So you're having impacted teeth surgery...

I should have brought this junkie back
Get to make her parents happy
Plus there is a monkey on her back
And it won't stop starin' at me now

Unquestionably a freak, an aberration, a mutant sans comic book stardom, my jowls are swollen in a mockery of royal inbreeds from the Hapsburg dynasty – mandibular prognathism in a modern day Mexi-Germanic-Frencho kingdom. Only my influence is limited to the declining number of men still caught in the throes of want what I can't have, and as a beneficiary of fine American customer service. I get my ego trips from the fine print in the employee handbook that reads: the customer is always right. Respect my consumer authority.

Early in the bitter cold of a Friday winter morning, boasting -5 degrees at its inception, quadruplet impacted [impacted: tightly or immovably wedged in] wisdom teeth were pulled from my then nicely formed jaws, a component of my inherited gourd-shaped head, but only once I had completed the informative pamphlet so you're having impacted teeth surgery… It was folded in half (hamburger style) –to give it bulk and jurisdiction. It included a discussion of a menacing IV Sedation, but what was really a blessing in a clear plastic bag- drip, drip, drip.

Prior to surgery I was informed it was to be "conscious sedation", but its memory recall resembled black-out drunk (I did what?). As the victims of black-out drinking sessions will tell you, what one does not know, will not hurt. I did not want to know what was said or done. If I mumbled pornographic secrets of fetishisms and vibrators, or confessions of an undying love for X, Y, or Z, I have no desire to possess knowledge of such uninhibited drug-induced utterances.

I awoke wrapped in the fuzz of a blue blanket, peering into the grizzled beard of my uncle, tasting blood. I soon realized it was not produced by a lip bite from another pair of teeth, but still too high to be sexually frustrated; I resigned to its taste. I was escorted by the blonde fiancé of a man, the skin of her arm felt soft against mine, her voice sugary. In the coherency of a temporary sober state, I worry I may have blown her a kiss, from gratitude, or my closet lesbianism.

The click of locked doors, "we wouldn't want you to escape", and my uncle smiled.

I was in a bad Rob Zombie-produced horror movie. Accepting an untimely and gruesome death as fate, I leaned a heavy head against the glass, only to awake in a grocery store parking lot, dozing off periodically, dreaming of half man/half lollipop creatures I could lick at will.

He returned with the goodies of a soft food diet – instant mashed potatoes, jell-o, pudding, and ice cream. I attempted a smile as he displayed his treasure with pride, but it was lopsided, numb, and bubbling with saliva and blood. He lovingly shoved sterile gauze in my half-open mouth and rubbed the top of my ponytail, strands of hair slipping out around my face. I wanted to profess my love for him, to tell him he was the best surrogate father in the world, and that I had once looked for a Hallmark card to describe, but I only moaned and puffed antiseptic air. I think he understood.

The numbness in my face and lips provided endless amusement, a consequence of the drip. I looked over at the sizable man stirring the boiling water and "potato" flakes, their true identity unknown – A Betty Crocker in flannel and work boots. All feeling in the facial area lost, the union of cup and lip did not seem to exist, but the cold water dripping down my chest did.

He returned with two white pills, circular and intriguing. Eat, pop, and then drink was his command. I scooped spoonfuls of counterfeit mashed potatoes into my mouth and swallowed. Chewing was not permitted.

"What are they?" I asked. He rolled the bottle across the table. I was eager to become a legalized drug addict.

Oxycodone, it sounded legitimate. But it was discovered to be generic for Percocet, missing the much needed I after the d, and hardly worthy of the classification pain killer, more like attempted murder. I swallowed the allotted two anyway. My nerve endings were beginning to discover the unnatural holes in my gums, infuriated, they retaliated with throbbing pain. I prayed to the pharmaceutical company gods, and they answered after the time release.

Now I'm high like all the time, but only for the dreams I say. I hope they will result in a Twilight series of my own. I am not a follower of the Book of Mormon, nor will my character abstain from sex, and my inspiration will be drug cajoled, hardly kid friendly. Let the competition of gross earnings begin.

Paper eating

Silly little girl, simple little girl

Some people enjoy the climax, the unsteady ladder climb to explosion, the involuntary muscle contractions, shaking, and discharge – of the perfectly concocted climax to a story. Some people like to present a well-prepared thesis after a lengthy introduction – anecdote, facts, Webster definition – but I am not some people.

I ate paper last night.

One third of an invoice to be exact, the palatable parchment shared with two friends, an appropriate culmination to arguably the worst night of my life.

"We must get rid of the evidence," she stared into the dark backseat with all the gravity she could muster.

"We will have to eat it," I announced with all the esteem I could assemble in my then inebriated state.

And so we did, with the assistance of her boyfriend, conscripted into paper-munching by the threat of an imposed sex ban, fallacio included. The contents of Burger King plastic cups acting as lubricants, hypoallergenic and dye free, we rolled the tablet for credit card numbers into balls and inserted. Chew, grind, swish saliva, and swallow.

I choked, laughed, producing an animalistic gurgle, which in turn distorted two puzzled faces into looks of concern, pink lips smeared with ink, tongues working paper balls into edible mush. So it had come to this.

I was celebrating my successful admission into the business world as an administrative bitch to the office manager with The Marquis, music, and self-inflicted torture. A position to "prove my girth" (I thought only applicable to penis size), as my mother says, albeit in a field I would never, even under the threat of figurative professional decapitation, consider for a career. My apologies to the administrative bitches in the world, however we are assigned a national holiday in exchange, in appreciation for the vital services we (I can say we now right?) provide.

"Hey guys (insert interpretation of my voice here), shots are on me. Uhh…one Washington Apple, a Whiskey, well please, and Tequila (gagging noises here)."

If I was to spend my night in a venue with the guy whose name always follows the words: I wish I would have…, then I was to do it with the backing of Jack, Jose, and – uh Absolute? - The whole if-then equation.

Our numbers scrabbled, the mathematical statement, applied to three career slip-ups produced: one if, and several thens. The result: paper eating.

A patron of the music lifted my jacket. While I was busying myself with thens, she was stuffing my jacket underneath her in-style, maternity inspired tent-shirt, or he was shoving it in his girlfriend's purse turned miniature doggie carrier. I could excuse this blatant music-foul – and you call yourself a fan – but my keys were tucked in the inner pocket pf the coat. They not only committed theft (A crime against one of the Ten Commandments. Moses would be pissed), but they took my hard-earned access to a motor vehicle, displeased my parents, and drove me to the brink, and subsequent fall into voluntary consumption of paper.

We exited the venue, having lost one member to lewd promises, accompanied by the sound of hurling insults, slurred and incoherent. Apparently we can be obnoxious. I wore my hood up, my identity fashionably cloaked.

The locksmith arrived, in the guise of a savior and sporting a sexy Russian accent. It was only a farce and an argument ensued as to his deceitful first appearance. Drunks: 3 – Sober: 1.

"You didn't make the right key!" I rolled the insult down the lane. Spare!

"You didn't tell me which one to make!" Strike!

We ended with the lower score.

His pen moved in slow motion, the debit card numbers dripped like molasses onto the invoice – 4...5...2 – the scratch was deafening, like The Chipmunks on sedatives. Discovering an opportunity, my coconspirator, a rebel both sober and tanked, snatched the slip from two burly hair adorned Russian paws and ran, stumbled, then ran. We curled into flesh balls, convinced we were successfully hidden from view by the camouflage of beige leather. Our skin lightened by the approaching winter.

Her soon-to-be-paper-eating boyfriend returned to the car and informed us that the fine officers of the law had been called in for investigation. The Law: 1 Civilian: 0.

We had to dispose of the evidence immediately. So we did what any right-minded girls would, we ate it.

I have (had) a job interview

She can be the office type
Or like to strip

The third interview in the series neared – monetary funds chewed and swallowed by business suits and sheer nylons (a byproduct of my inherent clumsiness), and I decided to embark on a last night of freedom, complete with booze, venereal disease free prostitutes, and 70's hair band music, like a bachelor on the eve of his wedding day, one last stripper fuck before the dreaded monogamy of a legitimate gig: wife, kids, eco-friendly picket fence, and dog.

I was soon to become a black polyester suit, a peek of lace cupping my perky breasts, and high-gloss heels. The only person to acknowledge my boasted WPM, and superior skills in spreadsheet creation would be the office pervert, all while staring down at my dwarfed breasts. This was to be my uniform, to herald a professional's entrance, and the precursor to the mundane. I was scared shit-less.

[Side note: I never have understood the term "scared shit-less". One is so frightened that they cannot shit? I was unaware that fear dictated bowel movements.]

I tiptoed across the plush carpet of the stairs, craning my neck in suspicion to the four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, (knowledge of cardinal directions made possible by the new T.I. song) and upon reaching the last step, made a mad dash for the CD collection, wedged in between looming forest green law books, clandestine nests for nudey mags. The two creative succubi stared up from their homespun macaroni n' cheese, but I only shook my head, a signal I was off-duty, no longer the go-to. The condensation from the bottle lapped at my palm, the other wrapped The Rolling Stones – sorry kiddos, but I am no longer mommy.

I sipped the beer and waited…no luck. Writing, the maid of honor, the notary of my very existence, was a no-show, a fraudulent RSVP. I entered into a vicious cycle of one-liners, fuck linked to –ing in place of an adjective. My bachelor party wasn't amounting to much – me, myself, and I guest list the cause. My characteristically bare legs glowed with reddened irritation from an earlier mock interview dress. The floor littered with the items. The night threatened to go unnoticed – a party dud.

The head hunter from the staffing agency had suggested I make a list of strengths to prepare for the final interview. I took her advice, only to waste some time before the stripper arrived of course. The pen wiggled in my fingers, I nibbled at my lip for nourishment.

My Microsoft skill level is proficient, below par in Excel. I managed to circumvent spreadsheet construction through my less-than-conventional college employment. I am organized, except for my closet and car, which I have come to blame on a freak twister that only ravaged my room, car, and then mysteriously folded back into the clouds. I have first-rate interpersonal skills, unless it is a douchebag, turned so by a pre-lunch-break hypoglycemic attack.

Well, I'm – umm… charming? I could charm the pants (or skirt) off of anyone, or at least their checking account. However, I do not perform acts of fallacio on females. If the interviewer happened to be a woman, I had no real strength to speak of. The lines of the paper taunted me with blank monkeys riding their backs. The only words read: "I'm nice".

A yawn and stretch. The notepad had found its way to the floor, inching to the heap of clothes in the middle, to ridicule over the water tank I presumed. My pesky grandmotherly sleeping habits had come to crash the party. Sleep was imminent. The low caffeine content iced tea licked by the two cold brews. There would be no unprotected sex, no "oh shit", and no streaking. I was ready for the adult life, my sleeping habits already there.

