An Argument with My Reflection

“When will my reflection show who I am inside?”
- Christina Aguilera

I spend 1-2 hours of each day priming my face and body for public display, and more if I brush shoulders with insecurity and criticality on my way back from a shower. At the conclusion of a week, 7-14 hours have been unwillingly donated to the mirror; the scowl of my reflection is a familiar sight, and my ego alternates between glutton and purger. This morning was no exception.

I have stretched the tour de white trash into a second week. On the phone this morning my mother said, “Are you avoiding responsibility?” I scuffed the borrowed bedroom floor with my toes; my eyes squinted in protection. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll see you when you’re broke.” She hung up the phone, and I see her in my mind: she blows stress into a mug of creamed coffee and leans back in the office chair.
I sat cross-legged in front of the mirror mulling over the early morning maternal conversation. I pointed two fingers at my reflection and smiled, but she only frowned and shook her dripping curls. Drops of water splattered my face. She motioned to the blank canvas of my face and to the curls springing around the soil of my scalp. “Well perhaps I do look a bit awful,” I offered to my reflection. “But,” I hesitated. She dropped her head and reached as if to shake my shoulders, or strangle me.

I took a premature leave from the mirror lest someone discover me in a dialogue with my reflection. Wearing a crown of wet curls and a bare face, I tried to grab the day by her waist and hold her close, but she was slippery and my hands clutched air where her waist should have been. Preoccupation with vanity had greased my fingertips. I stomped up the stairs, my anger underscored with each step. I stood before the mirror with hands on hips.

“Listen here you vain and fickle bitch, I have had about enough of you.” She met my harsh words with innocent eyes, and asked, “What are you on about?” I leaned in close with my knuckles touching hers. The fan whirled behind us stirring the humid heat. Rocking my hips to the opposite side of the room, I slid to my knees and sang, “I want to love you, pretty young thing; you need some lovin’, tender love and care.” I grabbed the hair brush with both hands, spinning in circles; I performed a Michael Jackson rendition. I backed up and wagged my backside, singing, “And I’ll take you there.” She sat with her arms folded. The track fell silent with the clatter of the hairbrush to the floor. I straightened my shirt and sheepishly smiled.

“No, you need to sort yourself out right now,” she countered to my MJ impersonation. I returned to my eye level position and awaited her verbal punishment. “Pick up the brush.” I picked up the handle with my right hand. “Now grab the blow-dryer.” The scream of the air pushed through the filter, the heat resting against my thigh. “Dry your hair,” she commanded.

I understand that it may seem strange that I converse and then later submit to a dominant reflection, but without fail this fictitious exchange begins each day. As I sat with blow-dryer and boar-bristle brush in hands, I looked down, one glance at my left hand, and a second glance at my right. The fan sputtered behind me spitting its sticky mixture in all directions.

“No, I am not going to dry my hair,” a stubborn response to her folded arms and tapping toes. I threw the brush across the floor. It smacked against the wall. I gently placed the $50 blow-dryer down, wise to the consequences of tossing it to meet a fate with the brush. She sat with jaw dropped and claws dug into the floor. With a smirk of defiance I stood and turned my back on the shocked reflection. I strutted through the door, wild curls bouncing down my back, a medusa head of middle fingers.

Disobedience is so much fun.

Redneck Pit Stop

“Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

The tour de white trash made a redneck pit stop last night. Welcome to the funhouse that materialized.

I came prepared for the night; my past mistakes served as a tutorial on the proper dress code for the tour. I squeezed my burgeoning body – a consequence of the tour’s liquid diet – into ripped jeans and a grey tank top; my stomach emblazoned with an American flag. Middle-America humidity wrapped our bodies in moisture, our skin invariably damp. We drove in silence down a deserted highway, a Black Keys album fluttering in the night air. We had no destination; the GPS babbled incoherent sentences about U-Turns. My feet tapped into the lap of my backseat companion. My hands scratched descriptions of jean creases and retro sneakers into the now soda-stained pages of my journal. It appeared on our right, out of the open windows; there she stood, a lone bar camouflaged by a patch of warehouses and baseball fields.

“Look!” A gang of five fingers shot out the driver window. “Are you telling me you don’t know how to point?” A response made by the female backseat driver sat passenger-side. I jerked upright; my bare feet poised on their toes. “Oh let’s go,” I shouted. Stephen turned “Susan,” our GPS tour guide on silent before her voice could sing sweet songs of warning. “Alright,” he mumbled between chews of sunflower seeds.

We crossed through the heavy pinewood doors (Don't quote me on the wood). The lyrics “save a horse, ride a cowboy” signaled a 'yank' entrance. When we reached the half-moon bar it had skipped to “my lovely lady lumps.” The four exchanged inquisitive glances at the incongruous genres. An attractive “Miller girl” approached us with a sugared smile and valley of cleavage. She offered us a tray piled high with yellow and black covered books: "Promotional Work for Dummies." There was a band on stage; my affinity for musicians pulled at the strings of lust. A thick English accent cleared its throat into the microphone. He stood with legs shoulder width apart, both hands glued to the microphone, his stare fixed on the alcohol lining the shelves behind the bar. I stood paralyzed; a slow drip of perspiration, a vessel of pheromones, rolled down my neck and dropped. I watched it summersault across the floor, a flawless dismount at the foot of the lead singer. We had been in a hurry, chased by eviction from our hotel room, and the need for perfume had slipped my mind; it was a pure dose of my genetic scent, in its most potent form.

The next scene played in slow motion. He stooped to rub the toe of his boot; the drop soaked into his right index finger. His left hand slid across the fret board, the dark red body of the guitar shivered underneath his touch. A deep sigh filled my chest, pouring the path for a chill to walk along my spine, discharging breathe at the hairs on the base of my neck. A shudder pulled my shoulders back and my stomach in. He rubbed his index finger against his thumb smiling. I dug into my thighs, fingernails retracted, and purred. Jacob’s hand rested on my shoulder, “Easy girl.”

