My fairytale favors Poe, not Grimm, grim as it is. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder weak and weary I scribble the pages of my love story. Scratch out the words, crumble up pages, stain ink with salty tears. It fits my rebellious tendency to defy truth, logic and reason. No standard happy ending would satisfy the predilection I have for the unconventional. Such sweet bliss would be fallacy at it's shiniest. And those who have been introduced to my personalities know how shiny, glitter and bright distracts me. My book cannot be closed with happily ever after.

The first marking event of the year. And I love to dance and dress up shiny, and contribute something different to the scenery of the cookie cutter fashion scene. But for a change, I'm sensing a twinge of apprehension starting from the toes, seeping up to my head. I wish to arrive in my party get-up, but instead of mingling and flapping my social wings to the hungry wolves that will be there finagling for a delicate specie to rub up on, ... I think I want to grow petals on the wall, instead of the being the butterfly.

I need a moment of control. I need to be whole, not broken. I have to collect my pieces and make them fit. Bend and fold if necessary.

All the attendees at the party should perceive my composure. I'll walk around, offer a coy untouchable smile, hold an invisible piÃÆ'±a colada in my right hand, sing Hey Nonny Nonny!, and sway my hips from here to there, mixing in the mingle. And if I were to find him facing me, I'll coerce my lips to slander my weakness, shouldering him as I prance about to my impervious ditty.

After agonizing in my hesitation to admit my mistake, I decided to do it:

Subscribing to 2 on-line dictionary Word-A-Day newsletters was another addition to my list of over committing.

What is it about me? Is it blind ambition? Is it underlying faith in my ability to absorb knowledge through excessive mental exertion, or simply being reckless in decision-making?

For a while there, I strained my brain trying junction words like fiduciary and apogee in the same sentence. But those futile efforts should be spent in some other over commitment that I've locked myself into and can't get out of.

She is a green 15year old, waiting for the sun to bloom her. I'm 21, ripe, ready for the bite. But for a moment, we met in the middle. All men are dogs...All men are frogs...and you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince. Inside, we cry the same story. So we read other stories out loud, never minding the hushed readers in Barnes and Nobles wishing us mute. On the way home, we unwrapped Starbursts with our tongues to make sure we master the art of kissing for the next frog that hops our way.

A college professor published a book on how to write, and it made its way to the bargain table at the coffee/book store. He wrote: in order to free yourself, you must allow yourself to vulnerable. What I'm hearing is, expose yourself and your carefully stored away secrets. Take off your clothes, and lay naked on the mattress. Let them inside your muddy, dirty, soiled, disturbed mind. Invite them over tea, to see you cry, love, and hate. If you know me personally... stop reading now! I think I might do that, but the VIP is for strangers, not friends.

This is how it should've happened: You should've picked me that night just like you did. When you saw me in the state I was in, you should've held my face in your hands, kissed my forehead and whispered, "We'll do this some other night."We should've risked getting caught, but you should've carried me inside my house and put me to bed. Then you would've gone home, still thinking about me, feeling hot and bothered, but the next day call to promise me, "One day, not yet, but some day...we'll go for a ride. And we'll never come back.-

It's too late now. I told them I was BunnyButt and that my thoughts were available to read on the world-wide-web. But some of them shouldn't know me so deep. If life keeps raping my innocence, I refuse to paint it pretty. I feel like righteous Sandra Dee trapped in her poodle skirt, when in reality she needs to break out her leather garb. My alias was puffy and fluffy, but it didn't last.

I'm considering adopting a new name, like FallenAngel or BritneySpearsPostChildhood. Where I spill the truth and let it dribble from the sides. Something rawer, more fleshly.

So, he picked the runt of the litter after all.

Only after allowing myself to get to know her as a real person and not being brazenly judgmental, I found she's more like a lost little cub, than scabby. Bless her heart, she saw right through his act.

He put on a fascinating show...working on every female there. His miserable attempt to be smooth was further more entertaining. Whatever faith I had left in him as a person, has gone right out the window. My sadness has become right out anger.

I wonder how I'll feel once the anger fades.

"I taste like rubber...taste me-.

I don't recall saying it, but I remember whacking my arm in front of his lips enticing him for a small bite. Two years ago, one of his closest friends (a.k.a. my favorite ex), tried to console my loneliness predicting that I ‘d fall in love with Cowboy and forget about him.

I didn't know him or care to meet him.

Then Cowboy asked to meet me through Ex #2.