A Catholic-Jew

A purposeless and scope-less quasi-preface:

I have grown weary of my characteristic despondency, and my self-loathing is in hiatus. A temporary relapse from ex-boyfriend-provoked introspection has begotten a transient lucidity.

All are a direct result of my wandering Coldplay album: a selection of pirated tracks extracted from all albums known to be in existence, except Viva la Vida – explanation not necessary – and of my Itunes' mysterious "inoperability".

This is a happy blog. I'm riding a play-doh high baby – the perks of being a surrogate mother.

(Page break)

I went to a Bris – the naming not the cutting – for the Guatemalan adoptee of my lesbian step-aunts, a conversion to the faith that stakes a claim to all of the potential baby names highlighted in a thrift store buy "What to name your baby?" – Isaac, Joshua, and Abraham. I was the visiting Shiksah pinned in between the gregarious and now invalid McCain supporter Mohel and a shelf of African tribal masks. In the awkward silence born from covert jabs, disguised as humor, at Christianity and Islam respectively, the kosher brother of the faith managed to pierce my religious skepticism.

"In Judaism we believe that a good and righteous person, regardless of his/her faith, goes to heaven."

He had baited and hooked himself a heathen. A good person? Check. A righteous person? Check – err wait – am I? No bother. The odds for heaven are far greater within Judaism than within my previously ascribed faith. The ratio sin:repent is exorbitantly disproportionate and the omnipotent is aware. I do not engage in enough acts of repentance to balance, and subsequently gain entrance through the pearly gates.

When the silver and ornamented Kiddish cup sloshing with wine passed along the semi-circle, I refrained, from fear I would gulp more than the faith allotted amount, and because I was unsure of my right as an un-baptized albeit Catholic gentile. A slow to open smile and quick, Father, forgive me, for I almost sinned followed my cast down eyes.

He inserted an inconvenient joke about Ishmael, the illegitimate, yet almighty condoned son of Hagar and Abraham, and his adolescent circumcision as cause for the Judeo-Islam clash. I silently pondered the veracity of his earlier devout declaration.

What about hell? – And purgatory? – Limbo? To where do the un-baptized infants go? The questions threatened to verbalize. My disobedient hand shot up in the air pumped with Miracle Grow.

"Rabbi – umm Mohel, do Jews believe in hell?"

He scanned my loose black dress, tights, and army-green boots skimming the bottoms of my knees. Fortunately I left my cleavage and the 24k gold cross at home.

"Not really my child."

Weakened by the words "my child", remnants of past Sunday communions, I swooned with pious love. I am a girl-child perusing men for a father, an agnostic looking for faith. He looked upon me with new eyes; those reserved for hopeful converts, slipped his business card into my sweaty palm – Mohel, jeweler, and Rabbi – and jotted down the intersection of the nearest synagogue.

I decided to keep the card perched on my shelf of saints, next to Christopher, in front of Mary, and behind Joseph, for future consideration. I have been told that my chances of a Catholic wedding are improbable, and my parents would certainly appreciate a nice Jewish boy's request for my blasphemous hand.

Funeral home fetish

The silence isn't finished being awkward yet

I have an inane fascination, a compulsion ludicrous in its morbidity, and one of which I have spoken to only the few, the beneficiaries of my drunk-speak, or individuals in possession of the capacity for unconditional acceptance, but now to the masses – or the few misguided souls mistaking my words for excellence. [Note: I am still turned on by self-deprecation.]

I have a funeral home fetish – a preoccupation with death by extension, or perhaps the reverse.

Far from necrophilia, the sexually perverse may now disperse. Images of cold flesh, sans vigor, past from this life, do not titillate, nor do I wish to procreate in the plush satin of a coffin.

I am brimming with fixations – men, mental instability, and potato chips, to name a few, typical, eccentric, and mundane, a conundrum like their possessor. This noteworthy unsound fancy is the more interesting of the lot and worthy of exploration, or at least exploitation. Foot fetishists and enthusiasts of S & M need relief from their high ranking on the freak list; of the existence I am sure. I have come to deliver.

The seed of fascination self-fertilized in my soil at a tender age. It was an open casket viewing, placed in the arctic ground of Iowa, removed from civilization, with me, clad in black, kid gloves, and a rosary gripped tight, standing antsy in line, fussy, tapping my feet and picking nervously at my bottom lip. What does death look like I wondered? I was eaten alive by my innate curiosity. My bob coerced into place with hairspray, face scrubbed clean with strawberry soap, I was high from the combined scent, sniffing the air like a starved hound.

There was my late horizontal great-aunt. I posed beguiled above her, the made-up face, artificial curls in the thinning hair, the puckered flesh, the bible glued to her hands. I nosed the adhesive, my feet lifted from the floor, beating the air, my freckled cheek climbed to touch the powdered deceased version. My grandmother instinctively swatted the suspended backside and pointed to Jesus hanging crucified above. I stared sheepishly back. Shit. A quick sign of the cross and I jumped from the line to let the others obtain a ghoulish fix. The day closed by munchies, smoked weenies, celery, and pudding, scouting the caverns of the funeral home, crumbs trailed the click of my glossy shoes.

And so it began.

Funeral homes became a sense of satisfaction, not the carnal, but the emotional. Court approved weekend visits to my father's house were accompanied by a red stop light perpendicular to our local chain mortuary. I stared from my position in the backseat with nose stuck to the glass, fogging up the window to etch cool into the resulting film.

When my mother, with kid in tow, skipped states in search of higher ground and financial independence, I inquired at the local corner store for the Colorado equivalent, conveniently located two blocks from our borrowed living quarters. Snacking on allowance purchased candy I stood on the corner after-school watching the rare commotion, but mostly inventing its internal scenes. This was before I acquired new friends, whose after-school activities were deemed normal and more suitable for the healthy development of a young girl – or so my mother put it over take out Chinese.

Elated by a glimpse of freedom at sixteen, I abused my legal appointment as operator of a motor vehicle and 1991 Volkswagon to quench my unwholesome obsession at the Horan & McConaty family mortuary. My mother led evening inquisitions to determine the current status of my infatuation, but adept at lying I thwarted her questions with ease. I practiced my violin in plain view and ran up excessive phone bills for a cover. Upon discovery of a parent friendly boyfriend the obsession entered into remission.

Five years of almost sobriety (and counting) a recent relapse caused me to obtain a bootlegged copy of "Six Feet Under", now tucked underneath the mattress for the next. Aware of the location of the local funeral home, I take great pains to avoid its looming white walls. I attend the meetings (with myself of course) and document my daily urges. The road to recovery is painted with the living.

I am under the guise of normalcy now.

Fuck you Lucy

This is for all the artists who know that work is just a drop in the ocean

but do it anyway, hopin.

With two eyes made into clefts, a soporific body hangs listless over the porcelain edge; a perverse hand uncurls, one digit leading the next, and reaches for the bathtub knob. Sounds of the holiday morning deafen transient chimerical images: the twins, the snap of sizzling butter, and the intervals between tantrums. I turn the knob to the left, it yawns; hot water spews from the rusted faucet in choked gurgles. It sputters, it falters, a warning to the mortal user.

Good Morning, are you sure you want to go there? I reply yes.

The bathroom is devoured by the progeny of hot water and a closed door. My back against a sea-green, Miami reminiscent wall, head back, condensed air tiptoe on my exposed not-yet-brushed tongue, limbs tucked under a childhood blanket, or "booby", I decompress.

I feel a twinge of guilt, an itch in the middle of my back, unreachable by furious scratching. We're still running out of water right? But I excuse. This pseudo-sauna is my own peculiar, non-environmentally friendly, but still efficient, form of self-medication – mental health board approved, no alcohol, drugs, or promiscuity required eco-group boycotted therapy.

This year I do not like Thanksgiving Day, apart from the accessibility to calories, which serves a dual purpose: an accelerant for cardiac arrest and epicenter for comfort. All years prior, Thanksgiving was acceptable, stuffing, moderately enjoyable company, and whipped cream. An uncle of mine has been spiking my cranberry juice since the time of training bras.

This twelvemonth I am reminded of the infamous turkey day 2007, a day to taint its predecessors.

I slept undisturbed on the couch, walled in by Adobe, and subdued by the carnivorous smells drifting in from the back door, the barely audible shuffle of slipper clad feet stuck onto the limbs of my then soul mate, now defunct. I awoke to the weight of him joined to my back, his uneven breathing in my hair, resin and smoke, the slow pulse in his wrist beating against my forearm, and the fire alarm. We dined on slightly burnt turkey and locally brewed beer harnessed in frosted mugs – my contribution, his teachings.

This time around both heart and stomach are caged in his clenched fist, bleeding, pulsing, and oozing. I will undoubtedly find relief in the celery and cheese dip – a vegetarian evening on the mend.

My uncle from the other side (sobriety not sponsorship) took me out for an independent artsy-fuck film last night at the Chez Artiste. It was called "I've loved you so long". Admittedly, I was enthralled with the title albeit the narrative was between two sisters; I saw it as fitting for pre-Thanksgiving torture. We sat in the decrepit seats, defeated by their battle with age, and sipped Dasani water. My local conspiracy theorist has warned me about the hazardous amounts of Lithium in tap water. This health hazard might actually work to my benefit. I am a still undiagnosed Bipolar-Borderline Personality Disorder-Neurotic.

A wave of nausea crept up from the red fabric of the seats. I thought of all that still needs to be completed, or begun – the screenplay, the quasi-autobiographical novel, the Vanity Fair article, and the occasional obituary. My stomach threatened to force its contents against gravity. I rushed to the restroom and crouched over the toilet with eyes closed; in fear the toilets shared the same birth date as the theatre.
In the coolness of the bowl, my sickness subsiding, I saw myself standing on the stage before a modest amount of people, the bright lights blinding, with knees shaking and the smell of vomit pooling to my side.

I address the crowd: Ladies and gentleman welcome to my world, step inside my head. Please feel free to look around; touch, and even lick what you may find. My mind is your temple.

The theatre goers shift awkwardly in their seats and shoot uncomfortable horizontal gazes. The conforming normal folk are weeded out, the critics scribble notes for ridicule, but the appreciators of the mundane and strange remain, a piece of me wired in them, a piece of them floating in the product of my nerves. I scurry offstage to resume involuntary regurgitation. The whole we are all one bit complete.

