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The concert was Muse. Rock-alternative with a heavy classical influence and a man who's endured a grave depression through drugs. What a beautiful concert it was, the music and his ethereal voice blending with the laser lights, and a roaring demand from the crowd. Although the guitars were heavy, the lyrics a bittersweet morbid, it created a soothing atmosphere that almost felt like being trapped inside a box where all sound was born. Behind me was the perfect man, observing me absorb it all, breathing softly over my hair. I wish we had chemistry like the songs playing that night.
The only morning event I look forward to is the light, flat belly I wake up to. I roll out of bed, lift my comfy sleeping shirt, and breath deep, sinking my bellybutton to my back. No water-weight, nothing to process. Obliques are defined from the ab workout of the previous day. I pass my hands over the medium-brown skin in contentment. Then I head to my sedentary job, where gravity pulls out the rolls as the day progresses. All the tasteless salads and painful exercises prove futile. I anticipate another slumber, to see my lean, smooth stomach once again.
The night was ever excruciating. With each toss and turn, my mind ventured to self-conjured ideas of inexistent doubt and insecurity…about every little mundane detail yet unraveled. My scalp tingled down to my limbs in irritation, trying to shake off the thoughts. Begging and praying for some peace to fall asleep. The sheets were in a sweaty twist between, through and around my arms and legs, heat pricked my pores, and my knuckles itched. The reason for such a disturbing night, I know not. When my fears peaked, I wish I hadn't called him. No…I wish he would've picked up.
He managed to invite me to the Guns&Roses tribute band concert without having to invite me. I cannot say with certainty that didn't I set him up to do so. He's more than happy to see me there anyway. His friend will bring another crowd I haven't met.
If his ex-girlfriend comes, I swear the performance will be ours. I'll let the bastard bunny-hump against the dark wall in the back of the audience hall. I'll fix my stare at her eyes while he looses control over my body.
No. I won't actually do that, but its a great fantasy.
Every time I let him see me for what I am, I rush to conclude I've lost him. He sees the traits that I hate about myself the most. He'll disappear for a few days, then return to save me. It's seems he deals with my faults alone, considers if he wants to continue dealing with it, then after weighing his pros and cons, he allows a phone call. He must figure if I can put up with his shit, he'll put up with mine. Still, it doesn't convince me. I know I like him harder then he does me.
Working up the moxie to call my dear mother has become a routine. A step program that requires a checklist.
Sober … check!
No recent parties … check!
House clean … check!
There are many other requirements I'd rather not follow you through. They're not bad on a worldly standard, but coming from our spiritual family, I feel shameful if those checks don't balance. I feel like she can sense what I've become through the phone line.
Most times I run through my checklist, I end up putting the telephone back in its charging cradle and try another day.
That's why I let him go. Isn't that how the saying goes?, " If it's love let it go…". I hate it when those stupid proverbs are right. Burger King was a horrible location for the last tryst, but it will always be the place where I can define that I fell in love with him.
This is it.
And even though I don't get to keep him, "It's better to have loved, than never known." Did I say it right? I never learned them verbatim, just the gist of them.
He gave me a glimpse, a gist of love.
Our brightest ideas come when we buzz off of cheap wine on random Sunday afternoons.
She should be a song writer, I should be a producer, prank cute boys on our phones, pull up our jeans to fashion shorts, tuck the bottom half of our shirts through the collar to make hootchie tops.
Lest I forget to mention, make our cellulite and bellies talk with the palm of our hands.
Then her mom took it upon her to "teach" us younguns how to shoot tequilar (spelling error intended). We bit our tongues to not correct her incorrect methods.
At a restaurant, I will tear at straw wrappers, or open sugar packets.
I disseminate Styrofoam cups with my nails until unidentifiable.
Right leg crossed over left doesn't rest, it shakes convulsively.
I tug my ears. Scratch my knuckles.
I don't sit patiently and wait.
My listening skills involve constant motion of something. Doodle during sermons or discourses.
I watch rented movies in 15 minute intervals before standing up to wash dishes, or manicure my hands.
Time, patience, waiting, waste, torture, life, death.
Since I was little, bad things happen when I don't know what time it is.
ADOPT AN I-DON'T-CARE
Mam, do you realize you were speeding?
Really officer? … I-DON'T-CARE.
Angela, "I need money for the business luncheon."
Uhm… My name is Leslie.
Oh. Well Angela, I-DON'T-CARE.
Can you pass the salt sweetie?
I would, but you know, I-JUST-DON'T-FUCKING-CARE.
Hey Lady!!! You've got toilet paper hanging out the back of your pants.
Sir, Let me explain something to you. There could be a potato growing out of my ass right now, I-DON'T-CARE-2-FLYING-FUCKS. Got that?
Hurry. Supplies are limited. Get them while it lasts.
D'you know he still loves you?
I told you I-DON'T … … what?
Do we listen to pop music because we're miserable?
Or are we miserable because we listen to pop music?
