It’s always been my fantasy to be blind. No blurs. No lights. Just black and some spot flashes of colors I wouldn’t comprehend. A particular man would let me see him with touch sense. My fingers would slide down the slope of his nose. The fingertips would pull his skin taut around the cheekbones and forehead. I’d discover defining marks such as tiny moles around the eyes or a scar on his brow. I would find his features to be symmetrically equal with a few acceptable, customary human defects. Of course, then my hands would glance all the wayyy dooowwn.

The inconsiderate stride of these people sicken me. Each step of mine is calculated and measured toward every forward advance I make. I perceive oncoming pedestrians and the possible angles they’re about to take as they wander and waddle around. I swivel and take sharp angles if need be. They’re pace is spaced out and cavalier. Why don’t I bother to pummel them to the sidelines and remain true to my purposeful velocity? I suppose I just don’t want to touch them. I suppose maybe they’re just more relaxed and carefree whereas I might have to slow down some. Not.

This Chili Pepper song: 21st Century.
Kiedis gets down with his usual ubiquitous lyrics. Flea plays mad bass. I forget the strings jammer because of their alternating history of lead guitarists. Let’s not minimize the percussion. This song is infected with Cali funk. Beats specifically calling to the inner musician. Word twists that would mess with you if they weren’t synched with instruments. If you could hear it as this description is intended, you’d be getting high and curling toes. If I didn’t better understand my nature, I’d do smack just to conceive genius like that. It’s playing on loop.

The same ‘failed suicide attempts’ Oprah show played at the ‘behavioral alternative’ center. I was waiting for my ride, inattentively observing the bulletproof glass encased TV. It took earth-shattering control not to emit ground-quaking cackles out of respect for the patients that might’ve once slit some essential veins or swallowed fifty too many pills. It crossed my mind to alert attending it might be judicious to change the channel, but I was hoping someone would freak as they watched and relived the flashback. I may be a sadistic bitch, but if you’re gonna off yourself, get it right Round One!

There are these feelings of remorse poking around my conscience for being so insensitive about the suicidal. I mean hell, I’ve thought about it in my right mind and in my left; while chemically imbalanced and balanced. I’ve stared down that orange prescription bottle and been fixated on the thought. It’s a scary place to be, yet a comforting state when you finally commit to it. But I never wanna fucking die, EVER! Even if you’re hearing shit, it still makes sense to choose suffering over death. I just can’t pity some of the fools that go through with it.

When my body reaches a certain temperature

- I still have not determined what string of events flares this sporadic phenomenon -

I get hives.

Under my shirt, on my back, arms and thighs.

After a hot shower, I look like I wrestled a kingdom of furios bees.

They’re coined: Exercise Hives.

Now…. picture this:
I still haven’t given up my lady virtues wholly. Not entirely in that steamy, frictional, sweaty, body writhing manner nature intended it. So, after the first time I ever …you know…

I’m guess I’m just grateful God uses me as a tool for his good humor.

Haha.

My sour face on, my nicest dress, best makeup. I was using the strength all along my legs to pick up my loose heel straps, clenched ass. Daydreaming and focused on nothing around me. Walked in to pay for gas. The register-ee said animated, “You look just like my first cousin. Exactly like her! She’s Egyptian.” The busybody next in line heard, took a glance, and said very gruff, “Yes. Yes. She looks Middle Eastern.” I was floored, slapped with happiness. I wanted to wash the Israeli’s hair and dry hump him for positively affecting the course of my day.

They’re smarter than me, which is how I like my friends. I’ve never minded being the dumbest one if I get to learn from them. They inform me of the news I refuse to watch. They reawaken lessons forgotten from Literature class. They provide idiot-proof explanations of the 1914 prophecy. Apparently, I also bring to the table since I haven’t bored them to death, but it’s of a more emotional nature. My book and street knowledge may be random, but when it comes to feelings, I’m so in touch with the process I can tell them where they’re issues originate.