We ordered drinks and I rested my chin on the bar under strict orders to keep my eyes averted from the stage. The amps cracked and boots stomped - heralding the beginning of their set. The scratch of his cigarette dried voice called from the stage. I lifted my hair above the dampness of my neck, coiling it around my fingers, and rubbed my ankles together. Turning to Jane my eyes widened, “Oh please?” A trio of head shakes and a flicker of hands gave their approval.

I entered the Miller Lite contest. The participant to receive a tattoo in the most 'unusual' place would be proclaimed winner by the shouts of those affected with perversion. The band was to announce the winner. I hurried to the table, already picking at my bra straps. A man rubbed an ice cube against the backside of a temporary tattoo that rested in between my breasts. He breathed heavy into the crook of my neck as I muzzled my gag reflex.

The brush with a decaying libido had proved worthwhile. I stood next to him, consumed by a swarm of butterflies, cupping my breasts to expose the Miller Lite ink job. He shyly smiled and pulled my shirt back over the tops. Miller wanted to exploit my skin and he wanted to cover it. I was in love.

There was much to be reciprocated, love notes and bodily fluids, but I walked from the stage with my head hung low in loss. The declared winner had grown a Miller Lite brazilian, and my breasts were no match. His eager eyes bore into my back. I am forever a writer at a loss for words, and last night affirmed my reluctance with the spoken word. I knew not what to say as we stood facing one another – his hand on the seam of my shirt. I spent the remainder of the evening under the shoulder of Jane muttering words of regret into her neck. I stood in a corner without light, consoled by shadows, watching as they loaded their gear and drove away – because I am just that creepy.

Another day, another dollar-less, another lonely night.

"One might say it is quite a dark night."

“Gotham doesn’t need Hannah Montana.”

Neither does Gotham need Miley Cyrus – if we are to include the ginger alter-ego – the now equally famous and soon to be the post-sex glow or adolescent if you will, face of Trojan condoms. Bear in mind that I heard of this “Johnny news” on a Colorado morning radio show, and its credibility could be called into question if the veracity of my gossip were to be challenged. Thus, I cover my hot pink swaddled ass with a disclaimer.

Disclaimer: The gossip that will be reported in this blog is by no means true, nor does it come from a reliable source. Please discard any of the thoughts you might see, touch, taste, or feel confined within the e-page bars of today’s blog. Management asks also that you do not feed the prisoners.

Now one might question the sanity of an individual who begins with “Gotham doesn’t need Hannah Montana,” as one should, after all Gotham is a fictional city and Batman a fictional superhero, but this questioning of mind is done by one (meaning you) who cannot hear my raspy impersonation of Batman making the anti-Hannah Montana claim. Therefore, one cannot grasp the sheer humor of the sentence. I wish I could say that I empathize with one’s yearning for an audio clip, but alas I cannot. In the name of pop culture, and as a consequence of boredom, we pitted two main pop-players against one another and God-blessing Batman was triumphant. Born from this parodiable wrestling match was an infant with balled fists, a patch of unruly hair, and matured sense of humor; his name was “Gotham doesn’t need Hannah Montana.”

The FDA has asked that I do not promote humor as a result of alcohol, and so I say that the KY jelly of social lubrication was not the puppeteer. A sober group of friends invented the sentence composed of pop culture antipodes. Before my blog upstarts prohibition I intentionally digress to boobspace – a term coined by my friend whose excellence will be preserved by anonymity.
Boobspace is the sex stoned alter-ego of Myspace. When your computer screen displays a half naked girl, a shirtless young man with tribal tattoos on his arms, it is no longer Myspace, but Boobspace. As we knocked around the Boobspace term, our bare feet sliding across the wooden floor, fingertips brushing against one another, I felt an urge to confess. The room grew silent, I shouted as I threw my hands in the air for effect, “Oh Myspace, where are the smart people of your space?”

My friends looked over at my arms outstretched in naivety. A handful of responses came in unison, “Smart people don’t have Myspace profiles. Or if they do, they don’t want to talk to us.” I rolled over on my stomach and peered under the sofa to count lost puzzle pieces and gum wrappers. My voice muffled by the dust bunnies and dead skin cells I said, “Well that is terrible.” I felt hands on my ankles pulling me from the vacuum of despair. I sat up from my horizontal position; my legs crossed, with a frown sewn to my cheeks, I resembled the aftermath of a toddler’s tantrum. My still unnamed friend put forth an idea to soothe the raging child inside. “Myspace needs to have a search filter to weed out the unintelligent people in the space.” The group struggled to name a politically correct word that described stupid. We finally settled on “unintelligent.” As it was told by my mystery friend, Myspace would include in its search feature next to age, sex, and location, a category labeled “intelligence level.” The boxes for ticking would read “smart, average, dumb, and fucking idiot.”

We did address the issue of honesty in self-assessment, which we concluded there is little. We trotted along in our discussion until we stumbled upon the realization that perhaps unintelligent people are merely ignorant, and unaware of their lack of knowledge. The only plausible solution we could draw was a hope for a future computer that could detect levels of honesty and ignorance and transmit shocks into the keyboard of their dishonest and ignorant owners. Access to a Myspace profile would be rewarded for honesty and an opening of the dictionary, thesaurus, and newspaper.

Ban Ignorance.

Sadly, for now I can only sit upon my high throne and tickle my ego.

Which box would you tick?

A Day for Recognition

"I'm alive – and that surprised a couple of people."

Namely – my parents. My birth was what my mother refers to in hindsight as a "serendipitous event," but after the knowledge of my conception was acquired, it was: "Oh my dear sweet Jesus;" followed by a string of pinches made by the hands of my mother, and a confetti storm of condoms falling with the thunder of my father's words, "these obviously don't work." This was pre-OMG.

