The back of my skull is cemented onto the concrete on the floor. My eyes fallen back snugly into their sockets, loosely tossing from side to side, gathering their bearings, pleading to the skies, my legs are up in the air, not yet having given up completely to gravity. This transition has fully knocked me down. I'm idling down here, not too concerned about getting up so quickly and just surveying the area up there, from down here, wondering what I'm in for. It seems heavenly, yet feels painful. Head to heart to toes. I'm gradually get up and go.

When the sprinkled night sky takes on a silver tone, dominating the supposed black prevalence, as much as you want to let your glazing eyes fixate over the countless constellations...you find your head bowing in reverence. You find yourself in love with the person you just disagreed with. Their creeping warm arms weave into your chilly elbows and suddenly you're conversing with God. I cheated, my attention traveled upward again. I couldn't resist the attempted challenge of viewing past the infinite expanse, even though the limits are written in unbreakable physical codes. We were so small, yet so relevant.

One entry away from December 13, the cutoff for the November month set in. Once again, incomplete. And boy, was there a shitload you missed. Even anonymously I cannot deceive strangers. I have to disclaim that I copy entries from incomplete batches and forward them to following month. I don't waste words. I don't waste the energy captured to write what I did and the effect it was created to have. It’s cheating, which I admit to any wrongdoing quickly and automatically. Catholic guilt. I’m not even Catholic. So this month will have some November highlights mixed in.

I'm going to be a wife. I say that with pause. Every mundane task executed as a single woman is now taking a few seconds longer, because I compare it to how the next step involves one more being. If I catch up with an old flame, would it stir up drama? If I buy more body pillows, would it take up his side of the bed? If I procrastinate the dishes, am I a dirty housekeeper? If I don't shower tonight, will he think I'm dirty? If I buy lunch, would he want some? Life is growing faceted views.

How can I talk about something other than headaches? In the past... how have I gotten past the pressure on my temples and suggested blood constrictions? This week, I baked a red velvet cake, drove a friend to Clearwater beach to chase the birds on the shore, cleaned out dollar stores of their light blue stoneware coffee cups, had a date at the paint garage, redeemed a $100 gift card to Victoria's Secret, iced, candied and raised a gingerbread house, bought a bamboo plant in a panda ceramic pot. Yes, this week more than the usual batch of health problems.

Never had I deposited so much cash of so many various papers before. Chump change for the average bloke. Anyone else would laugh at the scarce numbers I'm talking about, but for me it was thrilling to have those checks sucked from my fingers by the ATM. The dinging and the whirring. It was oh so magical for me. I felt a little bit out of control and paranoid at the same time that this meager fortune would somehow be taken from me. A machine gun to my back or a hollywood type heist. Ha. Regardless, it'll be gone soon.

This year they didn't give us the turkey. They annually present us a gift card to redeem a hefty, rotund turkey. I always have the mind to tell them we'd much prefer the cash over the poultry, but I don't have the guts. I was counting on this bird coupon. Not because I would make a family meal with stuffing and cranberry and all, but as a benevolent sign of feast to come. Instead, the lack of a winged icon is a foreboding omen that this year will be hard times. Well, not for our fat, comfortable and plump employers.

Anonymous November 1. Hit nail on head.

I laughed out loud as I read it. I took slight offense to it, because its true. But I reject most truths initially until I process whether it truly has basis or not. Or sometimes statements aren't really directed at me, but I include myself as part of the group because we are all naturally a little narcissistic and think everything is about us. Anyway, the pointless point is, I CAN tend to sound a bit depressive. In everyday life, I don't let people see the struggle. I let it out here ... anonymously.

Before the ring on my left hand, I never paid more than $25 for jewelry. I've attained pieces based on color, style, originality... never on worth. Jewels are valuable but they have a place and somehow I never deemed myself in need of decorating my neckline and wrists with such royal sparkling stones.

I told him I don't want a wedding ring, I want a honeymoon. He presents me a massive rock that I fall in love with and begin to literally and figuratively see new angles of light. But how I nightly pray it is not a blood diamond.

This dream was impacting and worth analyzing:

We're on the moon. Me and the people who have affected my social environment. My friends were off being scavengers, but I couldn't see them. I just knew. I was up high in my own world. I'd found a device I maneuvered excellently. It was a hover device that somehow worked with gravity-manipulated mechanisms, similar to magic carpets. My parent's influential peers appeared out of nowhere and demanded I stay grounded. Get down they said. I looked at dad; he didn't mind. But they glared at him. He made me come down.

I love new members' first batches. We've all done it. Some use month number one to explain why we chose to write or what we will write about. Some of us think we are so ingenious to not utter a single word about 100words and just be creative story tellers or illustrative writers. Even if we keep our discipline, at some point we hit the wall. I don't know if readers find it boring when we ramble about nothing, so long as they relate. Personally, I'm bored with mine, hence, I love the ones who break but come back strong.