That time I wished I was skinny I meant it. But I only joked about anorexia or whatever obsession my mind has with rejecting tasty food. Whatever control issues I battle through, I never intended to take them out on a balanced diet. This apology is a demonstration that light self-deprecation can be funny. Not everything should be taken so damn serious. It’s okay, even healthy, to work towards a desired look. I would like my appetite and stomaching abilities back. Famished little girls are bitches. And I’m hungry, petite and no day in the park right now!!!!

FEED ME!

Something rather strange is taking place.

I’ve been smiling a lot.

I want to hold doors for people and carry groceries for shoppers. People oblivious to my rising elation surround me. Unbeknownst to them, I want to rush them, encircling them tight in my arms. They should know I’m here for them now that I have settled some long-awaited issues and can back them up with valid convictions. I say this in absolute recognition of my wavering enlightened lightening moments. This time, it might be I’m growing up. Maybe the feeling only comes in waves. I’m at peace with that.

When twinges of regret crawl over me for abandoning massage therapy training and education, I lift my arms to shoulder level. Before they reach parallel measures, I whimper like an attention-hungry puppy, or just a hungry one, and conclude opting out was the wisest decision. This limitation isn’t the set back I set it to be. I can still read my school books and learn the art of manual healing while I think up a way to afford Structural Energetic Therapy for my own benefit, and not someone in my hands. My spine momentarily requires more care than personal goals.

Things taken for granted when involuntarily impounded from civilization: razors. Unless you want them watching you shave your armpits. Nail clippers: cause I accidentally scratched myself when they broke unevenly. Optional locks, doors, keys and sunlight. Pens or at least pencil sharpeners. Socks and shoes. Underwear. Underwire. Square footage. Interaction without the fear of releasing information that they could hunt you down with. Control Remote. Clean clothes. Fitted outfitting and hemmed pants. Respect and dignity. Educated government staff. I’d include normal people, but I sure felt civil after to talking to some of these poor souls. Who’s entirely sane anyway?

My soul mates, therapists, beer buddies, dearest friends....
(Pause)

When I introduced you lovebirds, I sure didn’t expect you’d end up tying the knot.

Otherwise, I never would’ve arranged the meet and kept you all to myself.
(Chuckles from guests)

As you start your new life together
-even though our dynamics will change as soon reach your honeymoon destination-
the bond we forged through time will remain.
(Awwwwing)

You know you’d let me tag if tri-unions were legal. (Reluctant laughing)

Ménage à trois!
(Whooping from drunk groomsmen, followed by nervous chuckling).

(Awkward silence)

To my 2 best friends! (Rip-roaring Applause)

Marriage is written in my stars. Also foreseen is the stereotypical men versus women battle. I will do my best to warn him beforehand in all fairness. The questions will emerge. There is no doubt any reply will compute as logic acceptance of the truth. We’ll practice an automatic response system and no matter the outcome of this particular freak-out session, other aspects of our relationship should not be affected.

Do I look fat? NO

Does this make me look fat? NO

Do you think I’ve gotten fatter? NO

Did you hesitate? I think you hesitated. ABSOLUTELY NOT, SKINNY MINNIE

A study found that smiling for about thirty minutes a day, you could trick your brain into thinking its happier than it really is, creating healing properties for depression and such related lowliness. Yes, reality is a cruel bitch, but denial is for idiots. If you’re sad, use the corresponding reaction for the corresponding emotion. If it’s good, then pull up those lip corners. Life’s is complicated, but the math is simple. I think I’d rather be bitter and morbid, than feign a shit-faced euphoria and plaster it on my countenance. I hope they didn’t kill innocent mice for this.

Electronica should be more mainstream. So cold the sputtering beats and alien arpeggios. So unaffectionate the melody. None of that AABA methodology to hypnotize an engaged listener. No. Just a strange melody to keep you around a while longer without having to display complex emotions. A song that gives way to be temporarily devoid of intense feelings. ‘Course, they throw in a synthesized voice and manipulate frequencies to sound somewhat humanoid so you won’t forget that you in fact are here on earth. It helps to disconnect a little bit, but not enough to distance you permanently from the living.

