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There were certain rules to my crayons. Their original point had to last an extended length without tearing the paper wrapping. If used, they had to be twisted for even wear. They had to remain mint condition in their box. The important colors, basic black and carnation pink, remained unused the longest. When the sets grew old, I stopped keeping regular inventory of the 24 crayons, because Crayola released sets of 48, 96, and scented ones, and the glitter ones. Now ultra fine point Sharpie has done something similar, but in blister cards. I keep count about twice a day.
The longer I distance myself, the more I lose touch with reality. I don't purposefully isolate myself. They move at sluggish speeds. Being a step ahead is not a friendly feeling, especially when I admit inaccuracy more than not. My brain is acting fast, too intense, and I find idle time a waste of this inevitable, perishable short life. I can almost physically catch their each languid movements morphing from frames apart by the millisecond, like a fly buzzing around for something to ingest. I'd rather stay home crunching numbers, and counting words until the mania slows back into normality.
You never came back. When you drove off, I had set in my mind you would return to lift me up and carry me inside. I stood out on the porch waiting, counting seconds. Eventually, I waited inside, listening for a faint bounce of keys. Word traveled you picked up a girl who's never fallen. My heart stopped flinching at the mention of you. People ask who I wait for, but the sound of reason escapes my lips. I only know that once, standing there, looking out, sense told me someone else would approach this door made to welcome you.
You and me
We used to be together
Everyday together always
I really feel
That I'm losing my best friend
I can't believe
This could be the end
It looks as though you're letting go
And if it's real
Well I don't want to know
I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me cause it hurts
They can be inviting
But some are altogether
As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands
I sit and cry
Todavia me pica el hablar espaÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â±ol. No encuentro por que. Sera las canciones que escucho, o las canciones esperando ser escritas. Le dije a Maria que le iba a escribir una cancion titulada Pienso en Ti, pero al fin, esa cancion ya tiene existensia. La llame sin razon alguna, sino con el simple proposito de saludarla. Las dos tenemos el mismo lenguage natal, pero nos comunicamos en el ingles universal. Thinking Of You no cargaba suficiente peso con cual cariÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â±o siento por ella. Estaria yo frustrada, con cierto remordimiento, si no tuviera alternativa en cumplir una expression jugoza y rica.
Sometimes I imagine what they look like without clothes. Knowing the picture I paint will be grotesque, I extend their neck skin tone into arms and chest under shirts. Legs, lower back, butt and frontal Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœarea', from the hand tones. Flat assess, hairy patches, sagging parts, love bites, battle scars. Sometimes I go deeper, staring straight into the skeletal system to their vein wrapped muscle and tissue. Not even my vision is satisfied for accepting what the simple eye has to offer. By eye, I mean cornea, eyeball, cornea, brain. Pleasant or not, I want to see all and more.
I promised no end-of-the-world for me, even if the ground parts and swallows every soul into a flower-ready set pit. I would not go.
This is me admitting I'm already under. Despite putting forth all will to see the greener gas, I'm in a temporary state of depression.
Can't wash my hands of it.
The skies remain gray, love songs play like requiems, traffic is a slow procession headed nowhere. All I want to do is cry, as long as I don't have shoulders to hold my head up. I can't continue being ashamed of hurting once in a while.
They say gift cards aren't personal.
I don't beg, but I differ.
Most buy a twenty dollar gift certificate, insert into a three dollar, or worse, a one dollar template printed greeting card with a cheesy joke or rootless wish. Sure, that isn't worth shedding a tear or cracking a smile.
Ink the three minutes of pensive acknowledgement no one else bothered to fit into their gift picking. Aside from the economic value, a note looping soft statements in calligraphy, a heartfelt note drenched of history or beginnings of new adventures.
Tell me that's not personal.
Shenoa. She's a beautiful sun-painted Native American, raised with a bit of south rebel charm. She didn't have to cut years of frightful experiences. She has natural keen for style. She works a razor scissor according to your personality and her visualization of your most subtle qualities. The wine bottle wasn't short to demonstrate my appreciation for the gratuitous emergency appointment after making the mistake of trying somebody new a day she was out sick. Tipping guidelines go out the door after she transforms you. Then she'll smile gratefully while one of her many tropical frog tattoo's winks at you.
Margaret Mallory carried her feathery hair in bushy ponytails. Her front glossy whites dangled an overbite. Webbed in debt, her parents couldn't foot the bill to fix them, forcing her to wing the nicknames. She waddled around the pretty girls, long neck curved low, while they swimmingly picked at "Mallory Mallard-. With age, she earned a padded paycheck. On she went to file down the Chiclets. On her way, she floated past a window display of pearls. Instead of teeth all in a row, her collarbone gleamed with cloud-white ring around. No longer an ugly duckling, but a beautiful swan.