I met him on my own, completely unaware it was him. I smelled of beer, vanilla rum and lemon gin... I told him to taste me.

The muscle continues to stretch thinner by day, drawing a neat traceable line at the hamstring. The UV lamps paint added desirable dimension on the brown skin, casting a golden shadow on the firm thighs. The tiny rear is plump yet lifted. It's formed into a curve for the palm of a man. Their eyes will just follow the roll of my walk. They'll drip in drool dreaming of tapping that thing, to see it bounce right back steady into place, making me crave the grab. Their imprinted bite marks on their knuckles serve as reminder they can't touch this.

Dee placed a peach Starburst on top of the paperwork I had to process. Typing the data into the computer, I masticated the chewy candy, simultaneously sipping my coffee with cream. The two tastes became one. Finding it ironically interesting, I swished it around my tongue, savoring it fully. Today, I brushed my teeth with mint-flavored toothpaste. The bristles scraped up chocolate-chip remains from the surface of my molars. Experimentally, I let the flavors blend...

So, this is how people come up with creamy peach flavored coffee and mint chocolate-chip ice cream.

Maybe I can profit from my Pizza/Oreo idea!

Country artist songwriter. That's my creative style. Throw a thousand songs and phrases and ideas into the air. Add a heartache, a drink and a wish. Sing ‘em backwards, music sheets flipped upside down so they make sense. Tweak and pull the strings into a smooth crying lullaby. Reach out and pull one...odds are, out of all the crazy nonsense released on the radio, only one or two become hits.

Like Nostradamus, if you spew enough predictions, one of them is bound to hit the mark. Nostradamus should've been a country artist, and I should've been singing street side prophet.

Not shy, just quiet. Being the only Latina sitting there forced me into becoming the observer. I can't decipher if it's my mouth that's inappropriate or my mind.

These white people got their circle, I'm outside the box. These different shapes make an awkward fit.

I tried to blend a little with my bland attire, but I missed by fancying that up. He said my jacket was J-LO style, pushing me further into the Miami/Spanish girl category.

Thank God for that DOS EQUIS he bought to ease things up. I think that was they're way of including the Spanish girl.

She stormed her way to the bossman's office with aggressive determination. Cradled in his cushy leather chair, it hissed as he spun at the sound of bloody murder. Her mouth displayed her ringing esophagus. She huffed, puffed, heaved and bucked her chest, sobbing horridly. Her face was gleaming with smeared tears that colored her cheeks splotchy reds, pinks and fuchsias. Her body made swift agitated twitches. With his face frozen, and the onlookers waiting for the pin to drop, he succumbed. "OK, You're dismissed for a week!"She sighed profoundly, turned her heel, smiling victoriously as she gathered her belongings.

Every time I imagined the bride in her glorious, plush princess gown, I gave her a pitiful pout. The ladies were amused by my impatience and silliness. With my head burrowed deep in the racks of plastic covered dresses; I inhaled the white organza, satins and sequins. They asked if I was the type to schedule my wedding event to detail two years ahead of time, pursuing avidly for a fiancÃÆ'© after the matter. God No! That's so desperate and hopeless, I responded, gleefully crowning myself with an overpriced tiara and veil to match my bunny sweater and blue jeans.

Cross the finish line one more day, everyday. Step outside in my worn-out sneakers and push myself off the pavement. Run a steady, light jog where I can observe God's creation hide behind the horizon. But the streets are dangerous at early dusk. I head off to the gym. Where each shock hitting the treadmill band irritates my vision even further than watching God's corpulent creation heft her cellulite infected legs to a 90 degree angle in what seems to be a torturous version of pilates. This is where I get through my day, inhaling musty, metallic, thick, fat air.

Her laugh seemed truly genuine, the way her sleek shoulders would dance in unison with her feminine giggle. But the laugh was feigned. She didn't really hear their jokes.

Her nose caught a familiar whiff. Her expression became determined. Conversation died as they noticed her distraction. Her hair sprayed and swatted their faces, while frantically searching the trail, martini spilling from the glass rim. She followed it desperately. When she found him, she grabbed him.

An unfamiliar man stared back at her. "May I help you?"In disappointment, she lowered her sight and finally admitted to herself,

"No. I'm helpless.-

You were the perfect heartache. If there is anyone who should inflict my soul, it was you. I invited your abuse. I indulged in comfort when you threw me around. Let me know if you ever want to give me more scars or break me a little bit harder. My bones have shatter left in them. Blood hasn't completely drained from my body. I can rip the band-aid from your wounds in an abrupt second. Even if you're not there to kiss the pain away, the beautiful scar you leave to remind me of you makes the sting fade quickly.

