There are two sensations that encompass everything I love about life. The elated rush of organic chemicals racing to the brain. The other, my heart beating fiercely against its cage. This type of phenomenon is felt, not just heard, vibrating in the eardrums. This sends shuddering voltage through every cell. It reverberates from the shell of the bone, into the marrow and back. The only thing to possibly push this feeling over the world's angled edge is touching someone who experiences the same storm of life. Sharing the ecstasy is why I made a pact with God to be immortal.

To win a war, you must strategize. Learn the enemy. Research my opponent. He seems to know my every next move, always steps ahead of me. And so what I've inferred is that the Devil has muscles. He's a cockardized bastard. His smile is laser death and his eyes spin you into a hypnotic spell, paralyzing the flight or fight response. Most importantly, he's mastered the ability to erase my mind, if only for short instances. Short enough to make me surrender shamelessly until I wake up, wondering where the hell am I. Then it's clear he outsmarted me again.

The nurse's room has a stench of sentence.
It smells of waiting nerves and antiseptic wiped bile.
I sat overexposed, judging her for not judging me.
Why am I not crying? Why am I not suffering?
I want to blame someone, Pink Scrubs.
Trying to mother me and forgive me makes her a good candidate.
She ought to death grip my shoulders, rattle my bones.
Tell me I'm in shock. Tell me I have deadly consequences to pay.
That it's nobody's fault but my mine.
I want to stab her with the fattest, dullest needle of my possibly viral blood.

I've re-read my entries from the beginning. Including the alternate member batch I created: Tabula Rasa. I didn't try to paint myself without flaws. I was still open to the idea that the future was hopeful with room for repairs. I wasn't hung up on the past and spoke more freely. Also, I lived in a beautiful place that eased the ugly reality. I had four seasons to better train my adaptation skills. I was closer to God and less judgmental. I must expose the wounds that didn't heal properly. I have to admit the pain to reseal the damaged areas.

Some weeks have nothing going on. Nowhere to go. Devoid of interest and nobody to incite my dormant adrenaline. I'm training myself to be okay with that. I retain more energy when I use the slow periods and awkward silences to regroup. But until things pick up, unless I find the most captivating song written or the most unique person since 1999, my mind divagates to a time when my tongue was hanging around his belt loop while he clutched a handful of my hair tighter, my knuckles slid inside to press on his body part that makes him squirm.

I miss being small. Little bones and nimble agility. I smiled a lot even throughout the sense of impending doom that was to explode and expand as I stretched up and out in years. My favorite play was lying in patches of grass at parks. I would start journeying by shrinking myself down until the blades of green were giants and I was but a Thumbelina. Then I would roll over and have the monster blue skies rendering me even tinier, into a microscopic bug. Everything was bigger than me and I was cool with that. Emphasis on the 'was'.

At the risk of sounding like a fanatic (I'm not), truth is I'm very religious. Always have and will be. Even within our beliefs, I'm usually the congregation member who struggles most visibly with normal worldly desires, constantly seeking out redemption. The cleanliness of my life is what sometimes drives me mad. The ordinariness. The predictability. Control and discipline. My brain was wired contrary to everything holy. But that's exactly why I fight personal demons and strive under His good graces. Without divine intervention, I'd be dead. Or a crack whore. Wouldn't trust anybody on earth to be my savior.

How do men say hi the next day like a mannerly neighbor hosing their lawn? How can he look at me like I don't give him a raging hard on? As if an erection is just the lifting of a metal structure? I see him and he still sends shivers down this bare body he devoured. The red bandana covering his shiny head. His trackie bottoms flopping over his kickers. His delts stretching the straps on his black tee. I would use my glower to make him feel small for taking my bait, but I can't pretend it meant nothing.

There's an overload of material simmering within, but I'm not ready to expand on it. I will not sit here and complain about how difficult it is to organize and express myself or about how limited my verbal and writing skills are. No. I've seen my accomplishments before and they're not gone, just on sabbatical. The stark truth is I'm momentarily a little broken, extremely spent and unable to be completely honest. So maybe my work is a little deficient right now. I always bloom when I'm ready. Relaxing my efforts might even reveal something I didn't know was there.

"You don't remember falling? You didn't let me help!?"

I inspected the damage, silently raging and listening to his recount of how I scraped/twisted my sore knee and acquired a blood encrusted shin.

"Yea, listen to the smashed unintelligible girl on the cement floor! You sure followed instructions when I demanded you hike up my dress and other similar commands."

But I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a thing until our group effort found my yellow thong and we all parted ways. Still haven't told him anything of significance other than,

"No hard feelings. Just leave me alone."

The garage door whirs downward and clicks loudly, shutting it all out from behind. I clamber through the laundry room, sucking whiffs of fresh mountain fabric softener. I skip over the desiccated frog I crunched with bare heels earlier and throw myself on the mattress. My brain pulsating, stubborn eyes fight the drooping lids, trapped tears swishing around inescapable whirlpools. She’d violently snagged the scalp stitches. My fingertips sense moisture on the wounds. Probably an overflow of damned tears, not blood. Tomorrow is the perfect day to final the rough and mail it to him. It couldn’t get weirder anyway.

