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I could've stopped to her level, recreating a raunchy episode of BlindDate.
Her move: Brainlessly giggling at his jokes.
Me: Flashing my tits.
She: digging her tongue in his ear.
Retaliation: grabbing his junk.
Yank of my slinky thong as she nibbles his nipples.
Pin her in a naked mud wrestle for his attention.
Who's scalp would be champion, dragged off by a brute's handful?
My gut-given instinct was to lose dignity to win him over.
But here's the thing about evolutionary intelligence:
You can learn to control yourself and not whore out your poon.
Keep him, you stupid bitch!
There are many a topic, idea and thoughts whirling around in my head (like that blood thingamabob that spins at gravitational speeds) other than labs, viruses and the smell of antiseptic. But I'm worried and I shan't burden my social conversation with woes. I'm paranoid at every bump, lesion and freckle that I have to bitch fit constantly to acknowledge my fear. Fighting the panic would only exasperate it. I'm sorry to beat the subject, but I need this outlet. I'm don't mean to be a whining victim, just a girl who wants to handle concerns in a controlled manner.
When I'm in my space, reigning order in the house, no orange cones or sections cordoned: I slap on all light and appliance switches, I still close the door in the bathroom, I keep all other doors wide open, I keep my makeup on, I bite into tomatoes without slicing and put them back in the fridge, I frequently regulate a perfect temperature and radio volume, I align dťcor symmetrically, I paste post its on every possible space, I keep the phone close by and have the courage to kill spiders all by myself. I decline invitations. I'm at home.
Dr. Google is a bitch. He scares the disease out of me. Statistics. Graphic pictures. Sure, I need to be informed on what I'm dealing with, but the whites of my eyes can blind a room every time find a symptom or worst case scenario that matches my diagnosis's's (I don't know the plural term and no time to google it, forgive me). I'm crippling to my death and the knowledge of what to expect does the opposite of ameliorate the situation. The stress exerts my immune, rattling up the imminent sickly cells and shovel me to my tomb faster.
My cell phone is insured. My laptop is under a ridiculously expensive warranty. I wish I could insure my high-end eye shadow pallets because they'll surely hit the floor and crack early before expiration date. My legs will always be bruised and I will always be caught trying to steady my footing and my falls will be intercepted by walls. In the split seconds it takes to become aware that a slip up will occur, I'm fully aware and already was, the travesty of a foredoomed blunder. I read somewhere that reputed klutzes have a neurological balance deficiency to blame.
If you're a people-pleaser and the one person you dedicated your life to please abandons you, shamelessly and cold-hearted, with absolutely no remorse and validation to the pastÖ. simple decision making is impossible. That person became you. You put everything into them as you carefully shed your individuality to merge into theirs. Normal interactions always go back to, "What would he/she do?" So when she called me, confronted with the isle of infinite salad dressing options, I had to remind myself, she just divorced the ability to choose. "Who cares if they like it? They're limited to whatever YOU pick."
Your allure is and has always been an illusion. My disillusion. I have a very free imagination and let it roam in your favor. I painted you in endless fields of dandelions. On perfectly puffy clouds grazing through blue skies. You're more like a bottomless chasm with a rotten core. You suck the light out of a room. The haze has lifted and I can see you exactly for what you are. I will likely cry for you, but you will never see it. You will be puzzled how I made myself disappear from the audience you think you fooled.
Dr. House is a sociopath. He is a limping enema. But damn I wish he was real. I wish he could tell me if my knuckles will twist like mangrove roots. Thereís something Iíd never thought Iíd say: I love my knuckles. I wouldnít go as far to say I love my knees, but I sure hope it wonít look like someone pasted golf balls on my patella. No, I donít think Iíll feel very pretty in a wheelchair. He can clear me and tell me the infections, facial paralysis and impaired speech are just a hallucination due toÖ stress?
Things that hurt, I delete them. Iíve only once literally burned the nostalgia. But I clean out address books. I tear photographs in half and cut out faces. Any chance that memory recall will access specific painful neural net profiles, I eradicate from the physical world, making it impossible to trigger the immaterial mind. True, an empty space remains and desperately the soul searches its surrounding in attempt to fill in the gaps. But every mark is erased. Every drop of red blood washed stark white. My past has no blemishes or wounds. I have no use for tears anymore.
In my momís little green thumb project, I aimed the hose to the roots, then upwards at a relatively gentle jet stream. But what about the petals? The leaves swayed and waved from the abusive waters beating their helpless stems. My imbalanced level of empathy always hits me with flora just as well as fauna. Their resilience astonishes me, but still I wish I wasnít the one to provide such abrasive nutrition. The surrounding soil once lush, now bore dry leaves and twigs. I mourned the death of my mommaĎs baby creations. She never promised me a rose garden anyway.
