"That healthy stuff you eat tastse like crap."

Words capable of disgusting me the most... and they always comes from fatties. Or skinny people with saggy guts who's shit smell like hairy cats in rigor mortis. I want to tell them that mac and cheese with Yellow Dye #5 they're chomping is what woke me up with busted, bleeding lips and a tightening airway so they can take the soggy macaroni and cram it up the other hole they don't need for breathing. Some people just don't care to know the modified tomato on their pizza can killem.

I do.

I'm an angry American, although like Einstein, I consider myself a citizen of the world and do not claim to belong any nation. I'm distrustful and growing paranoid. I fear the day that to wake I'll have to disconnect from an oxygen tank to hook up to an air purifier tank to put my baby in a miniature hazmat jumpsuit before we step outside to eat food grown in an underground Gestapo like mobile organic garden that must be moved every few hours before its discovered.

Sure, other nations suffer too. I'm oblivious. But this is all I know.

I avoided stories on Haiti earthquakes like the plague. Like most worldly catastrophes, I've learned to stay away from them because the helplessness leaves me catatonic. I refuse to watch or listen to mainstream coverage. Shield my eyes. Cover my ears. Accidentally, during an IKEA expedition, I was bombarded by scenery I couldn't handle: an otherwise beautiful black little boy with blood spouting from his skull and the Silver Fox snatching him out of harm. What Crock. I mistakenly donated money to a corrupt organization for a relief. I'm still kicking myself since I know first hand volunteers. Real heroes.

You can hear the garages nearby, since we're all juxtaposed apartments, whirring open and closed, when families are bustling. Carrying in groceries, coming in from a late night, organizing their junk. We heard our neighbors when they moved in at random hours pushing furniture across carpet. We wonder if they hear him nail me against the wall. Luckily, We only have two neighbors, next to and behind. No one on top or under. Cause I walk heavy and I'm irritated by foreign noise. But I like the sound of the garages opening and closing. The sound of community. Strange feeling.

Instead of a commercial shopping center or a new housing complex with the same Stepford like cut out, I'd love for them to clear out some of these messy woodlands and turn it into a field. A strawberry field. Best on sunny days. So heart warming when little girls are taken in their sun dresses and they stain their stubby little fingers. But I would settle for wheat or hay. I love when they roll em up into balls, like in Pennsylvania, and wrap it up in white plastic. It looks likes marshmallow crops, far as the eye can see.

This shy, hush-toned, green new housewife is taking notes, reading books, creating lists and practicing a laser stare. She doesn't take no for an answer. She, however, does not nag or demand. She's mastering persuasive inflection and hip stands that lure the helpful charm out of a busy new husband. She's speaking louder day by day, leaving sparkles on every surface she touches. In between meals and laundry washes, she's pumping iron and doing calf raises so she can be a femme fatal in heels when she prepares a succulent dinner with nothing but an apron, heels and spice.

In my imagination games, the most fascinating and horrific fantasies were about the endless ocean, the world with an abrupt edge, sea monsters, underwater Gods. I knew they weren't real, but I so badly I wanted it to exist. I would stare at deep waters, breaking my head, visualizing past the horizon and pretending after a decade, ships would fall to oblivion. I would create fish beasts with layered teeth and poisonous tentacles. How I feared witch sirens and mechanical monsters of ancient that would rise to condemn us if we chartered haunted territories. Fearing the unknown seas was thrilling.

The aging process has begun, a development I thought I'd take on kicking and screaming. It's actually trickling in with a cool sense of ease. Although I'm not particularly fond of the lines forming deeper, I'm growing close to the stage where about half, if not more than half of everything my mother said, was right. The mainstream is bringing me boredom and recreating nostalgia with old friends is becoming frequently common. We just recite good times and quote old lyrics and 'those were the days'. We distrust the youth and fear for the future. I'm only twenty six. Ha.

Nothing like diverting a bout of depressive thoughts like taking on a dirty kitchen. Attacking grit off a stove, scraping splatter from a stove wall, filthy sinkholes and unorganized refrigerator contents.

I'd rather roam under his car's hood, but God forbid I dismantle his perfectly designed engine system. He'd run me over with his prized vehicle.

The point is: cutting grease is the most gratifying way to revive clarity of unfiltered wild thoughts and detrimental ridiculous imagination.

Yes, the symbolism of cleaning out the grime transfers onto the devious mind. I come armed with powerful disinfectant and heavy duty sponges.

