You are round, bright and shiny. You captivate me. If I happen to walk past you I stop in mid-stride, and fixate my vision on you. I fall deep into a trance and stare and you and the battle begins. Oh you pretty pretty M&M. You make me want to defy and contradict my beliefs. Stay away from me you sugary piece of fat. You think that deceiving disguise of a succulent candy coat you wear can make me surrender myself to fail? Do you think I will eat you? Well...uhm …ok. But I will go to the gym later.

I'm no writer. My vocabulary is extremely limited, stupid if you will. It struggles back and forth between English and Spanish and the language I create to complete my thoughts that I desperately try to express. Spanglish and jibberish. My mind is ready to explode. It's inundated with thoughts and ideas…..It's gonna burst…wait! Let me get the thesaurus. What do I want to say?..wait..let me flip to the page…almost there. Damn it. I forgot what I wanted to say. I sound like a damned fool all the time. Nothing comes out right. Think fast, think harder. Expand your vocabulary…blah blah blah.

Darling. Honey. Sweetie. You're busting out of your shirt. Yes you are. Now tuck those puppies back in there. No need to whore yourself out to anyone. Or maybe in your case, yes, it might be necessary. I realize you lack the attention. The attention makes you strive toward….bigger and better things? I don't know. Does it make you feel better? I don't want to waste my time on you so ok, I give you my blessing. Flirt with the boys. Bounce them babies like basketballs all over them. It makes me laugh anyway when they can't control their saliva.

There are pine trees to my left and to my right. An infinity of them. Only road straight ahead. I left a forehead print on the window of the car as I shift, looking for comfortable position. Everyone in the car is disturbingly quiet, in a trance that leads to slumber. I numbly glance at them and suddenly I hate them, I look back at the trees. In my mind I can envision it: the car stops. I get out and approach the lonely woods. I desperately run toward them. Slow at first, and gradually so fast I cannot feel my feet.

Whoever looked at a wrinkled, untidy white linen collar shirt and said, "It needs to be ironed."? Did that person have the authority to determine that clothes should be neatly and impeccably pressed? Or is it just the natural human desire for exact symmetry that society cannot accept a slightly disheveled style? Cannot messy also be aesthetically pleasing to the eye? My humble opinion is that man insists on achieving perfection so fervently that it is compelled to search for every possible petty imperfection in us and therefore try to control it…by demanding the need to iron our white shirts.

Soul frickin searching* Story Time* The yellow bus* Disney Quest* DECA* Raise the Bar*Latin Lover* I'm sorry* am I fat?* bestest friend ever* mrs. frexia* can you come to my house? * can I sleepover?* first kiss * white boys from NC* rum151* what are you talking about?* Papo, Llomel, Fragita* hair & makeup* elenA and JesicA* weasel*baby bird, momma bird* MMMBOP* define?* hispanas arrepentidas* pink apartments* let me see your schedule* the three musketeers* Evangeline and brujilda* rocker, poser, rapper, ref * what hotel you staying at?* let's stalk randy* you're acting like a bitch* fuck you* together forever*

Think happy thoughts! Remember those wonderful Peter Pan days! Let's go back to that. Lets look for that fairy dust and we can sprinkle it ubiquitously. When we walk, talk, laugh and cry we can scintillate our reminiscent childhood. The Peter Pan complex should not be forgotten: Never Grow Up. Don't let Captain Hook take control…kick him where the sun don't shine and run in the other direction giggling uncontrollably like a 6 year old boy who just put a nasty old frog down a girl's dress. Chase the fairies and catch them..make a wish. Play with the Lost Boys.

Bathing suit, sunglasses, flip flops, 45, some change…what else? My big Mickey Mouse towel…and the Sheryl Crow CD with Steve McQueen. Hit the road! Windows down since I don't have a drop top, but it's all good, hair is still blowing in the wind, singing way too loud, smile and wave at the hotties in the jeep next to me. Doing 80 on 40 in a 65. Last wild beach adventure of the season: stare down the hard bodies with the surf shorts tan lines, roast in the sun, ride the waves, piss drunk in the door-less stank-ass bathroom stalls.

I have Allyson and Stephanie. I'm pretty sure he likes me and he's gorgeous, maybe we'll date someday. Jehovah always forgives me and always takes care of me. My congregation is active and supportive. Diana has way too much patience for me, I need it. She's different than I imagined a roommate but its extra money in my pocket. Still chunky, but I got a nice ass. I can make a damn strong Long Island Tea. Whose got the best heels in North Carolina? I would say my parents raised me right. Lawrence is the best brother in law ever.

All the juxtaposed houses have terracotta roof tiles. Someone decided to paint the apartments flamingo-pink. Without fail, everyday, little old men selling peanuts for a quarter on 49th street, roses for 5 dollars, and hot churros for 1 dollar. Even the shoe stores play the salsa music obnoxiously loud so you have to scream to ask how much the strappy heels cost. The 40 year old women wear mid-drift spandex shirts and strut their cellulite down Westland Mall. The Spanish supermarkets have a distinct smell, It must be all the tropical produce. They all miss their native land. Hialeah Hialeah.

