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I'm really dizzy this very second. They said this would happen. I'm waiting for the supplements to release whatever organ(s) is(are) responsible for stability and steadiness. My 2s and 5s. My Ss are 2s. David is Daniel. Mary is Melissa. My right eye is clearer 60 seconds into the inositol and Vitamin B. Or was that D? I think I can stand. I can't stand this though. Every hour being confused and(or) volatile. Fully geared for the gym and switching into a violent nap instead. My laptop is sick too. A virus. Which sucks more? Who car
Early thirties. I've been through some grown up shit. But nothing feels as grown up as consulting mortgage lenders and having a conversation about equity. People do this all the time. I don't. And it feels very outside of my skin. My element of choice would be in traveling tents, but somewhere I make the wrong choice and have had to adapt. It's okay though. As long as I don't feel the kind of maturity that parenting forces you into. Or not. I mean, any teenager can procreate and buy a crib. A house, you need credit for that shit.
My writing is the latest substance I let flow within my veins. Whatever my cells aspirate is what will be exposed. Whether a potent stimulant or an aged wine. It's the last book I read and the latest movie that made me jump in my bones. The last time I curled my toes in ecstasy or the burning desire of a degrading fantasy I will never act out. It's not what happens to me on a droning daily basis or what I thought the world would turn out to be some day. It's whatever raises the bumps on my skin.
I am so relieved watching that bug crawl across the bedroom wall and behind the night table. You see, I keep thinking I see bugs fly by out of the corner of my eyes. Sometimes the peripherals glimpse that dark grimy shadow or something below the eyes, close to the bridge of my nos. Flashes in my waking space. I quickly look to see and nothing happened. Could there be some creature in my brain controlling my vision, playing dirty tricks on me? Why would I do that to myself? What are these non-existent fears creeping up and out?
Ray Ray Ray. Gone gone gone. Ray is gone. When I met him I wasn't cognizant that one day I would love him and he would be gone. I happily and ignorantly agreed that he would always be the role model, the father figure, the loving grandpa who busts your chops. What a blissful little fool I was? Just recently I became aware -it dawned- he would leave this world soon. I prepared, and yet you can't prepare for it like they said. Try as you may. And the others...the one's that I'm not expecting to pass? I can't...
m dancing all around it. I have so many regretful topics to chose from, legitimate topics of concern. From the personal... to the universal. The big fucking pink fat elephant in my brain. It is there...pounding on the gray matter, blasting it to smithereens. There is world hunger, the malicious reaper, the tumor in my head...HA...it doesn't even beat the inanimate growth that decided to berth in my skull. I can cry this river into a bleeding ocean and I will still find absolutely nothing to say about this matter that takes up all of time-space.
First swig of alcohol in months...it's poisoning the veins near my eyes, I can feel them protesting. The warmth of the vodka in my belly feels soothing, but the demon chasing after it is suspenseful and menacing. Will it attack tonight? Will I get away with a cautious warning? I'm not so very terrified of myself. It's everything else out there that is unsafe. I can speak the truth and they will abuse me with my own words. I'll be bloodied and blued until I can't speak, but it doesn't mean I will ever feel free or at ease.
I think I violent book or movie would do me good right now. It would cancel out the red I see. It would calm me now, to share with a deviant. A head first collision with the consequences might calm me the fuck down. My bones may not be rattling, but it's that eye before the storm. And it needs to stop. Because it is not who I need to be. It is the person without boundaries that should be convicted. One act of primal hate is not all that dangerous, but what if everyone unleashed at once. Control, dammit.
My ribs...they have all slid out of place. My clavicle popped out. Who knows where my right shoulder went. All unprovoked! What is one to think when your bones are no longer pleased with their settings. They just shift about, out of self-entitled spite. They autonomously decided they feel better somewhere else in my body. My unprotected heart, they didn't give it a single thought if it gets exposed. A consideration to the laws of gravity they gave not. I'm left speechless! Unless my innermost thoughts have also mutinied into silence without my knowledge. What of my mind?
At what age did you become aware of mortality? Not just that the family pet dog went to a beautiful farm far away or that grandma is going on a very long vacation, but the raw crude truth that your soul will end. Or that a spouse or a son can cease existence at the drop or the dime. That our human blood and energy transport system is so fragile. And with more time that passes and the more people we lose, it all seems ephimeral and certainly not enough. Yet, I'm too young to be wary of imminent death.
