My thumb dragged across your bottom moist lip. Maybe the rays were too strong and causing a heated delirium. You on that lawn chair, browning in the sun. Me, laid down across mine. But then I remembered we're just friends and I retracted my hand, placing my head down into my arms, feeling the chlorine water evaporating off my back. You said not a word, wishing I would continue sliding my pruny fingertips all over you. You determinedly held your ground. Don't think for a minute I didn't peripherally catch you staring like I could be more than a friend.

For all I know you were dead, white chalk lining your silhouette in your apartment while cops wheel out your lifeless body in a gurney. All I could do is call and send a concerned text. Death is always first assumption. Your phone didn't run out of battery. Your family didn't have an emergency. You didn't take a nap. You died all alone in your apartment. What do I do with my instinctual preoccupation? Toss it aside as irrational and improbable, screw our plans, and go to dinner and movie with someone else instead. I really hope you're alive though.

True I have strayed some from delving into the universal, general and metaphysical liberating type of profundity. There was a lot of junk in to sort out and in that personal project of attempted organization, I ransacked beyond my means. Lot of damage was done, a lot of wreckage in need of rebuild. I had to skate the surface temporarily until ready to remerge. I think I’m getting out of that gelatinous funk where nothing made sense, and all of a sudden it’s like a fog has been lifted from my clouded eyes. I’m ready to properly exercise my faculties.

My grip is tight around the coffee cup I'm not supposed to be ingesting. My nerves are shot from caffeine and light boozing. It's not even a good cup, since the economy's gone to crap, I haven't hit a coffee shop in a month. All the stress of money and missed phone calls, careers and relationships has been gurgling at the bottom of my esophagus, the mouth of my stomach. There in that mush of organs, lies a disorderly pile of all my problems. The burden of my world begins inwardly and I'm exasperating it by nervously inhaling another one.

Usually, I'm not the event planner kind. I come up with the idea and delegate the actual set up to someone with palm pilots and color coded binders. This groove came to me in an epiphanous manner. Eureka type moment. Suddenly I have the strength and energy to round up a group of similarly spirited friends that would love to camp out around a bonfire at one of the critically-acclaimed top rated beaches in the nation. I will not organize the food, activities or campfire song lists. I will just initiate the invitations, reserve the sites and eat their smores.

There's a habit I constantly working on ridding. I'll always struggle with it, even if I master the bulk of it. I play things out internally before they are said. I rehearse conversations before they're inconsiderately spat out. Especially if meant to be amusing or jokes. I even predetermine my pronunciation since I tend to blunder my s's when unpracticed. If I chuckle at myself, then I proceed to amaze with my supposed witticisms.

He, on the other hand, is raw. He just spews, not caring if it works out well. If it doesn't, he just says, "Back to workshop!"

True creativity originates from available resources, not material fallen from the sky. This requires active mentality. Loosened inhibitions and freeness is required for this process to flourish and take off wildly. This is where I question my abilities. My muse needs a push, sparks from another. I miss ol school days where a teacher provides a prompt, project or thought to seed, water and grow. Unless told otherwise, I can go for months without motivating my brain. When I finally realize it's up to me, it takes some kind of toiling to be naturally fruitful in an ingenious way.

Ok ladies! Let me clarify something. If you approach me one more time with an invitation to let my hair down, kick back my heels, and dance it out, I'm going to let you watch me yank my fist up my insertion hole, pull out my ovaries and chuck 'em. I don't want to convulsively giggle myself stupid on Girls Night Out, pretending we're more interested in female camaraderie than hot men. Hanging with you… gets me no closer to getting nailed. I'd rather hang out with the guys who only open their mouth to belch or recite dirty jokes.

At least I've been sleeping enough and been well regulated to be able to handle this. Instead of going on a sugar binge and possibly slipping into some crab cakes, I've decided to take a less indulgent road. I'm going to run it out. Modify and tone even more. Detoxify with a vengeance. Renew every living cell. I will be busy super setting, counting, circuiting. There will be no time for tears, frowns and sorrows to take over me. Nope, I will be creating butt loads of endorphins and canceling out any chances for despondence. I'll break right through it.

You seem to be daft about the initial pheromone rush, same as I get. So much so, that I'm thinking to chronicle every little leg brush and every message sent to make this tiny episode spurt we had together last longer. l should detail it, extend it to its full extent to make it seem an extraordinarily large chapter in my life, when really its nothing more than an excerpt of my luck with amazing men. Spending time with you was phenomenal, but if you can't retain the exuberance after the haze descends, I'll probably never write about you again.

To curb cravings, I found an affirmation in one of those usually useless advertisement magazines that supposedly offer cutting edge advice about Shaping the body. It was simple and from a fitness standpoint, not an emotional one which most women crave the empathy of easy, effortless suggestions. No, this was clear cut and resulting very handy now that I'm hankering for a juicy blueberry muffin loaded with refined sugar and high corn fructose syrup. A once overweight triathlon-er suddenly began to view her food as fuel, not treats. I need whole grains, not jejune starches to feed my run today.