U2 - With or Without You
SherylCrow – My Favorite Mistake
Muse – Stockholm Syndrome
JimmyEatWorld – Your House
TheCranberries – Linger
ColdPlay – Yellow
JanneArden – Insensitive
Incubus – I Miss You
Bush – Glycerin
SarahMcLaughlin(sp?) – I Love You
SherylCrow&KidRock – Picture
FooFighters – Everlong
ChrisIsaak – Wicked Game
Jack Johnson – Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
Aerosmith - Crying
Juvenile – Slow Motion 4me
Lasgo – Something
NoDoubt - End it on this
TheCardigans – Lovefool
Shakira – Fool ; Underneath Your Clothes
DepecheMode – Enjoy the Silence
Every song ever written is about him. Was about us.
And the dishes are festering away in the sink.
And I crunched a fat juicy roach with my bare fingers.
And I can't afford the air conditioning.
And I'm not supposed to take his calls. And my boss impugned my competence via circulating email.
And I have no funds for food.
And there's nobody I can cry to.
And starvation doesn't decrease body fat.
And the mildew in my excuse of a shower regenerates daily.
And my Teddy Grahams went stale, and the strawberries rotted.
And I ran out of bourbon.
And I can't allow him come dry my tears.
But the sun's rays beat warm on my skin.
But I have tickets for GreenDay/JimmyEatWorld.
But I'm size 3 on good days.
But she never kissed him, not even liked him.
But I glow in the dark.
But I sing horribly loud.
But I feel my heartbeat when I speed.
But I assemble my own furniture.
But I have a handful of eternal friends.
But my brother justifies my existence.
But my family is not disappointed.
But I can still do cartwheels on a whim.
But I can make people look.
But I know he's thinking of me right now.
They handed me lemonade in a clear spotted glass. From the taste of it, I'd say it's a yellow tinted powder, hinting of lemons simmered in cardboard boxes and five tablespoons of pure sugar. I'd specifically settled for water from all the food and beverage options they gave me. Being their culture, they cannot comprehend the term ‘dieting'. They love to fatten people. Otherwise, they feel their hospitable standards are not suffice. I chugged the flavored high-calorie water in one gulp. Ironically, the bible story I read to their daughters discussed how a glass of cold water could be a simple, kind gesture of love.
I'm speechless. I wasn't expecting this. I'm still waiting for that sting on my arm to open my eyes. Everything is blurry: when it started, how it happened, what we said. His rhythmic breathing on me, his fingers through my hair, his hands pulling me close to him. I was waiting for it to end, abruptly as history repeats itself. He asked what I was thinking. That was the first time my reactions were paralyzed. "Don't you care what they think about us, and all this?" He answered no, kissed my forehead. I haven't been able to speak since then.
If I tried to figure how I manage to lose and break my things, I'd give myself an aneurysm. After an hour of anxious search, I remembered I'd heard a loud metal thud in the pantry. Sure enough, behind the crack of the washing machine was my phone, and the battery that cracked out of place right next to it. Like a crippled acrobatic I climbed up and over the small cobwebbed space I made to rescue my beat-up communication device. After panicking for a few minutes, I unstuck myself and managed to scramble out with minor scratches and bruises.
To my temporary inability of speak intelligibly, add a foolish smile permanently stuck to my face.
This is what it's like to be liked, for exactly what I am. I cannot fathom this is actually happening. He's got me in a sweet hazy world of my own. He's heightened my senses and feelings. I've found simple pleasures in feeding my fish, baby temper-tantrums, and sleepless nights.
I can't even remember the last time I'd stopped to appreciated my favorite star. It was beautiful this morning behind a creamy mesh of clouds.
He's turning me into a smitten glob of girl.
Who would knock on my door this late?
"JUST A MINUTE!!!"
I sure can't let them see me in my white sleeping shirt and sheer pink underwear. I'll get into some sweatpants.
Wait one second!
How long has it been since I don't see him?
He's come to get me back!
Where are those butt cheek shorts?
I need to wash my hair.
Don't have time to put contacts on.
He's never seen me with glasses.
It doesn't matter anymore though.
How will I tell him there's somebody else?
Ok. Breathe. Open.
"Oh hi neighbor. Some Cuban food, you say?"
Fear or bitterness? What's keeping me about caring about this guy?
Perfect guy, may I add, minus the usual faults of a man.
Notice how I say caring, because nothing stops me from obsessing over the situation. I'm being painfully analytical of every detail and trying to add up the facts to discover if my attitude toward relationships right now will end up hurting the bastard. But as altruistic as I want to take this approach, I always revert to thinking … about myself.
Stay away before you end up crying your nights away again. Love is nothing but illusion.
Well, I say love is an illusion just because I haven't experienced it. Not really.
So yes, its bitterness, not fear. But I'm scared of coming across it, because it can be lost in a matter of seconds.
And those memories never fade, they haunt. I never used to dream about ‘him'. This other guy comes along, and I'm waking up to separate fantasy from nightmare, from fiction, from reality.
Is that love?, cause it's definitely not lust.
Somebody save me. Where is that lobe in my brain?
It needs remedy… yanked out with bare hands. I need peace.