On August the 18th of the year 2008, I unfolded my limbs, curled from the debilitating vibrations of cramps and thought, to the beat of "Happy Birthday", where are the drugs? I army crawled to the bathroom, use of an upright position lost to my menstrual cycle, and rolled into the shower. An hour's worth of hot water burned through the past two un-showered days. I bent to scoop the white-trash remnants into my cupped hands and splashed the water on my neck and wrists. I stepped from behind the white plastic curtain sans cramps and smelling of thievery – the scent of Aveda's trademark rosemary mint.

Wrapped in the afterglow of my kleptomania I stared at the face of a now 23 year old woman. The reflection in the mirror curiously asked, "Why is a birthday so special?" After I had overcome the shock of having a communicative reflection, I responded, "It is the one day you can receive recognition for doing absolutely nothing, apart from making a slippery exit out of the space in between your mother's legs." She gave me a quizzical tilt of her head. "And today is our day," I said. She smiled and lifted her arms to pin wet hair to the crown of my head. With my hair blow-dried and face painted I departed from my throne of towels and slipped on heels the color of impracticality.

We departed from the house – my complaints of the blisters forming around my toes deafening. Once at the restaurant I ordered calamari, blackened salmon, and a side of flies. A heat propelled hallucination of Gordon Ramsey muttered more than one "fuck me" at the sight of the swarms. Because we cannot maintain levels of class for lengthy spans of time we ordered $5 Coronas, despite the frowns of disgust by our waitress, or server, to be politically correct. The meal was delicious, and the conversation too deep (as is always the case with me). I have a sign fixed to my chest that reads: "no shallow diving here." In conforming to birthday tradition, at the conclusion of dinner I was sent to run across the allotted pedestrian crosswalk area and into a CVS pharmacy; to purchase a basket full of embarrassing products, including, but not limited to, personal lubricant (no flavor). This ritual is preformed and subsequently rated on the blush factor scale. I was a cool five.

We returned – excuse me, they returned and I hobbled – to our provisional Midwest housing after much jest and settled in for celebratory drinks. The night, had it been conducted differently, would have ended in front of the television alternating between Guitar Hero III, homegrown karaoke, and vintage drinking games, but the Jager monster reared his ugly head and demanded a change of shoes, public intoxication, and drunken disorderly conduct. He demanded and we complied. The pack moved on to the "BBC."

As I casually sat atop a barstool in a local bar, my closet lesbian, only brought out by consumption of alcohol, and who otherwise is a heterosexual female, made her guest appearance. Sadly there was little to excite her on a Monday night in an unfamiliar town. In my own hindsight I believe that perhaps it was actually a combination of the "Rage Against The Machine" and Bud Light, that it is no longer alcohol alone that can transform hetero into homo, but that there is now a necessary musical influence. Surely this is a sign that as I age more is required to summon the inner lesbian.

The next thoughts jotted onto the fraying pages of my journal are increasingly disorganized and the handwriting less legible. Unfortunately I will need more time to decipher and translate them.

Now my special day of senseless recognition has passed and I return once more to the average.

P.S. I now own The Black Keys album "Attack and Release." Here is a lyrical preview: "I was a movin' man in my younger days, but I've grown out of my ramblin' ways."

Harley Davidson Country

"The only thing better than a six gallon tank is a six gallon bladder."

State: Wisconsin
Capital: Madison
Population: 5,601,640
Biggest City: Milwaukee
State Bird: Robin
State Drink: Corona – without lime and rimmed with the salt of a pilfered Shure microphone.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a nest of the Catholic Knights – "a non-governmental organization made up of fifteen Roman Catholic fraternal societies from 27 countries – on six continents" (vik-a-pedia). In the words of an "ex-communicated" (in the loosest sense) Catholic, also known as me, "a very stern looking office building with uge red letters spelling "Catholic Knights" is two blocks from our hotel – to remind us that we are in fact living in sin." The mispronunciation of huge was a direct result of my regression into childhood days of Mass, Communion, and Joan of Arc-like saintly dreams.

On Thursday August 14th I exchanged my Chicago, bottles of Goose Island, and nights of Xanax currency for that of a four star hotel, 6-pack of Sierra Nevada, and Middle America. We crossed into Harley Davidson country around 4:00PM, and headed for a $300/night hotel on Wisconsin Avenue, held in between the capable linked hands of a homeless preacher and teenage pregnancy. My kleptomaniac tendencies returned once I spotted the Aveda brand bottles scattering the counter. I managed to stuff them into the crevices of my already over-packed suitcase. However, the bottle of Figi water still remains with the $6 price tag around its neck. I finished my first night in Milwaukee scantily clad in a white Ambassador Hotel robe, drinking beer from a champagne glass on the sofa, with my bare legs thrown over the side, staring blankly out an eighth story window at fifteen crimson letters. After a sponge bath in luxury I was ready for our plunge into the belly of America, to heed the call of my roots, for a night of white trash fun.

We sardine-packed the car to drive the 45-minute journey into the gut of America, riding the waves of stomach acid, and traversing the folds of the small intestine we arrived at our GPS navigated destination – the debris of luxury. The distance between shopping plazas lengthened and the trees grew above us; their branches transmitted pulses of warning to the locked doors of our car. The man behind the wheel put "the pedal to the metal," as they say, and laughed; the barriers of prudence flying past the open windows at 55mph. As we crossed the last threshold of civilization, into a bar that breaks through the Webster definition of dive, the sun-burnt savages looked up from their pints and stared hard with their ears pricked at the click of my heels. Sat upon their folding chairs, with stomachs pushed close against the long wooden tables, they hunched over plates munching BBQ ribs and mashed potatoes. My hip brushed against a man eating like he had prison experience, elbows drawn in close, a low head hovered over his grub.

It became apparent that the cigarette ban had not reached (town name withheld to preserve my junk e-mail level). The evidence was in the air, clung to the thick cloud of smoke gasping for breathe. We shook the heavy stares from our shoulders and saddled up to the bar. I spun around in my stool and faced the crowd. The car lot was filled with an array of classic cars shining their hoods, flashing their headlights, tires rotating in pride; all furious attempts to snatch the attention of the women perched against the walls. A 1964 Mustang switched on his windshield wipers at my open legs, my elbows pressed against my knees, and the resulting view into the gap between my breasts.

