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Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been four years since my last batch. These are my sins.
I fell in love, out of love and back in love. Iím currently single. I wrote a few stories, deleted a few stories. Iím currently working on something else. Iíve prayed, read my bible, but I canít remember the last time I set foot in a church. I have been to Scotland often. Iím still alive, still moody and still as mad as a hatter. Iíve worked, gone back to school and played hard. Iíve lived. And I am living.
I need more days like these. Soulful days and pleasant evenings dedicated solely to writing, girl talk and fabulous meals. A perfect day, the only blip on the radar a mildly insane person who insisted on having loud conversations with himself at the table in front of us. I wrote over two thousand words on my novel while ignoring the mad cackling. We had an infinite number of macchiatos, while talking about the glory and virtue of men. Dinner included a nice and bloody steak. Dessert was peaches and cream. Homeward bound I fall asleep on the train, at peace.
I pick three rotten tomatoes from the crate, after which I go to the next table and take a single rose. For a moment I imagine I am the writer soon due on the stage. Every written word a potential offense. Every offense a multitude of flying tomatoes, each tomato aimed at my face. The pressure, the mess, why would anyone subject themselves to that? Better be the singer, no matter how off key the voice. Fortunately Iím not here as the writer, but as someone to be entertained by throwing tomatoes at the writer and roses to the singer.
You think that your innocence is a sign of compassion. I say it is a sign op stupidity, the inability to accept facts. I might resent it more if I didnít know for a fact itíll change. We should get together again a year from now. After youíve been beaten up a few times, spit on, suffered a few sexual assaults and at least one attempted murder. Itíll happen, it happens to all of us. Itís what makes us the way we are, hard, helpful, distant and just. So when youíve been stepped on, call me and weíll do coffee.
There is something comforting about old friends, even those who wish you more harm than good. I had a chance to chat with my old friend Raymond this evening. As always my conversation with him soothed me. There are still good people in this world, friends who care.
Raymond and I, we talked about our mutual old friend. One that is both unwelcome and familiar at the same time. Both of us hate depression, yet at least with it we know what to expect. Rages and burn-out, we have yet to discover how to deal with that type of acquaintance.
Perhaps it is because youíre short, practically bald and none too pretty. Or is it because youíre cock is wee, and it pains you to see a group of women who have more balls than you do? You say weíre too feminine to be successful in our field of business. I rip you a new one, suddenly Iím a feral bitch?
Feral and offended I may be, but trust me you have nothing to fear, I wonít bite. I like my teachers inspiring, my opponents fierce, and my men large. You my dear are dull, spineless and quite frankly small.
Another day, another diet book. Iím desperate to lose this weight. In trying I appear to have become a walking clichť. Iíll succeed and lose weight. Then I fall of the wagon and gain it all back. Every day I wake up and say today Iím going to eat healthy. Four hours later my mouth is full of chocolate. I donít even bother to set my alarm to go to the gym. When I do, I never make it. I have to change my habits; Iím tired of being obese. I need a better lifestyle. Perhaps the book can help.
I cannot find the words so I reach for the blade, while I wonder if sex would make me feel even better than blood. A pointless thought. There are no men, there is a knife. There is also a nameless feeling that I cannot escape, for which blood and sex are only temporary cures, and time not at all. I need the third cure, but do not know it... yet.
Whenever I feel like this he always orders me to change it, because passivity is easy. I can do better; I can experiment and create my own cure consisting of....
I know I can do this, yet I wake every morning with pressure looming large. I can find no peace. My grades are good, my writing is going well, and my recent evaluation at work was positive. I should be relaxed. I should be feeling positive. I feel like I spend all my moments surrounded by shadows. When I try to pray no words come out. When I try to dance my feet wonít cooperate. I am buried under pressure and choking on my memories.
Tomorrow is another day, with another exam and mournful memories. I have to keep going.
Never shit where you eat is the second thought that crosses my mind when I see him. My first reaction is a smile, and that is my problem. I tend to be a cranky old bitch, but just the sight of him relaxes me. Today he was unshaven and especially scrumptious, and I almost licked my lips at the sight of him. Iím not his type; heís way too balanced for me. Iíd drive him insane in about five minutes. Doesnít matter really, because even if we could be good together, which we wouldnít, I never shit where I eat.
Iím partly to blame. No wonder that my colleagues nearly fainted with shock when I showed some backbone. I act as though I have no ambition. All requests are carefully honored without complaint. I appear too timid to argue. The truth is something else entirely.