One might say the missing ingredient and the root of my nausea is motivation, and the lack thereof. So instead of preening my ego with you, I'm going to go celebrate a dysfunctional Thanksgiving, and write love poems to my now obsolete soul mate on paper napkins adorned with pumpkins and leaves. Perhaps ambition will doodle its way in between.

You say you sick of me and I say I'm sick of you but we're crazy about eachother

Live fast bleed slow

[Editor's note: This is not a pity blog, nor is it a disguised plea for virtual empathy. I do not need, nor do I want, benevolence, but a one-sided conversation with you is all I ask, a cathartic ego trip. This will be self-deprecation at its finest. Commiseration is always welcome. Thanks.]

The only thing I do right is write (clever, but grammatically incorrect) and even that is not always exact. There exists a substantial amount of proof to the contrary of that statement, including, but not limited to, the episodes when I write complete and utter shit, the kind of word mash-up that compels me to question my role here on planet Earth; the previously thought literary role turns pornographic. Jenna Jameson and her deluge of drones were put here for good reason.

And now an examination of the aforesaid statement:

I am terrible in monogamous or committed relationships, or any combination of the two. I lie, cheat, and steal – figurative theft that is. For testimonials please see ex-boyfriends. The malfunction during said monogamous and committed relationships is a direct result of the red snakeskin suitcase immutably stuck to my right hand.

I carry baggage, and not a good extra-load, the infamous junk-in-my-trunk, or the ex-boyfriend purchased puppy, of which I now have joint custody. My junk is a contender in the mental health arena.

I come from a long line of crazy bitches, both male and female, the prodigal daughter of the prototypical dysfunctional family – anxiety stricken neurotics and middle-aged peeping Toms. Thus, I never do relationships justice. To my credit, I do seasonal flings and holiday lovers very well.

I am not a paragon for daughterhood. Yesterday I used a collection of both four and five letter words during conversation with my mother. This particular choice of words caused my auditory-sensitive mother to cringe and later blame my smutty lexicon on my father, which consequentially led to a tearful reminiscence of the time he sat on our family parakeet Dick. Aversive to tears I attempted escape, but a barrage of loving insults had already begun in the fleeting silence between hiccups.

It was of course the tattoos, ex-piercing(s), that God-awful rap music, the flying of the coop, only to return graduated and in debt, but without the possession of a legal gig, a 9-5 with benefits and a 401k. Lastly, it was the time I told her I was going to inmprison her in a retirement home as soon as she reached the minimum age requirement. As I reached the doorframe she turned my back with an inclusion of her recent discoveries: the condom in my purse, lube, and the immodest photos on my camera. In addition to a lineage of mental instability, I also descend from snoops.

I am not a functioning adult. My naivety and child-like face inhibit my capacity to do so. I do not have a television set in my room (subject to change), and so the news clippings I receive come from the MSN homepage, NPR, when reception allows, and my more politically aware cohorts. The lack of both technology and motivation are the precipitating factors for my world news ignorance. Of late I have begun a routine of news watching while shuffling shoeless around the kitchen, imitating news anchors and considering a life as a TV personality, similar to that of the attractive brunette on the OnDemand menu.

An incessant curiosity further inflames the suspicion of my naïvety, and especially to those on the receiving end of my questions. The recipient hears seemingly obvious questions and sees an adolescent face peering quizzically back. I am a real-life Peter Pan.

I would like to engage in self-deprecation for awhile longer, as it is both humbling and cathartic in its self-abuse, but I know there must be those readers frustrated by what I label my "inadequacies" – Like drugs users, ex-cons, and prostitutes. Instead I will return to the accepting wafer-thin arms of my paperback and count my blessings that I have never been in rehab, committed a federal offense, or taken sex for money. That would be a whore, and I prefer the term slut.

A gold digger is born

Now all I ever hear is where's the dough at?
The Prada bag, the clothes at?

I am en route to becoming a high-maintenance bitch, a gold digger; of the: you cannot afford me pedigree. After much toil I have acquiesced to the pressure of the family dynasty.

My genes prognosticate divorce from a high school dropout with the tendencies of an alcoholic. Three generations of women live – or rest in peace – as evidence of the mutation existing somewhere between allele A and allele B (Human Genetics failed me). A subsequent, more practical marriage is in my personal forecast, as is financial security and an AWOL sex life.

However, the persisting two generations of ambitious women have seen fit to assure that I carom prediction number one and glide effortlessly into the latter. On my 21st birthday I announced over a plate of wild Salmon and grilled asparagus that I had successfully reached 21 years of age without getting knocked up. In my family this is no modest feat. My grandmother had two children and my mother had one by this age. Their hopes in my future soared (they were originally shallow) and the plan for diversion was hatched.

The message was clear: no dead-broke musicians, aspiring creative types, or the unemployed.

I failed to adhere to their policy, and I did not heed their admonition. A parade of tattooed, aspiring something-or-others marched through the family home, or at least through the phone line. [FYI: My father figure(s) cared not who was my boyfriend.]

To placate my roots I did occasionally accept dates with 2nd year law students, MBA graduates, and eventual doctors. They bored me to a drunken stupor with their traditional dreams and charity donations – all in the name of political enterprise. I am a charity junkie myself – when my dwindling funds allow for it – but they were so sugary straight laced I hate to suck the lime from my tequila for relief. The most the dates amounted to was second base and a one-time flaunting at a family barbecue. I snuck my way back into the inked arms of an ex.

Now I find myself single, gasping for air and brooding over clipped wings; I wait for the feathers to layer once more for flight.

My sexual appetite sends its pangs of hunger to the limited space in my pants and I bite my lip for the dead-broke musicians, aspiring creative types, and the unemployed. The proverbial bad-boy syndrome still plagues that little thing in between my legs. Late at night, after the coordinators of my future are tucked snug into their frigid sheets, I slip from the front door in my bare feet, the click of my boots silenced, and drive to the heated sheets of blacklisted men. In the morning the fragrance of lilies masks the scent of his skin lingering in the hair around my neck, the burn of antiseptic mouth wash dries his saliva from the inside of my lips.

The desire to appease the probing of my family reached maximum threshold post-graduation, pre-commencement (see me for the difference). I slept in the bed of an aerospace engineer student once a week, reporting details of our relationship to the surviving two women, all non-sexual accounts that is; his bedroom mannerisms contradicted those of all other rooms. But alas, his eternal frat boy attitude sent me scurrying back under the rug, where I coincidentally encountered another aspiring musician – an emcee, the worst on the list.

Last night while in attendance for a miniature person's (child not midget) birthday party, the inevitable collapse occurred. My back broke from the pressure exerted posterior to that fateful dinner of my infertile 21st birthday.

"You should marry a really rich guy who will fly the whole family out for a wedding in Hawaii." Said by what amounts to a great-aunt as I munched fast cooling pizza.

"And that pizza isn't going to help you." I licked the garlic butter from my lips and inflated my cheeks to chipmunk equivalency in response.

With the pizza fully digested and the beer settled around my hips, the time has come. And so begins my first day as a legitimate gold digger. I say farewell to the aspiring something-or-others, and so long to the unemployed. Adieu to those who commission spasms through my crotch area.

I'm marrying for money.

Spend some time with me

I used to say I never met a girl like you before
Still aint gotta fuckin clue as to who you truly are

I am a pious habitué of rap music. I love rap – italics used in place of heavy panting and self-inflicted hair pulling. Not the intellectually stimulating, emotionally fraught indie-hip hop that conceals – with a dab of natural beige – the throbbing blemish of a traumatic childhood, alcoholic father, depressed mother, and all that jazz, but the misogynistic, drug selling (drug using is for those emo emcees), MOP doused shit.

My mother told me yesterday over the in-n-out service of T-Mobile, that I will never be recognized for my borderline brilliant writing if I "keep up my vulgar speak", quoted verbatim. This was proceeded by a vocabulary of so-called "vulgar speak" by myself, and a verbal battle of robotic voices, with transmissions of an eerie raspy crackle. But I digress.

Why rap? It is a simple enough question, but the answer is not so.

Before a quasi-explanation begins, the critics may sound. Self-proclaimed music snobs, audiences of the classical genre, and neo-feminists: Read first paragraph and rabble.

I grew up on the streets of L.A. or something along those lines. My older, plain white-T wearing, back-pocket tucked handkerchief (pre-trend) cousins made up my summer school education, and I, their junior and female, worshipped the rounded toes of their boar-bristle scrubbed sneakers. To my younger version, they spoke the word of God.

We never discussed the patent sexist lyrics of the music that accompanied the suffocating heat of summer. I never asked. They never explained. My innate curiosity suppressed by their senior coolness. My dark hair is longer and sans frizz, but my hips still sway in the same direction, padded by womanhood and tattooed. I can still sing along to the customary chorus of "bitches", and "suck my dicks" with the best of them.

My childhood babysitter manifests into an auditory aphrodisiac.

Rap is a turn-on, a sadistic Spanish fly buzzing in my ear. Scraped knees, misplaced homework sheets, and sneaked tongue licks of Corona limes have been replaced by wrung hands, text message foreplay, and desperate partner seeking. The adjective desperate added only for literary effect. Lil Wayne crawls, gremlin-like, to the stereo on lonely winter nights; although the Al Gore backed global warming effect is revising the ratio satisfaction: frustration.

I necked for the first time to Tupac's "temptations". I was a late bloomer, or just awkward. The musical selection was my suggestion. He wanted Boyz II Men, and in that lurks the reason we parted ways. My taste in music trumped his, that, and he had braces. Having recently undergone the painful but worthwhile process of braces-removal, I felt superior.

All this talk of rap-induced sex is putting the fear of venereal diseases in me. The question posed remains unanswered, the blog is still thesis-less, and I am going to engage in mental sex with my new novel*. – Nerd.

* It is not part of the Twilight series.

I really hate to be like this but I gotta let you know

I'm not a hoe
And I'm like if you say so

Disclaimer: Leave now if you are easily offended, or asexual.

Nineteen years (more or less) have expired since a scrawny, dirty-faced, and stringy-haired girl discerned the thermal heat emanating from immature folds of flesh within doublet dark freckle pilots from her own body temperature. A perpetually absent mother, chained to a bi-monthly paycheck, had left the first-born with the mature and overzealous babysitter from 306.

One motorized hand reached for its youthful counterpart, engaged in an age-appropriate exploration; the other, fitted with a jeweled family heirloom and a rectangle of beige age spots, came down firmly against the child's determined cherry pout, a drop of watery blood and a look of shame dripped from the foul face.

"That is a nasty habit." The voice croaked its bathtub sermon. God was present even in the toilet.

The barren grandmother scrubbed the child's mouth with affection. The robust scent of hypoallergenic honey-oat soap inflamed the quivering lip and infantile ego.