To be a woman:

During my first visit, I proved I needn't cry. That's out of the way. Today I've earned the right to drive over, sloth my weight into her room, lay limp on her bed, and sob until the dripping snot mixes with the salty tears. She could stroke my hair and softly whisper, "Fuck hormones. They suck." or "Yea, but at least our genitalia doesn't hang out." My other wishful scenario is that I could lie motionless while someone takes off my shoes, changes me into sweatpants and brings me a cupcake and a cold soymilk glass.

My relationships with people are still don't feel very whole. I receive the superficial, I give back superficially. You let me in, I let you in. Otherwise, people talk to themselves when talking to me. It’s not that I’m completely selfish, a quality I struggle to avoid and constantly check and asked to be checked. I’m not willing to be vulnerable and invite people who are capable of abandoning me. Its self preservation and I won’t let the walls down in the name of free interaction. It’s all about balance, perception and knowing what to expect from potential friends, lovers.

Some people are okay with transient relationships. You meet someone, they serve their purpose in your life and they're gone. Next one up. Not me. I'm won't engage in business transaction-like relationships that cater only to small talk or occupy supply and demand. I don't like accepting acquaintances unless they're destined for substantial friendships. Yet anyhow, friends come and go. Especially at the stage I'm in. So the feeling of establishment never stays, unless you have those few constants in life. Without lasting connections, my days are usually unfulfilled, even with the myriad of faces I come in contact with.

Headlines are flashing candescent neon. I delayed informing myself, because I think to myself, what can I do? Four days since the China earthquake, death toll of 50,000. I have no idea when the cyclone hit Myanmar, leaving a suspected quantum of 100,000 dead. This is not even mentioning the injured, the affected, the devastating conditions these countries now face in aftermath, aftershock, emotionally, politically, spiritually. This world won't finish self-destructing. Its remedy is helpless. The next bulletin in scroll was about an oblivious girl scout who sold enough cookies to tour Europe.

So numbingly appalled, yet I still cried.

An impressive fear should be developed within me for survival. I'm too confident it'll never happen. There's gotta exist a better way to learn my lesson rather than being held at gun point. I just don't think I'm a targetable victim. I may not look fierce, but I generate an obvious awareness and willingness to counterattack, discouraging offenders. My perimeters are scouted with prairie dog/eagle hybrid alertness, sans paranoia. Still, all scenarios considered, I'm unprepared. I can't accept that I'll ever be mugged.

I do, however, think I'm the type to be hit by a semi, resulting in severed limbs.

To the unfortunate generation of today: Here is advice you won't receive from friends. Your parents attempted to impart this, but let's get serious, you've got a mission to challenge their authority. So take it from someone who loves youth with a smidgen of rebellion, grew up watching the madness while basic socializing skills deteriorated.

KEEP YOUR CELL PHONE IN ITS PLACE.

A speaker shouldn't be involved at the dinner table.

Don't text while someone is talking to you.

Hang up the phone in a passenger loaded car.

Write a letter, to see how words without numbers are really spelled.

These new shoes are heavy. My sore shoulders from lifting for physical ambitions feels like the weight of the world. I bit into a cookie that children in the east will never taste, even if it became available, they'll perish before growing teeth. The rest of the day, I don't want a fork to near my lips. I'll want to run home from work, instead of a cool, diesel vehicle. How do we balance the justice of decaying civilization without martyring ourselves? Had I no faith in our Creator to heal humanity, I would want to die of broken heart.

You have put me on hold. Not the kind with the swanky elevator music. The kind with the brain-shattering, murderous silence. Once I told you: I love it when you tell me to hold on. Since I lack respect for authority, therefore lack of structure and discipline… a source of stabilization is a refreshing at times. But this… you'll quickly see that I can't stay put this long. That I need to move forward. I'm hanging up now, putting the receiving down. I have no business doing business with you. You can try me again later, if I'm still available.

The Body. Human Anatomy. Kinesiology. This is my passion, among many. But I found the one that I will specialize in. It's always involved the muscles, the skeletal and cardiac muscles to be exact. That ones that can be shaped and upgraded through applied consciousness and consequently improve the function of the smooth muscle. The idea of being able to manipulate and enhance our own healthy, basically, heal ourselves while looking and feeling better, proves that God loves beauty, growth and challenges. Then add nutrition, endurance and resistance to the mix. It's a marvelous machine we have to work with.

That one's in distress. The other is drowning in self-loathing. This one is lost is self-pity. Everyone is pardonably entitled to whine about personal catastrophes which can cause the universe to explode. If I can dish it, I better be willing and able to take it. But I'm sick of hearing it. It's the condition of the world for everyone to be swallowed up by woes and its beginning to sound like a comfort factor. I will not get cozy with the sound of defeat. Therefore, I need to pull it together before the next earful from them (or mine).