It’s true. I don’t breathe enough. It seems I’m always holding my breath. My muscles are in a constant state of palpable tension. I’ve grown accustomed to bitch fits and gripe fests. This man-made ruling is unhealthy for me, for everybody. We can’t escape it unless we have generous monetary means. Even if we do, it’s a scary process to drop everything and reemerge in a more neutral part of the world. There’s too much we can’t control, so how about I start controlling the oxygenation flow of blood and air until God teaches man a lesson about governmental domination.

Peter fucks up my qi!

The office is quiet. You can hear a pin drop amongst the diligent typing. He barges in like the Hulk in mid transformation, puffing and grunting with his nasty ol gut inflating and deflating under his diaphragm. A minor problem with the customer and he must involve the whole universe in his woe. The energy in the room goes haywire, and everyone drops their voice in order to compensate the balance of disruption. He’s not a drama queen, just a bad-tempered ,nicotine-deprived grouch.

Keep your asshole plugged for the rest of us, bitch!!!

Serenity now...

From my window, you can see the helicopter making circles. The Crown Vic’s keep passing our house, some unmarked. There’s a pack of cops being lead by canines through the screen in the back. Sirens have been wailing for thirty minutes. The local station only plays the weather. All I can do is watch and make lunch.

And imagine.

We’ve been robbed. Threatened. We’ve been forced to get an alarm system, a fenced gate and security cameras. Next time dad decides to spend all his money building a house, we’re running an intervention on the location he chooses.

There is a scene in the movie where the actress leans forward and it looks like a weird elbow is popping out of the center of her chest. She is ridiculously thin. It’s very impacting when she’s a theatre onscreen giant. I allowed myself to think about how this affected me personally and realized I felt an imposition to look more skeletal and skip dinner. The last thing I am is a bulimic lemming, but I do have life-long issues to hone. Tonight I screwed up, but tomorrow is another day to eat and hold balanced (maybe even filling) meals.

The pain lately has been incredulously paralyzing. Physical pain I can withstand, but it has spread into the mind. It’s like striking your thumb with a hammer and laughing it off. (Haha, that was nothing. I’ll swallow it until they stop looking.) When you tolerate and work straight through aches and nerves that could supply adrenaline enough to bite through a wooden stake like jelly, there is a breaking point. Pretending to be an impervious badass will crack you up and tear your seams until everything you’ve pent up starts spilling out. Knowing this makes it easier to release some.

The round-bodied sandwich maker couldn’t get it around her tubby brain that I didn’t want cheese in my veggie wrap. Not even a tub of ranch. Just plants and spices.

I know, I promised I’d be nicer and more forgiving of people (including myself), but this one had a mustache!!!

If I believed in hell, I wouldn’t even get an economy flight there. I’d be stowed in the cargo area.

What a conflict! Naught or nice? Can’t I be both?

Maybe I can absolve the meanness by offering her a tiny-headed razor and confessing about my secret monthly Glutton-Pizza day.

Hello.

Hel…I mean Hola!!!

Hello.

Como eis-ta?

Fine.

Que-iii bueno!

It’s okay, I hardly use Spanish.

Oh, that’s magnific-o!

Uhhh. Sure?

Where are you el from-o?

Born in Manhattan.

But…

My parents are from El Salvador.

Of course! Where is that at, Mexico?

Uh no. Central America.

Ah Si! Molto Bello. Have you visited your family there?

Before I developed memory retention.

I’ve got an idea. You can hang out with me and teach me es-pa-nol! We can go to a wonderful little Spanish restaurant I know. It’s a dirty old hole, but they make great arroz-con-pollo.

Go el piss-o yourself!

