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He's testing the waters with subtle comments. He had some beers before IMing me, saying that if he talks a little loose, I can't hold it against him in sobriety. Before he makes a drunken confession, one I want to hear but can't risk silly flirtatious games, I tell him any unprecedented confessions will be saved and printed for future blackmail. I jokingly add LOL to seem less threatening. He sends a smiling emoticon. I want to hear him say it, but if don't stop him, I'll be in cohorts with Boyfriend's friend as we open this can of worms.
There was a time - I still channel the memory – when I remembered clips of my former life, painted fairies only some see among us, paint in sounds, feel in numbers. Somewhere down the line, the indigo faded. Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe only children feel it. Maybe it was simply a chemical production that regulates itself with the years. I told him about it; he laughed it off. We moved on to another topic. I pretended to listen but zoned out the window in mourning of long lost feelings. Maybe it fades when the people you love are skeptics.
The one batch I selected was by a writer in Tampa. If not the core of the city, somewhere in the vicinity, like me. Someone else speaks of the Howard Frankland, one of the few structural elements in the bay that makes me feel welcome. I always look for the Tropicana stadium before I land St. Petersburg. I spot the smoke stacks at Apollo Beach. I look at the sky line fading from my rearview mirror when I drive down the bridge. My heart resides in North Carolina, but I'm now a Tampon. Maybe we'll cross paths in Busch Gardens.
I've surfed the net and backed. Plucked my eyebrows. Paid my bills. Inspected every pore. Yet I'm still at work, loosing my mind to boredom. This brain inactivity will doom me into early Alzheimer's. This is a slow progression, beginning with less talking, less thinking, less doing, less breathing. Soon I'll be in some institution trying to convince the ward that it's time to get on the bus to school. They'll put me in my room until I calm down with help of mild sedation that makes me drool a little bit. That or I'll become a full blown maniac.
Are you here to get the best of me? Are you here to tell me to eat less and work out more, possibly starve myself? Or maybe you're here to point and laugh at the grotesque eruption on my forehead from God only knows? Why don't you just remind me that I don't have the time, money, or genes to look good enough just for one day without shuddering at my image? You're the bully that never goes away. The only bully that pushes me around and makes me cry. Just leave me alone.Please.
She was squirming in her state-of-the-art spa chair, uncomfortable with having her feet handled by a stranger. The Vietnamese girl kept urging her, "You sit .Relax." I watched her from the manicure station, heavenly indulging in my little moment of luxury. My mother, from a previous, hard working generation doesn't get attention, she gives it. She wasn't about to justify spending money while there were dishes to wash and yard to dig. Needless to say her white tips were ruined within a week. I feel sorry for us girls of this lazy generation who are afraid to break a nail.
Enough is enough. I've been racing words and thoughts around my head. They're trapped in my mouth after swallowing my tongue, regurgitating it and swallowing it again. I'm convinced it’s a waste of breath. Some words are better left to rot inside of me. I'm thinking about love, death, sushi, boredom, cellulite, booze, God. Nothing original. Same things you think about. But continuing to keep to myself is endangering my sanity. Time to spew about nothing in order to move on. Without further hesitation and refraining from editing what hasn't even reached the keys, I choose to enlighten you about….
In retrospect, I thought my moves were stealthy. They weren't. My attempt was to warn her that their secret love affair was showing thanks to his drunken affection. Later, I nonchalantly walked around the room pretending to be tipsy and enjoying an aimless wander, warned him about his lack of discretion. He already knew. Everyone had sensed their lover's vibe way before I sniffed a clue. Turns out, I wasn't very sober myself. Thought I might stake claim of the power of being the first to know their undercover lovin. So yea, you can't taste potato vodka mixed with Sangria.
Who holds me back from materializing my potential? I can easily target a blame, but my conscience will always lightly gnaw at me because I know the one at fault is me (and a minor genetic disadvantage). There I go trying to shift the responsibility again. The answer is I freeze when I come to a hurdle, before it's even in sight. Before an opportunity I shoot it down. To avoid disappointment I'd rather walk around the obstacle. With a little more confidence, or a least a lasting positive outlook, I should try something challenging. Put myself to the test.
Why couldn't I come up with an online project that spreads like wildfire? I could be creative. Granted, I wouldn't have the patience to find a web master, keep organized, respond to emails, and couldn't handle the busy publicity that comes with mediocre fame. At first, I'd be a fiend, spreading the word, jumping with adrenaline. Two weeks later I'd be pulling my hair out and venting rage to innocent victims. I guess that's why I never went as far as imagining what a hit anonymous post cards, lost & found grocery lists, and 100 words per day would be.
