Body image. Body fluids. Marriage. Connection. Differences. Similarities. Unhappiness. Happiness. Clothing Piles. Vacations. Staycation. Throbbing temples. Natural Healing. Cancer. RSVPs. Congregation. Comedy Club. Alkaline diet. Fast food. Whole foods. Antibiotics. Dirty dishes. Pulsating heartbeat. Rosy glasses. Moist panties. Crispy thongs. Belly fat. Age spots. Addictions. Obsessions.Internet. Letters. Email. Texts. Stamps. Pink pills. Red Dye. Basil plant. High definition. Past Due. Smooth Skin. Bubbly butts. Coconut Cake. Pounding brain. Jump Squats. Cat's Claw. Health Reform. Gin Tonic. Halter Top. Hem line. 1-800. Cat. Bunnies. Beach chairs. Bluemoon. Sex. Sex. No sex. Trailer hitch. Air Compressor. Serrated Knife. Dripping blood.

No matter how drop-dead groggy and sleepy, when that clock hits five and the only thing I want to do is spoil the brain being spoiled eight hours by self-destructing bored neurons...I will force myself to hop on that hideous stair master. In a sedentary position, hours away from freedom, it seems impossible that movement would wake up energy. More likely is the possibility that I'll doze away and fall of the damn stair-bitch. I can't access the faithful remembrance of how perpetual motion gives life to the inert. By God, will I go and climb!

There is much to do.

An endless list that just as one scratches off a completed task, three more had been added to the checked off rows of tediousness.

Take the social security card to the bank institution to confirm legal status and name. Call the man with the taxes to contact his accountant Uncle. Buy organic apples, peel and slice them, drip lemon drops on them to prevent browning. Congratulate friends with anniversaries, brush teeth immediately at the recall hankering of chocolate mousse pie, stretch the illiotibial band and hips, stab a menace to society with a spork, etc.

The crimes against the earth long ago expanded to a universal level. They cross all natural and moral boundaries. Just within the last century, man has ordained himself above an all powerful creator. When you think about it, how ridiculous for this man to think he outsmarted, bought, paid for and manipulated the world toward growing his backyard and eternal legend! He is going to die in a few years. What is the point of all this ruin? How small minded to not realize he only lives in his mind, not with the rest of us human creatures. So pathetic.

I'm thinking about picking up The Art of War. First, I'd leaf through it and see if I could stomach it. Undoubtedly, the intended theme of the book is tactic, conquer, defeat, with honor and grace I presume. But the undertone, the one I'd keep reeling about is death. Not just killing, but death. A father's son at home. A wife mourning for eternity. A soldier who had no choice, who shoots at the empty air and ground. I don't know what its about, but I want to know how their inner hearts talk around the loss of sacred life.

Maybe if I just start talking I'll have something to say. From the many half-started and poorly constructed thoughts I have, on my mind currently resides: being watched while you sleep. Before this time, the last time it was special was when my parents were marveling at their little creature. Probably not as special when you're number three. But this time, it could've shifted plate techtonics when I exited my dormant state and found him not even trying to pretend he wasn't in the process of falling in love with me a little more than we already have achieved.

Bring the purple bouquet with the 'thinggies popping out of the middle'. Even for a non-verbal man he stared at me, silently proposing to ask for a description of what the heck I just requested. My fingers in a crooked position, desperately gesticulated to paint a visual of the center of a flower and the .. stuff that comes out of it. Sprigs...I keep wanting to say that word. Pollen was my next guess, but these were thin stem-like extensions. Not knowing what I wanted to say, but knowing well what I meant, is still driving me nuts.

I just deleted a detailed confessional about how stupidly in love I am and why. I want to share it to everyone, but its so private. It's mine and it's ours. What would it mean to anyone else, unless you need to restore your faith in surrending to someone? Well, it is possible. I highly recommend the tears, broken hearts and loneliness it takes to resist going out and finding a chump to settle on. The fights and arguments and venting sessions. The emotional outpours and the silent treatments; Simply milestones. That's about as detailed as it needs to get.

The current goal is: attention to detail and thoroughness. I suppose I should set a date in order to measure progress, otherwise I'll fizzle back into the old habits, surely. It's the little things. Pick up a sock if its in the hall. If a bill is final, make sure there are no numerical inversions before sending. Check breakfast-in-bed tray for all items before wasting more trips. Absolutely have all undergarments, a left and a right sneaker, before zipping up gym bag. Think before you speak. Spell check. Don't text and drive. Do one thing, do it well.

When I go home, I will lie in bed. Rest and repose. When he tip toes in to check what's wrong, I will divert the question quickly and ask him about his project. He so enjoys that. Things I will not mention include the latest political news that will kill this country, my extreme fears of the current medication and condition I deal with, the bills that don't pay themselves, the habits that create the bills, the changes that need to be made. Nope, the problems will be there tomorrow and immediate action won't solve them. I'll let him breathe.

