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It's been a year they see me stumble out of my car, slam the door with a balanced leg. To the left there's a shirtless blubbery man with stretched tattoos. As I drop purse and bags in my hunt for keys, I pretend not to see the two single guys who scored some decent looking girlfriends. They mow the lawns, walk their dogs, and sweep their back porch. Since the neighborhood break-ins started, I've broken ice with Fatty. Nice man. I've come close to talking to the guys. They used to knock on my door and invite me to clubs.
-I'm willing to accept someone who owns a playstation. At least he would have that childlike quality, although immaturity is guaranteed by default.
-He needn't be a citified country boy. Any American culture will do.
-He could be one year younger. 365 days is the limit, but he'll have to ditch the playstation.
-His waist could measure mine equally. He at least needs to work out mildly though.
-His parents could be alive.
-It's okay if he's been in love, as long as he hates the bitch now.
-He doesn't have to have an itch for extreme sports.
If you can hear it in your head, you can play it. At first, I just stared at the keys, hoping they would telepathically press themselves down to the song in my mind. I had to train myself not to cringe at every noise I made. I blamed the makeshift keyboard for the explosion of sound, convinced only a real piano can produce a real melody to lighten a heart. A struggling hour later, from outside the guest room, a charming ditty was wandering into the living room. Elementary, with a twist of fancy, complimentary to a glass of wine.
Driving past the city he lives in will take around forty-five minutes. The whole time I will focus on not focusing he could be anywhere within a 100 mile radius. I will not read the same signs he might read everyday. I will ignore the exit numbers he's taken. I'll convince myself the buildings he sees are different than what I see. The sunset where he lives should be nothing like the precious pink sky I'll be riding into. I will breathe as little as possible, so we won't live off the same air. I'll drive right past it all.
Yes, it matters. I don't care how great the kiss was. Her husband and his best friend stripped and jumped into the pool, unknowingly watched. Pathetic was her crude description. Sorry, small, belittling, emasculating words. Was it at least thick, because maybe it can be worked around? Nope. Not packing anything. Next time we meet, I'll be staring at his mid region as if I see the little thing right through his pants and boxers. I'll let him put his tongue in my mouth, but that's all he'll stick inside me. Size does matter since I only get one try.
The napkin she handed me was crumpled.
You can use this one, but it already has boogers.
No thanks. I'll just snort it back in. If it goes to the back of my throat I'll swallow it down.
Are girls supposed to be this gross? We kept rummaging through the side pockets and the glove compartment. Finally she found one that looked raw, freshly peeled of a tree.
Thangks. Uh really dneed iht.
After a few disastrous blows, we stared amused at the green gunk.
Hmm. You have an infection.
It joined the rest of her goopy tissues.
The initial dread of moving back in with the parents took about 3 months to conform to. The insurance and employment changes are like a mild headache that never really goes away, but not strong enough to paralyze productivity. Two more months, this life will end and another begins. It's starting to become real. I'm more there than here. I'm already becoming dependant of their constant presence. It's starting to feel like I'm been ready for this for years. The idea has taken time to settle in, but I'm ready to be the baby girl I never wanted to be.
That guy keeps looking over here.
I casually glanced around, squinting from the sun's rays, checking out the incoming theater crowd. I waited a second, then confirmed.
Yea. I think that's him. The guy let me in on his marital problems. I don't remember his face well. He had a cap on. Didn't know he was balding.
Is his wife coming?
T didn't mention her.
Once we all gathered round, watched a movie, had dinner, and fought off numerous insulting insinuations, T told us he was supposed announce the separation to her parents today. He picked this over that.
Slowly, I'm easing into the idea of A and M dating seriously. It's his 4th visit since I introduced them. I'm fine spinning as the third wheel, content that my precise matching making skills led to perfect chemistry. If things had worked out with D, we would've been a balanced quad, but M doesn't play cupid well. Otherwise, he wouldn't have had need for my intervention. Next, I'm working on accepting that she gets to kiss her boyfriend while I'm in the other room. Twas I that turned the tables (almost unintentionally). At least I helped people who actually care.
The muscles rested involuntarily, but my mind was lucid and awake. He was given the body of another man, but it was his mouth whispering fear and threats into my ear while he held my face down against the pillow. My voice was trapped. His weight crushed my lungs and I pleaded either he get off or my respiratory system to fail all together. When I told him about it he laughed. Said he would never hurt me unless I wanted him to. Funny. It's never the good dreams that come true. Or did I want him to hurt me?
Size nine! Size nine for skinny jeans. Bit of a paradox, huh?
It's the manufacturer.
No, its not. It's fat, duplicating itself.
It'd be nice to grow nuts and wear baggy clothes.
Yea. I planned to drink my problems away but then my new clothes wouldn't fit, which left me broke, so I can't afford to have beer anyway.
