Did I ever count to 100 straight through? I never even completely covered the ninety-nine bottles of beer. I remember my young self reciting different lessons and songs I learned, but if there was a certain order involved to get to the end result, I don't recall doing the work to follow through the middle part. What I believe happened is I conjectured the proper pronunciation in my head as the numbers rise in tens, same as I know number 1,832 without counting up to it, so I saved valuable time by skipping right to the number of my bidding.

I've heard you string them along. At first, the indiscernible nylon thread floating around in a body of water without specific purpose, until the hook attached at the end is evident. And there, stacked are the little pearls you compile for your prize. Some with slight discoloration, some with obvious streaks and swirls of marble color. Mine is whole and pure, one solid shade of sheen glimmering in the sea. I won't get caught, and you won't take me home to hang and admire your precious collection. My worthy is much more valuable than a display aside your other conquests.

"That's why I love hockey so much. I would watch all 82 games during the season and completely zone out. It was the only time my mind wasn't obsessing. I was disconnected to the world. Every other day, I learned to stop thinking so intensely. Now, I just disconnect without disassociating myself from reality because I have to and I know how. It's too exhausting to be mulling, cycling and grinding. Anyway, there are still numbers in sports so it’s a peaceful thing. Find a youthful memory that brings you comfort so you can stay with us for longer periods."

He came back. They always come back. The game is on again, the picture is clear as to what course this is taking already. You are the bunny, automatically and mechanically running laps. I am suddenly in the position of the greyhound. A retarded dog who cannot gain the logic based on repetitive history that the little critter directly out of his reach will never be caught. I wish I was a lab rat who would learn the lesson on the first few go rounds: the chase brings no reward. As thrilling as the hunt is itself, it gets tiring.

Just studying about adipose tissue and lipids makes me cringe. The word calories forever will carry a negative connotation. Misleading media is at fault, implying to us that this natural bodily occurrence is actually the devil incarnate, gripping a death hold on our muscles and organs, making us look like monsters gorged on miserable human flesh. It's festering in there, rotting, and now it's too late to completely rid the evil unless by some miracle I never have to work again and can spend my time on fitness, hire a personal chef and nutritional expert to come live with me.

After years of silence and being alone, attempting to love and failing to launch, I understand why you need more space. I understand how horrifying it is to try again. Even as willing as you are to take that wild leap and share yourself with another person, how every fiber cultivated in your body is pulling toward the other direction. What I don't understand, is how you can't see that I truly understand your position. I am the exact reflection of you. How come you fuel me with the courage to surrender, but you -my replica- will not face me?

How I tell someone I love them?
Why, with cookies of course.
As if there were any other way. Not as much to bake them myself, but I certainly choose quality cookies in velvet boxes, cellophane wraps, baskets and even bouquets. I buy the traditional chocolate chip cookie, the large cookie cakes, with icing, without, quarter sized and oversized, ginger snaps, piña colada flavored. Based on your personality, the repertoire we individualize and the occasion, if I love you…you will get cookies in some form of another from me.

Can somebody slap the sugary sweetness out of me? It's sickening.

Memorable Received Texts:

Lets do this. Lets light your counters on fire.

I have longed and pined for a Canadian so long… I must have one.

I gots to get me suma that. Shrooms ain't got nothn on ur pill. I wanna czar in my room.

Where are you, stinky whore?

I have no sexual interest in you, so no. But we would make the coolest lesbian couple ever.

I love your brain. I mean it.

OMG… literary queen mispelled priviledges.

Ant said manhunt starts 8:30ish Saturday.

He's violent. Maddox is doomed.

I'm going to throw myself off a building.

Memorable Sent Texts:

I'm out this hole. See you on the flip side.

That would be wizard.

Use your shirt to wipe his face. Make yourself useful!

Cool Legumes. Get it? It's not my fault I'm corny. I'm a product of my parent's upbringing.

Go down with a bang. Cover all of the seven sins in one day. Twice.

Are you taking pictures of sexy food?

Classic case of "when should I have stopped?". OK, nothing to see here! Carry on.

I don't remember saying that. I wanna czar in my room too. Wink.

Sorry about getting frisky with you…again!

Still overheated, sweaty and prickly from crouching under massive spider webs, the itchiness was exacerbated from being sandwiched by Ant and Mal. The littlest always gets stuck in the middle backseat. We were all a little thrown by the blinding gas station lights after our eyes had dilated to adapt to the darkness required in woods. We were gradually regaining normal vision, becoming aware of our dehydrated state and feeling the beginnings of hunger pangs. Our banter was tired, but I was 100% receptive to Dave's shirt changing movements in the passenger seat. That bright piece of shoulder restored me.