I have my eye on the door, and one of these days I hope to hand in my resignation. I want and will have more out of life than this. In the mean time I wonít argue. No need to cause a fuss. Iíll just sit here and do my job, while plotting my escape.
I am not a violent person, yet there are days when I wish I could slap some of you silly. Pathetic little children that you are. I would have thought grown men would have more sense than this. Instead you complain and sulk like little boys when you do not get your way. Itís annoying as hell, and it erodes any ounce of respect for you I otherwise might have had.
The two of you need to learn how to grow up. The world does not revolve around you, and neither does my life or my opinions. Deal with it.
ďI got sunshine on a cloudy day. When itís cold outside Iíve got the month of May. I guess youíd say, what can make me feel this way? My girl. Talking Ďbout my girl.
Iíve got so much honey the bees envy me. Iíve got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees. I guess youíd say, what can make me feel this way? My girlĒ
I absolutely love this song. As frustrating and painful as life tends to get, always remember to sing and dance. As ever this song has managed to put a smile on my face.
Someone please remind me why I decided to write this novel. It seemed like a dream come true. Iíve always wanted to write a regency. Itís harder than it looks. Especially when the characters decide to get engaged without permission. Worse than that, the proposal was perfect, heartfelt, and honest.
I am tempted to go back and work on some of my previous material. Horror is way better than this romantic crap; I could always slice and dice.
I suppose I could delete the files and try something new. Except Iíve learned that whatever I write, characters not cooperative people.
I miss poetry.
It used to be all I wrote, and something I frequently read. I wasnít good at it, but I was learning.
At the moment Iím solely focusing on my noveling. I havenít written a short story or a poem in ages. I debated with myself for a long while if I should do 100 words again. I donít have much writing time, and I havenít gotten any better at not procrastinating.
Recently I read Raymondís poems about the war, from which heís fortunately returned alive. Powerful words, I wish I could have written them.
I miss poetry.
I didnít think the 50 book challenge would be this hard. Iím always reading. I own hundreds of books. In fact the number of Ďyet to read' books on my shelves must be close to fifty. Iím continually buying more.
Iím behind schedule. I have no explanation for it. Maybe I read less or slower than I thought I did. I wonít give up. I will reach 50 by the end of the year. Iíd secretly been hoping for 100.
My favorite book so far? The Other Boleyn Girl. Henry VIII and his many wives continue to hold my fascination.
I know they do not last forever. Those easy days, when all the world is a stage and I am queen of it all. Monday comes around like a curse, and all I can do is begin anew and go through the all too familiar motions. I need to change it up, do something that will make these motions different, will make Mondays different. What? I canít imagine. Days like this are a drain on my creativity, and while murder (Please make all the stupid people go away!) would definitely be change, Iím not sure Iíd fancy Tuesday in incarcerated.
Can a person overdose on fast food? I need to manage my time more effectively, or manage time itself. I am always running late. There are never enough minutes in the day. Junk food is easy; it costs a lot less time than actually cooking a meal. If I have to eat one more piece of fried chicken Iíll scream. I do this to myself. I should get up earlier, buy groceries and take the time to make something healthy which will also tickle my taste buds. Tomorrow, I promise, Iíll manage my time and take better care of myself.
Imagine having five children under the age of nine. I only spent a few hours with them today at work, and then I got to go home. I am utterly exhausted. For her itís a fulltime job.
When I was a teenager I always said I wanted at least six. Iíve since learned to cut that number in half, assuming it ever happens. Iím only twenty seven, but some family members act as though Iím close to turning into a shriveled up old spinster. Iím supposed to find a man as soon as possible so I can reproduce like a...
He wants to talk, I donít. Whatever he says, itís never sincere. Whatever I say, it is never good enough. He thinks Iím cold, and purposely cruel. Iím not; I just donít let my world revolve around him. There is so much more to see and do out there, I want to take it all in. Unlike him Iím not content to stay in one place, be only one thing, have only one dream. I refuse to settle, but I donít judge, he does. ďWhatever makes you happyĒ I say. ďBut Iím not like you.Ē He hates me for it.
Spirit, water, blood and bone, amazing grace. I donít always think about it. It can be an uncomfortable thought. I donít always see myself as a wretch. I seldom see myself as being blind. I am frequently sinful and often lost, and forget that Good Friday is about being found.
ďFor God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.Ē John 3:16, 17
Reading between the lines I can only assume youíve committed yourself to a hospital again. All I can do is be patient and hope you return well.
