My anonymity has been eradicated by my eagerness to share. I had all intentions of remaining a faceless person who is heard but unknown. Then I have moments I actually believe my own hype. I get so excited to be read, that I divulge the locations of the 100words project. I even posted the damn picture. I thought it wouldn’t affect what I write. I’m finding it constricts the honesty factor. I keep editing out the heavy stuff. I could take on another nom de plume, but it wouldn’t take a genius to make me. Unless I change my style.

It’s time to get serious. You will be clients under my wing, following my lead, looking to me for direction and guidance. I will be your teacher and motivator. None of this friendship crap. I’m here to help you locate the pieces of confidence the media has destroyed and bring them from the inside, forward and out into the physical. You will learn to make educated decisions on nutrition, health and proper regimens. You will leave here sore, but feeling like a freshly cut diamond. If not, you will get down and gimme 20 while I sit on your back.

How do you nod your head, taking everything I pontificate at face value?

All this word dropping, how do you not doubt if I’m using definitions correctly since you don’t bother to pick up a dictionary?

Why don’t you ask how I became so well versed in the topic I claim to master?

Aren’t you at all curious how I came to know it?

Don’t you itch to know my sources and debate the cons of my argument?

Can you please have an opinion and prove the skull you possess actually encases a brain?

Question me!
Challenge me!
Fight me!

At about three miles the runner’s high begins to kick in. If my hamstrings had reached exhaustion, if the music was pounding my eardrums, if my ankles were swollen… at 3.5 all the endorphins wash out the pain, the numbness converts into an airy feeling of flight and suddenly my hips are steel structures that move like rapid cutting blades. A trickle of sweat descends from each elbow and everything in my peripheral vision disappears. I’ll never stop running. At mile six, the cartilage on my knees starts dragging me down and I have two glorious hours left of feel-good.

“We cleaned the office, stopped at the bank, knocking out errands …dadada.”
What the hell? Didn’t you have a sentence to complete?

“I don’t like him so I was like, whatever.”
Don’t you love the full effect of a pointless description?

“His mom had diabetes, his dad had gout, yada, yada, yada.”
This one isn’t too irksome because it speeds along the conversation into a culminating point.

The only wordless interjection that’s admissible is LaDeeDah. It purposely implies nothing except cuteness. It’s a frilly personality mark, not a lack of verbal skills.
And it’s the best Annie Hall quirk.

LaDeeDah.

Good Morning. I haven’t dedicated any attention towards analyzing why this simple, old as time phrase, bothers the living crap out of me. Here are my attempts at getting to the bottom of it or simply stating alternatives to saying …you know…that idiom I hate being uttered so early in the day.

1. I don’t like repetition. You said it yesterday.

2. Stating the obvious is wasteful.

3. I’ll determine if it’s good. I don’t need your persuasion.

4. Morning is more preferable than Good.

Morning. Leaves open option for me to gauge whether it will be good or not.

Hey. What an agreeable greeting.

It doesn’t assume feelings of goodness or badness. It’s simple acknowledgement of the person entering the room. Even a non-verbal upward nod would be enough to asses the mood and determine the venture of the conversation. It skips right over possibilities for small talk, getting straight to the point, going deep and taking off. Or it makes it openly obvious if the hey is muffled, grunted or murmured that there is no need to engage in banter, discussions or squabbling. Actually, it’s a very primitive way to communicate feelings with the least of interpretive efforts.

Trying to intake this momentous occasion from miles away has made the wedding seem unreal. We chat about it casually, but not having been to a dress fitting, absent from bachelorette night, and lingerie shopping over the phone, has prevented the fully gripped idea that my best friend will soon be a Mrs., married, a wife. I don’t have words of wisdom, but I’ve been hoarding collective sentiments to possibly share with her before the dedication becomes legal. Until then, when acceptance finally hits (when she’s finally decked and dolled in white chiffon), I will pretend she’s still my bitch.

Lifting her shirt slightly, pushing down her jeans, she unveiled two brightly tasteful sparrows, one atop each pelvic bone, flying downward into her happy place. A seriously impressive selection of original minded ink. A typical girl would have imprinted a predictable fairy, a butterfly, or her un-fathered child’s name in ribbon cursive. She chose to figuratively display some independent thinking. Seeing my approval, she started hiking and removing her husband’s shirt to show me the Portuguese rooster on his bicep and blades spearing his anterior lateral. There was a few I didn’t get to see. Where shall I draw mine?

The gorgeous surveyor from our satellite office visited. Had this been a full female staff, they would’ve craftily arranged a conspiracy for him to casually bump into me at a local bar so I can show him the ropes. I might’ve ended up showing him the corporate apartment and romping on the freshly washed sheets like adolescent monkeys.

All male workmates and I’d be bored at home.

Well… Realistically, it’s likelier one of the bitches would’ve told him I suffered from gonorrhea and immediately thereafter, blown him.

