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