With blood exiting numerous orifices and excruciating organ pain, I’ve reluctantly surrendered to infusing myself with carcinogenic, sedative drugs. Predisposed to cancer, common sense would call for a day of repose, but in this scarce economy, opportunity lends no allowance for mild illnesses and rightful use of sick days. Aldous Hudley failed me, all of us. Once a brilliant author, now a devil incarnated by his elitists eugenics agenda. We’ve been forced to submission. Under the guide of a free country, they’ve knowingly subjected me to no other alternative than mind altering drugs that weaken mental and physical fortitude.

Isolated and uninfluenced as I try to be from the vain ambitious city life, it still smothers, poisining slowly. After a one month return from paradise, where I clarified my ultimate goal is to escape into a simpler life, in a simpler place away from media and one where government is unconcerned...my sights are being narrowed back to what they were. I'm losing the colors again. Except I know what waits for us out there now. I won't be unhappy here. We'll enhance our lives while we patiently wait and I will continually throw down the negative incoming masses.

It took a bit of growing up, breaking away from that hood, to separate culture from God. Our beliefs weren't cult-like, but I just didn't know how to speak up among them yet. However, their devotion remains strong. So does mine. I just had to make a distinction between emotional faith and educated faith. The core truth prevailed the test of time. I know the ranting bother may have had his timing wrong, but the Book was accurate about the decline of the nations. Down to the specs, it's all happening. World manipulation..I mourn 911 for the first time.

I’m scared to speak. I’m scared to roam the web. Paranoid to leave a trail. Civil oppresion in America?? Never! That’s the mainstream condition. The poorly read, the misguided masses, the recreationally occupied. Why worry about worldly issues, when you can afford to blur out the negative with clubs, drone induced televised programs, addictive pleasures? I knew it was coming before they did, but proof has leaked in blatant daylight. Do I know too much? This is not my fight, not our war. I just wanted to live undetected as a housewife, but I’m deemed as a useless minority to evolution.

Without denying the practicality and usefulness of modern technology...

I still prefer hand washed dishes over a dish washer machine.

I prefer writing/receiving a letter any day rather than email.

Guitar and drums, over a synthesizer and record scratcher.

Asphalt over a treadmill.

Post it notes over a text message.

A zephyr wind in preference of air conditioning.

Conversation over television.

Definitely - most definitely - a hardcover new print scented and bound book over a fucking kindle.

Staring at a beach, than staring at a screen saver of one.

Fresh jasmines, vanilla and lavender, instead of an aerosol home fragrance.

Looking far down to the sandy hills, not a sign of life is to be seen. A breath there would disturb the perfectly designed dunes and send them tubmling down. All that is seen is clean ripples and neat star shaped edges on the mounds of dead dirt. There is nothing to do there but die. Spend all day thinking until you perish. Some would slowly and painfully reach their expiration point from dehydration but I think most would let their minds wander dangerously, with literally no end in sight. They'd invite their end, unwittingly, by insanity. It was beautiful.

They're at Mardi Gras partying away, destroying brain cells in a medley of pagan rituals and additional traditional customs. Some of my friends are there and they are awesome people, yet I still don't fathom the point of indulging in such hedonistic lifestyles, to later dressing up a saint and preparing Lent.

"God, I'm about to commit a list of sins you disapprove, but as repentance, I'll go hungry for a little while and confess my detailed transgressions."

It's like abiding to the government, but only paying what bills you deem fit.

Sin freely, but leave Him out of it.

On September 11...yes, THAT September 11, the alleged commercial planes brought down the towers. We we're out at midday, doing work of the Lord. We were already preaching doomsday, just a different kind. It was so bright and sunny in that Miami urban neighborhood. We found out immediately by cell phone. One of our brothers started slamming bible texts, which ever way he thought it applied, partially wrong. People we're finally willing to listen. They needed us to find them the proper scriptures in the Bible. I barely understood but I keep looking up, waiting for signs to fall.

The little black book has been neatly put away as treasurable nostalgic memorabilia. Now, I have an oil stained, dog eared appointment book covered in different colored inks, highlights, sticky flags, exclamation marks and tasks underlined 3-8 times.

You fight it and it's a tough showdown with yourself. You refuse to become that married person that disappears into a void of inexistent socializing. You tell your girl friends that you will pencil them in as soon as you have a 5er spot. But alas, you must use those precious minutes for a quickie. Defeat: I surrender singleness spontaneity...forever.

