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

So you say you're getting married?

I've been away watching two lovers tie the knot. Welcome to my marital bliss.

Love – A temporary insanity curable by marriage.
-Anonymous

The engine was heard first, the airplane roared above our stretched necks, lingering fumes left only for our solace. I sat on the airplane shuttle watching a new mother methodically chew on the nail of her ring finger. The back and forth rub of the exposed and vexed skin against her crisp jeans stifled my own rising anxiety. Her husband sat silent, drumming the beat of his nerves against the pink toes of an infant. I hid my face behind a black backpack sat atop my lap, eager for my compulsive, and rather rude, as my mother would say, staring not to be recognized. The tops of curls bounced above a nylon material face, and straps for limbs swayed with the asphalt turbulence. My raw thumb begged for an end to my merciless thumbing of a silver locket. I do not like airports; they are reminiscent of goodbyes, and I do not like goodbyes.

My phone rang two months before; on a Saturday morning vibrations stirred the sleep of my hangover. "Hello?" I cleared my throat and coughed remnants of cigarette smoke into the receiver. "Morning, it's me Charlie. Did I wake you?" His soft voice was clear from the hacking cough of doubt. "Of course you did. How are you my friend?" I rolled onto my side and stared at the discarded clothes of the previous night now littering the carpeted floor – a purple tank top, the black lace of a bra, and dark wash jeans, a five dollar bill still hung from the back pocket. I smiled with the luck. "I'm getting married." I opened my mouth to insert a response, but warm breath and a bad taste formed only a thin attempt. The room rotated on its axis from the news – or the alcohol. "I want… I mean, we want you to come to the wedding." I fumbled in the pockets of my pajamas for likely excuses, but finding only lint, relented. The Alanis Morisette song "Ironic" rode a train through the space between my ears, stopping at the end of the pillowcase, I flicked the engineer from the driver's seat. "It's meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife."

I sat clutching a bag with contents to leave a last sigh of regret on the lips of a friend; heels to push my lowly existence above 5'6, a fortress packed with products to spring curls from my mane, and a black dress – a necessary part of a woman's arsenal – to materialize artificial curves. Perhaps, I reflected on the jostling ride, I was losing my soul mate. Wait, was that was the plot from the film "My Best Friend's Wedding"? Was I losing my soul mate, or an 8-year old boy who never tied his shoes and spoke with a lisp?

Their wedding photo arrived two weeks before I was to leave, with a handwritten note expressing her "absolute excitement" over our impending meeting – her spelling and grammar flawless. Damn it. She was beautiful, Arian good looks, with shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes. I detected the faint hint of plastic surgery underneath her white sweater. The card read "Charlie and Stefanie", with an "f", the advantage of spelling for the younger version who would always receive attention when she politely pointed out the error. I sat upon a stool peering at the photo, desperate for a flaw, and nursed a tall glass of orange juice,

My mother's cooled voice floated through the kitchen, "Who's getting married?" "Charlie." She pried the photo from my iron grip. "Well he did well for himself."

I waited forty-five minutes for their car to arrive, watching LA spill past – the city that doesn't stop, that doesn't need air to breathe – people watching, and wondering where lives went after LAX. The car pulled up to the curb and out he stepped. He wore a tight t-shirt, purposely faded jeans, and wide sunglasses. I was looking at the west coast made shell of a man I no longer could distinguish. She sat behind the wheel, attentive to my needs – bed sheets, bottled water, and lavender bath towels – while swerving through LA traffic at 90 mph. My makeup must have been melting, having been applied 5 hours prior; I fumbled in my purse for remedies. Charlie had last seen me the summer of my 18th birthday, the high school graduate in heat and sweating hormones. I wondered which model was more preferred as his eyes removed of their shield caught my gaze in the side mirror powdering my glossy cheeks.

The next morning as we drove to the church, I had somehow been pinned to the tail coats of the groom's party; I gazed at all of the money stuffed into the California hills. "TNT" by AC/DC (pre-Brian Johnson) came through the speakers and a glimmer of doubt shined in his eyes; he looked at me and our could-be-life played across; the track changed to Ja Rule, and his attention shifted to the knee slapping meathead to my right.