That kind of dialogue is reserved for sitcoms and comedy specials. Lightning speed witticisms with general mass recognition of pronoun references and thunder sized responses within microseconds can only come from well written scripts. Even if you were to access your frontal lobe with the perfect blend of intelligent humor and timing so quickly to drop awesome commentaries, the person you're with may be slow or too stupid to keep up your pace. Unless… you find a person or a group of kindred friends with esoteric dynamics. Then you got yourself your own series of Arrested Development or Gilmore Girls.

Lying on soft white hotel sheets, a little chilly according to the temperature set, plopped on plush king pillows, in the dark room alone but so far from loneliness, I decided to let myself think of you. I even allowed myself to call you, compliments of the double shot bourbon the weird salesman downstairs put on his tab. The time difference prevented your voice in my ear, but your image was present and I could still feel you inside me. I looked forward to room service at dawn and your curious callback wondering what had me so ready to go.

One night in the French Quarter is an absolute tease. Although I'm sure there are other places that I can find the silver cowboy, a leprechaun and the devil on the same street, I don't think they would offer 3-for-1 drinks at Huge Ass Beers before lunch. Iron gates, foyers and wrap arounds with gorgeous hanging ferns. Bourbon Street, hurricanes, boiled crawfish, and chargrilled oysters. Beignets, King cakes, above ground cemeteries and Mary Laveau's House of Voodoo. I had to wrap this mother up in 5 hours from inside a drop top. I'm coming back for more. I sure am.

You may be wondering why the apples of my cheeks look so fluorescent. Why my torso area has a tiny irregular protrusion. You are probably trying to determine how I chirp without moving the lips. I fashion a mischievous evasiveness to the matter at hand and wear a smile that would require my ears to be further apart than the laterals of my face. And those feathers floating and falling around me? To answer your curiousness: it's because I swallowed the canary. He's just sitting caged securely in my ribs, singing a jolly ol' carefree song, withholding the juicy details.

The function of body is beautiful. I wish it came without sound effects. At least, I wish some people were educated in the nature of what sounds are disgusting. This guy, aside from looking like his face is plastered with ass and a smack addict, is heard from where I am, burping, emitting gross exhalations, mucous-lined inspirations, trapped gleek, hawking, phlegm gurgling, etc. No shame in igniting our gag factor. What's worse is I bet his little grunts, puffs and whiny moans are what his blowup girlfriend hears. Too bad she can't tell him to get his slimy ass off her.

Was it coincidence a pastor rode on the returning flight from the Rabbi's convention? I kid you not. It's an actual occurrence. One got on the PA system and started telling drinking jokes in his yarmulke. All this was leading up to bizzare, when I realized my fellow passenger was a pilot, casually dressed, hitting on me hard, wearing a wedding band. He thought it gentlemanly to follow me to the deserted parking deck and got disturbingly abrasive when I denied dinner. The signs were obviously screaming that I should carefully drive home and wait for the universe to normalize.

I would give my left tit, parade around lopsided, in order to spare her the hair-pulling, spot peeing, panty twisting frustration caused by the stereotypical macho jerk off. Her inner anatomy has been churning and burning as she externally keeps her cool in front of me. She needn't front, but I supposed she does because I pretended to keep my shit together when it was my turn. We'll bitch and fit over texts and emails, but in each other's company we say fuck it. Never throw a tantrum over a man. Move on. Still, I'd chop it off for her.

He's the one. He unfolds my letters, stacking them neatly. He's compiling a notebook. Well, the last statement is just fancy, but he certainly applauds my expressions. He overlooks the scratched errors, misplaced articles and dyslexic switcharoos. Delved and in tune is he into the pure intention of my writing. He ventured to suggest passing them around to be admired by others. I'm trying my best to slow down the thousands of stationary envelopes being inspired in my word bank. I mustn't overwhelm him, just take the compliment and carry on as usual. I have found the one before, remember?

How did I not discover this earlier in life when my angst peaked? Batting cages, beer, and legal drunk driving! A place where I can let my tongue go, wear sweatpants, look like shit, and yell horrible obscenities while slamming projectile balls coming straight at me. I'll have to get my own bat since they only provide pussy lightweight aluminums. I need the heavy dense material, so when ball meets striking object, it sets off my bones like a tuning fork and releases a little more stress. Wish it were legal to knock out the underage kids littering the place.

Summer madness has fully possessed me. My perennial inability to sit still has arrived and made a home in my bones. My study plans turn awry if I perceive the tiniest gust of a coastal wind. Sometimes I discipline myself to sit by the books, reading and notating, but damn the sun and merry season, my head is off at the beach, at a field. Anything under the sky. Rain or shine, I'm an unstoppable, sleepless, restless puppy trying to escape from the fenced yard. Come fall and I start to settle some. Less jitteriness, more quietness, daydreams of spring.