That pre-masturbation stage child was me. The authority present was Ms. Jones*from two doors down, an expert on religion, a tenured professor on all lady-like matters. Touching oneself is not becoming of a young lady she told me. Ms. Jones combed my hair, cropped short by an impatient and ex-tomboy mother, while educating my un-baptized, limbo doomed, rear-end on the omnipotent presence of Lord All Mighty. Scared to look down below, apart from the unfortunate times when extenuating circumstances dictated, she remained elusive.

When my age doubled, I argued with my Sunday school teacher on the logistics of self-masturbation (as she so poignantly called it).

"But I don't have sperm. I'm not wasting my seed on the gooseflesh of a girl's chest." My hands balled into fists, my face brought to a boil. She pointed to the mandatory 24k gold cross hanging from my giraffe neck – a reminder that He was listening to my rebuttal bordering on the atheistic.

I am 23 years old, and I habitually sin. Ms. Jones would undoubtedly disapprove of my versed 112 album on play. I now wear a sterling silver heart-shaped locket from my age adjusted neck, a bribe from a past consort in carnal sins. The gold cross sits on a shelf above my bed, next to rosary beads – a reminder that the time for atonement will soon arrive. I have not locked myself in the infamously called "box" to confess in years. The last was when I lost my virginity to an incidence of pre-marital sex. My knees no longer know the ache of penance. The time fast approaching, I wrote this letter, sealed, decided to send it.

To whom it may concern:

I have not wasted my seed, aside from the time I attempted to sell my eggs for $5000, rejected due to my "family's mental health history". Pshhh. They do not make eggs like these anymore. If it were possible I would strongly recommend that my partners retain their "seed", albeit I am not sure of the harmful consequences of doing so.

I do engage in self-masturbation. However, only when I am certain He is not looking. The bathroom is kept private. The business conducted within is of no concern to the Creator of all things living….and non-living.

Please don't send me to hell.

Sincerely,
Kitty

P.S. Is this blog considered blasphemous? If so, at least I will be hanging with the homosexuals. I have been called a fag hag before.

* No, not her name.

Written yesterday, posted today

No wonder you're in love with your therapist
Go to sleep my little time bomb

I am bone-weary tired, a variety of exhaustion that fixes in the still-dense, pre-quarter-life crisis bones, in the red lines pirouetting through bleached white irises. I have three meager hours of restless sleep tucked behind my belt buckle, with the bottle opener affixed to the front, a mechanism of my game.

"Hey sweetheart, you need help opening your Heineken?" His bedroom eyes light and I smile appropriately.

My therapist had a great pair of legs, always without the nylon membrane. She seductively chewed on the end of her Bic pen as I poured out my "irrational and unhealthy thoughts", both the sexual, and the mundane; her tongue flicking against the uneven cap, custom DNA scampering through the fourth floor office. Three months into our courtship, on a stifling Tuesday afternoon, she knowingly withheld prescriptions for elephant proportions of mind-numbing drugs – to be abused with alcohol. I dumped her. I am flying solo, and under mental distress.

I miss you baby.

Last night was the Atmosphere show [haters stand here]. I attended the highly anticipated event with a good friend – my better half to be unoriginal – whose beauty I could solicit [here], but instead I will just say fuck you. She would appreciate the vulgarity. The perpetually unseasonably dressed girl, also known as me, donned a flower print skirt, white lace, and tall grey boots (not of the "fuck me" origin). Chills and teeth chatter kept me company in the line last night, that and the toe-warming thought that boyfriends and knitted sweaters are for pansies.

I was irrationally excited for the show, my excitement on display in meticulously painted fingernails and eyeliner. The venue: The Fox, where I witnessed my first hip hop show at fifteen, ripe and still a virgin, coincidentally also conducted by Slug. While I find Boulder to be pretentious, teeming with daddy issues, located in the snakeskin of Gucci handbags, I was there for him, for Slug. Call me a groupie – I love groupies. It was the fall of 2007, in my Junior Social Psychology class, where I gave an ill-prepared presentation on the dynamics of a groupie. I received a C+.

I stared up from the 21+ section. Him: aged since our first encounter, chain smoking, and me: no longer a virgin, cynical, nodded my head and thought:

Dear Sean, I don't want to do you, I want to be you.

I worship the groupie, her insecurities, fronted confidence, and sexual favors, but I cannot ascribe to her faith. I have the skirt, the tall boots, and the black lace bra underneath a white t-shirt (spray bottle in my purse); membership is still barred. Perhaps, it is the interreligious marriage of my parents, a Catholic and a Jew.

When I should be inventing scenes of tour bus head, I am wishing he would switch places with me. Let me be the incessantly touring, playboy emcee, gifted with the ability to write music that stimulates, arouses, and comforts, the pushing-forty-man who can lure underage attractive girls into the underground world. I want a Y-chromosome and a record deal. Somebody re-wire this girl please.

My eyelids are wilting, the sting of sleep no longer tolerable. Before I drift to dream of money, girls, and fame, I want to tell you about my newest love. This contemporary love comes in a pair, on a two-for-one special. It eats forgotten candy found in the cracks of the couch, and wipes its running nose on the backs of its hands, to be dried on the tail of my interview blouse.

Post-graduation my boyfriend dumped me. In the pessimism of my youth, I thought my heart had dropped off, that only a rotten Grinch-like lump remained. I vowed to never love again. Then I did, again and again. I loved on repeat in the hopes that it could be the same, that eventually I would find an identical, but there was only the counterfeit. I drew a spinster life for myself, requested the HPV vaccine, and invested in monthly Brazilian waxes.

Tonight, as I made the 45-minute drive back from dinner to the home of my parents (I live in my room), I looked in my rear-view mirror at two necks stretched from sleep, thumbs in their mouths, John Mayer serenading from the back speakers. I knew then what an all-consuming, gut wrenching, I-can't-live-without-you love is. I know what it is to mean the words: I would kill for you. Ex-boyfriends just don't have what it takes.

In our minds we kept driving and stole a new life for ourselves. For now I will stay here and sleep down the hall from you.

No woman no cry

"And I never want to give it back
It's a slave to my wrist"
-P.O.S.

Twilight ushered in the above words. Filtering through quadruplet mechanically subdued speakers, the words struggled to be heard over the high-volume aimless chatter of pre-school girls, strapped into double behemoth car seats. Tonight, as of late, and generally, I feel as if I have become a peon to my hands; my mind, appetite, and sleep deprivation, a triangle of minions. The two restless legs stuck onto my padded hips could use a strenuous treadmill run stuck on steep incline repeat. The pile of hair atop my head is in desperate need of a good washing, scrub, and kneading. It is a custom made frame of dirty curls displaying for-show-only several handfuls of artificially straightened locks – stream of bubbles through the eyes sold separately. Eyeing me from the desk is a legal pad length list of potential employers, who I presume to be eagerly awaiting the electronic receipt of my exaggerated resume. Despite, I still sit folded, the laptop resting on the pivot point of my stomach, writing a blog. Still semi-unemployed (apart from my role as temporary mother), broke, and out of shape.

This morning: 6:00 A.M., pre-sunrise, and cold. I rolled myself into a sluggish ball and tucked into the folds of skin a mug of caffeinated tea. A pair of eyes still rimmed with sleep bathed in the glow of the television. The overly made-up news anchors alternated between gravity and extorted humor, when a commercial for eco-friendly laundry detergent interrupted the incessant back-and-forth banter. A sickly looking child and her actor father shoved their unusually elongated faces into matching stacks of just-washed towels, all while the camera-friendly mother looked on approvingly, smitten by the fair-faced pair. I contemplated the dynamics of the T.V. family as pea-sized saline drops welled in the inner corners of my eyes, wetted the line of eyelashes, and rolled down the freckled apples of my cheeks. I sniffled in a vain attempt to block the oncoming rush of tears. Useless, I began to cry from the laundry detergent marketing scheme – Bastards. This particular morning was not the exception. I have been experiencing a liquidation of face each morning over the past two weeks: commercials of starving children, movie previews, loud arguments, MSN homepage articles, Oprah, an empty hotmail inbox all have contributed. I have become the epitome of the constantly in emotional crisis woman.

However, this November morning I was more baffled by my early morning breakdown than was customary. I wiped the tears with polar fingertips and suspiciously licked the salted icicles. I have long thought myself too hardened to cry at such a farcical display of family love. How can a non-menstruating woman cry over an advertisement for green eco-friendly laundry detergent? Just as the confusion had begun to damn the flow of tears, my increasingly annoying text message alert sounded. It was 6:20AM, the girls still snug in the warmth of their pastel colored Barbie sheets, an eerie dawn silence had settled over the house, and I alone was wrapped in it. Who would be awake at such an ungodly hour? Apart from the women coerced into motherhood or those naïve enough to willingly enter into the herd.

The text message read something about not knowing you care for someone until you lose that someone (grammar and style kept for effect). The text proceeded to demand that I forward the aforementioned text to ten "ppl" within five minutes, under pain of having the worst day of my life if I should not. I did not know ten "ppl" that would be awake at such an hour, nor was I even sure I had ten phone numbers saved. I did not count.

It came to me as I sat brooding over my scrimpy amount of friends; this is precisely why for the past fourteen days I have been in a suspended emotional breakdown. I never forward the texts capable of foreshadow, but only those fabricating a penis out of commas and question marks. I vowed over a second dose of caffeine and a bowl of soggy sugared Cheerios to forever forward texts merely hinting at their ability to predict the future. Perhaps, they were right all along.

McDonalds

"Buuuuut Maaaaaaam"
-Cartman

Disclaimer: Tonight I am on a metaphor binge.

I ashamedly admit that I am two episodes behind in a usually fervent visual consumption of South Park episodes, much like a woman two months late in the receiving of her monthly menstrual cycle, irritable, and irrationally paranoid. Of late, I have been like a desiccated Japanese engine (Go Ford, or go home), ready to clench, seize, and lock up in sheer automotive hatred. I quote John Mayer fixed on a jaw grinding repeat: "How long before she burns away". John baby, I just don't know.

Last night as the election unraveled before a nation in anticipation, I sat folded in the steam of the bathtub, hosting my own aqueous pity party, minus the leaching guests or environmentally unfriendly party streamers*. Upon hearing the "official" outcome, by dint of Channel 9, I clambered into my in-need-of-a-wash sheets and assumed the fetal position. I awoke infected, by the man now positioned as the beacon for the proletariat. His message of hope is contagious; symptoms of the virus (funded by the Liberal party) appear in less than 24 hours, and I was amongst the quarantined.