You can drink yourself to death. Chug water until your electrolyte levels slam you in the hospital. You'll either end your problems, or drop pounds from the IV.
Good Idea. I'm so happy I finally have something to be depressed about.
He walked past her, turning his neck to eye her closely. From a crowd away, she acknowledged his stare by glaring back at him with her head low, lashes rising up. Nonverbally they spoke.
There's something different about you. I feel it. What is it?
If you explain it to me, I'll let you see it.
He shook the stupor off and continued his path, cautious of the trampling horde.
Another one who loves a mystery, but is threatened by the find. If only they weren't such pussies, they'd see it is but a game to see who blinks first.
It's a fantasy I keep. A dream for the day. We'll coincidentally bump into each other in some unexpected situation, since our likes are similar. Maybe he'll have a girlfriend, or a wife. I might have an engagement ring adorning my left hand, fourth finger. The rip in time we fell from will sow up the seams as they should be, as we lock in a gaze, and the world continues moving without us. His stillness, my stillness. It's more plausible than possible, but I'll take it. I'll even imagine he plays out the same scene in his idle thoughts.
Once again I'm ready to give up these stupid entries. Starting over means leaving behind every shred of what should and shouldn't have been. At some point, it was a sense of completion. Now, it's another obligation, without true motivation backing it up. It's like everything else that looses its purpose, but you take a pill to upkeep mobility in a revolving routine. When that wears out, the other drug is already dragging you through your next step. You get dressed, just because. Eat if you're hungry. Laugh because it's funny. Take a pill, because you have to get dressed.
The loud hum of the giant cylinder was strangely soothing for a machine that exposes things meant to remain unseen. The cold table sucked her in. They assured her only the physical would be scanned, disregarding claims of her mystical dynamics. She had practiced flushing her mind of thoughts, so the doctors couldn't photograph her memory. She blocked out her secret brain activity. She barred her soul in the bones of her ribcage. It came as no surprise to her the results showed nothing but a girl's human outline. The troubled doctor's knew a drink was in order that night.
A pack of army guys were stationed at the round hotel. I found myself helplessly weak in the lust of murderer. I told him not to call, but gave him my number. I told him never again, but the next night I was his captive. I told him I wouldn't go up, but the adjacent soldiers jeered about the action under the sheets. They had no idea I was somewhere else, waging war between guilt and pleasure. I purposely erased his contact information to arm my treacherous heart. Now I frantically google him to be his kill again and again.
It never fails. The call comes during the scene where they explain the clues that were over your head. Barely listening, you rush the conversation through the commercials. You're saying goodbye, bracing for the unmasking of the murderer& another ring interrupts. It goes to voicemail. You resist, but it seemed urgent, so you dial in. The show starts. During voicemail, you ignore an unknown call that will surely go to voicemail. Of course, Unknown didn't leave the granted call back number. You missed him (that disappeared two years ago) for a show you didn't even learn who shot the victim.
The term crazy is loosely used. Abused, overused and underestimated. Most people dip into this state of mind by choice. It's not coincidence that the most prolific artists, writer's and poets spend the height of their genius in institutions, rehabs, and retreats. If you straightened a twisted mind, the essence of their identity is eroded. Therefore, at the birth of the deranged thought, never mind the function or malfunction of neurotransmitters, they choose to feed the monster until by choice, there is no going back. One may trade in sanity, sell themselves into self imposed misery, and turn it into mental satisfaction.
She weightlessly dips her finger into a fun size bag. One by one, she eats the existence of hopelessly sentenced m&m's. Until her 3-dimensional capabilities return, she's decided to snack and abuse of calories. The chocolate was barely satisfying. They looked like buttons, only flatter. It doesn't matter anyway. In her bilateral status, a purgatory preceding an abstract world with limitless angles, she looked paper thin. She floated up from her seat, crunching away, wondering how realistic her voice would sound without the quality of depth. A few more bubbles of consciousness to break through. Then she'll start talking again.
The car screeched to a halt. I smelled the rubber painted asphalt. I felt the SUV skim by quarter inch of my life. Stop. There's a sign, I said aloud as I thought about digging it out of the ground and taking it home. Feet before, it too should've warned Slow Down. Believers ravage over juicy horoscope, but I don't trust stars sentenced in a fixture of the skies. Like us, they shake themselves off hoping they fall free. You don't have to look up to find your next mile marker, when it's probably smack in front of your face?
A forced reduction into part time has humbled me. Tonight I check out a few books, since I cannot pull out enough couch cushions coins to rent a movie. I say few because I usually read the first chapter and move on. Even my readings quickly beg for a change of scenery. Which is exactly what Friday nights and weekends were invented for. Here I am, face to face with walls again and nuking my dinner. A two for five deal. Not even a forty ounce to make me forget I once could afford to slip outside grown up responsibilities.