A single ray of sunlight penetrated through the dense cloud - a bartender with shiny black hair, XL red hoops, and a rainbow belt cuddling an ass to make any woman envious. She politely offered us her services of drink. One fourth of our group leaned over the gummy bar in an unsuccessful effort to grope. A cigarette stuck to his lip with the adhesive of saliva, he reached over the bar. One tanned hand swatted his groping away, while the other brushed the hair from her eyes. The wounded male limped back to his stool.

Four cell phones lay alongside the bottles of beer with no reception. My to-the-left friend whispered a suspicious "what are the odds?" into my ear. I knew that we had found ourselves in the location of a past alien landing, the extraterrestrial visitors scared away by the locals. In a choreographed movement the four of us twisted our bar stools and looked across the dance floor. Foreheads reddened by the heat and the pale residue of a day in sunglasses glared back. We huddled in close from fear of the hanging baseball jerseys, big-screen televisions, ponytails, and orange legs. A toothless man spat into his plastic cup and smiled, "Why now you folks are in the Midwest."

The time of the DJ moved over us. A second round of drinks passed, and a musical change of body language. There was air guitar, head banging, and Kid Rock, lovingly – or not so – called Kid Cock. Before the liquor could settle we were four on the dance floor giving the Midwest X-rated. With the condensation cooling and sweat dripping, the disapproving nods and hollers of the horny called. The group's girls lifted their shirts above the ribs and the boys cradled the damp skin of hip bones. When "Play that funky music, white boy" came sliding across the dance floor the heels fell off and the hair pinned back. The alpha male of the pack stepped forward and the line dancing began. I exhibited amateur skills, but with liquid courage pumping through my arteries my feet fumbled with ease through the steps.

Shouts of last call and a decrease in the tempo signaled the undesired end of our night. We made our exit through the now open double doors, to the soundtrack of singing cicadas and gusts of night air. I adjusted the lighting of my half-slit eyes, turned to capture one last shot of our night, and branded it into my temporarily impaired memory for later recall on lonely nights.

The moral of today's story: when I fastened my seatbelt and scrunched into the economical, eco-friendly four-door, leaning a head of sweaty curls against a shoulder, I knew I was more at home within the uncultured walls of barbarians than in my hometown Denver Lodo bars.

P.S. I roll with two photographers for the next week. Photos with the look of professional are soon to make their appearance.

Yeah Man

"Ran away from the backyard to drift some more."

May I be a know-it-all for one fourth of one half of a humid Chicago moment?

http://psychologytoday.com/articles/index.php?term=pto-19960301-000030&page=5

Nationwide bans are soon to be placed on perfume, cologne, deodorant, and now birth control. I however will be buying stock in Trojan.

Since landing in Chicago anxiety has tightened its unyielding grip on my already fragile mind, and my idle hand has been forced to the medicine cabinet once more. I sit now clutching a bottle of Xanax between my bouncing skinny jean wrapped thighs. If my hands are preoccupied (in this case it is by the laptop) my legs gather the slack left by their engrossment. All words implying an assemblage with the word family preceding produce anxiety in an abundant amount. The anxiety manifests itself into kitchen floor pacing, wringing hands, and frantic texts to those friends with calming qualities. The spelling in these texts is unthinkable and the grammar appalling, but two states of mind allow for misspelling and grammatical errors - and those are: drunken and anxious states. Luckily, fortunately, God Bless-ingly (whichever implies the most relief) I leave for Milwaukee tomorrow where my levels of alcohol consumption will not be monitored and I can direct my family induced anxiety back into the harbor.

A good friend of mine suggested last night – via the phone – the widespread use of marijuana to combat such uncontrollable fits of anxiety. Before I could formulate a counter argument he shot, "besides you self-medicate with prescription drugs." "But, uh, well, that is different," meaningless words fell from my foaming mouth. I argued that I had a prescription, a small slip of paper covered with scribbles and a letter head, which made my high both legal and society acceptable. He argued marijuana could cure many of today's "problems" (quotation marks assumed) requiring prescriptions, less the negative side effects. I was intrigued albeit unsure of his authority on these matters. We ended the conversation secure in our opposite corners of the ring – the pothead vs. the script-head.

Prowling the internet, as is customary to my evenings (and mornings), I came across a MSN article ranking America's most medicated states. For those interested: West Virginia was the most medicated.

http://health.msn.com/medications/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100212410

I entertained the notion that many of the prescriptions required by the West Virginia residents could be replaced with joint and pipe. I dialed the previously mentioned friend and discussed this rogue thought with him, ironically while he himself was smoking. He listed back pain, amongst other forms of body pain, anxiety, and insomnia as examples of the "problems" he had spoken of earlier, and those which could be treated with an herbal remedy. I contemplated a future shrouded in a cloud of weed smoke as he inhaled a deep breathe and blew into the phone. "Are you feeling more relaxed yet?" I scratched my nails against the receiver and flipped the phone shut hoping that I had somehow tainted his au naturale high.

And so I ask: Pothead nation anyone?

It is truly unfortunate that weed-search conducted with humans would be considered unethical.

Mating Practices

"Your ex-boyfriend did what? He broke up with you because you didn't have a butt?"

State: Illinois
Population: 12,831,970 (give or take) http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/17000.html
Capital: Springfield
State Bird: Cardinal
State Drink: Goose Island

The clock has flashed to 11:11PM; I sit in a foreign basement, tucked in snug by a pile of quilts, surrounded by an overabundance of stuffed animals and plastic trucks. As my purposeless inclusion of facts suggest, I am in the state of Illinois, more approximately a middle-class suburb of the Chicago area, shacked up in a house with Spanish style archways and Guitar Hero III. Today begins my two week journey across and through the states of Illinois and Wisconsin, where I will launch a path of self-discovery, to return focused and official, but if one were to account for all of the various variables at play in my life, the probability I will return with such attributes pinned to my personality is unlikely. Instead it is more probable I will approach the Colorado border with ambitions to find short-term work, a US map tucked into the front of my underwear, and a handful of darts. Permanence does not stick well to the tail of my ass.