We all pass the adolescent omniscient stage where we know everything about everything. We swallow our pride as we humbly accept the defeat of experience and weíre able to admit those little words: If I knew then what I know now. Yes, now we know time and its passing is what makes us wiser. All the wiser, we eventually get to the point where we know so much nothing makes sense anymore. You throw your hands up, once brimming with handfuls of tidbits, advice, pearls and lightÖyet it serves as completely useless. We donít know any more. Or any better.
Another one that will get away. Brown eyes donít tend to affect me the way his did. Weíre of the same chemical structure. He walked behind me, he held my pursed, he told the drunk girls we were married. On the dance floor, he spun me infinitely. When I asked for more, he gave me from what he didnít have to give. The music raced, but he slowed our bodies and he kissed the top of my head. My shoulders relaxed. My lips breathed into his neck, cause I know this one will hurt to pretend something magical ever happened.
His phone number is in my phone. His first name was saved. His last name, I darenít ask. Iím not touching this one. Iím not ready to know his full lips and forget them. Iím not ready to learn the curves of his fingers and tell his friends that I donít miss him. Really I donít. Anyway, Iíve been told that heís a little bit off. As if I didnít pick up on that. But they say heís really off. Car accident, neurological damage, drinking problem off. I want to dial him even more and tell himÖyou are my specialty.
Elena Ö. Just received a bugs bunny band aid at the blood center. Is 2 sugar-free Redbulls strongs. Michael Phelps Ya'll! All the mocha latte, you gotta do Pilate. Does not approve of people who go to the gym only during beach season. Can see sounds. Kindly reminds you that eye contact makes you less antisocial. Has no legs. Is finally all cracked out. Feels delicious today. Shares with you that 1 out of 25 Americans are sociopaths. Knows you don't give a fuck about my status but must tell you anyway! Needs to step away from Facebook. Is Awesome.
May 01. I meant 'STOOPED TO HER LEVEL', not ''stopped'. I know you know. Perhaps, you contextually read it precisely as intended because our mental models are programmed to interpret patterns or lack of within microseconds of having visual contact with a specific something. Of course, I'm not going to let that huge one slide. Not when it says, "Look at me! I started the month with a neon mistake!" There will be a ton more typos, overlooked, forsaken and messy entries from here on until forever, but I must put it out there: I'm aware of it. Always am.
A few of my favorite things: For the No Doubt show I bought a cotton halter babydoll dress. I wore my make up to match. It poured torrentially, so I changed into shorts and tee, put on my flip flops and rocked out on the lawn. Without shoes, mud crusted feet. Tonight I bought a black strapless flowy dress, down to the ground, with yellow, green and red threading, banding the breast area. The rain may cancel the Wailers concert, but I love that my favorite things are coming together as a summer theme. Even the color of my eyeshadow.
Emailing a married man is no sin. Especially if his wife is in on it. They're rockstars. Had I a rockstar husband, he could talk to whoever he wanted all day long, so long as output actions are applied onto me at night. I could care less if I never heard from him again, but he says I am him. That I'm a schizo-manic manifestation of his self, only in a woman's form. So basically, it's like I'm talking to myself, married to a woman. Ha. This is a trip. A short one, but one I'd like to ride out.
Rings. Dings. Blings. At every sound and summon, summoning sound, I want to jump. Propel upward into the air and keep going for it each time I come down. I've been so high by it all. No time to think, no time to process what I see. I just hear this one call me, that one yell my name, and the music playing, swaying and fraying. I want to travel in each direction that is pulling me, blind of where I'll end up. Just by sound and the color swirls when I close my eyes to hear their voices clearer.
It took a complex lifetime to figure out such a simple problem. The environment I grew up in never gave me a chance. I wasn't taught to express. I was encouraged to suppress. Shut up and listen. What you say is wrong. What you think is flawed. What you do will cause your death. The world you live in is dark. It will get you in plain daylight. And now, it's so easy to just remind myself, every time I automatically start to fade in the background, that I can opt to stand out instead. It'll add more to life.
These adults unwittingly regress to high school snots on Facebook. Girls upload pictures of their awesome life and endless list of friends to showcase themselves. They say emo things to get sympathy and quotes to tell you how they're doing rather than you asking. They say avant-garde things to attract masses of comments into one endless thread which inevitably puts someone down, insults another and causes friendship tensions. They throw subtle and passive aggressive cheap shots at unspecified individuals for all to guess and assume who the loser is if its not you. I'm sure I'll take it down shortlyÖagain.
Itís peel off glam. Underneath infinitesimal square cuts of red red red glitter, once stripped down to the coreÖits rust. Itís degraded metal. Itís tired. When last call is called, I stay sat down in the middle of an empty dance floor, shoes abandoned, smeared kohl, in a shimmer black dress that reflects frenzied ceiling spotlights, chipping away at the remains of hyped, built up illusions. Nothing was ever there. Everyone was wearing a face. Everyone masked what lies behind . I always knew it, but I just wanted to shine for a minute, so I gave into the night.