The wedding party was coated in a film of plastic, and with my black dress, fuck off heels, and peacock feather tucked into my hair, I was Wednesday Addams crashing Barbie's pool party. The reception was in a golf cart community protected by tattooed, taser touting security guards. Twenty points if you hit one. Once admitted we drove over a causeway into a private paradise with street names like vacation and campground. Next to my name read "Shark's Cove", and so I sat with the other well dressed bait from San Francisco, where my naivety and mainstream appeal were apparent. I fled during moments of despair to the bathroom stalls where I passed love notes to my journal and laughed over the witty names now assigned to each member of Shark's Cove.

I returned from the bar having pilfered two extra drink tickets and sat lazily in the chair, my womanly grace all but lost in the Chardonnay. I had been instructed by the wedding veterans to maintain an air of class while clothed in a strapless bra and panties-less. I unwillingly shook my head from side to side at the suggestion of Bud Light by the bartender. I folded my hands around the glass and swallowed a meek measure of the liquid.

Charlie sat in the white folding chair next to mine twirling a pink rose. He took the glass from my misted palms and covered my hands with his. I thought of the ten year old edition of Charlie explaining the birds and bees to a very reluctant peer in the same manner. The shine of the gold ring circling his finger blinded my view into his eyes. I thought of the nail biting mother and instinctively withdrew my hand to the locket around my neck, but Charlie, sensing my apprehension, grabbed both wrists in midair. My eyes danced around the room; Charlie squeezed my chin between thumb and index finger, like a naughty child caught with the crumbs of an illegally obtained cookie stuck to her lips.

"I love you, but you need to grow up." He stood, kissed my forehead in parting, and turned to the loving arms of marital bliss, leaving me with front row seats to the proverbial father-daughter dance. Somewhere above us a plane flew past.

Father Time and his inconsistent touch

"Girl, your sex is on fire"

-Kings of Leon

An apology for keeping the sex of my words from your – please fill in the blank with lewd words to describe the sex organ of choice. For a scattering of days I was an injured animal crouched defensively in the corner licking my wounds. I shied away from the benign hand of writing each time she reached for my wounded fingers. Persistent, I finally consented. This is the carnal release of my emotional affair with the English language.

A six hour solitary drive begets deep diving. With a swim cap fastened upon pinned curls and a polka-dot bathing suit glued to my torso, I clicked the static of the radio to silent and dived into the muddy waters of my thoughts. A preoccupation with Father Time materialized as I passed the state line; the fickle nature of this immutably white-bearded man, and of the dual sides of his touch. I thought of his hands, and how the wrinkled skin must feel against the skin of another when his minutes, hours, and days fall over a body coiled in sorrow.

My heart breaks at the slightest infraction; I recalled the most recent, my lips still pricked with the blood of his kisses, his smell still lingering at the cracks, my automatic reach for bitterness still present at the discharged letters of his name. Time uses the tender back of his hand against my skin still fingerprinted with masculine impressions. The back of his hand is made from dimpled wrinkles, ridges of flesh, and spotted with the badges of age, the skin malleable and vulnerable. A suspected backhand to the face becomes the reverse of a stroke. The grooves of skin travel along the new and aching skin left behind; the layer of love exfoliated. A small dispatched outfit of minutes clears the field for the cavalry of days, sent to trample over the indigenous people, to clear the land for the gentlemen of years to ride in atop their chestnut horses; a caravan of new settlers make their home on the kidnapped land.

The land outside the window had turned flat, only small shrubs, a handful of cattle, and patches of fields that expanded beyond the horizon remained. I flipped the visor down (do as I say and not as I do) and scrutinized the wrinkles around my eyes – Time beginning to caress with the underside of his hand. His palm is calloused from a perpetual existence of laundry washing; the skin puckered from the water and detergent. Perhaps, I thought, an investment in a laundry service is needed. Time cleans the messes of a life, and his palms wear the skin of a world filled with human mistakes. This side falls upon the body as the years pass. His gentle side reserved for the sufferers of heartbreak, and the harsh for the aging.