The paint garage itself, I don’t like. The 6 lane outside of it... I love. In the early deep blues of winter, especially during full moons, traffic is absent. Not many citizens fill up the streets. Most shops in that dirty industrial zone are abandoned of labor. Only his fluorescent lights buzz on. I drive to him at speeds in rhythm with my car stereo. I head home with the windows down to better hear the city tucking in their families. I leave him with a coffee from the corner gas station, spraying rare colors on his Euro whip.

He asked in expanding surprise, “You don’t think you’re pretty?”

I looked up to the to sky for answers and rapidly searched my inner tigress for the most convincing, yet honestly confident response.

“I think I have appeal.”

The corner of his eye reflectively glanced where I’d just looked, nodded in agreement and satisfaction with the description.

Internally, I relaxed muscles that didn’t even know had tensed. Feeling my head nod it's pretty little head, I approved of my assessment as well and am flattered he doesn’t feel the need to constantly reassure my image.

I've worried of so many things: loss of creativity and passion, bipolar, bitterness, hormonal swings, disease. Now we're closing in on 'complicated migraines' in which I can't find any updated verifiable information on. It appeases my idleness on the worst days, even when pain doesn't strike... but it's so hard to think when the pressure is on. I just want to jam a sharp letter opener in my brain as a rush makeshift non-surgical procedure to create a shunt for the poor compressed vessels and cause veins to spurt all over the place. Better than a frustrated, twitching eye.

Charlie Chaplin is hardly funny to me. It may emit a chuckle for effort after a while, but a gut guffaw is not going to happen. Benny Hill, yea, sexual slapstick can suck it out of me, pun intended. Not even Jackass on weed would make me laugh. Does this make me a bitter person? Does this make me a comedy snob ,that I require complicated wittiness, a philosophical mind-bending quip of some sort to tickle my thick-skinned fancy? I wish I was so simple minded to be more jovial. Could I will myself to be so jolly?

Within the US, even in the economic slump, the average citizen probably still took for granted being able to shower daily, when you wanted. My hair was 7 days greasy when I signed my marriage license. The self-alleged compressed nerve, it's still alerting all the chemical pain signals 6 days before my wedding, even with my follicles finally stripped of dirty agents and renewed of bounced and shine. How a girl loses confidence and smile when her hair does not reflect her inside mood. I still want to cry about the days I only showered from the neck down.

It's not much to ask, that I finish off December before cut off. There's been a lot to mention or a lot to reflect on. Just today is an overload of information and I just want to catch up so I can continue with what January has already brought. My best friend's mom's cancer is holding her back from driving down to throw my lingerie party. Standing tanning beds is a more unusual experience than I could describe, whether you choose to hang on the straps or not. The back of my head keeps throbbing and the MRA was denied.

It's happening again. Everytime I begin to experience extreme satisfaction and ecstatic joy in life, I feel in order to balance the scales of justice I must also imagine the actual feelings of true loss. Once I actually put myself in the alternate universe where someone I love is gone and I just lost the person I couldn't survive without and begin to sense the literal pang in my heart and the lights grow dim, I chicken out and escape back to reality. I don't know if I need to address or suppress it. Why do I even do that?

They say you look how you feel. Could the origin be inverted? I feel like I look. Because the minute I bulldozed the legally neglected unibrow (note exaggeration please), it was as if some stress faded off. The skin color is still patchy; the highlighted streaks haphazardly frayed, but all I needed was an episode of ‘flip that face‘. A little added attention to my bag lady façade and I’m ready to have outdoor friends again. However, glance at my belly and the stress cortisol is still wreaking havoc. I don’t feel lumpy. C’mon genetics, show me what you got!

Cross continent, over flat plains and malnourished dessert, from one peninsular point to another, to the ends of the earth. To what Jack Cousteau stately called the "Aquarium of the World". And with that comment, the rock formations rising at our peripherals while I viewed out into what seemed a placid waterscape became a universe of eerie bustling sea life. How their hearts must've pounded to land a ship on that gritty, glassy sand, with sea turtles crawling all over them, sting rays and dolphins carshing waves and blue whales inviting them in with celebratory spouting water fountains.

Practically inconceivable.

A good sense of chronology is vital to feel a smooth fluidity of life. As much as I value time and its passage, ask me about dates in relation to a memory and I can't hardly even remember circa the year. It's frustrating that I don't compute space-time sequences. It could've been weeks ago that I was met him, it could've been years before that that I got mad at him. As mentioned, I can somehow tell you when exactly 38 minutes go by and what hour of the day it is without a clock, but seconds aren't lasting.