Today I was making copies of keys for the company at a run down hardware shop that smelt of grease and this frumpy woman walks in with a duck. That's right, I said a duck. I'm sure there are more unusual pets in existence, but not ones I've seen with a little scarf around his itty bitty neck. It truly looked happy to be under human submission so it made me smile. To my surprise, every one else in the store acted as if no flapping bird just flew into their store. Maybe they know him. Maybe he's a regular.
I saw an ambulance pulled out of a Hardee's. There's an asserting commercial for the American Heart Association. It could target obese lard asses as well. I'm not talking about the ones who gain weight because of medical conditions. I mean the ignorant gluttons that ignore the fat when it begins to secrete from the seams or feed their children Coke and fried chicken. The ones who litter our world with ugly citizens for us to coexist with, ones who the natural eyes reject for lack of symmetry. Overweight people should wear muzzles and watch the death rate go down.
This was a month full of activity to reflect upon, make fun of, or exaggerate. There was the trip to NC with the boyfriend. I could choose to write it up as the fun adventure we had or the eye-opening truth about us. I could talk about catching up with old friends or discovering stories about family. Whatever I decide, some day when I log on here to reminisce, the true intensity of the memory will be gone. Once it passes it is forever altered. There's no recreating a feeling. Hence, I have to learn to live in the now.
The company, medium-size, has enough staff and variety within to release a newsletter. The spankin brand new one was launched yesterday. It's the creative expression of one of the ladies I work with every day. Expression? At work? In an office? Lightbulb moment! I want in! Not that I'm excited about the Portlite View, but seeing these cute little articles written by my peers, I want in. Only thing is, I don't have much to say about tugboats and typing. Not yet! Let's see how long it takes me to come up with something before I submit it. Can't wait.
Final entries are up in five days. That's when I get to writing. That's when the words finally come. Pressure is my motivator. A power boost for action. Some people work better when haste chases after them. I work well under light stress. The balance is offset really quickly, but if I manage to manage time, it brings out the idle part of me that often waits for purpose. Surely it doesn't guarantee genius. It's just hints a spark of the me that usually hides out, fearful of self-imposed expectations. At the end I decide, something is better than nothing.
The prettiest cake I'd ever seen taunted me. I wanted it, and I wanted to eat it too. But I was fighting a battle of will power. That led me to spew a page long email in font 8 to my sister of why I should or shouldn't eat the cake. I wrote every detail whooshing through my head. She found it amusing, forwarding it the lot of her address book. A simple daily occurrence received rave reviews to my surprise. But like Gone with the Wind I've never been able to introduce another hit. It would be a second rate attempt.
Within the next 12 months, I'll be walking down the isle… three times. One official invitation, one granted, the last is possibly my own uh …, you know. Do I think beautiful gowns, cake, and resorts? NO! I think depleting checking account, awkward family situations, fitting room disasters, and mangy flower girls who can't walk straight. How long will it take to find a purse that matches my dress perfectly and still fits a flask? Weddings are primarily a disaster. The Kodak moment is too brief for the hassle. Why can't we just elope? That's right, because of the mothers.
Something has been missing and I couldn't figure it out. It was colorless, echoes too loud, very bland and blah.
It was good music!
(Not radio waste).
It's been months since I purchase a CD, since I switch out the CD's in the car, download new and/or classic tunes that can be the soundtrack as I live my every day. The strange absence of melodic solace was a product of my laziness. I've always had freinds provide the majority of my musical inspiration. It's time to turn the damn radio off and explore the motley of artists who breathe music.
Time to toot my own horn! (ugh, what a horrible cliché) I tend to underestimate myself to appear humble. Not the best method, I know. Working on it.
Coincidentally, just before going official with the company, the staffing agency chooses me as Employee of the Month – bonus check and chocolate attached! I didn't even know they had a running. What the heck did I do to earn it? Reminds me of junior high. I won an achiever's award for P.E. Chubby little me gets credit for being thorough, not perfect. Nothing like an unanticipated acknowledgement of succeeding naturally without effort.
It's not natural for my knees to feel like they're going to crack after only ten minutes of running. It's not normal to wake up with a sore jaw. It's not normal to snap your neck on command. I'm convinced I will come down with rheumatoid arthritis, ALS, osteoporosis… some kind of crippling disease. No one has to tell me. I can feel it in my deteriorating bones. All I have to back it up are symptoms of pain and the occasional audible smack, crackle and pop. It may be hypochondria. Maybe I'm just cracking up. Get it? Cracking up!
My boyfriend's brother and sister were trying to compare me to their other sister-in-law in a tactful way. "In regards to being cool….." hollered boyfriend from the living room to the kitchen. Brother and sister agreed I take cake. Great, now I have to marry him. I've been infiltrated in this awesome family that condones occasional hangovers, provides access to the country club and lives 5 minutes from the beach. Even the mother is a pretty cool chick. She can't resist dancing when Led Zeppelin plays. And … they all play mean guitar. If they weren't human, they'd be perfect.