Characteristically selfish, I applied his campaign tactics to my own life. I was optimistic, albeit slightly ruffled in my post-dream state, and flushed. I wanted to exude my own miniscule amounts of hope and change. As of now (10:06PM), the transformation has yet to complete. However, I did purchase a 2009 daily planner, appropriately handle menacing school loans, and plagiarize a cover letter for a Craigslist advertisement. Things are looking good.

I now sit swathed in Al Gore hate, warming my limbs in the artificial wood-burning heat emanating from the fireplace, a highlight of my parent's suburban getaway, in reflection of my third day as "mommy", although I prefer "yo ma". I took the twins to McDonalds for dinner. Inadequate in most domestic chores, I opted for the easy route, a red and yellow paradise, absent of smoke alarm sound offs. The fast-food expedition was for the inflexible French fries, artificially colored drinks, and exercise. The girls ran the play-place like white lab rats in a PhD constructed maze, frantic and determined. I felt like Judas, traitor to the temple that is my body. Fries hung from the part in my greasy lips. I could feel the panels of my esophagus tightening in an involuntary rejection of the Ronald McDonald endorsed calories.

McDonalds is the optimum place for all too necessary socialization. I am beginning to think that I did not frequent the establishment enough in my own slightly dysfunctional youth. It is no wonder then – to quote my sweet, but archaic grandmother – that I am terribly unconventional, clearly from lack of crucial exposure. I collected a fry-perfumed inkling that my fellow McDonald patrons thought me to be a teenage mother, not only with one tax credit, but two, conceived out of wedlock and at the expense of hard strapped taxpayers. To be fair, there were enough patrolling the yellow and aquamarine topped tables for this to be a justified assumption. I fancied a good scream of exposure, "I had a pregnancy test administered today, and I aint pregnant!" I paused and contemplated the follow up: "I also had my breasts and ovaries felt up by a female doctor." Sadly, I shied away from the candid admittances, and instead sulked in the corner, scribbling notes of rage at their passed judgment. In retrospect, I wish I had worn the badge of my teenage mother status with pride.

I finished the last hardened fry as the sun snuck away for happy hour and watched a cluster of young girls act out their finest moment, exchanging names, age, and t-shirt composition, still far removed from teenage cynicism and boyfriend swapping. Or perhaps, that was only my stripling years.

* I am not unpatriotic. I accepted via text slightly wet political updates from a politically bias, but nevertheless trustworthy source.

Motherhood

"Say you pregnant and guess who the daddy?"
-Tupac

I am on birth control, two brands, two pastel colored pills, both FDA unapproved, barred by both presidential candidates from reproduction, bipartisanism at its best. Today marked my first shift as a surrogate mother; a fill in, thirty pounds underweight, tattooed, and a listener of shockingly vulgar rap, I am the appointed caretaker of twin girls; surprisingly cute doubles who eat the inner lining of their matching button-sized and freckled noses.

I awoke in the morning, at the tail end of an explicit dream, contents withheld for obvious reasons, and thought only of porn – my computer recently cleared of its pornographic spawn by Spybot: search and destroy – and masturbation. A melody of pocket-size knocks sounded; I moaned, the sound of pleasure muted, and pushed the heavy comforter from my naked limbs. I hunched over the breakfast table, a mug of caffeinated tea nestled in my palm, and thumbed crisp pages of strippers, fake tits, and pussy (Diablo Cody reference), while the vertically disabled shoveled leggo-my-eggo blueberry waffles into the perfect circles of their pristine mouths. Two lopsided ponytails later, my ovaries ached, other various parts of the female genitalia throbbed, I was miserable, trapped in between the unforgiving and bitter cold metal jaws of motherhood.

I fell to my knees in genuflection, "Ariel, ginger haired custodian of girlhood, occupy my womb-sharing charges, release me from my role as moral educator." She is well equipped, asexual and one-tailed, for this title, more so than I, two-tailed and hypersexual. The zombies, lulled into a conscious coma by Disney, absorbed the core of its family values; I chatted on the phone, twirling the cord, and smacking my gum in recalled teenage angst. The list of To-Dos glared at me from the hazy counter, covered by a scattering of waffle crumbs and remnants of late night munchies. I complied with its written abuse; shoving airport purchased headphones into the pockets of my ears, I listened to a Tupac sermon on the consequences of a bland suburban existence, and caroled a chorus of Amens. My too small to be ghetto hips swayed to the infectious beats; I dropped a load of whites into the spewing hot water, silently counting blessings for my post-washing machine birth. Miniature models of pink socks littered the floor. The walls of my womb rippled in offspring -yearning, a biological desire for a swaddled carrier of my genes. I pinched my belly button in discipline and forced a projection of stretch marks and excess baby weight across the insides of my eyelids.

The anti-childbirth development was stunted by Lil Wayne, and an involuntary lip bite, a canine tooth bite that drew a drop of blood. It dripped into the resident freckle on my bottom lip. I flicked my tongue against its salty taste. An imported blonde bob gaped at the ink garden spanning my hip with bulging eyes. It seemed I had acquired excess baggage. The twins, upon finding the fair haired addition, joined her in a chase around the growing fumes of pre-school laundry heaps, establishing their girlhood hierarchy with bullying, two-person cliques, and a lesson well learned – three is a crowd. When I attempted to intervene, to establish my own primal hierarchy, my place as dominant alpha female, I was threatened with "dinosaur growls". I retreated wounded to the corner.

The sun long set, exhausted, with a wild tangle of curls piled atop my pulsing head, I stirred Kale into a pot of garbanzo beans, onions, and chicken broth, a circle of half-cooked sausages sweated at my right (crude jokes here please). The girls tucked under their covers, savoring the two plus decades before their wombs would nag, and I rubbed my eyes in paranoia. Dark circles follow frizzy hair and late day headaches. Now, an hour short of a new November day, I find myself sipping caffeinated drinks, my stomach nauseated from the blowing kitchen smells; with fingers shaking as I hastily type the first installment of my anti-motherhood campaign. Hastily might be an exaggeration, children are talent succubi. My creativity is fraternizing with the footie pajamas and piggy tails.

A survey of post-Halloween behaviors

"I said lady what's yo number, she said 911"
-Lil Wayne

My life is fast becoming blasé. The reasons for the now insipid lifestyle are thus: Unemployment is no longer the Lazy-River, get-off-whenever-the fuck-I-feel-like-it ride it once was, my hair is two L'Oreal designated shades too dark, and I have come to resemble a freakishly pale, sun-starved Goth chick, sans the crimson full pout and neck dabs of Marilyn Manson-esque sex appeal. Furthermore, I have exhausted my text capacity; my own spider-like fingers are stiff, incessantly cracking in a plea to cease the neurotic texting. In a protest of the digits, I have unwillingly forfeited much needed company (typically male), the teeth rotting end text smiley faces, and the usual overabundance of LOL and JK. I find myself trapped under the weight of a grief stricken economy's unemployment rates. In early week morning desperation, I grazed a MSN article listing the top 30 states with the lowest unemployment rates, which turned out to be a directory of un-register-able cities in Middle America, and not the "cool, because we don't need to be on the coast" cities.

So what does one hardly starving writer do when she inconveniently finds herself still unemployed – the honeymoon period long passed – a self-proclaimed loser, and the human cookie cutter shape of the mundane? The answer: Revamp her Myspace, christen an X-Men moniker, and re-read "Candy Girl" for inspiration. In all actuality with use of the word inspiration I imply: you are a shit writer, grow some fe-balls (the obvious female version of testicles) and put some Abadi MT Condensed words on the virtual paper, bitch. Some refer to themselves in the third person; I call myself bitch or whore, dependant upon the previous night's actions.

The good news is that in my current attire of black jeans, coupled with a now defunct band t-shirt, I receive wafts of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne at regular intervals. Ordinarily this confection would inflame my sex drive, conjuring my latent sexual frustration, but I settle tonight for a face buried in between two knees, a pair of eyes peeking through dark overgrown bangs. I obsessively sample the scent of a stranger, sardine-packed in the backseat of a two door Accord, his jeans mingled with mine, the sui generesis scent snuck into my clothes, a consequence of my idleness in laundry services.

In the throes of post-Halloween blues it is this most sought after scent that balls my fist when an open palm and five outstretched fingers reach for the leftover candy, lounging in the bowl long after the night's romp has ended. It is celery sticks and apple slices for the next two months, in a remembrance of my once small waist and the ice cream scoop of my lower back. Halloween night was spent drinking domestic beer, interrupted by a shot of Jack; a precursor to furious dancing, a film of sweat lubricating our grinding to the growls of an ex-Wu Tang Clan member (insert shit music here). This aerobic session modeled bedroom gestures, a frivolous attempt to reverse the early evening caloric intake, that only left me drunk and ravenous in the wee hours of a November morning, licking chocolate from my wrist, and frantically scratching my arms, inflamed by the fragranced laundry detergent of dancing partners. To restitute the gluttonous behaviors of Halloween, I will put the treadmill on a steep incline and work my glutes to the syllables of the name Mrs. Carter.

Redundant

"I wouldn't call it schizophrenia, but I'll be in these two here today"
-Gnarls Barkley

Now I know I have alluded to this before – my insanity that is – but heed this call: she has only grown in size, and is no longer containable within the four paper-cut-sharp edges of Fivestar emblazoned notebook paper, the wire men bound to patrol the border can no longer keep the vowels of hysteria back. Sigmund Freud pinched the smoke from his trademark cigar to stand in between the parted legs of my neurosis, only his "talk therapy" failed to rehabilitate. With his book closed and dismissed, I pull in close the representatives of all external given explanations for my of late mental state; they huddle in a half-moon shape around my crossed leg figure. Their fear physically obvious, I give pity, and my eyes soften around the corners; I lend my ears. One black and shiny fuck-me-heel tips on its side, a discarded lace top sprayed with puffs of expensive hovers in the corner, and the two legs of dark jeans snake around the floor fan. My thighs hide behind wide-leg grey sweat pants, paired with a sea green, bleach-stained tank top, dutifully worn to conceal the tattoos (a result of my mother's pleas). I silence the self-indulgent sounds of the keyboard. The explanations have the floor now.

First to step to the shrunken podium is the explanation of my mother, whose opinion I still shamefully absorb. The miniaturized version of my womb-giver stands with legs shoulder-width apart, the microphone scratches, and the sounds of her voice are sent an octave higher. I flick the crumbs of Cheerio's and raisins from her shoulder.

"You have too much time on your hands." I nod in recognition and consider her mini narration – an accurate excuse for the recent pseudo-psychosis. The unemployed and even those unemployed who devote their mornings to job-chasing, have more than the necessary amount of free time with which to play, or with which to invite the crazy. A round of applause and a slight growl from my screwed on smile, and she takes her seat, sans the edible scraps.