I see ‘properly', I think ‘probably', I end up saying ‘prolly'.
My tongue is as twisted as my mind, causing many an embarrassing colloquial occasion. Tripping over my words and trying to save myself in conversation has become an art. Continue talking.
Yes, I've considered a speech therapist. Maybe some linguistic training. But it's really not that bad if I haven't been drinking.
And it's not my fault if ya'll put an ‘L' in sal-mon and expect me to read it, process it and say "sam-on". Somebody just likes hearing a Spanish girl stumble and struggle with the English language.
Hate toward that city is layering thicker by the experience. I escaped to save myself from its hellfire. Yet, everyone now has a consuming desire to explore the burn, thinking it will not incinerate them. I've lost all my friends to its ostentatious lures. One good man, I dropped for tainting himself with a Florida slut. Now another man on his way down … Of course, I'm too broke to go party with him (by that I mean supervise his ass). Much as I'm hating that place, I bust my Miami accent against the white boys … makes em crazy.
10 year high school reunion.
It's not how movies depict it, where the cheerleaders become fat and pregnant. Their hot buff jock boyfriends (now husbands) have gone bald and grew beer guts. The social outcasts and geeks now thrive with economic success creating standards for the elite.
Not in Hialeah, the Miami wannabees. Not in an MTV influenced world. The girls breasts will be bigger and shinier. Their bodies impeccable and toned, every last bit of gut sucked out. The guys will not have tan lines, in order to contour their ripped muscles.
I have six years to perfect myself.
Struggling for energy, but that will fall in place as the soiled residual Monday wears off. If he's building a pattern for contact, he'll call or text message today. What a pussy way to follow up our weekend. If it's his way of gathering the guts for the first phone call, than so be it. I've been waiting much too impatiently to hear from him, yet I have no dependency, because I barely know him. So, what is it this time? A capricious dire want to be sought after with impatience. The same kind of impatience that keeps me pacing.
Sure, the digital camera is a technological marvel. With all the settings and buttons allowing you to render a snapshot to your personal liking, without a pedophile in the photo lab making copies for his stash of pics. But the personal photo-printing booths in a family superstore defeats the purpose of privacy. I wouldn't mind if people tried to spot a nipple with the corner of their eye. For God's sake, use discretion! Don't ogle! I miss our archaic negatives. I prefer to have just the perv in the white coat see them, than a 4 year old in Walmart.
Ok. The thought of their proximity to her independence pushed her down and back on the chair. They should move to Charlotte three hours away. Enough distance to avoid the where-are-you-going? and the what-are-you-wearing? and don't-you-have-to-get-up-early-tomorrow?. Not enough to circumvent the guilt that will be loaded upon her head when she decides to blow them off for a party. Their distance is the defining factor in their close relationship. Why do they want to ruin it by relocating within 30 minutes of her home? She breathed long and hard first, then typed back a response that didn't reflect uncontrollable panic.
He can't come this weekend. I'll hang my head low and dress in black. More than sad, I'm scared he didn't need to see me, as bad I as need to see him. Who knows how long before the next call or road trip? Maybe, I shouldn't wait at all. Bite my lip and not remember how his felt on mine. Make sure he never gets under my skin the way I want to be under his. It's early in the game. I can still remain a world away from him with only these 2 hours of road between us.
There was purposely nothing tantric, sexual or slightly enticing about my moves, but it was enough for him to assume I wanted him to put it on me. I danced it off as unnoticed, turned around with the music, and backed up 5 inches from him. Didn't hear from him again. Months later, at a boring party, present by obligation … he didn't have the brain for a brief, polite greeting. Finally contacts me and apologizes for not being able to say hi, he didn't have time. These men are so dickless to take initiative, unless they're ready to go.
Their names are so generic. I think that's what attracts me to them. I like the way the sound rolls off my tongue. I'm constantly reminded of them from so many others sharing their name. But being so overused, by others and myself, something so simple as the few letters ordained to their personas on the day they were born, is going to bury me in a predicament I don't care to handle. I shudder as I picture how it will go down if I were to say the wrong name to the wrong person … AT THE WRONG TIME.
At work I use a large plastic Coca-Cola drinking cup. I don't drink carbonated drinks unless it's mixed with a spirit, so it was simply appealing advertising and a cheap price that enticed me to buy this cup. Anyway, I hydrate myself daily with the chlorine-flavored water from the fountain at work. While I was IM-ing instead of working, I absentmindedly traced the ring of the cup with my thumb and slid it down the inside. Sliding my finger back up, I picked up a clump of dust and tiny fibers. I need to wash it more often, you think?
She was woken up... to be given the opportunity to explain her heavy stomping and obvious fake laughing earlier.
Are you okay? What's wrong?
That was her answer.
What's done is done. She felt no need to bring up what they couldn't change. Her friends would never know how upsetting the situation was. Taking off of work to sit and watch television??…would they even understand what a sacrifice it is to miss a few hours of work? She just drifted away again and dreamt of defending herself against the little things that mattered to her and not to them.
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