Skin creams, botox, and the refusal to smile will preserve my youthful exterior, but I began to muse over a pill or surgery that could replace the backhand of Time, and an end to the entire need of him. I spent the rest of my road-trip struggling to formulate an alternative, only to concede as the night fell and the Denver lights hulked, that there was none.

Who's yo daddy?

"If you and I can't co-exist let's fake it,
cuz I aint got the energy it takes for this relationship."
-Atmosphere

Required Disclaimer: The ability to reflect, maintain an air of seriousness, and empathize needed to continue.

I sat on the back lawn raking my hands through pillow tossed curls and counting sprigs of Lavender plucked in vain. The midday sun basked down upon a paper airplane folded from the white standard size printer paper of my resume. A bottle of Avalanche pressed against my calf; the condensation licked at the warm skin. Erykah Badu swept through discarded earphones, her silk threaded words brushed against my chipped toenail polish. The toes are connected to the foot, the foot is connected to the leg, and the leg is connected to the hip – or something like that. My hips swayed to the beat; my waist pinned in between two gold squares of a bathing suit bottom. The paper airplane bore the letters of my favorite curse words written in a steady hand's cursive. Behind the eye of a camera the sun would have caught as a halo atop her brown hair. I shielded my eyes from the glare (my sunglasses crushed by a Macy Gray wiggle); into the yard walked a barefoot and freckled girl of four years.

"Hi Mimi," she folded her legs underneath a dress sewed with the patches of a fruit bowl. "Hi baby doll. What can I do for you?" She pulled tufts of grass and piled them high on my knees, waiting till they had become fleshy hills of green before saying, "The phone is ringing." The mounds of grass tumbled as I leapt to my feet with the anticipation of the caller's identity. She shouted calls of encouragement and laughter at my sprinting.

It was only a wrong number; a heavily accented voice spat broken English into the receiver. I grumbled and placed the phone back in its cradle. The caller had not been for whom I wished, and Claire is not my Christian name. I returned to the "garden" – what amounted to a blend of living grass to mask the dying, a towel, and cookie crumbs – the wingless barefooted fairy conducted a tea party with the outline of her imaginary friend. The auspice of a storm tumbled into the garden; she sent her troops of liquid to the tops of our heads. My face splattered with drops of fluid men, a shape I had not seen for many months walked into the garden. I remembered my phone tucked away in the folds of a sweatshirt from the morning and the defective doorbell. Dark hair curled around his ears; a frame for an oval face decorated with deep set eyes made with coal and full untamed eyebrows. He stopped two feet before me. Walk away right now. Flip one middle finger and float on an air of arrogance back into the house. My mind argued the side of sanity, but I only stared at his loose t-shirt, faded jeans, and black Converse.

"Hello," he offered his greeting on a platter of apprehension. The last time our two shapes had met a bottle was broken and a framed picture torn in half. Lost in the memory, a cool touch grasped my elbows, an alert for the here and now. My father, the senior member of a relationship marked by malicious words, jealousy, alcohol, and desperate love, held the sprinkled skin of his eldest daughter. An identical pair of eyes anxiously stared at their twin. Long fingers scrubbed clean of their paint stains squeezed the tender skin at the back of my arms.

"What?" I looked down at my own long fingers. "I tried calling, but you didn't answer, and no one came to the door when I rang."

There was a 45 year old man who still wears Converse; a man incapable of settling his feet in one place. There stood a man who drinks while he paints – his own version of escapism. This is a man who passed these trademark traits to his first-born daughter. As I struggled for words, I looked up at the apologetic face now drizzled with rain water, and I realized that I am only a copy of him with breasts and a head of his curls grown long.

"Well hell, let's get out of the rain. Do you want something to drink?" He nodded, and our steps fell in line with one another. What are another few broken bottles and torn pictures? I bought a broom and tape for such occasions.

"Is that your daddy? The fair faced child I had forgotten asked from the warmth of her sun heated home. "Yes, it is."

I promise a leave of absence from my mood depressing stories. Have no fear.