If I pointed the bastard out to him, he promised to have his legs broken. I don't know if I could live with this. At least it isn't murder, although legally unjustifiable. With time, I've allowed myself to stop taking full blame for the situation and accept that I didn't deserve what happened. Even more, since we deduced he must have slipped something in my drink. It just doesn't add up. He didn't know me back then, but has to live with my compromised mortality. I condone fighting for love, but that round was long ago. Should I be avenged?

"Do you want some blow, senorita?"

I blink to adjust my hearing, flinching not a muscle. This Spanish brownie obviously spoke to me the wrong words, a mistaken language.

"Como?"

"You want some blow?" I look to see if he offended grandpa, selling the cowboy hats. Like a stone.

"Some perico? "Glance at my caramelizing guero, tattooed, tall and rocking his aviator sunglasses.

"What you like?"
"Eh..no, no.. Gracias." Walking on to the next chieftain-looking beach dress vendor, I pretend looking interested.

Side by side, we climb up a warm dune hill for lunch...

"Did they just...?"
"Yup."

Library Books on hold:

The Girls Guide to Absolutely Everything

Intergrated Medicine for Neurologic Disorders

The Nest Newlywed Guide: Moderm Married Life

No-Hassle Housecleaning

The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less

Playing House: A Starter Guide to Being A Grown Up

Speed Cleaning 101

Men's Health Guide to the Best Sex in the World- the editor's of Men's Health

What No One Tells the Bride

101 Things I Wish I Knew When I Got Married

Headache Help: A complete guide to understanding headaches and medicines that relieve them

Go Organize!: Conquer clutter in 3 simple steps

Three Black Skirts

Everyday, I've been nuking a frozen chocolate chip cookie from the legendary Neiman Marcus recipe. I think it's cocaine injected for addiction and hashed up for happiness inducing qualities. That and a steaming coffee cup in the afternoon seem to be reducing the migraines while I readjust into the greuling reality of a meaningless job after discovering the real life in paradise, while my husband is away for work. Yes, the secret lies in finding small pleasures until we can make it back to the ends of the earth.

I lied....

...the magic ingredient is in the sex.

He drove to Home Depot for a thing plywood to stack a mattress on. It literally a minute away, so I'm gonna rush in some words. The door to the guest bathroom is left open. Ajar doors irk me to no end, but his reasoning is logical. He put together such an eye catching and appealing treat, he wants to see his creation every time we pass by. That room remains open. I got the 'applications' room. It has no matching theme, but something great pieces of random work, including his guitars. And that new painting of the girl DJ.

For all intentions and purposes, I'm not sure how to correctly use this phrase but I'll employ it anyhow. I dreamt of it and it'll keep obsessively cycling in my head until 1)I write it out and/or 2)I speak the words out load, possibly numerous times. Same as it happens if I hear a certain song in my sleep, I can only rid of the tune if I actually find it on my ipod or download it from an torrent website and let it play it in real time, so that I may free it from subconscious.

I'm not a salesperson, I'm a motivator. I won't convince you that you need to buy a shit load of beauty products because you deserve to indulge that neglected, poor, hard worker. Even if you're too stupid to call bullshit, I wouldn't try to pull it off. I would honestly approach you with the true story about the degenerative crap America feeds us, the radicals in polluted air that destroys our skins, the exponential weaknesses of our natural God given ability to fight deterioration. We must help us help ourselves. We must determine our dignity. I want to sell health.

The Swede has been my target, the origin of my cancer during the day and the trigger for a devilish migraine. The stink of cigarette, the filth, the raunch, the paunch, the tremor, the distaste for life, the taste for the distasteful, the humbug grunts. Then he goes and does something I was raised to do....kill with kindness.

Didn't work at first. Made it easier to hate him. But he gives me a mouth dropping wedding gift. Then he repeatedly give me insurance and financial advice. Now, he just cried for a Vietnam friend. Ugh. Can't hate no more.

Two days. I want to make them so significant, I can't reduce any of the last 3 months to a single thought or one big production. Not anything coherent anyway. And what's the point anyway, it's not for you to know. It's my life and it's so private and wonderful right now I don't care to share it. It's between me, him, the neighbors, the thin walls, Cabo...and some photographs. All I can think of right now is how sunny and pricky cold it was on the day we married and how it feels like it never really happened.

Yellow and red.

Red seems to create a multidimensional "waw-waw" effect in my head. This one consists of mostly cognitive symptoms first, a confusion of awareness, a sneak attack of irritation, a rising intolerance of noise and movement, and then come the sensations of bilateral head pain, cold hands, cold feet, unstoppable tears and bursting pressure in the brain.

Yellow is more in the throat and stomach. Basic nausea, sleepiness, alkaline taste, when severe there are canker sores, sore throats, tighter air passage ways, fatigue, restlessness, anxiety.

I, along with many other children, don't fit into this intoxicated era.