Behaviors, manners, and mannerisms I detest, but am guilty of committing myself:

-Spending ridiculous monies on Starbucks

-Regulars at the gym who will never make eye contact after years of sharing a membership

-Cell phone drivers

-Lane changers who don't signal

-Compulsive email or text message checkers

-People who try to season offense by adding, "No offense but…"

-Correcting stranger's grammar or use of definitions

-Excessive movie/sitcom quoters

-Diners who wolf down food without savoring

-Nail inspectors, page flippers, ring fiddlers who are not really interested in conversations (just leave if you don't want to hear it).

-Cliches

-Predictable vocabulary

The practicality techniques I absorbed from mom are not so practical, nor in sync with my personality. For example, M has the option of metallic glitter, red polka dots or hot pink Converse high tops. She buys the glitter, although she owns no matching attire and her wardrobe consists of plenty red. I would've picked out hot pink since it'll mix and match my closet better, although coveting the glitter, envying her ability to easily pick out the fun color, just because. This is more than just a sneaker conversation. It's a parallel of even the minutest decisions I make.

My hands are not at all as delicate as I'd like. They don't seem to belong to the adhering skin that extends to support my body composition. They're always a little dry, defining lines of wear, from frequent paper handling. The nails are healthy although unpainted. Even though neat and shapely, it's obvious a manicure could add to their femininity. The dorsal front has noticeable pale blue veins that branch into mid forearm. Not masculine, but not at all the teenage girl I was. I like them though because you can tell they form into a glove of refined dexterity.

Whatever mundane business dealings I have must ensue(job hunting, insurance quoting, cemetery purchase), I like to think that its part of something big. I may be small fries, but I'd like to be connected to a super sized corporate monster. The kind in which employees get crazy lucrative benefits, have their own little league and have all kind of interoffice drama and nepotistic battles. When I arrive to these locations, the reality is that it’s a shabby, untended building. The kind with greasy cafés in the lobby that theoretically have great lunch specials, but their sandwich bread is disappointedly stale.

This world and its cradled society requires tremendous patience and perspective to survive it. I believe I have a moderate understanding of our relationships and the patterns of its functionality. That being said, in the midst of all that spins at unimaginable speeds, I don't consider myself well adjusted. I could step back and watch it all go down, but when thrown into the madness, I become unwound, frayed and crumble down. I'm the kind that requires an in-depth mental health background check if I ever applied for a gun permit. Sad thing is… I could still manage acquiring one.

Jealousy is a natural reaction, so I naturally began fuming inwardly while I outwardly held my nonchalant composure when I caught him chatting up his ex-girlfriend. In my dazzling smoke eye shadow, bronzed skin, stabbing heels, short suit shorts and steel thighs, in most casual, confident strides, I glide past them without lending a glance. He pulls me over and she introduces herself over to me as if she were Snow White (a Latin version). My green toward her turned mild. No competition. Non whatsoever. Except maybe some nostalgic history. I can touch him better. And I'm obviously more flexible.

He's gradually redeeming himself. I've got the color back in my skin as I'm no longer holding my breath. I'm making my place as the observer and he can do all the walking and talking. I'm propped in my little spot, reading books, painting nails, planning my weekend trips. He can wonder who I'm with, what I'm doing, what color underwear I have for the day. I shall be nothing but everything-nice to him and smile like I no clue what's going on, where in truth…I'm tallying up the points and losses and hoping that he royally wins me over.

At every craving call, she indulges. For every occasion there is a new outfit. Every whim is satiated. Her closet is loaded with boutique apparel, her makeup box is elite, her music collection is ridiculous and everything is of luxurios quality. I try not to compare my Ipod, shoes, home and hobbies to hers. I love her in the same manner that she doesn't care about the gap between our classes. That doesn't mean that I don't feel reduced when in the presence of her country club, stunted by limited education and stupid when I stutter because of ancestral genetics.

Ruminating about him, his face, voice, every little thing he says is a false security that he is more mine than if I'm not thinking about him. This isn't a new pattern. Since childhood, where all the issues begin forming until they manifest with unforgiving rage during adulthood, the physical absentness of someone who loves me unconditionally was unfathomable unless they were looking at me, talking to me, touching me. This behavior is ten-fold when it's someone who gets me the way I need to be gotten. I'm aware of this so I try to harness the thoughts about him.

God grant me the physical and emotional health necessary to perceive him with crystalline pureness. Give me the wisdom to balance my activities so that I'm not to blame when I can't keep up. Spirituality comes in waves, completely dependant upon the self-regulation that imperfect people have to figure out as life crashes upon them. Yesterday it became clear to me. Although I am always aware of Him, the realness of our connection can lessen if I don't upkeep the friendship as if He were a person with flesh. I will always feel the need to be under His wing.