The foo is oozing

"One day I'll have enough to get more."
-Foo Fighters (fighters of foo)

Knee-jerk Disclaimer: Squeeze cheese wriggles through the next words.

Can you tell that the post-tour version of me has an affinity for the music of the Foo Fighters? - And especially for the song "skin and bones." Dave Grohl says little more than the words skin and bones, but the two one-consonant words are a paragon of my current state of mind. My ego speaks her thoughts of conceit as I type, for she believes that there are those who wish to unravel the cat's cradle in my head; the strings woven through the folds of spongy brain tissue. In case an admirer, potential stalker, or merely an individual with an obsessive personality is reading my caffeine induced words, I shall tease apart the lyrics for their hidden value.

"Lately I've been measurin' – seems my time is growin' thin." This line hints to the recent orders of the powers that be - my parents - to procure a job, lest their resentment and disappointment grow to an exorbitant amount. Thus, time sheds its furry coat, revealing the pink and scabbed skin of adulthood. Each night, slept at the backdoor of autumn, is spent in the clutch of worry; as the hands of responsibility fall down the face of the clock, the loom of student loans step into my path.

"Wind me up and watch me spin." Gepato holds the strings tied to my four limbs. He moves them to the rhythms of the stable-life-samba. He pulls my hands in revision of a resume to boast of my education and professional skills, and each morning my unwilling feet are dragged from the bliss of dreams to the desk of reality. I feel as if a manipulative Damien-like child is twisting a metal rod stuck from my back, laughing as I spin from the speedy circles of ambitions to the fall of financial security. Wind me up and watch me spin you little bastard.

"All worn out and nothing fits." My stitches are loose and fraying, and as of late my surroundings have called for a costume change. As I rifle through the tailor-made suits of potential careers hanging in the closet, I find I am the enlarged Bruni-locks. I dutifully try on each ensemble, but the business suit sags at my shoulders, the nylons tear around my skinned knees, and the toes of my borrowed black heels are scuffed. My reflection scowls at my ill-fitting appearance.

"Brennevin and cigarettes" – these are the vices of avoidance.

"The more I give, the less I get." Many advocates of the straight 'n' arrow path – as it so quaintly called – loathe the very sight of my words. They spit the artificially sweetened taste from their mouths. Stephen King taunts me with his words. Diablo Cody sneers at my attempts to mimic her style. Geraldine Brooks laughed in my face when at the conclusion of her novel I stood open mouthed and tingly. Yes, that was an intelligence bomb. The squares (a term I momentarily borrow) spray my passion with the oozing foam found in conveniently located fire extinguishers, and insist instead on the cool touch of pin skirts and button down shirts displaying only the very tip of cleavage.

"I'm just skin and bones." I am one of the many who wish to transfer the life in their head to that of their corporeal world. The whole length of my cleavage calls to be seen from the view of loose tank tops and altered band t-shirts that still hang at the back of my closet. Give me a temporary job to cause a haughty chuckle at the table of professionals, a nomadic life to fill my pages, and an orthodox faith to my writing. Sadly, when made, a most needed program was left out, and my ability to function as a robot was lost. This one is only skin and bones.

"Tell my mom I'm doin' fine."

Now can someone please help me get a visa? That, or increase the cash flow and release me from the shackles of debt.

Attn: There is a liar on the plane.

“Lies, lies, lies, ohh lies”
-The Black Keys

Disclaimer: I digress.

She sat in 13E; a graying woman of about 64. I sat in 13D; an anxious and uncertain college graduate of 23. A modest cup of orange juice sat across from my gin and tonic – a slice of lime tangoed with the ice cubes. She briefly glanced over at my shaking hands and concentrated swallows. She worried over discovery, but I only eyed the seatback, twisted and knotted into oblivion. The trembling fingers of my right hand grasped the gold locket hanging my neck while my left hand cupped the cool plastic. She lifted glasses hung on a silver chain to her nose and shuffled a stack of thick paper. I placed my hands on the tray palms down, displaying their ink stains and uneven cuticles. I forced my eyes shut and exhaled; the air filled with the flavors of gin and mint-flavored chewing gum. Exotic skin brushed against mine, the careful and wrinkled touch of discretion. I looked down and identified the aging fingers of 13E exploring the abyss in between each quivering finger. I turned to her with a veil of confusion. She pulled back the lace curtains and met my gaze with forgiveness.

