Take This Sinking Boat and Point It Home (New Post, Same Shit)

Just what this blog needed: tits. Good ones, I mean. I needed something to take the attention off my written. Word. Trying to lighten the mood, so you don't take no notice of this; its just the widow outside my window. A vicious kind of web in my head. I'll write real small so you don't have to read if you don't want to.

What have I become? Got Baby blues, and I'm not talking about PPD or FAS. Someone who entertains the idea of undergoing some of the more unorthodox and curious elective surgical procedures. Elective - ha. Just because a bad hip isn't life-threatening, doesn't mean you aren't gimpy. I wish I had a powerful drug addiction or just a drug addiction, period, so I could destroy myself properly. Because dining on buttered ego noodles and sipping on a pervasive self-loathing is such an embarrassing way to go. No fatal face fracture vis-a-vis trying to kiss a spotted eagle ray at 25 mph, that's for sure.

My thoughts of being someone's way to love are so pathetic and I hate it when my notes turn into cliches. It wears me out and my feelings are flat. And in the light of day, I try to comb my worries and fix my thoughts and I am reminded that I'm not Sundanese and that when I turn on my tap, I can trust that the water that comes out won't kill me. How small of me to disremember this. But somehow, knowing this doesn't solve all of my problems.

Fucked By Leap Year (But Not By My Husband)

But it's okay, I'll just be over here: masturbating over my ATM slips. Because being an appraiser is good; but being born good is better, which is to say, born well, which is to say well-bred. My old friend, who came from the same stock as me, would say, "If you would be my wife, I would never let you down. If you would give me children, they would run the world." One day I finally said, "But I don't do drugs. And I think that would prove to be prohibitive to you." And then I hung up the telephone and it would be the last time I would speak to him because, several days later, on March 21st:

he couldn't get enough cocaine
he couldn't get enough heroin
he couldn't get enough control
he couldn't get enough
he died from an overdose

Many Happy Returns

So I quickly fled that place to the farthest far away and I arrived here disenchanted, thinking I had only been irrigating delusions and letting them grow, planting a landscape of sorrow. Then I saw you and the waters that make your eyes shine and now I'm shining, too. And everyone is equal but not as equal as you and I like to look at you when you're looking at me and I'm so glad you were born and what wouldn't I give you, if you only asked. But all I have is that free pretty picture and these fleeting moments and this piece of trash that I cleaned and polished for you, a crumpled paper I unfolded and smoothed out:

You are not alone now. I am here with you now.

always

Look At Turkey Now

Oh, the words, and how she laments them and how I laugh at them, and their ambiguity.

"Aren't you the one who has the husband who's addicted to Coke?"

"Um, well, I wouldn't say addicted but, I mean, he does get cranky when his gram's cut with too much non-coke, but, I mean, who doesn't, right? LOL."

I hear you sighing as you read my joke. That sigh that says, "Oh, how I suffer you." I know, I know. I never listen. And it makes you mad but all you can do is tell me things. And me not to listen.

So, I was driving today and I learned something from a billboard. Ready? The wages of sin is death. Death. Guess that beats minimum wage these days. Or ... yo, find a better paying job! Or, let's not and say we didn't. I swear to you on a stack of bibles and a side of pancakes that I would rather earn death than minimum wage. After all, it is a recession.

At any rate, Dude: everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. A corollary to this principle holds that: any time spent together that results in us having sex couldn't have been spent better because I really, really love having sex with you. But I must confess, I'm not really sure how corollaries work.

However, I am sure that I pissed someone off whilst driving today when I didn't allow him to cut in front of me after he passed several people behind me on the shoulder (you would have been so proud!) He finally did pass me when it opened up to two lanes and there weren't nothing I could do. And by judging by the number and flavor of bumper stickers he was a member of the NRA, so I'm glad I didn't piss him off too bad. Well, I'm not sure about the NRA thing but his truck certainly was white trash and I certainly did back up off, in case of flying bullets or rifles. And I was rill glad he didn't cause me broken and injure myself because, I must tell you, dying today would have really fucked up my plans of living forever. A plan which, so far, is going really well. But then I got to thinking that maybe he had some kind of emergency, some kind of NRA deer hunting emergency, and I felt kind of bad about being a bitch. And then, I further got to thinking about all of those "safe driving" movies I had to watch in driver's ed. Movies about what good driving should be. Movies from the 50's, when they knew things.

I almost starved to death last night. In a restaurant. I had to wait in line for thirty minutes to pick my protein. But it did force exposure to the world, at large. And, PS -- if you're ever out in the world at large and you see me, please don't make eye contact. I hate that. Here's a little piece I composed in my head:

My Thoughts On You
(After Being An Audience To Your Cell Phone Conversation That I Was Forced To Listen To While I Waited In Line To Pick My Protein)

That's you, with the bad ass Benz.
You gotta go to court.
Got subpoenaed for child support.
You ready to bust one of them niggas' heads!
You ain't scared!!
You know how to play it!!!
I know you ain't just gonna let a nigga come and punk you.
Straight up front you.
Straight up run you.
Some of your partners are dope fiends.
But you come up with them niggas.
So you stuck with them niggas.
You spent $70k on your Benz.
Oh, it ain't yours, its your friend's.
You don't go in the projects when its dark.
You went there on New Year's Eve.
You got stuck in that bitch and couldn't leave.
It was hard for you to breathe.

-----

This got kind of long and I feel (bad about that and...) like you should probably have spent your time doing something else more fun, like enjoying a big bowl of Frosted Monotony. Or having sex with me.

Today, I Genuflect

Twelve years ago today, I woke from an anesthesia-induced nap lying in St. Paul Hospital in Dallas. I was starving and parched. I remember signing blood transfusion liability waivers because I was bleeding out. People came and went -- doctors, family, grief counselors, a priest? -- I can't really be sure. As I kiss the heads of my tiny salvations I think: does the day go on forever? Will this roast even be eaten? Could I really fuck up a wet dream? Wonders, and their ceasing. Hips, and their denting. Contacts, and their scratching. Heads, and their aching. Hands, and their wringing. Love is a funny thing.

There really are scary shadows and bad guys in closets waiting to snatch you up. Magic does exist in this world, without things happening because they are "supposed to". Prepositions can end sentences. Roasts do get eaten.

I have made heart-breaking decisions. I have been a grown-up. I have done right by at least one person in this place.

And now I would very much like to smoke a cigarette.

Big Nile Crocodile

I, pork. All roads lead; there. Here, you can follow me to the beautiful faded glitterati of a 19th century port for anal and lobster bisque; for a few days. I've just got to figure out the first, third, and fifth weekend sitchy and the whole suckling pig sitchy and then we can leave, love, get gone. Got more, will get at it later.