The flight to Chicago was led by a blonde dominatrix poorly disguised as a Frontier flight attendant, the uniform procured through intimidation and lewd promises. In a deviant's display of sexual foreplay, I went to the toilet when the fasten seatbelt light was still lit, had my Ipod turned on during takeoff, my phone turned on during landing, and my backrest reclined, despite the knee nudges of the unfortunate fellow behind me. With each break of the airline rules her sexual aggressiveness increased, until I felt the crack of the whip against my seat. I casually glanced in her direction; and watched her rub her thighs together, and lick her lips while re-stocking the drink cart. This was more or less the theme of the plane ride, and as I exited the plane doors I wondered how many hours of role play it would take before she could satiate her sexual appetite wetted by one airline guest who refused to follow the rules.

Upon my entrance into Skokie I was greeted with a 12-pack of Leinenkugel and the
mating practices of birds. Not the literal mating of birds, but merely a musing of the
biological and behavioral ways in which male birds attract female birds, and more
specifically, how male birds are often more elaborate - and if I may -
"beautiful" in their physical appearance than the females. If I am correct in my
scientific thinking, then the discrepancy in outward appearance between sexes
should cross into other walks of life. One walk it does not take? – Homo sapiens. The
conversation of mating behaviors (besides conjuring images of the bedroom) struck a
strange chord on the piano of my thoughts, and I began to have a musing of my own,
a separate musing that I chose in the interest of discretion not to share with the
individuals huddled around me.

(Uh hum - clears throat) Men should be required (preferrably by law) to be more
physically appealing than women.

My closet thoughts were as follows: males of the species to which we belong –
and I hope that we can concur on the species – should exhibit the same enticing
external appearance that do other members of the animal kingdom, and because this
may not be possible on a biological level, they should instead be required to engage
in daily sessions of vanity in order to rise to the standard their biology failed to
meet. A metrosexual minus the pink. To quote my little sisters, "pink is a girl
color."

The females of our species will remain average; the burden of attractiveness
to be placed on the shoulders of the male. The fake tanning, acrylic nails, hair salon
fees, and financial demands of the woman's closet will now be signed over to the
male. The good samaritan that I am, I nominate myself to be the first female to
relinquish her high maintenance rituals used to attract a suitable mate, and don
sweatpants, hello kitty underwear, and a ripped Army surplus store jacket.

So long thirty minute prep times gentlemen.

FYI: I have sold out. In three days I plan to sell my blog and my body for fame.

Pillowcase Alert: 24x12 white standard size

Have you seen this pillowcase?

Length: 26 inches Width: 12 inches Weight: .02 lbs Description: Rectangle shaped standard white pillowcase with one dime-sized mascara stain, and one lipstick smudge – smells like apricot shampoo, Juicy perfume, with undertones of Irish Spring soap. Last Seen: On the night of August 08, 2008. Accounts vary as to the location – under the head of a sleeping dark-haired woman – or as the owner claims – in between her legs.

I sit before you now having just returned from a large scale full-house man hunt, or more appropriately, a pillowcase hunt. Label it another one of my absurd obsessions, but the missing pillowcase has (in my denial I refuse to use the past tense of had) unhealthy amounts of sentimental value woven into its 0 thread count fibers. I snatched it while on a kleptomaniac spree from a highway-side La Quinta. I misappropriated a handful of other miscellaneous items that now reside in a leftover Juicy Couture box.

The pillowcase has not been washed since its illegal transfer of ownership. Twice my mother has attempted to sneak it into the washing machine with the other "whites." I first offered the excuse that my pillowcase could not be classified, nor could it be confined within such a label as "white." Then I threatened a profession of stripping if I should detect a Downy fresh scent.

As I furiously type this embellished story, running mascara and a sniffling red nose adorn my face. I fought the famous quiver of lip as I threw my arms around in wild disbelief, but the twitch conquered my will power and left me wet and melting. The authorities have told me that my step-dad had taken the pillow - the limp and meaningless body beneath - for a backrest, and unintentionally kidnapped the pillowcase. My mother, handing out coffee and cookies to the officers, asked politely "What will you do if you find it in the wash?" Prostitution is always an option.

"What is the value of the pillowcase?" The detective asked. How can one explain to a middle-aged, balding, avid baseball patron the value in a starched La Quinta pillowcase? "Sir, it is not monetary, but sentimental." He looked at me dumbstruck. Apparently the heart wrenching, gut splitting, all consuming grief that had crippled my body was not apparent to him. He drew a large "0" with a slash through the middle, and scratched the flakes from his exposed scalp. "Well ma'am we will do all we can to locate the missing pillowcase. I will contact you if we reach any new developments." It was my turn to turn a look of shock on him, my jaw dropped wide. "That's it? Damn pigs," I muttered. He spun on his heel leaving a half-circle skid mark on the wood floor.

I poured a shooter of vodka over the top of my Sprite (a graduation gift from my cousin) and stirred with my middle finger. Upon draining the drink and crumbs left from the cookies, I rummaged through the refrigerator, but I could find no comfort in the shelves of chilled dairy products and Capri-Suns, for I had long dried the six-pack of Warsteiner. I reminisced about the pillowcase's listening skills, its ability to double as a tissue, and the feel of it in between my thighs during pornographic dreams.

Tonight I will sleep in a dry home, and so I will listen to Josh Martinez, dump the contents of the Couture box, and thumb the time-worn receipts for their road trip memories.

"So instead Imma finish my drink and have another while you think about how you used to be my lover."

From the "I" to the "we"

"I wish you had my eyes so you could see me seeing you."