The men… They would’ve earnestly blurted, “Wanna date the cute receptionist?”
“Yea, sure.”

It seems, upon examination of my colloquial style, I ask questions in multitudes. I have more questions than comments. Or I convert comments into questions. The thing is, I hardly expect specific answers. Only responses of whatever sort my listener or teacher wishes to supply. Everything can be questioned, only to ripple into oceans of more complicated questions. Why even ask? I suppose posing rhetoricals opens debate and invites individual proposals. There exists not definite answers to any question ever presented, since they’re all subject to personal interpretation and uncontrolled variables. Even exact sciences, the unquestionable is susceptible to fallacy.

You’re making me listen intently with the minimalist of efforts. I can stare at your lips opening, closing, all the while attentive to the secrets you dispel out loud for me to decipher. So easily do I understand where they’re coming from. Soon I’ll be finishing your sentences, although I’ll speak them internally in order to hear your voice forming words. I don’t think it will be long before your eyes are sufficient means of communication. Talking will be rendered unnecessary and we’ll be using our mouths for other things. Body language might be all we need from each other.

We are nothing alike. I don’t like little theme parties, especially when children are guests. I don’t want to lunch or lounge at the beach with your mummy chaperone. Our talks are interesting to you, not me. I particularly dislike how you say ‘we’ when you want to endeavor in man-hunting. I’m hunted without external assistance, thank you. Here I thought it would be honorable to expand my horizons, but I’m better at entertaining myself than your erected circus tent performance. The complication: I couldn’t moxie up to tell you we don’t click. Perceive that you need to quietly disappear.

Body and Mind Correlation

My immune system has depleted in power supplies, consequence of unfit and insufficient sleep, careless ingesting of indigestible cheese, and imbalanced nutritional intake. Physically, the stressors have been triggered. Exhaustion is present, while my defenses struggle to catch up. Although no dramatic events have shifted, my emotions perceived the alteration in process and were stirred awake. Suddenly, the man I was determinedly over to the point of being disremembered has crashed back into my head. Not having him seems to be the true reason for the headaches, soreness, and lethargy. Rest shall pacify the unwelcome memory.

“You’ve got many aspects of life figured out. There’s an air of confidence about you.”
He admitted directly to me. He noticed my pensive furrow, working to remember when I divulged this.
He perceived my curiosity, continuing, “You didn’t tell me that.”

The remainder of our visit, I kept waiting for his left hand fingers to uncurl, hoping to find a milky white band of skin wrapping around his tan fourth finger. Apparently, his marriage is operating swimmingly. Nevertheless, he can sense my personal stance as of late and I’m thrilled I’m emanating how I really feel for a change.

As I read valuable documented facts or pick up trivia during documentaries, I’m taking mental note. I’m filling up my knowledge book in preparation for game show participation, such as Who Wants to be a Millionaire or Deal or No Deal. I strain to memorize not only the common events about history, sports and presidents but also those obscure little known details bits found on Snapple caps or hidden in thriller novels, i.e. brandy was invented by accident; the average raindrop falls about 7 mph. Just in case I someday get to fool an audience into thinking I’m trivially adroit.

Confess! Confess! Wash yourself clean. Dip yourself in the ocean where the same water won’t touch you twice. Get rid of the previous events. Scrub, exfoliate, scalp your skin and dispose of sins committed. Let the lord dress you white. Taste the blood as it pours overhead and remember what it tastes like. Remember how bitter and regurgitating it is to stoop so low. Once defaced and degraded, come to find that the crimes undertaken were minor offenses. You could have been sleeping soundly all these past few years. But confess nonetheless, just in case you’re tainted. Just in case.

Don’t know what I read, but I distinctively remember it suggested to maintain zest for life, the passion of the universe, do like a child and find wonder and amazement over something, anything, every day. Some adult kids have no problem playing out in the rain and practicing headstands just for the rush, or leisurely inspecting a bug. There are more fun things to use up your worries. Generally, I’m one of those, but sometimes its work. I schedule the opportunity to find something to wow about, before I even know what it is. I extend it like that too...”Woooooooow.”

Details:

I grasp one thing at a time, but today I’ll focus on the miniscule details no one deliberately picks up on. I may miss the overall picture, but I’m willing to sacrifice a 24 hour period of events to name specific shades of colors I usually wouldn’t distinguish. To pick up on body language, to spot cobwebs in the making, to pick out the discreet instruments in a song, to notice graying hairs, to find the girl crying in traffic, to dissect the hidden intention behind someone’s conversation, to feel my own visceral reaction when my cheek is kissed.

Household items and thoughtful consideration

I always think of the kind thing to do, holding an empty bowl of cereal with a gulp of milk left and flakes beginning to harden against the dish. Rinse underwater before she washes it. Granted, the most generous thing would be washing it myself, but when I don’t, I figure I should meet halfway. Yet I don’t it often. Thoughts don’t translate themselves; action materializes a great trait. I have to stop hoarding the spoons and forks in my bedroom, return my tumblers collection into the appropriate cupboards, and wiping down the bathroom sink.

