Thursday, January 16, 2014

My ridiculous obsession with.....

What is happiness? Can I spray myself with it? Will it come in an extra special bottle, beveled glass, 49.99$ at the makeup counter in a glossy box and make everyone want to stand a little closer to me? When I toss my hair a certain way and it shines and smells just right, will a halo form around me and lift me to a lighted place where a warm glow will fill me with this special word, magically taking away cold and fear and misery replacing it with what everyone seems to lust for?

Or will I walk past it by mistake just trying to go forward each day and move from the situation I am in now, where that word doesn't exist, and miss it because I had my head down, step step step, getting to the next spot in my day..convinced this was the way to finding that elusive ingredient I needed to make "happy."

I am so much better with the sweary words.

Friday, September 20, 2013

'Cause I'm feeling so much older

When you can't go back, and you know...but there are still parts of you left behind you need to pick up and put into these cracks. They aren't so tiny anymore, step on one, break your mothers back, jump over and hop to the next piece of pavement, keep striding forward in those so high heels...with that perfect balance (all just a lie learned on a stage my its convincing under the right lighting) and no one will see you bobble.

There is some video of me taken in 30 second shots, dark and grainy, tinted slightly green, where I'm dancing in my living room, stripping off a nightie and I used to post it here now and then for a few minutes and then take it down, just a tease. I sent it to a few people. In a great purge of blog and files when I thought everything written had been exposed to places I didn't want it to go I hid it away and now it's just gone. I'd give anything to have those snippets back. To know they were real and that time existed.

So many things lost in the fire, but not a single flame ever seen. The great clearance sale of my soul. Can I blame it all on the mental illness? The missing pieces, seeing someone else living my life but are they doing it better than I did?

I need my bits, its all got to come home and complete circle even though I am going round, round, round. Its not symmetrical, its looping out of sync,not even wearing marks into the floor in these gaping wide arcs and hoops. My things are mine. I need them, its up to me where they go and how to put it right for me even knowing it will never be right and I will always be waiting for a missing piece.

I own an all black puzzle and someone asked me once, whats the point? You can always just jam any part in and make it look like it fit. I suppose you could I replied, but when I run my hands along it, finished and whole, I will feel that piece and all the other pieces its made to stick out. When I run my hands over that smooth inky black puzzle, it shines up at me and it feels perfect with every little notch linked together. I see myself reflected in it, all dark hair and pale face,and it calms me. I need my puzzle, I am that puzzle. I want to go back, but I cant, and I know, so give me back the parts. Let me put my puzzle back together my own.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

whOreo

I never know what I will write until i get here. I dont write blogs anymore the way i used to, im no poet, wordsmith, writer of talent.. No passer by will mistake me for a "craftsman of my trade'.

Lets be honest here.. blunt really. i'm on a piece of crap lap top that is missing tiles and jumps backwards when I dont ask and gobbles up what i have typed out so fast there is no point in proofreading because it makes me want to pull out my hair

But it was FREE.


I have met the computer equivalent of myself. Minus the vibrating tongue bar. I had to type that 5 times. I really wanted to say tongue.

Is there a point here? A story? A process to my word spunk, the brain spoodge exploding onto my computer screen? Always. Just not always for mass consumption but really take what you will from this if you are still reading.

Some of us will do anything for any Oreo and some of us will do anything to get you that Oreo. And that is exactly how I met this lap top and can talk to you, or myself, tonight.

Its a life lesson. A read between the lines one, to be sure.


But thats the great thing about Oreos, you can take them apart and read them right in the middle.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

missing her

I wore a dead girls perfume today, ten years gone by and I still smell your memories in my heart.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Blogging time out due to insanity

All the excuses, lame. All the new pills? Bitter. They dont make me feel smaller or taller, ask Alice anything at all. This computer likes to eat up my words an take them away, I need to set up the one that works and try to get out whats been happening because it makes me feel like I have a stutter in my fingers as well as my brain. Set backs and lies and triggers OH MY!

Its adding up, and I get angry. But Im coming back for more, I will always still be here. Fucking cockroach, thats me.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Sticky pieces

I don't sell my trust.

It's not something you will find me standing on a street corner with, set out on a blanket with shiny baubles and trinkets. Individually sealed packets of my trust, like potpourri, free with purchase.

It is a living and breathing thing. I see it, golden honey trust, sticky and sweet to taste. Few ever will and when I share it, if I share it, then you have the mythical Ambrosia of The Gods, tho you may not realize it as you lick it off your fingers.

This is the rarest part of me, and I keep it hidden and guarded, locked in its very own Ivory Tower. The light of day never finds its way to this part, this sticky piece of me. I cant afford to let it stick to you because some of it leaves, never to return to me and there is a limited supply. Once I let some out, even if I take it back, a little piece of me is gone forever and it wont be replenished.

So what is this now? My foolishness? My recklessness? All these years to grow wise and now my trust is stuck to you, and it is dark, and it is dirty from only those things that taint it... And I dont want it back. It belongs to you now. Sticky on your fingers and no longer golden. Will you still lick it off? Will it churn in your belly instead of fill you with warmth?

Or will you sell it to someone else? Tainted trust, half off. Can you wash it off and feel clean and forget it was ever there to begin with? As easily disposed of as it was to disregard?

Do I just take whats left back to my tower? Lock it away where I should of left it and relearn the lesson I thought I already had, and watch that golden sweet piece turn bitter and dark on its own, with no light or love..and become a shadow..a sticky piece that thrives in hidden places that is passed over with so little regard.

I do not sell my trust.

But I want it to stay alive.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Germ warfare

One thing that hasn't changed about me is my shockingly horrible immune system. Yes, I am sick, AGAIN.

I have held on the the ability to get not just one germ, but 37 different kinds at the same time and break out into every known illness, I think this time its Ebola with a touch of the Black Plague. I'm almost proud of myself.

If the fevers, chills, shivering, teeth chattering and violent muscle spasms would let me get some real rest I'm sure I would be bragging all day.

And what am I doing about this? Not. One. Damn. Thing.

I mean, besides whining. That I am a champ at. I take Advil or Tylenol every two hours, swapping them off so as to keep the fever down to a level of moderate delirium. I am bleaching down everything I touch at work and not letting people come near me. Toast and tea. And sucking it up and going to work.

But you know what, I CAN. And that fucking rocks the socks. Even when I feel that I am going to fall over and die any second because there is no way I will draw another breath or survive this round of coughing, I am not panicking. I am working. I am taking calls, doing my job and doing it well.. so really? Ebola? Fuck you buddy. I might be skirting death but I feel like I'm fucking bullet proof.