His hands must be stronger and bigger than mine. They should be distinct. I want them to tell me a sad story or a fairytale. Tanned is the back of his hand, glistened by the sun. When I place tiny palm against his, it must be warm. The length of his fingers should surpass mine with experience, life and heartbreak. They have dried melancholic tears, and caressed painful bruises and counted a newborn's fingers. But now they run through my dark hair, and they touch my lips and graze my thighs. Our fingers blend together and they become one hand.

The faint recollections of my incomplete childhood memories: Without a worry in the world, my brother would playfully storm out the doors from our drug dealer infested apartment complex and run down the street in the opposite direction we were headed, stop, turn around and look to see if we would follow him and try to catch him. I desperately looked at my mother and waited for her to make a mad dash to retrieve him. She would just smile call him in a sign-song voice. We would continue on our way, but mom knew he would always follow us.

In my second grade of school, I remember a girl named Barbara . Her hair was a light brown with natural golden highlights. When she would write, she would wrap all her chubby fingers around her pencil and grab on with a death grip. Intently concentrating, she would tilt her head to one side, hold her tongue out like a dog, she would press down on the paper as if were her worst enemy. I thought she looked so pathetic and stupid. We ended up in high school together. Mark Derry fell for her. I had fallen for Mark Derry.

Drama! Drama! Drama! I claim to despise it. It belongs to whiners and complainers. If you lack attention, self-confidence, a sense of adventure or any of the above mentioned, the counterbalance is manifested by drama. But wait!!! I am dramatic! I've seen it and avoided it the 21 years of my uneventful life yet I am a living drama queen. It surrounds me and I feed the fire, I live for this shit! Without it I'm bored. I'm a parasite to the fulfillment it offers to appease my awkward silences. Come and see the loud, crazy parasite live on stage!

This morning I convinced myself that I was in a chipper mood. As the day sluggishly dragged on I didn't even attempt to go back to that state of mind. Then I received a wonderful phone call from a dear friend from my past and my roller coaster ascended. Now I grapple in quandary of attending my responsibilities tonight or giving in to a peaceful evening to indulge whatever my heart desires. And the headache and weakness sets in. Let if all seep from my head through a hole. Focus on something positive. Something like… his fingers interlaced with mine.

He closed the door behind him, took off the muddy boots. He looked up, saw her and walked toward her as he placed the keys on the counter. She stood there in the middle of the kitchen facing the cupboard, shivering, crying, weeping. Pathetic sobs full of sadness and despair could not be held back by her hands over her face. In silence he wrapped his arms around her and let her feel his weight on her body. Minutes passed. He waited for her. "Why are you crying?" "I don't know." Psychotic woman, he thought. I love you he said.

How cliché of me to say this, but once upon a time I was a sweet and pleasant little girl. Now full grown, I was having a pretty decent conversation and I suddenly started to hear myself. It's almost as if everything I just said decided to re-play itself in my mind. In mid-conversation I stopped, I shut up. Utter shock! Did I really say all those things? When did I become this person? Honestly, I thought I had much more to offer to the social world. I am strictly convinced that from now on I should just keep quiet and listen.

She signs it like a happy songbird every morning down the pathetic somber halls of the dull office… "Goood Mor-ning". The undisturbed silence is murdered. Her shrill voice pierces through my eardrums and with excessive force it heads to my brain like a freight train. Sitting in front of this computer that I wish would spontaneously combust, I close my eyes and in my most wistful desires I kick her, "Shut the fuck up! You irritate my existence". Oh my God…I'm a horrid person. She's a good person; she must be if she can sing, yet I want to kill.

To see you when you're not in front of me creates my subconscious desire to be deranged and delirious.

To touch your body without contact transcends beyond what is tangible.

To taste the salt on your skin inhibits my intentions to gain sanity.

To contemplate your ethereal presence inspires the unexplored senses inside my trivial soul.

But you soothe and subdue my very existence and I am intensely addicted.

I demand the absolute control you offer to my unorganized mind and unstable heart.

Force me to surrender the most deepest and obscure secrets within me. I do not know them.

Do you ever wonder what possibly goes through a fish's mind while he's swimming innocently about in his bowl, apparently oblivious to our surroundings?…
..On my agenda for today is to beat yesterday's record of how fast I can spin in a circle without making myself dizzy. If and when I beat it, I just might try and create a little challenge for myself : counter clockwise.
When my Feeder comes home, I'll once again attempt to hypnotize Her. Especially if She puts one of reflector devices in front of me. It's embarrassing the way my fins puff up when She does that.

Run your fingers through my hair as you take in the sweet vanilla scent. Brush your lips on my neck with one hand softly behind my head and the other running up my hips. Let your hands wander in slow motion with desperation. Press you body tight against mine and let me hear you quietly moan in my ear. Slowly close your eyes while I slide my thumb on your bottom lip. Whisper my name making me wrinkle your shirt with my grasp. Pull away when you want to kiss me before I blindly give in. I cannot have you.