Letter writing and emails, I no longer make much time for it. But I will be corresponding to a widow these days. One in particular that I love. It's not for me either, because as mentioned, it's just not in me anymore. But she brings out wonderful un-found things in me, just like her deceased husband did. I owe her this attention and distraction from the pain of losing your soul mate. There is one more I wish to be a part of. It's been two sorrowful years since he violently vanished from her life. It's time we reconnect.
Bestie and I used to make little story productions in middle school. It usually involved the "Wow...you got hot when you grew up" bit. It ruffled our little tail feathers to blow a guy's mind this way, for whatever reason. I almost forgot about it until last week, I met the hot guy again after 17 years. His last viewing of me was a little chubby punk that dressed horribly.
In my Sunday best, we reunited. I introduced myself to him, his cute little dimples, and gorgeous family.
First words from his mouth,
" Wow...You are beautiful!"
I want to say the forbidden. Maybe my head would stop trying to burst in its skull if I just uttered the words. But I can't. Saying it makes it a reality. There are consequences to materializing thoughts into words and putting them out there for the universe. You can't treat these matters lightly. Somehow, it will come back and devour you alive. But God knows it would stop this cranial hemorrhoid. I could be free and breathe easy and sleep soundly. Must I really find another way to deal with this? Would it be denial or a coping mechanism?
Like a phoenix rising from ashes...I so destroy my body with every environmental hit I can think of. In other words, I'm eating and ingesting and lathering on everything inflammatory that sends my immune system into an uproar. The blood so tainted. So deadly. And then, the needle. May they find every parasite and virus and bacteria that has been slowly killing me. May I burn one final demise and find a way to come back anew. I'm finished with this decaying body. I want to know who I am with sharp eyes, strong bones, and a clear mind.
The transparent reality is I haven't developed into an authentic selfless soul. I fool others. Mostly myself. And I take credit for it. I discreetly veil a superior ego and call it listening and being understanding. I condescend with the little bit of nothing I know. Though with a lowly tone and modest language, I muddle my treacherous swelling pride. How often do I truly give all of myself to those I wish to suffer and empathize with, all the while desperately aiming to relate with others to make sense of my conflicted little world. I don't mean to defraud.
These are times I need to keep notes of. I took a hard mental picture of him holding me when I was weak and exhausted from the aching. My old man and this grown woman child. He played soothing guitar music on his phone. I forget these moments, but I'm keeping and documenting this one. It's mine. Just now across the room he is singing karaoke lyrics on youtube to I Will Follow Him by Peggy March in his thick Spanish accent. I tried to physically record the moment, but I was caught. Dad sheepishly grinned while it played on.
Most songs that enrapture me over and over to a specific emotion, the attachment happens when I'm in motion. Driving, running, dancing. Sometimes I will be sparked by a song if I'm sitting, but the true binding of the soul happens when I listen to it on the highway or swaying in a concert. My mind needs to be on the go, experiencing something, not just existing idly. These past useless months I haven't felt moved by much, therefore no music in my head. I hear one while I sit, I longingly wish I was going somewhere significant, very fast.
I have a bad relationship with my bones. I should punish them as bad as they punish me. All this sanguineus activity that lights my insides on fire. My friend, she is dying to be all bones. Killing herself possibly. And here my only desire is that the skeleton composing my structural being would stop destroying me. I appease it with pure crystalline water and nutrients of the earth and it chews up my sacrifice and spits out my masticated guts. I'm so weary of sustaining my head high, reduced to being prostrated so low. My bones are endlessly wasted.
I'm terribly excited about the supposed 100words 2.0. Will it attract more newcomers? Will it re-inspired the veteran writers that only browse the ghost website? Could it fuel our creativity, overturn our lack of discipline, or engender a new hipster craze? This generation -my generation- we are so unmotivated and easily disheartened or disillusioned. We just need a little boost here and there because the dreams are still alive. A little dormant. A little buzzed. But we need a way to bring out the best in us and share it with the world. Could this be the portal?
I must've been fourteen, maybe younger. I was an enthusiastic Scholastic patron. Health care was already in my stars. After this recent descent of essential oil and amber bottle impulse buys, the kind that follows with sudden doubt of why did I just blow all that money, I remembered that one of my first books was for homemade cosmetics. It was full of witch hazel and rose water recipes, herbal tonics, soaps and lotions. It's always been a dream. I had simply forgotten it. As I sample the lavender and vetiver, I recall how easy it was to once create.
If you gave me a buck for every desperate patient that came to our office (predominantly female), asking what is wrong with her body, her womb, her ability to birth life or eat a piece of bread, or sweat when it is appropriate, and she thereafter divulged a ritualistic stint of a prescribed antibiotics that seems to be at the start of this spiraling...I'd be a rich ho. I'll buy you an overpriced organic kale smoothie if those symptoms graduated to a full blown autoimmune condition that decimated her life and chances of having a normal family life. Deal?