Sleep deprivation has dug circles around my eyes. There's an incessant nag of frail estrogen seething inside me. Five days of biting my tongue and seldom laughs. Put those together and there a storm forming building upstairs. Just when I make a resolution to withstand any pain - Don't cry if it hurts - the outside forces start to work against me. Something evil is twisting the control system. I can feel cracks running up the dam. It's like throw up resisting the exit, then forcing itself to retract. One tear. That's all it would take. There's a flood coming.
Dead rabbits everywhere. Not bunnies. They were mature dwarf rabbits. Their fur, once soft as threads of silk, now tacky from drying blood. They were pouring at me from all sides. Some fell from the sky. Saving myself kept my tired legs running. There was a door, my goal. By a hair I made it through, slammed it shut, crunching the fragile bones of a ferocious creature. Its skull crushed, slit an ear in half, and one eyed bulged out. The guilt trapped my nightmare. In redemption, I opened the door, and let them devour my flesh into a carcass.
Remnants of a weekend: Pants smelling of cigarette, man, and hotel. A mess of tangled hair. Shoes nicked and liquor stained. Pale skin and dry lips. Wrinkled satin on the floor. Feet colored black and grey. Earrings minus its pair. Another name to add. Another face to forget. A minuscule shred of dignity. Aches of various kinds. Shame in the pit of a soul. A passion left wanting. A marriage in jeopardy. A morning of sickness.
His remnants: A reason to boast. Exaggeration for story telling. Satisfaction of conquest. A digital picture and everything I let him steal from me.
Twelve minor prophets. Names we can't pronounce except Jonas or Joel. Surely, this day and age they are drowned out by the big time spokesmen of God; Isaiah, Daniel. These men of seeming insignificance should be exalted by the mere privilege to appear in the divinely selected books of canon. Maybe they didn't bring up the 'seven times' prophecy or the wheel in the air. Maybe they were nobodies. But so are we. Yet God selected the nobodies to warn the stupid Israelites, just as stupid as we are. I'll go ahead and research the little we know about them.
Kindergarten teacher waved the color wheel for all the students to get a good look. I knew then my love of colors would grow into fascination. She explained that yellow and purple compliment each other, blue to orange, green to red. I was shocked. Together they looked grotesque. I was convinced my understanding of hues, brightness and saturation were superior. Instead, I used my acrylics for mixing. Yellow and blue transformed into a beautiful green was my favorite. Still, it was early in the experimental stage. Later I would learn that black and white created vague shades, similar to indecision.
How do I start again? Turning around is a backwards course. Going forward is a continuation of an old weary path. I keep shooting glances over my shoulder. There's someone or something I sense behind me. Standing over me I hope to see a conscience, a ghost, or entity using fingers to scold, then to point the way. Come to find all there is, is an illusion created by imagination, beating me with the culmination of my actions. So which way do I go? How can I disappear and reappear with zero knowledge? Resist the itch, to start from scratch.
There's this man. I don't know why I thought of him. He meant nothing in my life. If anything, he was annoyingly energetic. A Cuban who suffered religious persecution for years, left by a wife, hated by a daughter, lost a leg to diabetes. Faith carried him through misery. His strength was citing bible texts and theocratic publications with exactitude of dates, down to the page number. I didn't care to hear him speak, but when he did he had much to say. I heard that on his death bed, so close to the reward, he defied and denied God.
Know these things: You never really know a person; friend, spouse, family. Don't trust them. If you trust, leave room for abandonment, betrayal. Don't trust yourself. Learn from others' mistakes, don't be stupid. If you must be stupid, don't allow reoccurrence. Enjoy it all. Leave the past, guilt, and hurt at home. Cry in solitude. Nobody likes emotional high maintenance. Don't expect approval, you'll never please them. Be free within what they socially tolerate. You can still outshine.
In ten years, read this. This design took two decades to learn. One more and you just may have learned your lesson.
We're perfect together. He stands at a perfect height over me. His hands slide naturally on my curves. Our chemicals blend together . A kiss makes us one. His breath is my means to inhale. His body rises, I collapse in his arms. The sweat of his skin is my elixir to drink. The markings on his back are mine to encrypt. It's perfect. But not perfect enough to justify. We're not from different worlds, we are different universes. He resides on one side of the membrane and I on the other. Somewhere in the parallel, I let him inside me.
The car needs a tire rotation and oil change. I'd rather waste my change on a movie or a cute tank top. I undoubtedly know if I procrastinate the car's maintenance, it will consequently breakdown, the tires will wear out. I am sharply aware I will spend triple the money unless I readjust my expenses (skip the movie). This is what makes humans humans. Deliberate negligence. That's why they use rats for experiments. Like humans, they will endure the shock to get their cheese. Some learn their lesson. Some are electrocuted to death. Other hot blood's are smarter than us.
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