Disclaimer: This blog contains the word "ex." Fortunately, it is only flavored with this troublesome word of language, and not consumed.

Last night I dreamt I was once again with my ex-lover. We were sat in the center of a cornfield watching the defense line of my High School football team pull the iron bars from my bedroom window. I awoke, as the team successfully removed the barrier, to a pitch black room, unable to sit up in my Frankenstein-like pose (arms forward, hair standing tall, and eyes open wide). I was frightened; my panic began to creep in the beads of sweat on guard along my collarbone. I thought, "I'm dying, and this is really it, the finale, the finis, a sine die, but well, I had a good run." I resigned to a morbid fate and closed my eyes in a last goodbye, a farewell cruel world.

In the wee hours of the morning I regained the mobility of my limbs and dismissed the foolishly thought near-death experience. Perhaps some are aware of my described paralyzation in the night, but I was not, that is until I preformed a Google search, along with my morning glass of juice and daily internet prowl. Night paralysis (as I ignorantly call it) is when an individual wakes during REM sleep, their body saddled in a delay, not yet cognizant that the mind is conscious. And this is what is referred to as "paraphrasing."

It is not the heavy hand of death weighing on your chest, but a bio-psycho-logical process. Oh, and that is an invented word. Somehow the idea of this immobilization as the last stage before death seemed more poetic, more like art, a potential documentary of the supernatural, and less like the textbook explained process that it is; although, I do feel blessed to still have a steady pulse.

As I listened to my alarm sound, frozen in the fetal position, I attempted to meditate away the anxiety elicited by my ex-lover's face, and of his unwanted appearance in the dream. I uncurled my limbs and wondered if it was too early to open the liquor cabinet. The dream-weaver is a fickle fellow. Dreams of grandeur are always interrupted with those of him. Recalling his last apparitional words, "maybe when we have grown," I began to ponder the antithesis of a relationship miracle – when the "I" becomes the "we."

In the beginning of the relationship it is: "When I have kids I will do this," "I want to live here," or "When I am old I will get a face lift." The first trimester is spoken in only sentences of I, but then somewhere along the lines of the second or third trimesters the first "we" is dropped into conversation. Suddenly it becomes, "when we have kids," "when we are older we will live here," or "when we dress up as stuffed animals and go to sex parties."

(Pardon my theft of obstetric terms, but since graduation I have flirted with the idea of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy and an ensuing engagement).

The metamorphous can be unsettling for some, but it often goes unnoticed, at least by the stable one-half of the relationship. However, there will be those obsessive types who actively engage in over-analyzing the relationship from its onset, and they will undoubtedly notice the change from "I" to "we." The importance does not reside in when the switch occurs, but what it involves for the two participating members.

For some it is only a new way in which to speak of the future, with an empty barrel behind the word "we," but for the other less secure, stable, and practical individuals it creates mental images of marriage, love, and a lifetime of happiness with the significant other, for the use of "we" must mean that he/she wants to spend their life with me or at the least the first ten years. The split is solidified when the first post-break-up "I" exits my mouth – followed by a mental "Oh shit," but for the secure, stable, and practical realists, also known as my ex-boyfriends there is no change to be noted.

Did I just say me? You caught me. If only I did not spend so much time playing in my ideal world.

I am in talks with all major record labels to write the new break-up Billboard hit. It will be called "From the "we" to the I."

P.S. Be wary of the "we."

"This life is way too short to get caught up, and all mixed up, when I just want you to love me back."

Imagination Land

"You'll get your money back for free girl if you aint feelin' me."

Attention: This blog was born from the shapely loins of obligation.

At approximately3:00PM I was released from the iron gates; a faint knock had been vibrating for five long years, but not until this fateful afternoon was my plea of freedom met with the grind of rusting gates – those of my college education. Plans for drink, food, and merriment have been made with the hope that this celebratory evening will end in a downtown alley, with me singing Backstreet Boys lyrics, cursing my ex-boyfriends, and proposing to random bystanders. However, before I curl my recently trimmed locks, re-apply my eye makeup, and tighten my bra straps (for maximum cleavage); I must complete my blog duty, and that is to provide amusement for the masses. With two empty bottles of Warsteiner to my right, and a half-full third to my left, let us take a clothesless walk together.

I had intended on writing of my college experience, and the anarchy that is soon to step from behind its mask, but then I feared that I would conclude my blog with a spontaneous road trip with no return in sight. Never ending road trips are an imminent product of post-college discussions. Instead, a dialogue of the practicality of living in your imagination will commence. Practicality may be a creative stretch, but it will be a highlight of the positive aspects of such a fantastical lifestyle. I can only hope that this blog will help keep me in my seat, and not give power to my legs and their desire to run for the next state over.

I have alluded to a life of imagination in a previous blog; stating that sex is better in the bed sheets of my imagination, or something along the lines of my self-indulgent writing style. I still stand firmly planted next to this previously written statement, but I now extend it into all other drawers of life.

First there is the matter of appearance. While, in what we will refer to as "real life," we must accept the external shape and countenance our genes have allowed, in imagination-land one can look as they please, with whatever figure that can be conjured. I (my imaginary self that is) am a cross between Jessica Alba and Megan Fox; my figure consisting of great breasts, and round rear-end. My face blessed with Jolie-esque lips. My appearance is kept flawless by a personal team of robot stylists. Robots are choice because they require no pay and little maintenance – unlike humans and their "unions."

Are you concerned with the issue of money in "real life?" Sit back, breathe easy, and take another sip of the beer that will no longer nudge you beyond your allowed calories intake, for we are in the land of imagination.

I have more shoes than you do brain cells. I never wake in the morning with crumbs of chocolate trailing down my chest and empty beer bottles tipping over on my nightstand – leaving round watermarks. My maid on wheels dusts my sloth-like behaviors under the rug. Debt is not a word found in the vocabulary of my imagination, and jobs are unnecessary, but trips around the country are compulsory. I have not worked out the issue of gas, but I am open for imaginary suggestions.

