boil on the backside, an inflamed cyst. You’re like the dragging of fingernails across a blackboard, the sore on the inside of a cheek. You cannot be ignored. Let the light shine on you and then you might be satisfied. Make sure everyone looks at you, listens to you, gives you undivided attention, and then you’ll be happy. Right? Probably not. First you need to make your mark on me. Give me something I ponder deep into the night, and then, maybe, you’ll get your due.
It is so easy to write 100 words when I am pissed or depressed. Why is that? On the few days that I’m not unhappy, I struggle to find something to write about. But just let one person irritate me by cutting me off in traffic, and I’m good to go. I write for two minutes and then have to cut 20 words. The good days present a struggle to come up with 50 words. What kind of day is today? Well, I word counted at 52, then at 76, then at 91, and 98, and finally at 100.
Walking or Riding
One month from yesterday, I am having neck surgery. I have seen pictures of this surgery. I hate to admit it, but I’m a little scared. It’s just knowing that the surgeon’s tools will be millimeters from my spinal cord. What if he hiccups? Or feels a sneeze coming on? What if he has the shakes because he didn’t sleep well, or his wife is having an affair, or his dog died? I know one thing. I do not want to live if I’m paralyzed. I know this is politically incorrect, but that is how I feel.
I want to cut my mouth out. It never gets better. I take Aleve, Advil, Ultracet, Darvocet, sometimes with liquor, and the relief is only temporary. My jaw aches. My cheek aches. I rub the side of my mouth. My right eye is running. The corner of it is red from my wiping away the stream of tears. I’m on edge. I want to hit something. I want to yell at passing motorists. I want to complain heartily to the store manager. My dentist seems convinced that the pain will go away, but it hasn’t. I can’t stand it.
I want to sleep for about two days. I want to go to a hotel on the beach and get a nice cool room and a soft bed and take a couple of Tylenol PMs and sleep until I wake up naturally. Then maybe eat breakfast, rest a while, then go back to sleep. I don’t want to hear an alarm. I don’t want the phone to wake me up. I don’t want to feel like I have to do anything. Any of that would spoil the sleep. It’s all about the sleep and the waking and the sleep again.
Dust devils swirl outside the window. It’s windy and supposed to get cooler even though the sun is bright. Every now and then a gust swoops up the papers on my desk and sends them to the floor. My plants are outside, their weekly field trip. My fish are waiting for me to clean their aquarium. The leaves of the plants are weighed down with algae. My tooth hurts and my eyes are watering and I want nothing more than to go home and rest. But that has to wait awhile. I have responsibilities to deal with first.
As we turned the corner, we saw it in the street. At first, we thought it was a paper rustling in the wind, but somehow stuck to the street. As we got closer, we thought a bird was flapping its wings. Then we saw it clearly. Someone had just hit a cat. With bloody head and broken mouth, it tried to right itself with a frenzied dance. It couldn’t. Knowing there was nothing else to do, I knocked on the nearest door, hoping to notify the owner. A lady from across the street ran out. The cat was hers.
She ran to where the cat lay in the street. It had stopped its futile struggle and, with no visible movement, appeared to be dead. She cried as if her voice could wake it. “I need to get it to the vet,” she stroked its body. “Ma’am, I think it’s dead.” She could not accept that. “See, it is not breathing.” Just then, the cat nonchalantly lifted its back paw and scratched its head where it was broken open. Then no more movement. She ran to get a box. After lining it with paper towels, she placed the cat inside.
You are going to be disappointed in me. I called her back after I said I wouldn’t. I gave in when I didn’t want to. I thought I could resist the sad demand, but I couldn’t. That’s part of the problem. I can’t seem to let go of it for fear of, what?, being a bad daughter? causing pain? I have no idea. One thing’s for certain: She doesn’t seem to be concerned about the pain she causes me. Even when I have told her, she ignores me. I hate myself for giving in. Why can’t I take a stand?
My right eye weeps ceaselessly. Tears pour out and roll down my cheek. I am not crying. At least I don’t think I am. Maybe it’s a Freudian slip: my right brain is sorry for something that it has done to the left. Or maybe it heard the left making fun of it behind its lobe. It is, after all, sensitive. Its feelings are easily shattered. Then it cannot sleep at night. Right now, it is conspiring to exact revenge. I can just feel it plotting. My head throbs with it. I wish they would just kiss and make up.
Play that funky music, white boy. Strut your stuff down the runway. Strike a pose. Twirl on your back foot. Dip. Make eye contact. Be noticed. Let it crank. Fashion becomes you. Let it take you where you want to go. Dare to be different. Dare to be a freak. Don’t worry about who’s out there watching you, wondering what the hell you’re doing up there. It’s who you want to be, right? Don’t forget to watch your step. You don’t want to trip. You don’t want to embarrass yourself. Everyone will be looking. Give them what they want tonight.
Today, I took John and Wayne to look at the house I like. I saw some things that were problems, but I could really see myself in that house. It just felt right. Afterwards, Wayne told me that it would be a bad idea to buy it because, underneath, it has extensive termite damage. Unseen, these little marauders crushed my dream long ago. They ate it away. Something that seemed so perfect was secretly ruined. They have now been terminated. But the damage they left remains, a foundation weakened and now digested by insects that are long since dead.
Every time the phone rings, I know that it’s probably you. You will have some sob story, told in your sad voice, that’s intended to make me feel guilty. I resent it. I fucking resent it every day. Why don’t you leave me alone? I don’t have much I want to share with you because every time the door cracks open, you want to push it in, insinuate yourself, set up shop, make yourself at home. You aren’t welcome here. You suffocate me with your depressive tone. Go out and get a life of your own and leave me be.
I wonder what kind of person might I have been if it weren’t for you and your constant imposition into my life? There’s no doubt that I would have been happier. I would not feel so guilty for being human. I would have better relationships with others. I wouldn’t be so angry all the time. I would be more independent, more social, more free. You think that you are a good mother by letting me know how worried you are about me all the time. By prying into my daily life. You’re wrong. Everyday, your manipulation makes me sick.
The Tip Jar