I blame myself for not getting in touch with you sooner. I should have learned by now not to take people for granted. Yet I still put things off until tomorrow, forgetting that tomorrow everyone might not be around.
If tomorrow comes, and weíre both well, weíll go out dancing. Weíll have dinner first, consisting of chicken wings and Tabasco sauce, with tequila to wash it down. Promise me youíll get well soon.
ďWas it a morning like this When the Son still hid from Jerusalem? And Mary rose from her bed To tend the Lord She thought was dead
What is a morning like this, When Mary walked down from Jerusalem? And two angels stood at the tomb, Bearers of news she would hear soon.
Did the grass sing? Did the earth rejoice to feel you again? Over and over like a trumpet underground, Did the earth seem to pound: ďHe is risenĒ over and over in a never ending round ďHe is risen, alleluia, alleluia!Ē song by Sandi Patty
One day I want to run a marathon, if only to prove the jackass wrong. Because instead of helping me, he sabotaged my effortsÖ Because instead of inspiring me, he mocked meÖ Because instead of consideration, all I ever saw in his eyes was indifferenceÖ To him I was just the fat kid who couldnít run, and being kind to his students didnít apply to people like me.
Itís been years but I havenít forgotten. If it takes a decade of training I will run that marathon someday, for all the fat kids with a jackass for a gym teacher.
I stare at you, Iím nervous. I wonder what you are thinking. You smile at me and suddenly I can feel my patience dissolve. No longer able to resist the urge I bring my lips to yours and kiss you. Iíve waited so long for this. Finally I pull back. The flutters are gone, replaced certainty. You look at me stunned. I grin, because I know what youíre thinking and I am going to shock you even more. I kiss you again, your lips, your cheek; I nuzzle your neck and nibble your ear. I whisper ďwill you marry me?Ē
I never miss a deadline. I donít care how many hours of sleep I have to sacrifice, Iím better than that. This is why I hate doing group projects. When I work alone the only one to blame for having to work through the night is myself. Now, depending on who is responsible, Iíll either spend the night cleaning up somebody elseís mess or miss a deadline. This time we were lucky, we got an extension. One weekend finish the report. I still think our project manager shouldíve shown more grit and worked like hell, after all sleep is overrated.
No temptations seize a man that he canít overcome, yet I keep imagining you and me, skin on skin. It doesnít help that your shirt is untucked and unbuttoned. I have a hard time concentrating on the presentations, until it is my turn. I manage to get through my own presentation without a purr. When I sit back down, all I can think of is sliding my tongue all the way down your body. I bite, sometimes. I wonder if youíd bite back. I wish I could indulge, just for a few minutes, to find out what you taste like.
It came as a shock. Iíve learned long ago anything is possible, and at any moment people die. I just never expected someone to almost die at the hands of a member of my family. Revenge fantasies are common, but for almost all of us it remains idle imagination. Few ever attempt to shoot their ex. At least I know she escaped unharmed. Problem is harming her was likely one of two objectives, the other being your own death.
Today Iíd planned to shop. Instead Iím pacing the floor wondering if the police will turn you up dead or alive.
Maintaining constant rage takes effort. I still cannot believe you would consider doing this to anyone, let alone our brother. So I meant what I said, it is better for now if we keep our distance. Once spoken they cannot be taken back, and the words currently on my tongue are nothing but savage, selected for their ability to inflict the most pain.
I hate it, it hurts, I wish we could agree and get along. But I will not chance my stance, for the safety of our family. Iím sorry if that means we cannot be on speaking terms.
The laughter surprises me. It is my own. My mind is full of worries and grief, yet I have not lost the ability to laugh.
Today the writing is going miserably, for all of us. Instead of writing, we talk about politics, relationships, work, and books. We also buy a lot books. It is the benefit of having our writerís group meetings in a bookstore.
I pick up six new titles. I know I shouldnít spend so much money, but I canít help myself. There are too many genres, and I am cursed to enjoy reading almost all of them.
Today I had to admit I am not invincible. The mental strain of the last few days has finally caught up to me. I am exhausted, barely able to do what is necessary. Iíve skipped my midterms today. It was either that or work. At the moment I am too wasted to do both on the same day, both my body and my mind refused to cooperate.
I own up. I have no strength; I can barely keep myself from lying down on the floor whimpering. I am fragile and close to tears.
I hope without expecting tomorrow is better.
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