It slipped past marketing gurus that employee moral may slip even lower if every time they offer a TargetVisa, customers reject them because 10% off most Target range purchases are crap. Scan after scan after ding they hear, "No-, "No, thank you-, "No-. Rejection. Rejection, please. Rejection. It's a cruel job. They're not ready for this treatment the way telemarketers are fully aware they're already useless, therefore deserve to be hung up on. I'll never deny another employee. Instead I'll say, "I have one. Thank you."They'll cry, inwardly, and thank the heavens people actually apply for the credit card.
"I think I'm going to die soon. I feel like I need to say that."
The room was spinning and skipping.
"Can I say that?.-
"That's because you're feeling anxious. Here, take this. It'll dissolve immediately.-
Its orange flavored.
When I self-medicate, by the time I reach the packet, my strength is threefold and my trembling fingers end up crushing the pill into the aluminum slot you're supposed to lightly push. I lick into the plastic grooves as if licking fudge. In 5 minutes, I call whoever I just abruptly hung up on and apologize for the absurdities I said.
I love blowing people away. The speechless reactions and oh-my-Gods! I create blasts from pasts. It's the only way to get people to explode in mind and soul. One always wishes done as done to others. But if I have to push the type who never flinch or go for the bite, what makes me think they'll scan through old address books and wonder what the hell I'm up to? Is she happy, did she marry, is she pooping? Any accomplishment is a sense of elation to me, therefore I woot-woot too often for stiffs who always meet daily goals.
I'm getting a new body. Yes I am. And I'm very pleased about it. I love shocking my body from one extreme workout to the other, rendering it helpless to dramatic change. Whether its my Pilates body, weight training body, circuit training body... or whatever I switch it to, after the initial anatomy complaints... I renew myself along with the regenerating cells that have a few more cycles of progression. It has memorized different types of "me-. This time I will be sporting the toned muscular look. Then can I worry about that guy eyeing me, instead of my appearance.
I was boiling up a storm inside again. I knew better than to stay home brewing an explosion. The highway becomes my way. I slipped my heavy eyelids for a second, gripping the wheel with my ten-fold strength. I wondered how the thrill of danger feels if I kept them closed for a while, then flash them open. My mind, the car, the road was speeding up... speeding up. I passed time. I hydroplaned seconds ahead of the world behind me. Then I saw the circulating veins and my hands trembling, remembering that this feeling is never a good thing.
The antiseptic smell of the hospital doesn't fail to bring back the days. My mother hurriedly pulled me through endless halls. How was I to understand this was a place of health when each open room I glimpsed at had its own reaper? To look away meant to ignore their lonely fade away. Almost a vegetable, I created various conceptions about grandma's state of mind, because she wasn't like the other abandoned and mistreated skeletons. She was loved by us. She would die with us. Someday she'll be able to tell me, "I heard every silly word you told me-.
I ran over a turtle. A big turtle. Was I at fault? Was he? I declare myself guilty for not swerving. I prefer to ram my car and myself, rather than kill a turtle. Or worse, crush his shell and spare his sheltered, shattered life. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty of turtleslaughter. I was late. I couldn't go back to him. There was traffic. It was ugly. The whole situation. There was no escaping it. Nothing I could've done to save him. I will not smile. Soul for a soul. Somebody must pay for this. I need to balance a life lost.
At the occasional dinner table, my brother would scarf down his supper. The side dishes were categorized and the main dish consumed before the sides. Me, I liked to savor each bite. My fork was proportionally loaded to fit exact amounts from each side and a bit of the meat. Until we started racing to see who could lick their plates clean first. Rice grains garnished the outside of my plate, sauce on my chin. He always won. Now I can't stand to see food in front of me, so I gobble it up until I can push it away.
He spoke opinionated only if asked. I was lost in his mystery. The crowds were blurs and buzzing. Then Sherie unwrapped a JuicyFruit for me and handed one to him. As if we didn't know we were being set up. After a beer or two, I bumped into him in the hall and accidentally landed on his thick lips.
It was raw impulse, not accidental.
All that matters is that he kissed back and lingered over it. This is the first one I consider worth it. Also the first I will not dissect his follow up actions, if any.
Yes, this explains everything. Our prognosis is almost a prophecy fulfilled. I was irate at the touch and sound of anything. Hypersensitive to heat and lights. I was a lamb and I was a wolf. I was flying through the paragraphs and my whole life was already in someone else's print. I slid into some shorts and walked right up and out to the closest person in reach. He shut off the lawn mower, to hear what my muffles were. "This is me! I've always had it. This explains everything!-. Never has a girl been this proud of being bipolar.