The next representative waddles to the podium; his stride resembles that of a pregnant penguin, compressed by her predetermined fate with biology. His nametag reads "The Ex-Boyfriend." The squat presence has come to speak on the behalf of past boyfriends, but when corrected, I learn he represents all ex-lovers, regardless of their level of commitment to my life story. I cannot resist a tilted pout and full eye roll. A throat clear and squinted gaze is reciprocated.

"You are just fucking crazy." I arch both eyebrows and wave my hand in mock gratitude. He responds with identical middle fingers, and loud whoops of approval rise from his fellow group members. In the name of diplomacy I consider his accusation. Based on prior verbal confrontations with ex-lovers, the declaration holds a grain of truth, but after a recall of the definition prior, I dismiss their claim with a sequence of finger flicks through their designated section.

The final delegate hunches over, with hands placed palms down on the podium, her face low, mouse brown hair falls, and the soft part of her lips grazes the microphone. She announces that she is the agent for BFF Inc. At this introduction the bolts rust from the corners of my mouth, and the braces-given smile, with the slight lost retainer-given gap, spreads. I cup my hands in a shield around the mini speaker; a skin colored guard to protect her from the wounded boos now resonating from the ex-boyfriend division.

"You may be a psychotic bitch, but we still love you." A loud whoosh exits my pursed lips; I reach for the chilled bottle of vodka, set on ice for the conclusion of the conference, and line a series of thimbles along the stage. Topped off with the cool liquid, I push each forward to the remaining groups and call for a cheer. "To the insane, the crazy, and the psychotic – may they always be loved. Who wants to be normal anyway? Here is to abnormal." Gulp.

Happiness is underrated

“I can’t tell if I’m done or just uninspired.”
-Eyedea & Abilities

Last night I lay on the unmatched and long out-of-style grey of my bedroom floor, pinching the still youthful and not-yet-dimpled skin gathering around my hips, plucking shedding carpet from the boy’s department Batman underwear supporting my blossoming backside. The devil threatened to come again for a caloric play date, but I lifted my bare feet in the air, watching as my stomach curled, and clamped both hands over my sugar glazed mouth, promising to abstain from future Halloween candy shoveling. I marveled over the blue-lined flap in the front, for bathroom-side easy access, or for the chocolate sprinkled pale skin beginning to fold over its front.

The stress frazzled alter-personality of my mother materialized behind the locked bedroom door, to display with one free, able hand the mechanics of “picking” a lock with a beer stained, strip-poker playing card. With one fur booted foot she pushed the door open, scanned the room for sharp objects, and dropped a screaming 4-year old mid-tantrum on the floor.

“Oh, just get over it.” I looked down at the melting face, a clear snot puddle bubbling above her lip, and a pair of fluttering wet eyelashes. I puffed my cheeks and scrunched my nose into a mash up of freckles.

“You’re not funny.” She wiped snot with the back of one small hand, and shoved its sticky fingers forward in a pre-school play-yard demand of my chocolate rations, this in exchange for her silence. I stared at the glistening palm and emptied the remaining three Reese's cups into a film of mucus.

“It’s your love handles.” Green eyes framed by their dark eyelashes tilted up and a rosebud mouth spouted, “Whatever.” I stepped back from the pint-size hustler and stumbled into the man-scent folds of my down comforter. I grappled with the words, “you’re not funny”. Perhaps, I thought, she speaks the truth. But, my mind stammered, I still wear American Apparel inspired pastels, and I do have a sense of humor, even if it is somewhat distorted, and vulgar in nature.

Today marks the beginning of happiness. Lil’ Wayne and his sexual fantasy summoning voice bump from outdated Dell Inspiron speakers, ice cubes swirl in a brown pool of iced tea, and a semi-photogenic photo of my ex-boyfriend and I sits for company. I shall fill the ¼ page remaining in my one-page limit with a humorous anecdote.

Tomorrow brings forth from its loins of limitless potential an application to a bona fide strip-club. Yes, it has finally happened, the D-Day in my short life has arrived. No sex pests, I will not disclose the name of the club. I do have a father. What would possess a recent college graduate to reach such a decision? – The sour taste of the recent economy, the nasal breathing of debt collectors, and my insatiable thirst for deviance. The clothing shielding my prevailing pride will remain intact, but my breasts will be augmented with a push-up bra for optimum cash out, and dark eyeliner will conceal the observant mind tucked behind my wide eyes.

For those disappointed individuals: join ranks with my still ignorant father and mother, and please read further before you write me from the will. It is only a temporary fix, and used as a means to hold me and my few possessions in existence until legitimate work strolls into my inbox. When the shudder creeps into your spine, think of the juicy tidbits of stories I will bring home.

P.S. Diablo Cody – if she is to hoard all the talent, I can at least sneak a handful of interesting tales for my life story.

So it turns out that I am emo

“I think that our ghosts are really soul mates”
-2Mex

The ink has run dry. When shaken, the bottle empties dried flakes of black onto the desk, and I sit, with toes poised, head cradled in a pair of aching hands, while long and untrimmed fingernails massage the afternoon into my scalp. Hunger kneads the bones of its fist into the walls of my stomach; my eyes dart at the bottle of Nyquil, and forcefully pull at their shades; the evidence of my crime against recycling litters the faux-oak desk. You ask with irritation what it is I have been doing – besides the standard self-pity and self-loathing. On the weekdays, reluctantly growing up, and in the spare time of my weekends, undergoing a controversial surgery to have my heart detached from the connections of its arteries and veins. The surgery promises to leave a wide-open chest, and an opportunity to join the local freak show. Now heart-less, but still in possession of a mind, I am in dire need of catharsis. I have cracked my knuckles in arthritic anticipation, stretched the muscles in my forearms, and rubbed my palms together for warmth, circulation, and static electricity. Let us relate.

After much procrastination I turned in my graduation papers to Woodbury 109, to the unenthusiastic hands of a girl in her second year, far removed from the threat of commencement. The papers were stained with the dark pools of soda and the wrinkled memories of car rides. She rolled her eyes at my carelessness and I smacked my gum in gratitude at her passed judgment. As I shuffled my retro Nike clad feet through a mess of red and yellow leaves, I was hit with a Gardenstate-esque epiphany – growing up is stuffed with the cotton of depression, that even the sounds of the words "growing up" evoke unwanted thoughts of bubble pops and conformity. Much to the frustration of CU maintenance services I placed my horizontal body atop a pile of raked leaves and mulled over the new classification as adult. I must be an adult I thought, for I have had an orgasm. I know too well the hundreds of pricks of pleasure that summon blood to the surface of my skin. My hands impulsively reached for the top of my jeans at the recall. I pulled to my feet; autumn’s leaves clung to my thick sweater, and I gathered the pink copies of my graduation papers to continue on through the campus, envious of the virginity of freshman. As I climbed into the silver Subaru I picked apart the past four years and looked for lessons learned, but all I could find was a longing for their return.

I pressed the mode button on the face of the stereo and let Mr. John Mayer spill his voice into the seats of the car. The John Mayer, Where The Light Is, album is an auditory aphrodisiac, baby making music. Sadly, there is no one to wife me and make a John Mayer inspired baby underneath the satin sheets of a shared double bed. I lifted the heavy folds of my sweater and looked down at my gapping chest, bra-less as a result of its state, and sighed. A woman sans her heart stuck the key in the ignition and revved the 4-cylinder engine in anger. Sunday drivers and grandmothers beware.

John Mayer and his calls of fertility frustrated my ovaries and I pressed skip for the future inhabitants of my womb. I should add for the sake of understanding that I was driving my mother’s Subaru with its 6-cd changer. This is written with the spelling of uncertainty – I am unsure of the correct term for this technological wonder. Overly-emotional, self-titled Indie-hip hop, slipped into the conveniently placed void, a product of the equation: 1 minus a boyfriend, plus an ex, multiplied by g (the g-variable still undetermined), and I too fell victim to emo feelings (it should be noted that emo is the newly-coined term for emotional, and not at all related to the infamous “emo kid”).

I stared at my attempts to avoid the product of the inevitable life equation, a wide-open chest removed of its pulsating companion, and shifted into reverse. The drive brought me here, to you, to vent, to release. Thanks.

This is the story that never ends

“Come on in, let me show you what a state I’m in.”
-Coldplay

Yes, that is the same quote on my Myspace profile, and yes, Coldplay. Insert splattered rotten vegetables here. Perhaps, you have grown weary of the seemingly never-ending story (please take note of italics) of a road trip to nowhere exactly, embarked upon by a pair of the genetically similar, but alas I shall continue, but not before addressing a question posed by a sexually frustrated ex-English professor of mine – frustrated because he discovered that sadly, attraction is not only mental, but physical, and while there existed a certain chemistry of the minds, there was none of the carnal. Indeed, I did nearly engage in an illicit, steam filled, and possibly (but more than likely allowed) forbidden affair with a college professor.

He asked, as I sat crunching a sweet apple between autumn’s chattering teeth, wrapped in a moth eaten sweater, watching the film Harold and Maude (how ironic), “Where do these strange, and if I may, absurd thoughts of yours come from?” At the time I was the tender age of 20, irritated by the vocal interruption, and I knew not of their origin, but as a ripened 23-year old, I say, “From my depressing music, inherited insanity, compulsive staring, and from the men with whom I become frequently infatuated.” Before I unfold the next chapter in my anti-climatic story, I would like to take a moment to thank all of my inspirations for their priceless influence over the strange and absurd thoughts radiating from my gourd shaped head – Thanks.

“I play so dumb because I know some of these star-struck small talk art fucks are no fun.”
-Atmosphere

I scanned the half-moon of art fucks now bathed in the low light, their physical faults oddly illuminated. They in return quizzically stared at my drooping smile, spoke of the art world, the nation’s political turmoil, and the exploitation of the world at the hands of the bourgeoisie. I surveyed my knowledge of communism, and nudged the ribs of Joey as if to say, is that us? – But he only scratched the legs of his chair to the left in an escape from my angular elbow. The night’s assimilation into snobbery had begun, unwilling and unrelenting I threw a tantrum of mass proportions, feigning a desire for 25ml of unmixed liquor, but I received a narrowed glare begging me to be cool. I drew circles in my beer and lent an ear to the refined conversation now speeding the dimly lit circular track. The girl to my right made a collage from Trojan condoms, the boy to her right used screen-printing to make t-shirts advocating social upheaval, the next painted with his own feces in protest of America’s wasteful ways, and the girl chosen as the prey of the wolf to my left made clothes that were both biodegradable and edible.