“I know,” a dry murmur drifted from E to D. She seemed to grab strings suspended from my fingers, coiling them around her own. The writings of my false truths wore like rings on her fingers. My hands lay still against the beige square, no longer shaking from the weight of dishonest words. I reached to enclose her hands in gratitude, but she retracted them close to her heart. The hands were of a young woman, the wrinkles flattened, and their complexion painted with youth. She gazed inquisitively at my lips.

“And here,” she traced the outline of my lips with one manicured nail, her voice gathering strength. I lowered my eyelashes in privacy and offered my soiled body for cleaning. She swept the spoken lies from my lips into the palms of her hands where they crawled around her wrists and fastened like bracelets. I removed the cloak of my eyelashes to a head of hair dyed black. She smoothed the shined sides; a smile opened on her ironed face. She looked at me from behind black frames, her hidden eyes rested on my stomach.

She placed the tips of four fingers against my middle, “And here.” The nights with men I did not love, the caress of sheets I did not own, and the unfaithful whispers in the night inched up her thin arm. They stood on her collarbone looking upon me once more before fixing around her neck. She removed the glasses and the color of honey looked on unburdened.

A dark haired woman with olive skin and eyes dipped in amber sat in 13E. She wore the jewelry of my deceit. I rested my tired body against her shoulder, sleep granted to my free form. She patted my thigh and closed her eyes with mine.

Jostled awake by a round faced stewardess, she called, “Miss, we’ve landed.” The plane was empty, filled only with her urgent words and clean face. I cradled my purse and walked down the empty aisle; my lips wet and my fingers clean.

A Pleasant Smelling Confession

“Wind me up and watch me spin.”
- The Foo Fighters

My hair has abandoned ship; my fingers can no longer tame the reckless curls. My eyes are dull and my lips are dry. My nails have grown beyond their filed shape and my t-shirt is stained. Forgive my appearance, for tour has taken my beauty, and the post-tour hag is all that remains. I have stripped of my inhibitions and modesties, and although I am no longer confined to a box of human waste, a confession can still commence, a pleasant smelling confession removed of its clothes. I have veered from the title of my blog and I must bring myself around once more, and so I drop my garments to the floor and tap my fingers across the laptop. Come in close and gather at my feet. Hush your voices and listen to another Harley tale from the tour de white trash.

Friday night I sat on a wooden bench balancing a Miller Lite on one knee, drops of sweat fell into the valley between my breasts, imprints of mascara stuck to my eyelids. A blank page lay before me; I struggled to grasp inspiration from the bikers and eye candy roaming the pasture of asphalt, but they failed to provide. Ryan was on stage tuning his guitar to seduce the masses. I greedily stared at him wanting to scoop him up and press him against me. I talked to my imaginary friends in Kindergarten and thus never learned the valuable elementary lesson of sharing – imaginary friends never ask their material counterparts to share. For the sake of a timeline and a sequential story, yesterday’s port-a-potty confession was a recollection of Wednesday. Thursday was strewn with Noodles & Company, spent under a ceiling fan, and wrapped in the scent of sheets. Friday follows Thursday, and then we arrive at today’s blog destination.

When the set had finished the band hung to the merch table on the hooks of fan’s fingers. Defying laws of prudence I extended my seated figure across the bench and drummed my fingers on my taut stomach. Clusters of groupies closed in discussing the wedding ring on the guitarist’s left hand, the naked chest of the drummer, and the appeal of Ryan’s raspy voice. The speed of the voices increased, the bodies walking past blurred in their hurry for an autograph, and the environment began to pass at highway speeds while I remained horizontal and still at a stop sign. Ryan’s face interrupted the scene and an involuntary smile spread across my face.

He asked, “Are you being strange again?” I looked away in shame and prepared a sarcastic remark, but he silenced my innate sass with a kiss to one salty cheek and lifted me from the bench.

