There’s something wrong with this mojito. I must find the reason. Probably the sugar substitute. The peppermint is freshly pulled, so that deserves no blame. The club soda splashed nicely all over the kitchen floor, but it did its job. The choice of rum, Bacardi of course. Dry and Smooth. The parts are to taste. Loaded to taste. So why the fuck does it taste like death.? Maybe because its dark out. Dark and Cold. Because the sun is not hitting the glass. Because I’m still over 40 miles from the beach. Because he’s not here to make it sweet.

Here it comes again. Almost as sudden as it will go. It comes from all angles surrounding me and beyond, even from behind me. The suffering of the world. Every tear, wince and moan comes at me and dwells heavy inn the pit of my stomach. My insides churn and my mind pleads for a release from the overload of feelings of pain. Children dying, elderly giving up and in, the broken dying a slow death. I can feel the tormented. A common breath becomes a fight. Palpitations take over. I grab a hold and in a flash, its gone.

That’s all I had to do. Be unafraid of whatever I write. I began to fear words or the lack of, better said. I began to fear its consequence and the questions they arose. So I fled, far from the sight of paper or a blinking cursor. I began to speak less. I suppressed thoughts that would have sparked ideas. Then I grew comfortable with the absence of depth. To the point where I was so painfully numb. But he’s given me a spark to work with. One that could ultimately jolt me back into life without fear of truth.

For the next few hours, I have nothing to do except try to visualize my body to begin deteriorating. I could find a comfortable spot to sit and just rot away the minutes. How long would it take before my body begins to spoil? Before the flesh begins to turn spots into raw moving colors? Before someone outside my doors investigates the rancid scent traveling where the rest of them are? I need something to suck the living soul out of me, leaving me here in the cold temperature to decompose, the way it feels when time desists to continue.

You can see them sprout from the outermost layer of skin. My nerves root from each pore and wrap themselves around the limbs. So tense, so ready. A touch is fire, withering them into ash. They grab around my temples and force themselves in. So hard, so painful. I dare not move, I dare not wear clothes. I stand still in a blazing winter storm and wait until its over for a warm breeze to soothe them back in. Back where they belong. Hidden, on the inside. My veins and the blood they transport, I keep those in my purse.

Have I the guts to reveal myself now that given the chance? I guess the opportunity was always there, but because of my state of mind I reveled in anonymity. I was unhappy at the time. Miserable and on medication. Now, still on prescription medicine, I’m no longer the sad little girl that weaves complications out of the dark for sheer delight. This is a bright new me, not afraid to be caught in some sunlight. Completely unafraid of allowing good things to happen to me. So I’m seriously considering posting my picture. Perhaps one where I wear a smile.

The discipline has to be developed all over again. I had it once. Like a good workout schedule at the gym. You miss once and it becomes easy to stay home the next time, and the next. So I find myself writing about writing 100 words just to get into the groove of things. Just to remember what it was like when I wrote without dreading the outcome of my thoughts. I truly hate wasting time on these little practice sessions, but I’ve conclude they’re better than the silence I let linger for so long. I’ve got much to say.

What’s it going to be like? No fighting. No wondering if tomorrow he will be on the other side of the phone. No bruises when he touches me. It’s taking some getting used to. A bit disconcerting not to have to fight for love. Isn’t that what all the princes and the heroes do? Fight for love. Break their bones in the name of? And here we are, peacefully enjoying each others company in which nobody raises their voice or flees when faced with complicated questions. Will I have to start something up to feel at home in this relationship?

This was me. You’re free to back track into my old joys, my woes. I’m letting you see the good, the bad, the ugly. I’m letting you see the ever changing colors that I saw the world through. Do not be fooled by tales, exaggerations and tangents I fabricated. You can read each entry if you will, skip some if you please. Know me then, but know me now. If I could set some of those memories ablaze I would, but each one of them brought me closer to you. Closer to everything I ever wanted to be for you.

Today I specifically set aside a pocketful of words to build upon this entry of 100 words. Amateur ideas they were. Simple words they were. But the seed of thought was worth planting in my head, lavishly feeding it with richer nutrients and growing into one of my best. Apparently, it wasn’t that great because I have no clue as to what might have been so important and inspiring that I took the time of my day to dwell on. The highlight of my day was a stack of US magazine gossip, so that couldn’t have been it, could it?