Is your sex life not up to par? In imagination-land sex is as pleasurable as one can fantasize, whether it is X-Rated, softcore, or my personal favorite: Hollywood sex scenes. Did I mention that the sexual partner can be any beauty or hunk invocable?

Now for the miscellaneous category, the inessential, but like the bonus gift late-night infomercials have informed me I can receive. In the third-dimension of imagination I am intelligent, but there is no upkeep required; it simply exists. I have a thesaurus and dictionary for sidekicks; their purpose is to inform me of the meaning behind words, and of all synonyms, which I can then use to sustain the appearance of both my arrogance and intellect.

The best part: My ex-boyfriends are cockroaches I flatten with my $500 Jimmy Choo heels.

This is why I am a self-proclaimed writer. My real world is lacking, and with an overactive imagination I can supplement.

Take a moment to think about your alter-imaginative-life.

Come be platonic with me

"You see dudes and gals can't be just pals unless the guy has a lover or he's gay."

As a result of the recent undue reports, and subsequent beliefs, of my sanity, it is time to address the frivolous question of my mental state. A hangover Thursday morning is no time for matters of importance. I should add that I take all forms of criticism as gospel. Therefore, the answer of my sanity will be unattainable for the parties concerned, for one cannot know if I believed I was insane prior to the criticism, or as a consequence of the criticism, and thus we have a conundrum of the sorts. Enough of your verbal dancing and on with the answer you say?

Ladies and Gentleman, the question: Am I crazy? The simple answer: yes. The complicated answer: yes.

But is insanity not sexy? Please refer to Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction", Heath Ledger in the "Dark Knight", and Josh Hartnett in "O" – case in point. There will of course be the argument made that these example are in film, and not worthy of such a use, but I bring forth the too little used term "malarkey," and say the movies always do it better. Can we strive to live like the movies? I sure do.

Let us talk about men instead, because they are like the salty grease left on your fingertips after a gorge session of the yellow bag potato chips –your lick of them both delicious, and a sign of poor manners. For all my fellow lurkers out there: you may have heard my profile song, and hijacked the element of surprise. Don't tell your neighbor, for there were little kids who did not dare look for the presents in the closet. I was not one of them. I believe in life that women have seniority over men, regardless of who Genesis claims was created first, and thus I present a discussion of man as a function of woman.

Can women and men co-exist in a platonic relationship?

Platonic: purely spiritual; free from sensual desire, esp. in a relationship between two persons of the opposite sex.

I was dubious to write on this topic. I am sure it has been done to death, but this is the zombie version, complete with crude language, and unconventional ideas.

I believe Josh Martinez said it best when he said, "I'm a dog and I wanna bone." This is the first, and the most widely accepted explanation for the natural phenomena of opposite sex friendships. They are unrealistic and only viable in the proverbial Utopia. This is because men like to stick their unmatched and uniquely male part into things. I say "things" because I combat insomnia with Youtube binges, and I have seen some interesting examples of "things." By this interpretation, male-female friendships cannot exist as a platonic entity, for the man will undoubtedly want to put his (insert crude word for male genitalia) into the (insert crude word for female genitalia). That is unless he is gay. However, Josh Martinez was incorrect when he said "…unless the guy has a lover…" We live in an age where even the local pastor is allowed one extra-marital affair. I would be a hypocrite myself to critique this blatant display of religious hypocrisy. I live my life by the motto "sin and confess later."

For the XY beings who now hurl accusations of man-hate at the computer screen. Please read the paragraph below. This is the alternative explanation for the phenomena, and one I give as a tribute to the men in my life.

Platonic relationships are not feasible because the woman involved wants the man to put his (clears throat) in her (clears throat). In a variation of this perverted outlook of the woman, the woman half of the friendship is insecure, possessing "Daddy issues," and desires to be surrounded by men who will shower her with attention, while she contently sleeps at night with the thought that he wants to put [it] in her, but which she will never allow. I invoke Josh Martinez for his unrivaled ability to explain the viability of a male-female platonic friendship, "I don't wanna be your Daddy, but you would rather be fathered."

Did I mention that I have a surplus of male friends? It must be the "Daddy issues."

Where was the crude language?

"I'll be here drinking a beer, looking around, holding it down, and thinking of you."

My trip to Eden

"I shake my head cuz he's stuck in there."

An Unpredictable Eve Finds Eden – on an I25 off-ramp.

Yesterday morning I awoke too early from a bizarre dream (even for me) with sweat generated curls stuck to the nape of my neck, one sock on, one sock off, and a tank top smelling of the basement twisted around my accordion ribs. Apparently these are the results of a fight with the beast of nightmares. What was this beast you might ask? -- A minivan full of limbless children. Five torsos sat car-seat-restrained in what post-nightmare I inferred to be my white Dodge minivan. It had the automatic sliding doors on the sides, GPS, air conditioning, and a plentitude of cup holders. In my nightmares I roll in style, while in reality I drive a civic, with paint chipping from the sun, a dust covered dashboard, and a pair of snakeskin heels riding shotgun.

I sat behind the wheel of the mini-van in a Winehouse inspired bouffant, red lipstick, teal track suit, and a full-set of acrylic nails with miniature pumpkins airbrushed on. My five limbless spawn were screaming for juice and animal crackers as I swerved through oncoming traffic, the stereo blaring a Jerry Garcia children's album. I looked down at the smiling faces of the pumpkins and screamed. I sat straight up in my bed and let out a stream of air; wiping the sweat from my brow, I ran to the toilet and dropped to my knees to confess my morning sickness to the porcelain goddess.