The pack moved forward from the venue, with the band members leading, hands enclosed with those of the wags (wives and girlfriends), and the media boys bringing up the rear. A collection of paper bands had grown in the skin of my wrist, the newest sprout bestowing upon me close proximity to Dave Grohl. I alternated bites of a hot dog with sips of beer and the occasional fist in the air, followed by spilt beer and falling bread crumbs. I am not an avid fan of The Foo Fighters, but Dave Grohl possesses a shiny head of hair and Milwaukee humidity was created for head banging with curls.

I danced squares around my air guitar playing boyfriend and air drumming friend Ari mouthing lyrics to the handful of songs I could summon from my deteriorating memory. We left after the predictable encore; after a quick powder of the nose and glance in the rearview mirror I found myself in the haunted lakeside mansion of a flamboyant gay man. In awe of the chance happening I wandered through the rooms touching the expensive furniture, and commenting on the self-indulgent and overstated traits of the décor. Feeling out of my element, those of us less excited by aesthetics made our way to the beer pong table to watch the only remnants of classlessness. I grew tired of the framed diplomas and intentionally placed celebrity photographs. With a long sigh met by Ryan’s mutual eye roll, myself and an entourage of the less impressed individuals made our way to the car and strapped in, the silence broken only by laughter at the ludicrousness of our night. Once home we ended with a grand finale of burnt pizza and un-brushed teeth – a celebration of our cling to the lower rung on the ladder of class.

My tired blog children crawl into your shared bed and tomorrow we shall continue the story. Once I have collected the monthly check and purchased a 12-pack and cigarettes my lips will once more fall slack.

Port-a-potty Confession

“She’s playing like the devil, but she’s sent from up above.”
- The Crave

Disclaimer: Putrid smells blow through this blog.

I am a bad blog mother. I have neglected my blog babies, and left them naked and starving. The welfare check meant for their care has been poured and drained by booze, men, and Harley Davidson’s t-shirts. To redeem myself I have brought a grocery bag (paper, not plastic) of canned vegetables and discount meat for tonight’s dinner where maternal love, wisdom, and support will be served by the salt-loaded spoonful. Perhaps my clear eyed and malnourished children sitting eagerly around the table are curious where their loose lipped mother has been, while they have had to forage for provisions and scrap the bottom of the Jiffy crunchy peanut butter tub with an unwashed spoon. My children, I have been at the Harley Davidson 105th anniversary festival.
Take a helping of potatoes to fill your aching stomachs and listen to my port-a-potty confession of the absent week.

The beginning came as I sat suffering from temporary narcolepsy bathed in the shade of a tree. My head bowed and stood, my hand loosely gripped a black pen, as I watched a string of bikes sputter across the road. The sound of engines roaring into formation had a drowsy effect, lulling me into a coma of relaxation. The sight of two burly bikers embracing rocked my drooping shoulders. The leather chaps weaving through the crowd whispered a lullaby into my ears. I sat lazily beneath the tree tickling the blades of grass with my silver toenails and rubbing the wrinkled neon paper bands circling my wrist. A woman’s voice yelled from afar, “This is for the rednecks out there!” I cocked my head to the left, snaking my neck around the silicon breasts, and found the orange outline of Amanda Overmeyer gyrating across the stage. “Raise your hands if you are proud to be a redneck!” I lifted my hand in acknowledgement, but stopped halfway in uncertainty of my true redneck heritage. Ryan grabbed my bare ankles and motioned for me to rise – backstage was calling my name.

A rockstar boyfriend is like an American Express card – never leave home without it. One perk of carrying one in your purse, or wallet, is that it can get you – a lowly and un-famous individual – entry into the half-circle behind the stage, known also as backstage. My card granted me free Miller Lite, access to a vegetable platter, a bag of Fritos, and permission to use the upscale port-a-potty (who knew there was such a thing) reserved for the above average individuals in possession of talent.