If that were my babygirl’s dress, I would’ve ritually burned it. Along with his lighter fluid doused car. Not my momma. The darling of a woman picked up the rag from the floor after it was shed, undaunted by whether it sponged up gin or tainted bodily secretions belonging to that dirtbag. She wanted that thing washed and hung, as if it were still her responsibility to help me clean up my messes. Regardless of the hotness of my FreakEm Dress, it’ll make great confetti once I find sharpened scissors. She shouldn’t have had to go through that. Nor I.

I have my suspicions that doctors who write copious works (i.e. essays, novels, etcetera) or any professional with a mastered practice that juggles dozens of side projects is either bipolar, or an insomniac. Let's not rule out amphetamines. Not to say they don't experience writer's block, but they have an excess of ideas, tangents to follows those and verbosity up the ass. I say this out of extremely jealousy because if I could come up with brilliancy without ever having to shut up and slow down, it'd be heaven on earth. Only times it happens is when I'm emotionally unstable.

You would guess I was a widow, clad entirely in black, even opal kohl, perfect updo, geared to face the guest mourners. Maybe the done up corpse to be exhibited in an open casket. Unintentionally, I dressed for a public hanging, subconsciously prepared to have all eyes on me. When the call out moment arrived, it was like being on my back all over again, except this time my eyes would roll back, land and stay there eternally. But no. Not even a drum roll or an ominous suspended seconds before pronouncing my notorious name. It was mumbled if anything.

Been thinking about ramming my head into a wall, getting a concussion. The odds are impossible but I'd like to damage specifically my hearing, maybe become deaf, forcing my auditory cortex to become hypersensitive and possibly begin to have auditory hallucinations. I would be able to create music in my head. I wonder what theme or genre the epicenter of my subconscious would orchestrate. I surmise my songs would be unconventional: random lyrics, clamor and chaos turned into beautiful melody. But truly, I'd love to take the elegance of precise mathematics and internally compose complicated symphonies of the powerful sort.

With one rustled thunk, my head slumps onto your shoulder. I tell you all the feelings I've felt and made feel to someone else.

Love. Rejoice. Rapture. Ecstasy. Loss. Abundance. Hunger. Disappointment. Repulsion. Hope. Hopelessness. Madness. Rage. Sympathy. Empathy. Emptyness. Ambivalence. Indifference. Serenity. Anxiety. Agony. Dread. Despair. Desperation. Fear. Torture. Nervousness. Indebted. Confusion. Ineffability. Freedom. Trust. Distrust. Patience. Relief.

You drink each word, recalling your own experiences, grateful for a friend that parallels you. You hesitate to commiserate and decide not to fold your arm around me to pull me in tighter. We just sigh and keep feeling things individually.

A blend of Rockport, Maine's autumn dipped foliage and Portsmouth, New Hampshire's waterside ships lightly sunned by falling dusk's remnants. I've never been, but I've dreamed up a combination of these places. Didn't know they existed until I saw pictures. The technicolor high-pixeled photographs described what I saw in midnight travels and cannot paint in the mornings when I open my eyes to realize I live in a commercialized city with skyscrapers and smog. This is without even mentioning ancient canyons and sleepy desserts of the West. That's just America. This world is too immensely picturesque for my contemplative capacity.

Musical hallucinations are quite common, likelier when mild hearing loss accompanies aging. Already experienced an assortment of sensory phenomenon since childhood, I'd like to think I'm susceptible to this neurophysiologic occurrence, especially with the aggravated graft covered ruptured eardrum. If this malfunction were to possess me it would be a gift to hear sound in the form of music. I'm beginning to input even more songs to my mental repertoire. I need to ensure a great internal music box selection, so when my brain plays memory unbidden, I'll rise and fall like the scales that take me for a ride.

Songs:

If you never say your name out loud to anyone, They can never ever call you by it.

All of these lines across my face, Tell you the story of who I am.

There's blood in my mouth, Cause I've been biting my tongue all week.

I'd like to buy some of your time, I've been saving up my life. So what's the price?

Bat your eyes girl. Be otherworldly. Count your blessings. Seduce a stranger.

You've got your ball. You've got your chain. Tied to me tight, tie me up again.

I can't tell you from the drugs.

Again I find myself examining my muscles. My new favorite, since women usually favor lower body because of our leg power. My biceps are more toned than the triceps. I still have some of that underarm grandma sling but it's disappearing quickly. This means the invested work is becoming physically evident. It's not mere vanity, its personal fascination with visual symmetry, the pursuit of discipline, the art of calibrating diet, exercise and self-control that I so often struggle with. Matter of fact, when someone shows me their regimen laid out on spreadsheet, I release delightfully reserved sighs. It's my thing.

Last time I ended there it was involuntary, by the mercy of a cop who could perceive sad girl versus delinquent punk. I never paid that bill. It never showed up again. How could I land there again? A petty act of public mayhem? Dragging a blade over my wrists? Speak freely of the multiple voices? I could get away with it too if I wanted. I can feign emotions whether I feel them or not. I can be mad. The only thing I can’t manage is to be believably sane. I need a rest. One with Jello and Prozac.