The porcelain goddess' words were wise: My child, you must leave your suburban confinement and drive south where signs will lead you to a preordained destination. With the release of the flush I jumped from the carpet, gathered provisions, wrapped my body in too tight jeans and green shirt, black eyeliner, a white flower pinned in the hair (for the boys), and rushed out the front door. Confronted by August heat, and a crowd of plastic smiles beaming from the windows of automatic-wash station wagons, I hurried to my car and locked the doors. It was not until I had passed Colorado Springs that I wondered if my morning conversation with the goddess had been a hallucination, and that if I was now a mad woman driving 80mph down the highway.

An hour and a half on I25 south and 8 miles north of Pueblo I found the town of Eden. And it really exists right here in Colorado. The billboard read "The Oracle – and other hocus pocus sold here." I veered to the right followed by a string of horns. The La Quinta was rotting around the edges underneath an acidic lacquer of Colorado heat. I recalled the late-night advertisements of free wireless, and I was in the lobby -- an internet junkie fingering the fake foliage.

With my backpack dropped on the left of the two double beds in room 215, I skipped down the stairs. "Oh shit, I forgot the key." A quick stop in the lobby, a flutter of mascara covered eyelashes, a push of the breasts, and a new key in my hand; I stepped into the parking lot. I followed signs to a pond – the local tourist attraction – and with the essence of attitude swung wide into the corner parking space. My gold toenails were the first to hit the asphalt, followed by squinted eyes (I crushed my sunglasses with an over exaggerated wiggle to a Macy Gray tune), and a pout.

Adam was crouched on a large rock, clad in high top Nikes, sagging pants, and long dark hair curled around his ears. He looked at me hungry and bit his bottom lip, a vague premonition of the night in the trace of saliva left behind. A woman from the local domestic abuse shelter stood at the edge of the pond feeding the ducks with Girlscout cookies.

As I stood next to her silver bun and gold hoops she pointed to a bruise on her left cheekbone – this is from the time last week when you said "Oh my fucking God." Profuse apologies, a sworn oath to use "oh my goodness," and additional curse words sans the blasphemy tumbled from my lips. She took my small hand and placed it in Adam's rough palm, and with the words "Man meet woman," we were sent to introduce the world to the sin of fornication. She slipped an apple scented condom in Adam's back pocket and off we went to room 215, to the double bed on the right side of the room (the one without the contents of my backpack scattered on it).

In the right double bed of room 215 is where we now sit, our bodies covered by crisp La Quinta sheets, smoking vanilla cigarettes, and watching soap operas on channel 4.

Footnote: Yes, I did go to Eden, but no, this story did not actually happen per se. I did not engage in any recreational drug use, but I did drink heavily. I'm shackled to my debt, and therefore I cannot take cool summer vacations.

Why are soap operas so weird now? Like a bad acid trip. And lastly, why do women pout their lips in photos (myself included)?

Religion and Masturbation Are Not Synonymous

"A glimpse of religion – a piece of coming closer to what intrigues me most"

I had a vicarious church experience last night. I sat in the booth of a Texas Roadhouse -- surrounded by peanut shells, 16 oz sirloins, and Middle America. Friday nights are my weekly guaranteed social interactions; even if I shut my blinds to the rest of society, and favor an anti-social reclusion into my head, Friday night assures a step out of isolation -- a free dinner and film. My Friday night partner: my unmarried and childless uncle. This man has led a colorful life, but is conservative with his confessions (unlike my nude and veracious disclosures), and I sit in anticipation across from him for a spill of writing material to pool on the table. Last night as I munched my grilled chicken salad (I want to live to be 100) he tells me that he has begun attending church regularly; but not the Catholic one of his youth. A chunk of lettuce falls from my lips, honey mustard dressing follows suit, and I question, a mouth filled with food, "Oh?" Church does for men like my uncle what the NFL, writing, and children do for the rest of us – they give us a purpose knotted with meaning.

He asks, "Would you be interested in coming one Sunday?" My mother's presence eluded me as I usually find her buried beneath a textbook in an attempted escape from her white trash roots, but then I felt a kick under the table, and I see my mother's blue eyes roll to the ceiling and back around. I grabbed the handle of my XL Bud Light and gulped. Fortunately the sentences that left his lips next supplied this skeptic's sinner soul with a valid excuse -- I cannot afford church.

My brothers and sisters, my debt burdened holder of a three digit checking account cannot heed the wicker basket pleas for donation. My grandmother gives these words of advice regarding church donations: give as much as you would to see a good film. My uncle decided on $10, and $10 every Sunday is far too expensive for the unemployed. You say I should get a job? Yes, I agree, but I would rather not accumulate more debt in the name of the Lord, but only for online shopping and shoe sales. I quiver over the thought of being the one who passes the donation basket to her left/right without placing monetary funds inside the braided sides, or worse, the one who places a white envelope in the basket while my neighbor's question its content.

In a tribute to the sinner in need of confession let us now jump from saint to wicked – more specifically sex. Sex is my muse, not the act, but the thought. Before I belly flop into my stories -- too inexperienced for the dive -- I stretch my limbs out on my bed, each reaching for their post, while the sounds of sex music gyrate through the room.

Sex music: any music that evokes images of physical passion. This morning it was "Numb" by Portishead.

If I am feeling especially imaginative I close my eyes and pretend physical pleasure. I realize this must sound like the deprived thoughts of one without the experiences of opposite sex petting. I assure you this is not so in my case. It saddens me to inform you that this play is not pornographic, nor is it fit for erotica. It is the sappy sensual side of sex only an overly-sensitive girl such as me would enjoy. I prefer on screen sex than I do the real thing. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered they are not synonymous. Sex on screen is art, and in the bed of reality it is sloppy and lacking a soundtrack. It is only within the bed sheets of imagination that it can be reproduced. My niche is in the field of cinematic sex consultation. I'm moving to Hollywood.

When experiencing a creative block, whether due to a hangover or excessive outside temperatures, I allow myself to become the female character in the story, and my fingers those of the male. It is not as disturbing as it may seem. You must switch from literal to the figurative. It is a mental masturbation if you will.

In fact I think I will engage in some mental masturbation now.

"Give me a reason to be a woman"