Her skin was smoldering ice. Warm tears raced to the tissues and carpeted lobby. She kept sniffing up what was melting out. The blush on her face rushed down through veins. Her girlfriends frantically fanned her heaves with engraved programs. Their wit's dry of consolation. The draped the length of her skirt to her knees.
The commotion cooled down.Her oblivious boyfriend came to escort his reason for joy. They dove into the madness.
"Baby, I'd like you to meet my best friend."
"Yes,"she shook a frozen hand, "We've met before. Congratulations on your engagement. She's a lovely thing.-
When I order the midsize truck, it'll be like ordering pizza.
Receiving cash for the big pieces of furniture, and I'll still be smiling.
When we're loading the truck, my throat might tighten up, but I'll swallow and traveling boxes.
When the hatch is locked down, my eyes will water, but I'll shake it off as allergies.
When I drive off, I'll have dull pangs in my chest,but not painful thuds.
Forty-five minutes into I95,
or when the stupid South Of The Border billboards start passing me by,
I'll break into the most horrifying shrieks ever to pull over.
The reason I've been thinking of her is probably because I found her serious face while scanning through oldies. She had a dour childhood. At seven catering for eight brothers. A tyrant father who dragged her by her hair through the small town for all to shame her. Probably why she kept it short. Abandoned to raise mom alone. I wonder if my grandfather raped her. She probably wouldn't have known, much like when blood started gushing from her insides. Everything was taboo. No wonder she didn't smile for pictures when she fled to the states. Still, she was beautiful.
All those quirky nuts you, I'm going to employ them. I can set them up here at RTP, along with other lab animals. Their job descriptions consist of thinking and questioning. They, daily, will enter a white room wearing crisp white outfits. A simulator will stir to life with a day-to-day scenario of a lawyer, a lover, a teenager, a terminally ill, a prankster, a tree, a rabbit, etc. They'll cut corners, speeding past the mind of social acceptance with their rambles and paranoia. Ideas will slip into a lottery and out will rise a genius solution to something you never knew you needed.
Cucumber Melon was the best selling line of products at the time I worked retail there. My stomach was averse to its cloy sweetness; a smell you can taste as if someone were hoisting a bucket of it into the esophagus. I sold it well anyway, putting aside my preference for Warm Sugar Vanilla that hinted of coconut. The next women's favorite, by experience and not statistic, was Sweet Pea. Thick and slightly nauseating at first, but infused with skin, so seductively subtle. I wondered if there exists a pea that is sweet and why I never learned about it.
If the sun didn't rise tomorrow, its search should remain untouched. We praise ungrateful hours. If it decides to resign, how different is our core from its heat? We too could get lost in time. Let the sheets cover us a little longer. Let the wolves howl while we walk about. We could chase the moon and catch the falling stars that dive into the high tides of night. And when a glow starts pushing up at the edges of horizon, let us turn our backs. In the black skies, there is still shine, and the world will keep turning.
Immediately, I felt a peculiar disgust toward him I couldn't quite place when he said he was Honduran. I barely claim to be Salvadorian. I have no loyalties to the dead and past wars. What sprung this ridiculous superiority? He's allowed his patriotism to his blue and white. I have no prejudice (although I do enjoy a racial joke within proper time and place). I should be deaf to race. Blind to color.
...But something about him...
Maybe it was the particular structure of teeth Central Americans have. Maybe it was the way he never looked me in the eye.
I don't want the American fantasy body. Bones patched up with a membrane of flesh. Cigarettes, bottled water, and lettuce. I want a symmetrical appeal, thick skin, slim muscle. Last night I downed a natural laxative tea. It's disgusting, but not as regurgitating as my envy of girls who stick fingers down their throats and are done with it just like that. The pain in my flat abdomen this morning was righteous. After all, gluttony is sinful. Let it be a reminder that I can't get there without strict discipline and suffering abnegation. No more cookie stashes in the cupboard.
Most people want the answers to the big questions:
Why am I here?
What is the plan?
Where do we go when we die?
I have my answers.
I'm concerned about the little questions that indirectly lead into the final answer:
Am I doing it right?
Who calls first?
What does he/she add to my life?
Was it a connection or a passer by?
Should I invest in the market?
It was my people watching day. I sat with a cup of the house blend, and my favorite ultra fine point pen. I don't write about them, but form composites from their expression, walk, and overall frame. The corner of my eye was distracted by a lonesome, sharp dressed man. I didn't want to put together what was becoming obvious by his nervous clock watching and hopeful glances at incoming women. He was being stood up. I wondered why a woman would reject this creature from heaven. He caught me staring. Suddenly, I was interested in the daily special's board.
The Tip Jar