Possible reasons for the fog in my head/brain which is depriving me from logical thinking, reasoning, functioning, balancing, what have you:
Allergens. Iron deficiency. Hormones. Chemical Imbalance. Sinuses. Problems with the spine or neck. Tumor. Upset homeostasis which is essentially everything I just mentioned or will mention.
Whatever it is, doctor's tell me its normal or to get exams I can't afford in this lifetime. For today and the other days that it gets me, I will be a zombie. Just don't expect coherent speech or steady eye contact from me. At least I work with it, not against it.
We turned "five more minutes" into our code. The first time I gave him five more minutes, it was twenty before a cop shined a light through the backseat window. Saying goodbye was not fathomable until the last godly minute of the night. Now when he says it, I tell him I have to work tomorrow, I'm tired, or the drive back home is so long. Sometimes he walks away without a kiss, barely a hug. And that's ok. Cause we're in that stage of the relationship. Though sometimes I will surprise him with a lot more than five minutes.
My tendency is to sabotage the relationship. Especially if I analyze the dream about the man who stole my heart, subsequently tore it and kicked it around. Still I went back, repeatedly. As long as I continue the pattern of misery and love, love and misery, why not take him back? I know he's cycling same as I do with his new girl. But I'm aware of this, therefore a step ahead. Right? So, I will plow right through the self-destructive behavior and solely wait out my misery and give my love to the one who would never hurt me.
Is it too early for me to forcefully educate myself on Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus? By the end of our second month our demons have been coming out. If it wasn't for my intensity and wild emotions it might have taken a little longer to get comfortable to show each others ticks, but I'm a rapid cycler. By week two I wanted to marry and divorce him already. Maybe it’s a little premature for fighting stage, but what man do you know is willing to read the book, all in order to work at synchronizing our feuding personalities.
If I name my religion, I'm afraid readers would judge and defame the honor of my God. People might forget that we're imperfect although we are people determined to continue bringing sanctity to the name of God. I don't want my slips into sin to be what people think about when we say this is what we believe. During the Holocaust, "no other religious movement resisted the pressure to conform to National Socialism with comparable unanimity and steadfastness." I try not to think about the persecution, but today I let it sink in. I'm proud of our morality and devotion.
Two Xanax's later and we're still going down the crapper. How naïve to think a loving persistent approach to an unattended issue would produce results. He resents me for my emotions. Doesn't want to hear it. So I guess when hormones are raging and I'm crying up a storm he'll say, "How was your day?". Between a sniffling and blotchy face, lying in bed I can say, "Perfect! I washed the car, made dinner, and ironed your shirts. All without even to have to stick a plug up my vagina. Oh excuse me, I have to wash the sheets now."
The process starts with immediate detachment. Like getting an arm cut off at the elbow. The first seconds are painless. Kind of a numb reaction. It'll start when I'm ready for a forty minute drive to the city to hang with his friends and family, but stay home and watch Saturday night television movies instead. When I pick up the phone to call him, and instead dial the back to check my account. Without notice, one day I will burst into a panic attack in the middle of the grocery store when I notice he is missing from my body.
Sick and tired of thinking about him. About relationships. Wish I had more girlfriends nearby to drink with or have drinks bought for us. Then go to their house with no direct relatives in the vicinity where we could crank up the stereo, where tight tops, short shorts and stripper shoes and bong cold beer until we freeze our brains and pass out on the floor watching the Sunday night sex talk show with that old dirty lady. How I miss that about B. If I told boyfriend about that he'd probably put me in Rehab like some overrated celebrity.
I'll never be able to tell boyfriend about this website. He'll know it's me. He doesn't have the sense of humor to withstand my sarcasm and dark views. He'd be offended by the worries that I have. He'd be hurt that I imagine every possible trajectory of every scenario, including worst case, apocalyptic break-ups between us. How do I explain to him that if he can't bear to hear about, someone else has to be my ears. And who better than the anonymous? Or would he rather I tell his sister? If he chills out, I'll tell him about it.
The British are coming! We are getting two Brits from Lloyd's of London in our office. I get to serve them coffee and … well that's all. This Spanish girl loves meeting Europeans… so fascinating and more cultured than any bastard in this city I live in. I almost feel like replying back to them with an accent, but they'll assume 1)I'm mocking them or 2)I take the short bus. Nevertheless, I'm giddy upon their arrival. I'll be sure to contain my excitement and not say something stupid like "So London, the lot of you 'av bad teeth, eh chap?"
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