Funeral home fetish

The silence isn't finished being awkward yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it began.

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

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

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

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

I am under the guise of normalcy now.

Fuck you Lucy

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

but do it anyway, hopin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live fast bleed slow

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

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

And now an examination of the aforesaid statement:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gold digger is born

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm marrying for money.

Spend some time with me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My childhood babysitter manifests into an auditory aphrodisiac.

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

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

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

* It is not part of the Twilight series.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To whom it may concern:

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

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

Please don't send me to hell.

Sincerely,
Kitty

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

* No, not her name.

Written yesterday, posted today

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

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

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

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

I miss you baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No woman no cry

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

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

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

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

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

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

McDonalds

"Buuuuut Maaaaaaam"
-Cartman

Disclaimer: Tonight I am on a metaphor binge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

A survey of post-Halloween behaviors

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

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

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

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

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