For as long as I remember, I mistrusted authority. My first memories as a chubby Chinese-looking butterball, I felt unsafe when I heard police sirens. Growing up in the ugly corners of Manhattan, I perceived earned respect from the loitering hustlers at our apartment building stair entrance, but not from uniforms. We were being watched, fearmongered into submission. At age 2, I understood and had the Matrix-like dread. At 16, I never liked undressing even when I was alone in my bedroom. Someone can see me, I don't know who, but I knew our privacies were being violated.

I picked out a nice cucumber at the produce section. My hunger pangs were stealing any desire to interact with the world and glare misfortune upon anyone in the way of my homemade tzatziki. A little old lady in front of me at the register was cashing out. Red knit sweater over a crouching hunch at the top of her back. It seemed to be the first time she swiped a debit card. Boy was she tickled, giggling and cooing! Like that, my pickle was tickled back into freshness. I wanted to abduct her and cook her a Greek meal.

I remind myself that I am not my thoughts. I'm my actions. My actions are lacking and slugglish, because my thoughts are heavy and viscous as they transition. It's an unfortunate cycle, so I step away from the circles and spinning, stand straight up and look forward. A new momentum is needed. Stop thinking about what holds me back or the greater forces that molded me toward failure and mental bondage. My outlook on life... it's wonderful. That range of emotion that once scared us all, have been harnessed and I must remember that. I'm smarter than the current situation.

It's almost a form of adult ferberizing, the way he lets me cry. I can safely assume he doesn't enjoy his spouse in tearful distress, but we simply cannot speak humanely when both of our emotions rise to boiling point. I will try to freeze up my muscles and voluntary functions, but involuntarily the cascade falls. Biting my tongue is a painful action, but respect is a form of patience. Of course there are days where demons possess us, household objects fly, and we bleed our own knuckles. For the most part, we just need to let ourselves calm down.

Unfortunately, poison treated waters, the vaccinations and processed foods win again. I had gracefully weaned off of Adderall without any desire to pop one, traumatized by the detrimental side effects, but after three weeks my thoughts have grown incoherent and I wake up and cannot generate a thought to save myself. I break my brain trying to make sense of anything and my rationality is verging dementia. So I succumb to their default solution and go back on the amphetamines. My eyes have focus and I can think ahead more than 30 seconds. But I know what awaits long-term.

It's been a dark month, filled with little pockets of illuminating wonders. The truth is, I love my and/or our potential but I don't know how to get it. The motivation killer is the slavery we're bound to. 40 hours of being stationary. I don't know how much longer I can take. The money is not worth it. I'd rather live in a rat hole than a monkey cage. But its not just my home, it's his. I wish he would be happy without nice jeans and luxury foods. Ugh...I've been reduced to rambling by mind fogging meds.

This gym smells clean, unlike the last one which had the upside of an olympic size pool, but the smell of armpit and bleach. The weight machines don't squeak, the pop music doesn't blare, the wall schemes aren't murderous. My heart was pulsing through my shirt as I imagined my thighs contracting as my fingers, wrists and forearms pulled at the dual cross cable machine. My legs flying on the spinning bicycles. I am another person when I'm on the move. I know exactly what I want and I own the mats. May these knees hold me up, I pray.

With a god given entitlement to happiness, I cannot exercise it tonight, despite all my efforts. I’m ready to cry. Willing to admit that I cannot be strong everyday, unable to bury disturbances regarding our impending futures. My oblivious friends, who’ve never suffered debilitating and mysterious illnesses, who have not been short on the genetic end are so quick to convince me of the blessing of procreation. I’d be as cruel as our invisible diabolical master puppets to bring a child into this world, who has to scrutinize his food, mistrust everyone and survive the odds on a daily basis.

So many truths and untruths and psychos on the internet. Sensationalists, fanatics, believers, truthers. Some noble, some lost, some found, some idiots. We can read and re-read the facts and they'll just lead us into a loop. This skeptic can disprove you right into believing the lies and back into the right path. It makes me sick, paranoid and at times even victimized. Half of my life seems to have been subtly targeted. That's when faith comes into play, you damn sheep. Can you sincerely trust the fallacy of the noblest man? No. There are things we'll never know.

Dear Younger Self ,

Remember 45 years ago? You were blindly in love. You were the type of psychosomatic cripple that claimed you wish to never be miraculously cured of your handicap because your deficiency infinitely enhanced every remaining sense. But you wrung your eyes out because you loved too much; it was overwhelming. You wept because love was not enough; you were empty. You couldn't see the end; it broke your heart. I wish I could travel back in time and tell you to open you eyes and see he saw every bit of you.

Wishfully,

Happily loved older you