Happiness is underrated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Lil’ Wayne and his sexual fantasy summoning voice bump from outdated Dell Inspiron speakers, ice cubes swirl in a brown pool of iced tea, and a semi-photogenic photo of my ex-boyfriend and I sits for company.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

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

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

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