Yeah … I gotta potty mouth.
I don't unleash them words often in order not to continuously disappoint those who already frown upon my fowl expressions.
Family, friends, co-workers. It has nothing to do with my unskilled vocabulary.
I consider myself rather well versed, enough to articulate some degree of intellect when deemed necessary.
I just simply like to cuss. Simple as that.
It adds the extra umph! the English dictionary doesn't posses.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
Say it with me.
Fuck you, fuck this, fuck that.
All those shaking your head while you read this and think I'm improper…sorry.
Just fuck it.

She examined her facial features deep with intent, touching her cheeckbones.

"I want to paint your face."

In reply, she bit her bottom lip and shook her head disapprovingly.

"You are beautiful, you know that?"

"I don't believe you."

"My colors want to bring out your true self, she's in there, let her go".

She forced a melancholic smile upon herself, "I want to be a magical fairy."

The brushes invited the beauty to come out from her silky skin.
She sparkled and glistened when she confronted her image in the glass mirror.
Tears washed the colors down her cheek.

The cosmic forces had a universal meeting to conspire against my happiness. All but one star. It's a secret so don't tell anyone.
The sun's on my side.
This gorgeous morning he peeked through the clouds and trees. Goldenly bright he smiled at me and I smiled back, but we didn't say a word in order to hold our sacred unspoken vow. I reached my hand out, grabbed him, put him in my pocket. And when the planets scorned me and made me cry, I peeked in, searching for hope. Faithfully, he damned those tears.
He promised me the heavens.

You play me like the first melody ever to grace infinity. You interrupt my dreams with the sweetest of interludes.

Bury the poets and song writers with whimsical dreams of love, because you already wrote them all.

Kill the signers and crooners who sing of passion, because you've created the master composition.

The aesthetics of the adagio you write for me is rhythmically intoxicating.

Keep safe your notes in a magic music box.

Your orgasmic song blends our souls in a crescendo that makes me beg for solemn silence to take over this world, so I can revere our bond.

Crow's feet they're called. Wrinkles in the corner of their eyes. They are profoundly beautiful. They declare pain, suffering and experience. Above all, they hold stories about laughter and treasured pasts. First time I found them on my face, I panicked…until I started noticing them on my parents, becoming more and more pronounced. Now I see them and I see transcendent love.

One night, I opened my eyes to see if his were open. They were closed as we savored the moment. But I could feel him as he smiled, and I saw the lines next to his celestial eyes.

Night after night, I would longingly gaze up at the blue-black skies, and in reverent wonder I would fall in love with the moon. I would elude deep sleep, so dreams couldn't take my consciousness from the beautiful celestial body that hung bright over my bed.

But lately, the glowing sun has been luring me. As I inhaled the autumn air this morning and let it cycle inside me, I saw the ethereal sunrise peeking at me and he stole my heart. I exhaled a whirlwind of my deepest emotions and with a kiss I sent it to the Sun.

Judging by her prude-ness and the rather prig air she gave off, we expected her to say no when we invited her to stroll the streets of downtown at midnight.
I let her watch me mix 5 shots into the highball before we left, in the hopes that she would be offended by it and decide to stay.
Colorado MotherFucker.
Lord knows she would've dashed to the bathroom to pray if she knew the name of the drink. Still she tagged along.
This was our girl's night out, and if she wanted in…we could all compromise our limitations and boundaries.

Kicking.

I can't imagine a better way to immoderately release built up tension. I don't ever do it, but I daydream about just vehemently taking my right leg and whacking people and things with it. i.e., Sandy, computers, stupid dogs, little kids, fast food joint speakers,VW Beetles.

Speaking of bugs, whoever looked at one of those so-called vehicles and didn't have the implacable urge to kick it.
Punch Buggies!
They should be renamed Kick Buggies. I'll kick ‘em.

I invite you to identify and count all the things you would indulgently like to boot and wallop to near death. :)

Sometimes I wonder if she really does see an elephant strolling through the trees in the suburbs of historic Wendell. When she talks about it, her sad eyes search almost desperately for someone to believe her.

Call me crazy, but I think I do.

Nobody knows that I want to agree with her. As a matter of fact, we should rendezvous, go for a wild elephant search adventure through strange backyards.

She found a faithful friend in Pudgy the Pigeon and had to set him free. Maybe she wants to befriend the elephant.

At least she doesn't claim it's pink.

There was this loud, desperate suckling sound coming from behind me, but I didn't pay no mind. It's a Mexican household, there's always some kind of ruckus creating their restless ambient For the most part, I've accustomed to it.

I eventually turned around to continue conversation, and Bam! Her shirt was folded up, exposing her enormous tit, with her baby clinging and sucking on it with dear life. At first I thought, "……".

But then I remembered, it's their culture, they don't care. Good opportunity to compare her overgrown watermelons to my little peaches.

then I thought about Jeff.