Different people, at different times and paces in life, are being revealed the complicated workings of the world. Especially the inexperienced youths who learn the secrets of survival at rapid speeds through trial and error and hands-on methods. This very second, they’re being disillusioned by the instability of relationships, the realistic success rates, the futile attempts of humanity. I’m sure the more mature are constantly rediscovering coping tactics, no longer feeling shocked and terribly misinformed by what innocence one promised. A little disheartened, we individually continue adapting and plowing right through the short-lived expectations we once had high hopes for.

There are traces of girl all around me. Tasteful jewelry pieces lying on my desk, pink bras in the clothing piles, hair brush in my gym bag. All these seem to be fake attempts at being a girl. Even whilst done up in my favorite A-line black and white dress, I still feel like a fraud. I don’t find I comply with the requisites of a feminine, sophisticated woman. It’s more believable that I’m a boy of eight, than a delicate creature who carries my name gracefully. But I think that’s just how I feel, and not what people perceive.

There’s goes that big bright ball busting burning bubble taunting teasing and tasering me. He’s closer to the creation of time, so he thinks he has the right to tell me everything I come across is old stale tried fried and sized. Go zap yourself cause I could give a zing about your juice. It’s new to ME every time. The shocks and shivers sent sizzling through my simple self is enough to keep me energized excellently for an entire eternity. Fizzle pop your way on outta here, don’t bring that mess again. No stay, I didn’t mean it so.

It would be nice not to think about you for a few seconds. I need a break. Focusing on something like walking straight or putting on a bra before the shirt would come handy. These spells where I stand at a mirror and blur my surroundings out are getting longer and longer. And honestly, why think about it so much when it’ll happen anyway. The first time you slide your hand down my back. First time I fix my stare at your gaze without having to look down from the intensity and take a breather before I look up again.

My brain keeps track of word usage. I’m mindfully aware of how and what topics are of present. I chart verbal patterns. I know when I’m restricted or when I’m picking up articulation skills. I remember subjects fallen accidentally into repetition and try to change it up. Because when it hits me that I haven’t learned new words and I don’t change context for variance, I get sick by the sound of my limitations. My solution is to read books I wouldn’t normally read and start conversations with unlikely candidates. The mimicking begins, and I’m irritated by my stagnant creativity.

Today’s challenge is not texting him, even though he perpetrated my dependency of this communication. But guys can get in over their heads before they realize that persistent contact, the kind without breaks in between can get tiresome. Last thing I want to become for him is tired. So as much as I want to send him a dirty joke, an explanation for the long island ice tea incident, the word of the day, or a picture of the bruise on my knee… I will make it known to him, through silence, that I’m willing to quietly wait for him.

So bored I could cry.

Spangled in bangles.

I actually waited 4 him when he said he’ll BRB. I LOL @ myself.

You aggravate the floaters in my vision.

I haven’t worked at a lot of places that aren’t pro-efficiency, but I just smile and type myself deaf and dumb.

She’s like a leech on his dick!

You can’t change the past.. you can’t control the future: EAT SHIT NOW!

Is it time for my WSBF (weekly scheduled bitch fit)?

Woebegone be gone! Woe be was here?

If you’re allergic to nuts, his cock will send you into anaphylactic shock.

Peter is becoming a regular trigger for my disturbances. Three offices away and his explosive coughing still pounds the backside of my brain, contusing sensitive ear bones. It’s not a rare fit. It’s a thousand times a day. He’s hacking out lungs while rolling cheap cigs. He does it while working, eating and shitting. Deliberately, he revs up his monster truck throat to catch and expel all kinds of grossness. It’s advanced his deafness. Never conducts his cacophony discreetly. When they’re cuffing my blood drenched hands, it’ll be a day he constantly interrupted my sanity efforts with his audible disease.

Self talk. We do it even if unknowingly. Our little voice is constantly deluding itself into the reality we have been formed to believe by external and internal forces. If we are a negative people, it’s comforting to resort to our defeating behavior. If life is truly that horrible, but have chosen by nature to accept the better aspects, then we use blissful ignorance to plow right through adversity and search for reasons to keep us on track. The world is spinning a wealth of choices and we convince ourselves of whatever the hell we want, whether it’s real or not.

Good-Bye.

This remark is very personal (the common population might not agree) that it is summoning of all things sorrowful. An honest and necessary sentiment, but that’s exactly why I can’t bring myself to ever sincerely mean a goodbye. I strongly believe it shouldn’t even be adjoined because there is nothing good about parting ways, ending fond repartees and retreating from the comfort of validation into one’s quiet (or noisy) mental arguments. I hardly ever say it. Definitely not the first to initiate it. I prefer See You Later, to extend the convivial memories and ensure it happens soon thereafter.