Clearly I'm having a woe-is-me session. I'm still in training to dealing with my problems gracefully, without throwing a temper tantrums every 4 hours my life is interrupted because of an organ that just won't start up (or breakdown). I want to be one of those hobbling old ladies that swipes on vibrant lipstick and straps on her granny panties and with a brave smile signs in for her doctor appointment. Without bitching like a sour millenial. Who brightens the overloaded staff despite her achy bones. Who doesn't whine about her lot in life. Gratitude: a priceless virtue.
By my entries you might think I'm geriatric or at least a peppering middle-aged kind of woman that wears wispy pony tails and wears only sweats. But I'm not. At least I only wear yoga pants sometimes. But I'm pretty damn young. Fluorescent orange lacquer decorates my toenails. My husband uses words like 'sick' and 'dope' to describe awesome things. I haven't signed up for medicare yet. Just having a hard time at life, that is all. I'm not proud of my condition, like proud victims who symbolically don colored ribbons, but sometimes..verbal rants effectively helps me deal.
I haven't had a hot cup of coffee in eons.... until this hot little delicious cheat. I could've punched a baby in the face. My synapses just willed themselves to implode. The remaining are popping back to life. A short-lived, beautiful meaningful existence. Until the caffeine tells my T cell response to activate it's little soldiers and they get the message to kill kill kill. Kill my nervous system. Oxidize some healthy cells. Demyelate my spinal cord. I'm just so tired of dying. So exhausted. Except for the next two vibrant hours before the pain sets in. Brace yourself.
Men and their stupid inflated egos! They wouldn't know it if a giant penis came and slapped them across their manly jawbones! For the 2% that don't fit the super ego driven stereotype, I apologize. We'll have a cry about it over Gilmore Girls and I'll lend you a tampon. Women...we have the burden to stand by and watch the males we allow passage to our existence make ridiculous life choices after another. Never could they just admit that we were always right! We accept this truth! Why cannot you save us some suffering and do as we say!
I'm doing things completely out of my element, where I like to reside..out of it. Attending seminars along doctors, lasering by brain while meditating, and caring for loved ones with early brain damage who insist on not getting better. I drive out of my way weekly to buy foods without hormones and follow celebrities on Twitter because my "friends'" lives are too depressing. Walking around knowing painful truths that no one wants to deal with while battling my own demons regarding find balance in a world that's going down anyway, but still honoring my mind and body without abandon.
With ionized water I swallowed down stench-heavy homeopathic muscle relaxants and let it sit. The muscle fibers melted and released. He adjusted my C2; face up and manually. The C1 just won't go; activator device. The SI joints surrendered with minimal effort. I drove, sedated and apprehensively joyful, to the next therapy. Another popped tablet and the serene jungle music, paired with strong hands, unfastened death grips of my striated muscles. I belted to mental affirmations until I uncorked a bottle of punch-you-in-the-face bold Cabernet and guzzled it down with ground coffee crusted hard cheese.
It occurs to me I'm not very good at reporting the uneventful. You are either receiving the highlight of my life! Or the lowest day of my days. The middle, in which I preach mediocrity is actually a good thing, breeds no joyful cry or agonizing wail. A good reporter could make stale crackers sounds like caviar material. But life is too short to pretend. In the middle, I'm surviving in a perfectly adequate manner. During the valleys, the descriptive words pour like guilt in a torture chamber. In the midst of ecstasy...even I don't believe. Why would you?
My food life is expensive. Even my cheats have become pricey since I no longer sneak a Wawa sour cream doughnut or a Little Debbie Zebra Cake. No sir. I don't have the money to overdose on cookies like the high corn fructose syrup lottery grab bags you can get... you know, 10 for $10. When each organic, wheat free, allergen free treat that actually tastes good is in the eight ball, at two bucks a pop, you eat like a skinny bitch, even though your little fat girl is raving mad at you for starving it of true surrender.
To go down the rabbit hole, or not to go down the rabbit hole. That is the question. If you can predict anything about me from these ridiculous little snip-its, you probably know I shant. Am I not allowed? Have I convinced myself that I am not capable of the truth without coming out traumatized and forever unchanged? Do I truly believe in boundaries? I know many truthful answers, yet I'm also a wonderful debater and justifier and I can win both arguments. It is terribly tormenting to be blown about by the winds of the sea of doubt.
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