I sat on the closed lid of the potty in fear of what lay beneath mixed in with discarded toilet paper and a curious blue fluid. In my journal I documented the day and chuckled with amusement over the coining of the term “port-a-potty confessions” until a loud knock interrupted my comedic roll. The bang of the door rang as I exited the blue rectangle of excrement disposal brushing the smell from my shoulders. I stood like a child scanning the shelves of Wal-Mart; the guitarist from Foghat peered down through the mesh screen at my flushed cheeks with concern. The excitement had heated my traditionally pale face; an uncharacteristic blush colored my neck and face.

In my embarrassment I hid in the trailer stuffing chocolate chip cookies and club crackers into the pockets of my purse. Ryan nodded his head to the left, sinking the hook of his boyfriend-reel into mycheek, and pulled my thrashing limbs, cookie crumbs falling from the zipper, to the stage. I smiled and waved to the fans absorbing the five minutes of fame into my pores, but left after four songs in search of beer. On its own fame is hard to digest.

Go brush your teeth and comb your hair. When you have finished the story will continue. The toothpaste is in the bag behind the Spam.

For those who took offense to my political Tourette's: I share a quote from an e-mail my mother sent me last week.

'I think Obama is winning with respect to getting his name out there. Tessa uses Barack Obama as a place? when playing. I heard her say to Sophie on more than one occasion that '....we better go to Barack Obama!' I think you should somehow blog about that.'

Reverse Domestic Abuse

“My girlfriend beats me, she says I’m sleazy, she says I’m leavin’, and so I cry.”
- Grieves and Type

Dislaimer: I have political Tourette's. Read at your own risk.

I am a girlfriend that beats her boyfriend. Some might call it domestic abuse, but I call it abusive love. I punch arms, bite knuckles, and pull the hair from the chest of my boyfriend. A sadistic way to say, “Bumblebee, I love you.” This morning, dressed in the clothes of my hangover, I sat with a fistful of the tour members, hunched over the breakfast table. Obama 2008. The urge to hurt came creeping from underneath my legs goading me to pinch the muscles on the backs of his arms. I squeezed my eyes shut and balled both fists, tapping them against the curve of the table.

My boyfriend rolled his eyes towards me and whispered through locked teeth, “No hitting baby.” I shoved my hands between my thighs and clenched them closed. “Fine, I won’t.”

Each morning Ryan awakes to the feel of my fingers frolicking in the forest that grows on his chest. Some men would be turned on by a morning grooming, but not the man who shares my bed. He only looks down into the dark hair sprayed across his torso, speaking words of reprimand and punishment if I should pull at the hairs curling from his skin. When I kiss the tips of his calloused fingers he harshly says “No,” with the unbending tone of a strict father disciplining his unruly toddler.

I reserve physical abuse only for those I hold the greatest feeling, but my explanation falls on deaf ears after I have pulled the trimmed hairs of his beard and giggled into clasped hands. Ryan counts a dead arm, bruised shoulder muscles, and teeth marks among his girlfriend inflicted wounds. I don’t beat him because he cheats, because he spends my money, or because he flirts with fan members. Obama 2008. I beat him because I have not the means to misappropriate funds needed for the down payment on an airplane directed sign. I bite the sides of his wrist because I cannot stream my love across the friendly skies. Unfortunately, Ryan believes a muzzle and handcuffs would be a better solution to my aversion of non-violence. My affinity for violence and aggression, although brought on by love, is not embraced.

The people’s court will be pleased to know that I do not beat animals, nor do I beat small children, but only males in the age group of 23-26, and to whom I also profess my undying love. My love for family pets and small children is expressed through “the squeeze.” Since it is illegal and immoral to punch, pull, or bite young children and helpless animals, I squeeze them. A squeeze requires the use of my arms and a tightening of the muscles in both. Please take note of a quote by my childhood karate teacher: “dynamite comes in small packages.” May the jury please make note of the “squeezing ability” of compact individuals. Obama 2008. Additionally, a squeeze requires my lower lip to be pinned down by my front teeth, and a closing of my eyes. Once these requirements have been the met “the squeeze” can commence and the child or animal can be loved.

I frequently squeeze my siblings and neighbor’s puppies. Whether it be a beating or a squeeze, my love shall be spread.