I know exactly what it is. It happens in cycles and its becoming apparent that it's decided on once or twice annually, while it remains subtly in my subconscious as I go about convincing myself that I'm in complete control. I know it requires a fight against myself to pass safely through it all and go back to that deceptive stage of normalcy. But I'm tired. And it requires external support, but then I would require a positive approach in humbling outreach. Which goes back to…'but I'm tired'. I don't want to sink, but I don't want to swim either.

It's not that there isn't anything to talk about. I just can't anything that would interest you. Or me. I certainly am tired about talking about myself, other than the selfishness involved in perpetual self-analyzing. But I don't relate to friend or family. In turn they don't relate to me. Strangers are better matches. And things, they're just that. Lifeless objects don't tell stories. The colors are dull again so I'll spare the description. The music causes a strange overload of stimulus and so does the silence. I should've wished more carefully, because I think I got what I wanted.

Sometimes I stutter. Of course, I hate it. It’s not a failure to speak without first compiling a complete thought. The thought is ready for execution. Then comes the neurological malfunction telling my brain to make an ass of me, triggered by moments of stress. It also impairs my efficiency of enunciation, not limiting my humiliation to slap happy stammering. I’m rendered retarded in pronouncing the L in my name or adding staccato to consonants. In one instance, a bead of salty sweat coerced a furious wink. Might as well shave off my ineffective eyebrows and freak him out completely.

If you could remove my filter and examine the heaped contents that never make it past the mesh wiring (by the way…Déjà vu), you’d have you’re hands full of a lot of crap. Interesting crap. Fun crap. Unorganized crap. And some is too abstract to even bother with. What gets drained through is not near to pure, but it’s enough to store in a portable cup and top off with a disposable lid, drink it in and recycle through the filtering system again. I don’t know where I was going with this, but I’m sure I had a point. Next….!!!!

The best writing in unhindered. It’s well-organized, sifted through the many parallel possibilities a great sentence or paragraph could result. It’s loaded with succinct detail, specifically led into a much contemplated direction. Moreover, its openly honest. Which I haven’t been able to do for fear that I’ll be found. Or remembered by bored, curious friends who wonder about that girl who wrote online. Friends who love a juicy exposure. Screw them! The true bother, the real hesitance lies in the dangers of exploration. I usually get wound up in the convoluted trails taken and head back to an edited safety.

Here’s an irrevocable attempt at facing the fear of unhindered truths:

(Much like slamming three beers. I’d reveal my guarded secrets regardless and most likely regret it in the morning)

Due to androgenic alopecia, I require Rogaine for Men. I’m still unsure if it should be a landing strip or a bald baby motif. I hate showering and skip out about once or twice a week. I watch closely in movies when girls are on the john to see if they wipe in front or back. It’s the third diagnosis for bipolar disorder. Although not renounced, I’m still a skeptic.

Girls like me, in my position or status, should be out painting the town whatever whimsical color she feels. Red. Blue. Black. They should be ordering wine and salmon on her friends’ set up, well-intentioned, horrible blind date. They should hear clopping heels on romantically lit sidewalks. They should be making movie go-ers uncomfortable by moaning desperately in the theater. I opted for an early rest, a suspense short story and an entry post. Recovery begins with regulated sleep. I’m anxious for the meds to desensitize the sounds just a notch so I don’t risk stabbing random perpetrators of douchebaggery.

My id is highly demanding. Even on a purely biological level, it still favors narcissistic tendencies. Based on the feuding societal demands to be yourself, yet spend your days scarcely surviving under the tyranny of corporations who have no ties to you other than fiscal, my superego reluctantly overcompensates, wreaking havoc on my poor neural pathways, keeping me bound to the arduously tedious rat race. My ego has little say in the matter, helplessly watching both ends duke it out like the little cool angel and fiery demon burdening my shoulders. Thank God meds are assisting my reasoning abilities today.

"That girl there is a tough one." A sinuous voice interrupted my count, pushing tris up and down over the kaleidoscopic carpet. 'The Devil' appeared, showing potential clients around. They could care less, so I assumed it indirect flattery. I nearly hurled at his slimy compliment. However, I felt a certain pride, because developing physical strength does promote a tenacious mindset, assisting in emotional breakthroughs. Later, during hyper extensions, I felt a viscous palm on the small of my back as a marking indicator. I pondered swinging the 10-pound plate around at his pie hole. Don't need his help either.

My trustee electronic dictionary met its maker today. Aside from the mourning comes the uneasiness of encountering words and not having the instant gratification of their precise definition, pronunciation, tense and alternate usage. I'm terrified to read a book without the handheld to hold my hand. We had good times. Yet most of the things it taught me, I forgot almost instantly (as you'll notice, my vocabulary usually stays within three syllables and common words), but to know the potential of language and expression was at my fingertips, nothing can replace. I lie. I just ordered a higher tech dictionary.