The Nest sent me a free issue of their magazine. It's for and about newlyweds. I hated the idea of it before I opened it. I considered holding it up to candle light flames dispersing silk lavender odors throughout the home. If you ignore the 80% propaganda and 10% cheese, the rest actually had some good pointers. Tips and ideas that I need badly. A house should have a plant. Color should be on the walls. I should have refrigerator magnets to post up things memo's and quotes. This inspired me to be domesticated, but with caution from becoming ordinary.

It's so upsetting, that I don't have anything interesting to say lately. I'm observing myself suppress more and more, which is breeding ground for regret from abundant, overflowing unsaid thoughts. Just because the things that come out of my mouth serves no higher purpose most of the time, it does not mean I should bite my tongue. All the excess eventually becomes refined and explodes into my next phase in interests and goals. So why? What is keeping me from free speech? Is it the truth? Is it self-criticism, external criticism? Is it perfectionism? I must find out...fast.

My escape haven was left behind in North Carolina. It was a boondock town with fields of cotton, a bunch of local farms, a mix of trashy trailers, baby boomers and some very stately estates. You hop on 95 to get there, it's not far off. Travelers from New York will stop there to get a Melvin's fresh burger from Whiteville, pronounced whayhtvil. To get to my treasured little hideaway, I had to sustain a drive through the world's biggest pig processing plant. In one day I think they kill 200,000 hogs. I trekked through that to smell azaleas.

Just because I'm a health freak, doesn't mean I deny the tastiness of greasy, hormone and antibiotic injected meat and morphine enhanced cheese. Oh yea, that's right baby! I devoured me a little cheeseburger for the first time in about there years, with a little external encouragement from someone who matters and lives full. I amorously chopmed tiny bits, making the moment extend forever, relishing in the oily feel of trans fat drip down my chin. I slathered those cajun fries with oozing heapfuls of ketchup. Fries with my ketchup.

Was it worth it?
No.

Carpe Diem.

This is not sleepiness. Red Stag, Wild Turkey American Honey liqueur, cheap mini-bottles of various brandies and one savory frivolous high end bourbon that we shouldn't be spending on has set me two days back. They are malevolent deceivers of pleasantness when you go on a sampling spree across the ghetto zone, the gentrified and ritzier areas of town. Oh, how smart and talkative I was for a number of hours; playful, bouncy and gregarious. Alas, now, my usual elixir of productivity, radiant sunbeams, is thine own enemy. Falling behind warrants a very different expense when you have responsibilities.

Night time cuddles sound better than they are hyped up to be. A full body wrap or a cacoon of spoons starts off warm and tight. The essence is the soft, firm hand, where they end up. The fingertips, how deliberately placed they are on your skin. But then sleep sets in. The muscles relax. A limb goes limp, an embrace unfolds. The cold seeps in through cracks of elbows and the feet separate. The pressure is no longer there. The one person who is awake to feel this is suddenly abandoned and left to fight bad dreams all alone.

Things are pretty bad. Not as bad as they seem, but they feel worse than they are. All brain functions have ceased. Release is required to move on to the next possible phase, to even possibly come up with a solution, to avoid exasperating the break that's on edge. This was expected right? This is what they all warned you about? No, this is worst. Some things should not happen. Or am I naive? Am I ever more clueless for thinking the resolution is cake, once my nervous system allow the rest of the systems to respond critically? Vague, eh?

He knows I'm a writer. I used to think I needed a man who desired to read me to get to know me. Now, I appreciate the privacy of getting to express certain things without having them being studied in depth. Not even necessarily studied, but when you read someone's writing, although you can capture their essence, it might present questions that didn't need to be analyzed in the first place. He's in the other room, thinking I'm a nerd for keeping journals and reading dictionaries, but he let's me have my thing. He has his man cave as well.

From the first time we mingled at a party, this mousy girl had a mouth too large for her tiny frame. Delicate, smooth brown skin, appealing enunciation, but way too much bark and all tease with no bite. Decent taste in music, rather eclectic...but at a concert, she doesn't sway. She scoffs at the attendees dancing. She only spoke, even hugged on me, when men of interest lingered nearby. You guessed it; her squeak would transform into a squawk until she caused dispersion.

The day I walked in with him, I heard she went home crying... with a "headache".

I've been writing myself to sleep. When I started I had no desire to pass on to the other world, still dissatisfied with the level of activity and excitement for the holiday evening. Conforming to middle class and other limitations are eye-gouging for me and I cannot make peace with it. So I pre-cooked tomorrow's chicken, piddled around, slipped on a black satin and pink ribbon camisole, poured a dark bourbon, played a useless computer game, watched a tear jerker movie and tried not to tell him how much I don't accomplish when he's not here. Fade out.