Enviously, I hook up his shiny new palm device to charge. A device I never new I coveted until I was assigned to set it up for him. You could hear my cooing from a few feet away as I discover all the bells and whistles that I have to master so he can make use of it. Now I know why I haven’t been organized. Because I can’t keep my contacts, calendar and cool games at hand. Same reason why I’ve lost touch with the music scene: I can’t afford an iPod either. The joys of struggling middle class.

“C’est la vie” he says as I walk out of the office kitchen with a steaming hot cup of joe in my hand and sleepy eyes. Guess I’ll use that to get me through the day. I need some kind of idea or hypothetical possibility to inject each and every morning with reason to go on. Not that without it I couldn’t function happily, but just a little aimlessly. Lately pinpointing my daily purpose has been a muddled attempt of futility. I need a break, hours that haven’t even begun to accrue for a few vacation days. C’est la vie.

After I sang him a piece of a song on his voicemail, he says he likes my singing. He says I’m on each note, that I have a moderate vibrato and good control. I somewhat agree, but not entirely. We both know I could never hit a high D or anything above it. I already strain to let out a comfortable C. To some people it comes naturally. I’m not one of them. We both know he’s partial to my voice, so I don’t know whether I can justly be able to accept the compliment or not. Love is deaf.

Working full time has once again made of me a clock watcher. Yes, I grumble about the case of the Monday’s and whoop TGIF’s. I’m grateful for the window above my desk, but I have flat ass syndrome to complain about at five. I listen to light office music at a barely audible volume, brew coffee twice a day, and refill the damn copy machine. The difference between now and then is that I receive a text message once a day, maybe a phone call, and I can easily afford gas money to go and whine to him about work.

A sliver of the sunset slipped through the blinds. J and I were lounging out on the bed trying to get plans together for a movie. His nephew’s tiny body came out of nowhere, sprawling himself vertically over me, becoming part of the picture. With his playful grin missing two front teeth, skinny legs and bulky untied shoes, he’s winning me over. Every once in a while a child comes along that steals my heart and I temporarily wonder … hmmm, why not? I glanced at J’s eyes as the child bounced off me. He’s unsuspecting of my wishful thinking.

Still I feel I could use some more convincing. I prayed so hard it would happen. Sure enough it was granted. I should see him as a gift from God. Yet I panic when we sign two year contracts for a shared cell phone plan, our first binding step as a couple. So I think back to the beginning, a stormy day at the campsite, rained in a tent, playing chess over a timid conversation, a particular moment he lifted his blue eyes from the board and they fell over mine. I knew then I could never live without them.

That’s what it is. If I must put it into words, it’s the settling after the madness that is taking some adjusting to. The initial chemical reaction of falling in love has worn off. The games are over and life sets in. Our relationship, although fairly new with much left to explore, is safe. I’ve never dealt with a conflict-free love. I’ve been stirring things from the bottom up because I’m scared to find out how things play out when everything falls into routine. As for him, he’s always wanted the stability I find so hard to grab hold of.

My poor muscles ache with soreness from workouts with silly names such as teeter-totter and low-blow, and from each kick on the in-line skates. After months of grueling exercise and profuse sweating, I’m just about as discontent with my body as if I’ve sat on a couch watching soaps and eating chips all day. He tells me it’s the only stomach I’m ever going to get so I might as well learn to like it. Guess he’s right. No matter how fit I’ve ever been I always criticize each possible inch of me. Me and my unrealistic expectations for perfection.

The big unmentionable two four is approaching. A day I pretend should be lost in time along with the effect of continuation. I have no choice but to address it, like the wrinkles forming on my face. But when the day arrives, I will not acknowledge the yearly occurrence. Today I will go on about it, the following morning I might tell some people about it. But the actual anniversary of my birth date will be ignored as if I would always remain the awkward twenty-three. Whether I age gracefully or not, I will kick and scream to the death.

There was a time I eagerly awaited every opportunity to write my 100 word entries. I stocked them days in advance and saved for later postings. The ideas were a land of flowing milk and honey. Now it is a chore, a reminder that I’ve misplaced my tools of creativity. Instead of quirky little stories or tiny stints of imagination, I find myself journaling literal excerpts about my life. Things I don’t even care to share. And what I do share is still not completely honest. But I have to write about something in hopes that I’ll get my groove back.

The remaining light of the sunset was extinguishing itself into the horizon. The dolphins had stopped coming out to play knowing there wouldn't be enough light for the humans to awe at them anymore. I hung my feet over the sea wall. He ate dinner in silence. I wasn't thinking much of anything yet I felt the world was resigning the sun. The tears were coming. He continues to learn I'm easily affected by the brightness in the sky. Instead on resigning on me, he let me cry until the night fell completely. I really had no reason to cry.