Evolution Psychology reports that woman looks for a deeper meaning when ‘smooching her man’. It’s criminal that they charge for this. How Amish must one be to not pick up the social cues? 2/3 of the magazine is splattered with full page advertisements of promises YOU deserve. The scant articles are shit you already know, except they’re peddling overpriced products you didn’t know can simplify your busy lifestyle. It’s all about 100-calorie packaged snacks, the do-it-all concealer, portable printer/fax/phone/can opener. I still feel guilty for giving into Apple’s conditioning.

Headline:
DISGRUNTLED READER CUTS OFF HER SUBSCRIPTIONS LIKE A LOUSY DRUNK.

From my window, you can see the helicopter making circles. The Crown Vic’s keep passing our house, some unmarked cars. There was a pack of four cops or so with their canine’s through the screen in the back. Sirens have been wailing for thirty minutes. The news is showing the weather. All I can do is watch. And imagine. We’ve been robbed, threatened. We’ve been forced to get an alarm system, a fenced gate and security cameras. Next time dad decides to spend all his money building a house, we’re running an intervention on the location he chooses.

A guy I once made out with died Tuesday. Titus. I called him ‘Tit’us. The pimple. It was my first KUI (Kiss under the influence). He fell for me immediately. I was his first tongue so I eased him away from me. Story goes he went to check out a flu and got a two week death sentence. A fucking flu! They’re wrong so often, but they were right about his unfair early departure. He was a hiccup in my life, but I never forgot him. First times are so powerful. His barely legal wife is now a first-time widow.

20/20’s Happiness episode statistically showed Asheville, North Carolina to be the happiest city in the US. I admit, I think I’d be find peace if I lived there. It permeates in the atmosphere. The oxygen seems purer. The mountain color scheme creates a sense of well being. God made that place Feng Shui. But what supposedly makes the folks so cheery and centered is the strong sense of community, noted even in their business style. Then again, I’m wondering if the few residents at the bottom of socioeconomic structure were included in the poll… unless they’re not even allowed there.

They’ve put up with the devil incarnate’s daughter. She’s taken them on a personal tour of hell. Whether it’s the medicine itself causing the problem, genetics, bad learned behavior, environmental factors or a neurological deficit, she’s always tried to be the perfect angel. At the least, she learned never to sell her soul to anyone with honeyed lies, not eternally anyway. The tortured little spirit finally understands she doesn’t have to sprout wings in order to earn her spot in heaven. She only need avoid her own extremes. She’s coming back up and she’s actually bringing some people with her.

They’re gonna clone it, and you’re going to eat it!

Never mind the consequence of man playing God for empowerment: Drink the milk…you won’t end up like Dolly.

I don’t preach vegetarianism, veganism even less. It’s a very personal lifestyle and I don’t want involvement in someone else’s decisions. We can’t always control every ingredient we consume. But this is outrageous!!!

I do not want my loved ones digesting cancer jerky or Franken-moo!

This defiance of nature is not my battle, I must remember.

Can we at least demand fucking labels? “You’re about to munch yourself into genetic mutation.”

For the longest time I’ve yearned to vacation in a crystal sand beach with translucent blue waters, breezy palms and basking sun rays. That’s changed. My motivation was selfish. The idea was sold to me by egocentric merchants.

What would be more giving than taking?

Aurora Borealis.

I want to strip myself of mortal knowledge, education and history. Become a raw, humble creature of soil and see this phenomenon as a newborn on earth. I would go native and invent new legends about the message relayed by the dancing lights. I want to have conversations with God through His expressions.

This month hasn’t been rushed at all. In previous years, once February begins, I look back and share with someone in small talk, “January flew by. I didn’t even feel it.” Then my senses tingle and I realize if that harried speed is a precursor to the remainder of the year, I’m that much closer to death! Most every one of my years has felt like a race against time. One that jumped the mark and left me at the starting line wondering when the shot when off. Needless to mention, I ready to take the scenic route in 2008.