The phone book doesn't have numbers for wise old wizards, hoary with infinite knowledge and powers to heal. One that could stand over my kneeling body and coruscate a chanting spell to mend my broken wings. A psychiatrist with a pointy hat and long robe with a punch of confetti in his hand and some superglue would satisfy me at this point. And every time I mention his name at the sight of an inkblot card, he can release the confetti into my eyes and curse my existence. Until one day, I can fly out of there, scintillating with sanity.

4-day old junk mail tightly gripped between her chin and chest. Five grocery bags digging into her red freezing hands. A department store gift box awkwardly balanced in what was left of her arms. Her elbow nuzzled a tiny overstuffed purse. She fumbled clumsily for house keys as the wind worked a mean frost on her cheeks. Half eaten slim-fast bar hit the deck, she and her possessions bent down carefully and forcefully, thickness of her overcoat preventing smooth maneuvering. Stuck it between her teeth, found her way through the door, and let it all smash to the floor. Sigh.

Damn you Shakespeare! Of all the mishaps and perchances, you cursed me!!! Damn you for writing Sigh No More and inspiring the 100 words that I accidentally shared via email to all personnel at work!!! I had never, never, EVER felt embarrassed before. Don't you dare give me that there's-a-first-time-for-everything bullshit. Damn Jeff Koyen for his bloody brilliant idea of expressing ourselves in any unleashed manner. Damn Microsoft Outlook for not having my back in personal matters. Now excuse me, I'm still hiding my head in a hole...and I need a moment longer before I'm ready to join humanity again.

She thought she had the gift. She took pride in fooling men and getting away with murder.

In bumper-to-bumper traffic, she felt the eyes of a man checking her out through the soft tints of her window. She rocked her shoulders to a steady, rhythmic beat. Her lips seemed to move slow motion lusciously to every word. Her eyes would softly close for the risquÃÆ'© movements of the chorus.

The man swallowed hard. His imagination got the best of him.

She smiled. I sure fooled him, she thought, I didn't even have the radio on!

She was a sorry fool.

The perfect escape used to be gripping the steering wheel and driving on an endless road that my subconscious vision would fuzz so intensely, I couldn't see past the windshield. Songs blasting from my radio were synched along by my haggard voice in such a mechanical way, I didn't realize I was exercising my vocal chords.

Now, I can detach my body from this life by typing. Typing persistently and steadfast, that I can't tell my fingertips from my toes.

But this road is lined up with intimidating barricades to block vulnerability. This journey is harder to drive through effortlessly.

How do you lose a bra? When you're single, I mean. I'm not trying to incriminate a married lover of mine by ‘accidentally' forgetting my bra on his couch on purpose, so his wife could find it and inevitably leave him.
No! Under the bed, the lingerie cabinets, every closet, nook and cranny. It just upped on its underwires and walked away.

Two weeks later, after giving up on ever seeing the perfect black bra, it shows up! Deep in my white pillowcase it was, stuffed with the pillow itself.

There will NEVER be an explanation of how this happened.

She says she's good on a bad day.
On a good day she professes her badness.
She's made secrets, but bottle in hand, she's revealed all to redeem herself at God's feet. Dirty muddled mind, white heart of repent. She pulls bits and pieces of herself out of the depths of darkness, to drink light and purity. A sun beyond bright for her tolerance. She likes it in her gritty hole, but she allows rays cleanse her through shadows. She walks in the fine line of a paradox. Split in half, never to be whole. She's a good bad girl.

In the dawn's gray rain, my rear-view mirror threw back a reflection of my sister's silhouette in the car behind mine.

Later a window pops up my screen: "After the bus, it was just you and me on the road. That was cool. We are cool drivers and beautiful!-

We have our own world, our own language, we dance to the same songs in our head. If one thing is mine in this life, it's her they can't take away. She gets me.

I typed back: "I was gonna dance for you but I didn't know if you were looking.-

10 Refrigerator Word Magnet Hits:

Listen to the sky, it laughs in pink

One drop of his blood drenched my soul one thousand times

Your luscious tongue lathers my wet dream

I've married a little guy and lost him in the tequila

Perchance goodbye was forever I would beseech you away tonight

I will blow you with the whisper of a goddess and smear your bare skin over the moon

He beat her out of me

Elaborate promises about love produce haunted storms

A sexy man in an airport licked my leg

I trudge between moist sand and crushed diamonds