For twenty-eight years now he's been listening to the same 225 songs on his cassette player over and over. He'll listen to nothing else. The walkman is so old it clicks as it plays and it distorts the pitch, but he still hums to them, keeping time with his hand. I often wonder how he doesn't tire of the repetitiveness. Sometimes I imagine he hears intricate patterns the average ear cannot pick up. But I think if we were all as blissfully ignorant to the world as he was, we'd all enjoy music a lot more than we do now.

Every few days I get my blog fix: the anonymous waiter, the cynical ex-lawyer turned blogger, my favorite wandering Jew. I get my eclectic verbiage and creative insight from there. Today I decided to open up the waiter's comment box. They were invited to add to a list of "50 signs your waiter might be an asshole…" Makes me want to be in a mediocre chain restaurant with dim lighting from hanging Tiffany lamps, fake memorabilia draping the walls and watered down premium drinks. Medium quality food, but I calculate tip when choosing a place I can afford to eat.

Holy hangover, Batman. That's what his sister said in a throaty voice the next morning. She spoke for all of us. The kid's bedroom door was punched in by her husband. My legs had what seemed like dog flea bites from sleeping on their couch and guilt from pushing the boyfriend off countless times during the warm night. It's been a while since I wake up with only a knocking headache. No missing clothes, no missing chunks of memory, no words to take back. With him, my adventures aren't as dangerous as they were before. Is that a good thing?

If I write out a resolution, I'll stick to it better. So here's my attempt: Splitting meals. Whatever I order, take half home. Water only. Juice, alcohol: off limits. Skim milk allowed once a day. One cookie if necessary allowed per day. Absolutely no French fries. If I give in, Boyfriend must call me Fat Girl. Strength workout, 3xs per week minimum. Cardio min also 3xs a week. I'm not overweight, but I'm not stick skinny how I want to be and I’m sick of adjusting my jeans to tuck away the excess. A true test for an emotional eater.

Everyday I dally to the kitchen for drinking water about 10 times. Every time I'm thinking the same thing. That tin box with the gourmet chocolate covered and lemon cookies will be sitting on the iron rack pantry. I've never seen anyone claim them. I mischievously contemplate lifting the lid and scarfing down like a mad demon as many as I could before getting caught. For all I know, they're free for all and no one cares. But just in case, I must do something to divert my mind before I do it. So here I am…. La dee da

I have to transfer some of checking into savings. I have to buy a skirt outfit from top to bottom; matching shoes, purse and accessories. I have to make reservations at Landry's for the Sunday brunch. I have to repair the brakes. I have to buy them the avocado tree. I need to pay the car and cut a check for the cell phone. I need to wash the sheets and do the laundry. I need to tryout the 11 mile trail. And I think I just might ask him to marry me while I'm checking things off the list.

Or am I just resorting to the idea of marriage because of boredom? Something to validate my quiet desperation. Because I've been wandering around with nowhere to go. Singing along to songs I didn't even know I knew the lyrics to. I dress and sleep so automatically and I drive without drive. I see their mouths moving but there is no sound entering my head. I'm slowing shutting down, but somehow still functioning. And I'm sure matrimony is exciting for the first few months. Then I'll have to figure something out when that gets old. Some wine and a prozac.

Most of the time, he has no clue. Not sure if he needs one since there is no key to solving this puzzle I build as I go. He said he would give anything to know what goes through my head at times. He probably was indicating those times I choose to stop talking and deprive him of eye contact. But see, that's the game. That's when he doesn't realize he must strategize his way out of them and into me. Otherwise, he's just always going to make a move from here to there, never putting the mate in check.

It's not that I don't have friends. It's that I choose not to bind the connections I have available. I never thought it would happen to me. I terribly miss the ones I worked so hard to let in. The fight for the few people that made marks in life became so effortless and I was determined to always keep them at my side. But I'm miles from them and further from any prospects of worthy companion. It never occurred to me I could have a boyfriend and still feel lonely, but it doesn't surprise me. Nothing fazes me anymore.

He makes me want to fix my cuticles, throw away fraying underwear, send out greeting cards, get rid of tan lines, take less naps, try on smaller sizes, tell my mom I love her more often, watch my mouth, read self-help books, brave the kitchen, wear mascara regularly, finish what I start, use more body creams, shave more than twice a week, have one drink less, run an extra mile, buy more spring tops, drink a multivitamin, listen to counsel, take it easy, fight the tears, save my money, make the bed, give donations, smile at old ladies, buy lingerie.