The way it works is that I dream the song. It'll persist when I wake and the lyrics will bang on my brain, insisting their stanza. It starts out as a pleasurable memory that twinkles and drums lightly until the volume goes up in my head and it drowns out the talking people, the ambulance in traffic, and eventually it merges with the sights in front of my eyes. Until I find it, play it, appeasing the neural pathway begging to be recreatedÖI grow vividly mad. Today, the song was Sleep to Dream. "I got my own hell to raise."
Yes, he keeps coming round. Dizziness abounds. He inflicts his strike upon me and there's no one else to blame. I seek it out. My knees are imprinted with the pain of begging for a hurting. It's time my whining stop, the smiling commenceÖbecause it's becoming clear as morning light, this is exactly what I want. Dawn breaks like clockwork. A little work. A lot of blood and sweat. His sweat, my blood. I'm going down, hitting the ground with a grin of my face. Will he come down with me? Does it matter? So long as it keeps happening.
Time is moving maddeningly slow. Or light years fast. I can't tell. I can't count the confetti seconds in between. My retinas pick up absent movement. All I see is blobs of hours and melting clocks. All I hear are hearts accelerating until eardrums swell in agony, BANG! The brain doesn't fit in its bone box. Gravity pulls defiantly my large muscles trying to break into motion in a concrete mass of invisible matter. I want to get there already, but something, I don't know how I came to have this knowledge, that I already passed the destination originally intended.
These are whirlwind days. As slugglish as the clock ticks, I can hardly retain the heightened emotions that are fighting to etch into my memory box. A container with a piece of my heart at any given moment, and the chords that were major or minor, and the intensity levels of the blaring reds and cobalt blues, a giggle infused with environmental noise, a moan imitating a sigh. With all my fighting wiles, I cannot circumvent the speed that sweeps away these precious instances. I can only net a feeling here or there, but not that multimodal, angled, rainbowed experience.
You just wonít go away. If I burned your every remaining bone , your ashes would refuse to wash off the creases in my hands. Still, after all the persistence of your haunting, you wonít disappear because I keep inviting you in and chaining you in. Please kindly leave. When Iím not looking. On my pillow. Crying to God. That is an opportune time for you to sneak out. Press a cold impression of your ghostly kiss on my forehead and creep out through a window crack. Join all the tumbleweed whispers passing through and out of this heartbroken town.
I choose disagree when sleep hints at me. I choose to miss you, same way I always flick a finger over a candleís flame, and every time relearn Iíve no heat tolerance. Iím going to do little bodily spins if we go for a leisurely walk on the beach with warm breezes. Iím going to ogle over the menu while you order, until I finish visualizing each entree containing cheese, avocadoes or cookie dough. Iím will listen to the first 30 seconds of a song, at least three times before I let it play. Some things I donít fight anymore.
Nothing original to look at. An older man in regular clothes on a bike. Pines that havenít moved for eons. Newness hasnít entered my mental folder labeled Ďfresh and invigorating stimulusí. Not even a curious word. I usually curse a star when Iím losing vibrancy, but this time I sent my blessing with a kiss to the sun. Everything unoriginal being lit by beams, but in it, shines safety. Repetition is predictable, but familiarity makes a home. It might all be the same, but we should remember to see things from the same ancient source, but in a different light.
IHOP at 4:30 in the morning. Beautiful men playing that game. They discard your attention. They beg for it when its gone. One sleep girl rests her tired head on a massive round shoulder. The other has not tired out from the dancing and still has an infinite library of stories and tidbits to retell to the other tired bodies. I have one to each side. One blue eyes. One brown eyes. I nick at my pancake with a spotted fork. I canít anticipate the next day because itís already morning. Which one will star in my sun lit dreams.
All that floating cigarette smoke impregnating the fibers of my clothes, the sweaty musty air of tropical humidity and wet crotches expanding in the thickness of the tightly closed bar, the one extremely attentive, incredibly attractive tall sex stick leaning over me to whisper illicit invitations, to offer a drink, to slide a hand down a shirt, to prop me up on a stool, to turn around and ignore me the second I told him Iím tired of apologizing to people. I pay my dry tab and join the gentleman outside who patiently waited to see if I would surrender.
I could always just copy/paste a phrase over and over. Or pirate someone elseís essay or proverbial quote. Count the numbers in the actual written word. Tell you how I canít think of anything to write. But Iíd rather be honest and say, I just donít feel like thinking right not, but also not willing to fail out on a responsibility. Sometimes we donít do our best, and thatís the best we can do. Anyway, the narcissist girls had a slide show at their party. The mystery man recognized me before I did him, and his smile was simply stunning.
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