The fact that the port turned out to be shabby and pathetic looking didn’t strike me as a complete disappointment. Just getting out of the office and being in the proximity of the shores, in the midst of commerce and trade is thrilling. Even with the sorry view of abandoned silos and rusted vessels detracting from the beauty of the shimmering high rises by the channel side, I could still appreciate the hustling, bustling movement of the Eastern waters and Southern countries sailing in and out of our over hyped city, not forgetting we’re here. We still generate great opportunity.

The skeletal system, so serious it is. So many paramount functions. Leveraging movements, holding posture erect, producing blood cells, protecting vital organs, supporting tissues. It can't get a break, god forbid. You'd think it wouldn't have a funny bone in him, but it does. Even straight through pain, getting socked in the tenderist of spots, it'll send the bony framework into shocks of laughter, racketing, clacketing right through the signals of distress. Let it be an example to those doubling in pain, wondering when we'll be able to let loose. Until we do, we just have to laugh it off.

There is no over or under analyzing this situation. No variable factors or excuses. If he wanted to talk to me, he would've called. I won't lie and say I didn't wait for it, but the last remaining bit of hope in people told me he would have the decency and interest. No one informed him that text messaging isn't effective in demonstrating personal attention. He simply doesn't want me or is not willing to meet me halfway on reasonable methods of communication. I've concluded he doesn't care to stake his claim. I don't want be conquered any other way.

So you changed your mind
Fine, I'll just drive past the exit
There are other destinations
Worth exploring, worth stopping by
There are other men who buy drinks
Others to dance with
You do yours, I'll do mine

So you changed your mind
You want me to turn around?
Paint highway skid marks
Race to your door like yesterday's initial plan
So sorry, the accelerators planted
Horizon fixation, forward motion
A stranger can light my cigarettes

You could've been the driver
But no one loves the road more than me
Don't think for a second I'd rather be your passenger

The Atlantic Ocean tore my bones and muscles. It had been a while since I didn't feel the temperature of those waters touch my skin. The white crusted waves were high and strong, and the current mildly threatening, but along with the sailing clouds ands steady blue sky, the beach promised that although challenging, it was safe to frolic in the salts. I couldn't think of a single thing that could lure me to dry land again. I would be playfully tossed to the shore, but used all my being to wade and swim right back in to the blue-green.

Double stuff Oreos. Cuban Bread. Puerto Rican Papi Chulo. Irish Beer. Sex and Fashion Mags. High end rouge. Blue boxer briefs. Jizz Comforters. Ipod players. White boy. Go-Kart racing. Cover ups dresses. Catch Phrases. Batting Cages. Bottle openers. Air Hockey. Movies and sitcom DVD's. Puberty picture book. Empty Flask. Inner Jokes. MASH and LEMONS. Two for Ones. Hush Puppies. 300 lb man beach towels. Missed Phone Calls. Open containers. Prozac. Mean Girls. Loaded Questions. Dead batteries. Board Games. Friendship birth. So much happened in so little time. I record highlights, to visually sum up memories the unused camera didn't capture.

From boy crazy, I have graduated to man crazy. When there is more than one to the equation I just become plain mad and impossible. Except now I have developed the knowledge and compassion not to mess around with the good ones that really are interested in more than risky liaisons. I need on my straight jacket around them, keep hands to myself. But what I want is to take a revolving door in my bedroom. Wish I was a whore in that way, but it's totally in conflict with my true desire: Just one who will support long-term sanity.

I've thank you for the initiative, for parting ways
My music rightfully needed a timely change in tonality
Songs were euphoric, utopic, blue skies, sunny days
Until rendering listeners deaf and blind
Stinging rays, blinding haze, shrieking laughter, piercing smiles
Almost graciously asked you to step out, close it behind you
So grey matter would lessen the charge, slow the beat
And inspire a heartbreaker, chart topper
It struck like lightning
I started humming the tune since you first walked in
When I wasn't looking I heard the ominous creak
The melody changed keys, and here is my melancholy hit

Patience, long suffering… not in my genetic makeup. I didn't inherit an ounce. I'm always rushed, frantic and in expectation of the next thing. I'm interval training my method of composure. A chocolate hardened by the fridge. I take it out, unappetizing in its cold state. I wrap it around with the warmth of my hand. Melt it with the temperature of my hot bloodedness. 5 minutes. Just 5 tiny minutes and its all mine, chewy and gooey. The longest waiting period of my life. It's little increments of progress but I could learn to wait on myself, therefore others.

A month ago it was almost set in stone that this summer I would have a boyfriend to drive me to the shores and do late night drive in movies. Lazy Sunday naps and starry night dinners. It was more like putty, not sedimentary rock. Better alone than with maladjusted company, but still…makes me want to stay home in ponytails, in artificial lights, listening to burned out music. But not even disillusionment can bar me indoors. Nope! I'm dressing up and bouncing out into my car and conquering every last damn sunny, humid, smoldering, sticky minute until the next equinox.