Fever is gone. No excuse for idleness now. Isn't that my pattern. I stress and cry because I can't get moving. Lo and behold! The opportunity opens itself up and I cower at the thought of stepping up to the expectations I've set for myself. They all say, you're fine just the way you are. But why would I listen to people consumed in their own lives. They'll say whatever it takes to appease me and move on. I'm not one to settle for ordinary. . These stupid movies, they make you think you can break through without connections and hook-ups.

Online tv shows have kept me distracted and disconnected. I comply with time-wasters while sulking in the misery it brings to be idle. A dead end job can push you to habits you never thought you'd be capable of. Like being a sitting duck. Well, the cold is going away, my voice is coming back and my head is a tad clearer, so maybe I'll slip out of this lazy ass coma as naturally as I sign on to hulu. If not, I'll take out the big guns: amphetamines, and get to crankin. I've got a huge textbook awaiting.

In the circles I ran, having a good looking, capable husband is the fastest way to lose all your friends. Partly because have to fold laundry a little more than you can spend on your indie-club get up and buying rounds of drinks. Eventually I'll start hosting, but I doubt the singles will grace us with their bottled imports. It'll be other married couples and eventually the women will gab upstairs, while the men disappear into the garage and play with motors until entrees are ready. I'm not surprised by this separation of compounds, but it's hard to accept.

Ever get beautiful, perfect advice... the type that sums up every inflicted emotion in your person, takes it, beats it into the shape of visionary common sense?

Light bulbs going on!
Epiphanies exploding!
Fireworks!

One simple perspective that was always there to begin with is suddenly brought to the forefront by a fellow sympathizer who's does it a million times.

You're on a roll! You start picking up loose ends and changing the world! You're on fire!

How could you not have seen it before???

Then like nothing, you wake up in a funk and that momentum has reversed to point one?

There a line in Mrs. Doubt fire - don’t quote me verbatim - that says something like, “You ever take a scene in your day and say… THIS IS NOT MY LIFE.”

Today has turned surreal. The scenery has parted from its own realm and formed another dimension. One so bright and busy that forces one into sensory deprivation mode. I feel so much I can’t feel a thing. Except the frogs in the pond croaking wildly and loud, the crickets a'shredding, the mosquitoes are in pandemonium. I’d like to know the animal kingdom doesn’t share similar woes.

A 12 case of Bluemoon, Breyers ice cream on sale (vanilla and cookies and cream) and two novels, unsuspecting of my usual taste. Sounds like the perfect Friday. Well, it wasn't. Can't drink beer because of the wheat allergens and dairy and sugar are off the list. It was two books that had nothing to do with my current situation. They brought down the swelled bags under my eyes and eventually relieved the burn when they opened and closed. My heart rate slowed, I was laughing again. He came home and it all clicked. He got the better snacks though.

The only thrills and goosebumps I get seem to come from fears or chilled gusts from artificial air conditioning. When I drive, I'll look to the east and wait for that sinking bigger than life moment to flood my brain and make me exhale deeply, but it won't come. I'll play songs that once gave propelled me to run miles...nothing. I keep telling myself it's a temporary deadening of the senses. Stress, neurons that need tender nourishing, boredom with the predictable...but new prospects aren't doing much for me either. Maybe I don't believe anything spectacular is upcoming anymore.

My skin has a poor measure for temperature. It's always freezing, even at the smallest wind from a sneeze. I keep putting off buying sweaters though, as if none of them could keep me warm enough and match my probably already horrible work attire. Today I couldn't find my regular hoodies, cardigans or pullovers. I snuck into his drawer while he slept and found his grey tattered, unraveling, hole in armpit sweater. It was the warmest I've ever been. Originally , it was just to preheat my body before I went about Wednesday, but I ended up wearing it all day.

Next to my midget like 5'1, her 5'6 stature was Amazon-esque. She is thick boned, although not fat. Belly as flat as a board on a diet or coke, microwave pizza, brownies and pints of hot chocolate with old fashioned glazed doughnuts. She'd have her cake and eat it too, while I forked down tiny bites of home brought Kashi dinners. Still I felt an unhealthy envy when we bought the same pair of house shirts, her large, mine small...and her butt shot at the seams from her thin body. I had no filler, despite the muscle tone.

When I was of the age that I started "borrowing" her Barbies and Crayola sets , I don't remember exactly what kind of feelings I had toward her. I envied her no-frizz dolls that always had the shoes attached to their feet. I so badly preferred her pointy crayons with the wrapper intact as if she didn't even color so perfectly neat within lines. She would go into a fury when she caught me terrorizing her effects, but I never purposely hid. I think I admired her. I believe she also set standards for me that I'd never quite achieve.