My turn arrived, “I voted for George Bush, twice.” A silence deeper than that which we had washed in on the drive splashed the circle. Joey eerily chuckled through clenched teeth, “She is only kidding.” I was bored, listening as he dropped profuse excuses for my behavior, “She is a writer, and you have to know the type” (wink wink). I have never interacted well with the snob class, unable to depart from my white trash roots, and conform to tasteful thinking. I made a mental list of more conversation halting, awkward silence initiating words until nudged by an angular elbow reminiscent of my own.

“Can you go get me another beer?” I grazed the pastures filled with attractive males. Finally making my way to the bar, I placed both elbows on the counter and leaned into the edge. The ends of my hair stuck to the bar, and I, finding this amusing, pushed my bent figure deeper.

“Can I help you?” The bartender asked, followed with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. “Yes, can I have two pints of Blue Moon please?” “Are those with oranges?” He asked as the peach colored liquid streamed into the glasses. “Only if it makes them more feminine and what do I call it….artsy?” He glanced over at my origin and smiled. “It most certainly does.”

I cupped both glasses and held them in a paranoid’s grasp, close to my chest, with arms ejected at both sides, in fear of thieves and powdered drugs. The room had begun to fill with the sweat of bodies threatening to drop, mating calls deafening, and sharp heels eager to injure. The sloshing liquid flowed over the rims in my hurry back to the table, clearing a beer flavored path trail marked with oranges down my shirt. The group had bowed their heads in conversation, the secrets of their craft too precious to leak. I set the glasses down and peered down at the tops of heads sniffing the scents of animal tested shampoo, and the raw materials of sweat shop labor. Sensing a familiar scent Joey pinched my nomadic gaze with his and growled. I shrugged my shoulders and mouthed a well drawn yeah right.

This is the story that never ends

“Come on in, let me show you what a state I’m in.”
-Coldplay

Yes, that is the same quote on my Myspace profile, and yes, Coldplay. Insert splattered rotten vegetables here. Perhaps, you have grown weary of the seemingly never-ending story (please take note of italics) of a road trip to nowhere exactly, embarked upon by a pair of the genetically similar, but alas I shall continue, but not before addressing a question posed by a sexually frustrated ex-English professor of mine – frustrated because he discovered that sadly, attraction is not only mental, but physical, and while there existed a certain chemistry of the minds, there was none of the carnal. Indeed, I did nearly engage in an illicit, steam filled, and possibly (but more than likely allowed) forbidden affair with a college professor.

He asked, as I sat crunching a sweet apple between autumn’s chattering teeth, wrapped in a moth eaten sweater, watching the film Harold and Maude (how ironic), “Where do these strange, and if I may, absurd thoughts of yours come from?” At the time I was the tender age of 20, irritated by the vocal interruption, and I knew not of their origin, but as a ripened 23-year old, I say, “From my depressing music, inherited insanity, compulsive staring, and from the men with whom I become frequently infatuated.” Before I unfold the next chapter in my anti-climatic story, I would like to take a moment to thank all of my inspirations for their priceless influence over the strange and absurd thoughts radiating from my gourd shaped head – Thanks.

“I play so dumb because I know some of these star-struck small talk art fucks are no fun.”
-Atmosphere

I scanned the half-moon of art fucks now bathed in the low light, their physical faults oddly illuminated. They in return quizzically stared at my drooping smile, spoke of the art world, the nation’s political turmoil, and the exploitation of the world at the hands of the bourgeoisie. I surveyed my knowledge of communism, and nudged the ribs of Joey as if to say, is that us? – But he only scratched the legs of his chair to the left in an escape from my angular elbow. The night’s assimilation into snobbery had begun, unwilling and unrelenting I threw a tantrum of mass proportions, feigning a desire for 25ml of unmixed liquor, but I received a narrowed glare begging me to be cool. I drew circles in my beer and lent an ear to the refined conversation now speeding the dimly lit circular track. The girl to my right made a collage from Trojan condoms, the boy to her right used screen-printing to make t-shirts advocating social upheaval, the next painted with his own feces in protest of America’s wasteful ways, and the girl chosen as the prey of the wolf to my left made clothes that were both biodegradable and edible.

My turn arrived, “I voted for George Bush, twice.” A silence deeper than that which we had washed in on the drive splashed the circle. Joey eerily chuckled through clenched teeth, “She is only kidding.” I was bored, listening as he dropped profuse excuses for my behavior, “She is a writer, and you have to know the type” (wink wink). I have never interacted well with the snob class, unable to depart from my white trash roots, and conform to tasteful thinking. I made a mental list of more conversation halting, awkward silence initiating words until nudged by an angular elbow reminiscent of my own.

“Can you go get me another beer?” I grazed the pastures filled with attractive males. Finally making my way to the bar, I placed both elbows on the counter and leaned into the edge. The ends of my hair stuck to the bar, and I, finding this amusing, pushed my bent figure deeper.

“Can I help you?” The bartender asked, followed with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. “Yes, can I have two pints of Blue Moon please?” “Are those with oranges?” He asked as the peach colored liquid streamed into the glasses. “Only if it makes them more feminine and what do I call it….artsy?” He glanced over at my origin and smiled. “It most certainly does.”

I cupped both glasses and held them in a paranoid’s grasp, close to my chest, with arms ejected at both sides, in fear of thieves and powdered drugs. The room had begun to fill with the sweat of bodies threatening to drop, mating calls deafening, and sharp heels eager to injure. The sloshing liquid flowed over the rims in my hurry back to the table, clearing a beer flavored path trail marked with oranges down my shirt. The group had bowed their heads in conversation, the secrets of their craft too precious to leak. I set the glasses down and peered down at the tops of heads sniffing the scents of animal tested shampoo, and the raw materials of sweat shop labor. Sensing a familiar scent Joey pinched my nomadic gaze with his and growled. I shrugged my shoulders and mouthed a well drawn yeah right.

I'm back

“Critical, observant, big words, sweaty hair, sunken eyes, and thick curves”
-Atmosphere

An accurate written description, sans the thick curves – I have the dwarfed body of a prepubescent teen. Hi, remember me? I stand (metaphorically) before you now with eyes cast to the unlaced shoelaces of sneakers, arthritic hands shoved in pockets; my damp hair spreads a veil of shame before my face – Cousin It-like. I haven’t written a word in two weeks, apart from the behind-the-curtain scribbles nervously etched in the rare solitary moment spent behind a bar stool.

I have spent the last two hours perusing Myspace for attractive females to poke holes in the fishnet tights that are my self esteem. It is my own personalized form of self-abuse. My fingers are stiff, my wrists crack, my Daddy issues have worsened, and my sense of self-worth has diminished – oh-so-behind-the-times laptop, how I love thee – it is time for my electronic ego trip to inflate the round tire of self-esteem.

“Act tough, but your blood is exposed.”
-P.O.S.

I looked over at the handsome face intently staring at the outstretched highway, chewing on the corner of his lip, covered thick in the absence of voice, riddled with the family traits I didn’t inherit – the full pout of our grandmother, the sharp fangs of his mother – the only man I love daily. He caught my staring eyes in a net and pulled them in to the glowing screen of the I-pod.

“I have a song for you. In fact, it is you.” My musical brother who relates life to music; to him I am the physical manifestation of a song in his I-pod. I listened as the sounds of his scrolling filled the car. I closed my eyes in the calm induced by the open road, void of man made noise. His affirmative nods accompanied the words of P.O.S. I scrunched my nose and huddled close to my bent knees, inhaling the scent of cigarette smoke and earth friendly laundry detergent. The green of the bottle mixed with the yellow streaking the highway. The sting of words telling of a woman sewn with the stitches of jealousy, held together by the fraying threads of empathy fell on my vulnerable skin. I shuddered at the similarity and reached for the half-empty pack of cigarettes separating the siblings.

“You don’t smoke.” He nervously tore his eyes from the road for an eye’s blink and batted at my hands. “I do when I’m in the car with you.” The lighter sputtered in my hands, flickered, and lit the end of the rolled paper. I licked the end of the cigarette, smacked my lips, and breathed in. I held the smoke in my lungs and coughed it from my sweet tinged lips. After each meeting my lungs adjusted to the familiar taste of smoke. I tilted my head back against the headrest and exhaled long streams of creamed air. His suspicious eyes found mine, and in sympathy I rested my head against his bony shoulder. “I won’t tell Dad.”

The exit read the name of our destination and he swerved, nearly missing in his guilt. In the motel room I reclined on the bed and watched as he shaved the stubble of two day’s passed and brushed his teeth, mint flavored bubbles falling from lips to chin as he mumbled the night’s plans. I stared at the valley of cleavage now present and picked bits of fuzz from the land. My toes wiggled, constrained beneath heavy brown boots. He tapped the tops of both and questioned, “Shall we?”

As we crossed through the doorway I repeated pacifying lyrics in my head, vowed to remain agreeable, and mute my complaints for the sake of my single and hopeful brother. We picked a table bathed in low light, our physical errors camouflaged; the view of the room opened before us. Tablecloths of liquid covered the tables, forgotten wrappers crouched in the corners; the bartender frivolously wiped the counter. He spotted a group of youths crowded around a table and extended his hand in an offering. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair, back to the chore of pulling the weeds from the valley. The group, now led by my brother, moved slowly towards our table, grazing at each pasture of people, and the squeak of chairs sliding against the dryness of wood filled the space around me. I eyed the new recruits and painted a crooked smile. My right hand instinctively reached to the middle of the table and I straightened my mouth in accordance to the rules.

The P-word

I apologize for my extended absence. "The Man" has kept me detained with a temporary but fully embraced self-metamorphosis into a phallist.

"If you'll be so kind as to follow me, well I will show you the way to the rest of my sins." Sing it Missy Higgins.

Two days until fornication of the minds.

P.S. This is not a real blog. Also, I am unsure if my use of the word phallist was proper or improper. English freaks gather 'round.

For the love of siblings

“The escapist steps outside for nicotine to think.”

"Inject the likes of me into her life here."

-Cage

Two lyrical quotes today you ask? Yes, for I have changed my old motherly ways of neglect and abandonment. I am now a social-ladder-climbing mother to a multitude (I use the word multitude with exaggeration) of hungry blog children – aged 0-11 – and I have come equipped with a head of freshly dyed hair to attract job holding, healthcare providing men, and food stamps for the proper nourishment and healthy development of my blog children. It is has been established that “blog babies” is a term of endearment and worthy of use, unlike my previous statement. Today’s borrowed musical words of genius are the equivalent to a childhood vaccine for the measles and mumps. Now it is time for a bedtime story to swat away the flies of illiteracy.

I went on a road trip born of impulsivity, and a lack of adhesive, with another man – not my father, and not my boyfriend. Hint: We share a parent and a large number of personality traits. Our matching sleepy eyes stared into one another as we loaded the car Friday morning, counting bags, checking the oil, and flicking the condensation from our water bottles against warm cheeks; one with the stubble of two days passed, and other with the trademark softness of femininity. He, being the technology savvy type of the two, attached his Ipod to the radio, and thankfully amongst other traits, we share a love of the same music. He lit up a cigarette, and I pushed the smoke of our childhood memories into my face, fanning them back for him to inhale. The car was bathed in the smoke of our youth and in the silence of our adulthood, bar the thump of Aesop Rock, interchanged with the guitar rifts of Guns ‘N’ Roses (a borrowed parting gift from my mother). He sat behind the wheel, the cigarette hung from his wet lips, the coolness of his place as the elder evident in my admiring face. My foot hung out the window, its flutter in the wind interrupted only by his pulls at the shoelaces of my maroon Converse in his insistence that my foot would be removed at high speeds. We stopped at the southern town of Fountain for provisions and bathroom relief. I hopped around in circles to the pee-dance while he ruffled through the car for his wallet, moving with a coat of molasses, and chuckling at my inability to “piss like the big boys.” Damn penis envy.

Once the bathroom door had closed behind I was stood outside, my hands resting atop my head, staring at the town stretching out before me. It was rough on the edges from our highway view, but soft on the inside like the underbelly of a river stone. I felt a slight shove at my back and we were off. A girl in a shiny blue Volkswagen Beetle smiled at our car rendition of the music playing: With me scratching turntables on the dashboard as he mouthed the words into the microphone attached to the steering wheel. The Volkswagen driver caught his dark eyes and he rolled the idea of following her around with his tongue.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I tossed my words to the other side of the car and threatened kidney shots. He lit up another cigarette in his frustration and pointed his finger at my temple, 'cock block.'

Halfway to our destination he suggested a radio search just for kicks. I pushed the scan button with the tip of my prostitute red nail to find only classical and country. I impersonated a conductor filled with fervor and my brother pried the red bull can from my shaking grasp.

I grew dizzy from the nicotine and surfacing of past memories. I grabbed the middle of the white stick and tossed it into traffic. It was time to indulge in the present. We compacted mundane thoughts into sticky balls and threw them at one another, eventually tiring and peeling them from our foreheads, settling on a discussion of our current dealings with the opposite sex. There was a long E string tying our stories together, hanging with our mutual insecurities and failings. I plucked the string and our shared upbringing vibrated between us. The highway flattened in front of us, we exchanged yawns, and lodged ourselves into a comfortable silence for the next 30 miles.

To be continued…......

Oh, an afterthought. I am a responsible adult who will eventually find work.

Prostitute red

"A woman who wears red nails can never go unnoticed"
-Me

When levels of stress reach overflow, I paint my nails red. Tonight I faithfully commit to the bottle of prostitute red (despite the threat of smudges and chips), chant my recently constructed Diablo Cody séance: I love Diablo Cody, I love Diablo Cody, I love Diablo Cody, and sway my flower underwear swaddled ass to the sounds of God's gift to me – Slug. The fading heat, extremists, or the afternoon Bible salesman nicked my journal. I'm running on fumes and a collection of scraps tonight, that, an interview with Megan Fox in GQ (communicated by the Ari-lee), and the recent blog of "the woman" (please refer to the idolizer's chant above). This is my attempt to be above-average in my self-imposed confinement to the wide shadow cast by these two women.

Let us begin with my rendition of a eulogy: Journal, you were my Prozac, my Xanax, and my Nicotine. Rest in peace my stained and torn ex-lover. Tomorrow brings your replacement – a purple wire backed bottle of Zoloft.

I awoke in the middle of the night to strange sounds creeping from the bathroom; they tickled my exposed toes, traveling to my eyelids, they pulled my sleeping eyes open. I tripped down from my bed, peeled the sticky sheets from my limbs, and stumbled the five feet to the bathroom, falling to my knees at the third foot. Water poured from the edges of my porcelain goddess, her eyes weeping from my past confessions.

"Who the hell puts carpet in a bathroom?" I shouted to no one but the middle of the night. The water trickled, flowed, and then dumped onto the carpet now bleeding two shades darker grey. I scanned the bathroom for a savior, and there he stood, a blue plastic bucket; the extension of my hand, used to dump lukewarm water onto the top of my sister's heads, despite protests, hair pulling, and tiny fists. I bailed the water (sans sewage) from the overflowing toilet, cursing anyone who came to mind, settling on privatized healthcare. A small puddle grew and spread from the base of the goddess; the water lapped at my toes.

"Down boy," I whispered to the soggy tongue of the liquid. Frantic I lifted the lid from the toilet and pulled any loose part my unpainted fingernails could scrap. The flush of water to the bowels of the toilet sent a cheer from my retainer-less mouth (saved from embarrassment once again). I sat atop the toilet, feet tucked under, chin on knees, staring at my water break.

Today, as I sat at Chili's shoveling marinated chicken into my glossed lips and tilting my head left and right to the syllables of my uncle's stories, he spoke these words: "You do know you could have just turned the water off. It's behind the toilet." I reached for my beer and gulped, choking on the orange peel and cursing yet again. "Well how was I supposed to know?" He only smiled and swept his bearded chin with clean fingers.

I drove in silence to the home of my womb donor and her mate, and contemplated the need of a scapegoat. I settled on my father. That man should have told me such useful information as I sat at his feet, sampling the water dripping from his cold beer, and imitating his slow and determined movements. Instead he gave me long fingers I would later wring in anxiety and paint when stress boiled over. I slid open my new phone, advanced from the days of the flip, and dialed his number.

"Hello?" He sneezed, and I imagined the California evening sneaking at his back and the kitchen smells tapping his broad shoulders. I shook the thought from my head before it could settle comfortably in. "Daddy, it's me." He chuckled at some distant joke, "My beautiful daughter." I rolled through the pleasantries and threw it out into the states between us. "Why didn't you tell me I could turn off the toilet water?" The silence wiggled in its seat and leaned back. "Because I knew you were a smart one." I thanked him, made promises to visit, and kissed the sound of his goodbye. I flicked the blinker and muttered an "obviously not." My socks are still wet and the pink bathroom towels smell of a wet dog.

An educational message for the tweens: Don't spread venereal diseases. Spread good lyrics.

Bartender give me another shot of Bean
Cause this girl over here is trying to get me out my jeans
And she doesn't seem to believe I'm just another thief
Came to take a piece and make you stutter when you breathe

Crazy Bitch

“Hey, you're crazy bitch”
-Buckcherry

1:30AM: I received a text from a – to remain masked – ex-boyfriend that read: “Just a psychotic girl and I won’t get lost in your world.” Of what this unknown mud-slinger was unaware – that is until I sent my response – was that I am a ravenous Black Keys fan, fatuously searching for online lyrics. 1:32AM (a yawn and chuckle): “Get your own material.” My favorite middle-of-the-night activity, other than slumbering, is to crush the inflated egos of intoxicated others drunk off their own wit. It is such a rare occurrence for my wit-less self that one must understand the sweet taste of its opportunity; I liked my lips and savored its honeyed flavor.

Some might say that being called “psychotic”, “crazy”, or even the most worthy of social lock up, “insane”, is to only add insult to injury, and especially when the injury it precedes is the word “bitch”. I argue to the contrary, which in case there are those who wonder, is why I am so loose mouthed with my confessions of the psychotic, crazy, and insane. Perhaps I should include a middle of the road disclaimer.

Disclaimer: Only when the target of these insults is female can it be considered a compliment. Men who receive such a label dwell in the creepy sides of the world. What sides are those? – The edges. The world isn’t flat? Yes, it is.

The morning brought a second attempt at a sober offense. 10:00AM: “That kind of lovin’ sends a man right to his grave.” – Thank you dear mother for playing Aerosmith albums on the drive home from after-school care, and for letting me be a latch-key kid. As I lay in my bed alternating thoughts between to-be-done errands and the appeal of a crazy woman, I thought of my blog babies. My trusted friend told me it is egocentric and condescending to call individuals that read my blog, blog babies, and so I, now humbled, bow to you and vow to commit the two words to the grave, buried next to the evil version of myself, who appears after consumption of Vodka. To clarify my point, and for those who call my blogs thesis-less – which they are – I will tell a story of a girl I once knew, past-tense, because this girl, or woman if you prefer, moved to LA to become a porn star. For the sake of privacy I will call her Lily, which for all I know could actually be her porn star name.

Lily was created in the image of a Boticelli woman, curves drawn from flesh that wrapped around a tall outline, spilling over her clothes, in their futile attempt to conceal. Lily was a girl who cut squares from her pseudo-vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirts across the tops of the words; a man’s attention argued over a love of music and his love of breasts. She cut a wide strip from the bottom of each one, her white skin exposed to nag at the fingers of men. Long hair became Lily, she who wore dark hair that flicked the scoop of her lower back, perpetually with a tousled look of having just left the bed. Lily’s face was round, fit for the two cupped hands of a man, wide grey-colored eyes, a cherry stained pout, and arched eyebrows. I wrote descriptions of her while she sat before a vanity mirror, tapping perfume on her wrists, fingering her hair, and scrutinizing her profile with pursed lips, my scrawny limbs sprawled across the bed, scribbling words she evoked.

Lily was what one would call a “crazy bitch”, a possessor of jealous love, a love of physical abuse to lamps, the framed photos, and throw pillows around the house. I watched from my perch in the corner as her hands shoved items from their positions atop dressers, shelves, and nightstands in a fit of rage. Slander was hurled against the walls, bitch, cunt, whore, and slut. She asked of her men to share, but refused to share them with another. She would calmly press redial on the phone while steadily applying a thick line of black eyeliner until his voice would break through the ring, or a forceful hand would push the contents of the mirrored table across the floor. Her affections were inconsistent, love and hate in the span of one hour, and exhaustion at the conclusion of 60 minutes. I lived in her cycle of vicious voicemails and love notes absorbing the little attention she would direct towards me.

Despite, men loved her, one after another, jacket upon jacket across the sofa, shoes over shoes at the door. When the city we lived in ran out of men, Lily moved to LA. I learned that crazy is sexy, and I hear sketches of Lily in my music now.

P.S. “The Fed Play Sugar Daddy” – Can I get some of that?

http://blogs.moneycentral.msn.com/topstocks/?fpn=the%20fed%20is%20not%20our%20sugardaddy&GT1=33009