What's On My Mind

Paranormal Schmaranormal

2011-10-25T13:56:00.000-07:00

After realizing I hadn't been to see a movie in a while - which was mostly due to the crappy movies out in the last few months - I decided after viewing the line-up of new movies to see Paranormal Activity 3.... by myself.

Okay that's cool, it was the day after opening night so the theatre packed. I wasn't exactly alone, but I was with a bunch of people who thought it was funny to try and scare the whole theatre. It was pretty funny. I sat next to a group of young guys who kept asking each other "Did you fart?" Seriously?? And the guy on my right side was an older gentleman who kept maniacally laughing at the wrong parts... weird.

But at least I wasn't alone.

The third installment of the Paranormal Activity movies added more humour than their last ones, humour that not only scared you but made you feel stupid for screaming.

Expecting it to be as scary as #1 and #2, none of us realized it was going to be much more horrifying, resulting in a screaming crowd. (I proudly never screamed). Now what's more scary than anything they added before? I wondered that too but they did things to terrify that I never would have imagined. As well as adding a very happy-go-lucky-but-super-freaky kid. Children are so creepy.

Upon arriving home I thought I was quite alright, until I headed upstairs in the dark and imagined myself bumping face-first into the chest of an invisible demon... Okay not so good now.

This one might take a while to get over but it was definitely worth seeing.

The Importance of a Plan

2011-09-19T13:51:00.000-07:00

Over the last couple of days I've been obsessively scouring information about "Bug-Out Bags" and 72 hour survival kits. When it comes to the end of the world, I'm realistic. It's going to happen. Or at least a detrimental earthquake that puts life on hold for a few days. What would you do if such an event occurred? Aside from the pants-wetting and boot-shaking, you would find yourself unprepared, with nothing to eat, your water possibly unsafe to drink and as looters run rampant you would discover yourself unprotected and a victim to the new world laws.

The best way in these probable events is to be prepared. The main things you need to think of, are: food and water, shelter and sleeping, clothes, tools, first aid, hygiene, money and security and last of all, protection.

While pre-made and custom kits can be found online, DIY lists can also be found in order for you assemble your own Bug-Out Bag.

With this, I suggest including laminated copies of directions to a "safehouse" or meet-up for you and your family, as well as plans in case of different apocalyptic events.

The other matter which has been pressing upon me is the fact that in the event of an emergency, your conscience will have to take a backseat. Or be left behind. People are known to do scrupulous things in a state of panic or without the law holding their hands. Therefore it's best to realize that people should be avoided and while you might want to help everyone, they could be playing possum to take advantage of your better nature.

If you feel that you can live with the possibility of having to leave people behind, hurt others to protect yourself and live in seclusion then you may be prepared for world-ending events!

Hellhound

2011-09-07T12:43:00.000-07:00

Every person has a story. What people don't unda'stan is every car has a story too. Just so happen my story tangle with a car's story.
When my pa first bought the car - our first as a family - I was four. The day he brung home tha car he says it look like an ebony body builder on wheels. I don't know what tha mean then, but I know now and it sure make ma frown like the devil.
I was in a stage, thinkin objects was real. I thought that car was a hellhound from one o' my ma's scary bible stories. When I tol' pa he thought this was a hoot. We's call it Hellhound from then on. And it was. Tha thing could roar louda than a lion with a thistle in it's paw. I'd be playin with my chawk in the carway and pa come home, that car near gobble me up into its dark maw. It like a growlin beast at my back.
Pa said don't wurra, tha car never take a bite a me, I'm spoilt he say. Back then he coulda been right.
Weren't till lata I get unscared and start to see it for wha it was.
Tha ol' car hold our family togetha.
When ma used to walk home in the pourin' rain from the fac'try, she catch such a cold. Now pa can pick her up. Sometimes they even catch a milkshake togetha first.
On Fridays when I had no schoo next morn - oh Lord how I hated schoo then - we'd pile inta the Hellhound and go to the drive-in show. I'd squeeze between ma and pa on the shiny leatha bench seat. Sometimes I'd fall right asleep, and I'd always have the besta dreams. I'd dream I'm king of the hellhounds and we'd ride through the city, snatchin' up crim'nals.
As I grew, times they gota hard. People, they ain't lookin'to pay people they ain't have to. My pa got laid off, then my ma too; lot a people did. Soon we move to a small apar'ment. My mum want my pa to sell Hellhound, but he don't. He can't I guess. Tha the only thing linkin' him to what we had.
Afta I see mum start coughin' more. She always cough, but this sure is new and it's not just her. We learn her years at the fac'try make her sick, others too. Even Hellhound can't take her way from tha. My pa gets mad and then bitter like ma's rhubarbed pie. But one night he just knows. He tell me to get Hellhound runnin'. I'm neva allow to drive Hellhound, not yet. I want to feel excited but I don't. Pa, he cradles ma carefully and sits her in the middle a Hellhound, between us. Then tells me to drive. Tha car drives smootha than it ever did, like it was scared a bouncin' ma. It don't even jump for'ard goin' inta third like it likes to. We go to ma's favourite spot, lookin' over our city. Tha city ain't always nice to us, but ma sure love it. It's then I know what goin' happen. Her breathin' slows, like she goin' sleep real quiet. And then as she lean on my pa, she don't wake. We cry silent as if not to stir her.
Growin' up was hard then, for me and pa. Mum sure made it easy but we did our best. I decide to keep on with school, till I got accepted at university. It hurts to leave pa but the day before I go, pa hand me Hellhound's keys. Says it needs more good memories.
Drivin' away, pa looks smaller, just a wisp in that smoky mirra. I try my best; I work hard in school but make friends and memories too.
When I come home, I think I did good. Thinkin' pa be proud, I drive Hellhound home more nervous then I ought to be. In that small apartment, dustier than ma would ever let it, I find him in bed.
My strong pa is justa sick ol' man. I spend my days with him, but still couldn't figure out how he get so old, so soon.
One day he ask me to park Hellhound unda'neath his winda. So I shine it up real good and park it below. I pick up my poor pa and place him in the creaky rocka where it can see it. I prop open the winda so he can get a good view and feel the air on his face, like he drivin'. He can't sit there long, but I know it long enough. Next day he spend it in bed, but he smilin' just a bit.
Tha night, I know. Don't know how, I just do. I take that man in my arms, so small I wurra I crush him. His heart beats like a buttafly against my arms. I sit him gentle like on that cracked leather seat in the middle and get behind the wheel. He leans on my shoulda, sittin' where my ma sat them years ago. It makes my eyes burn thinkin' bout it. We drive slow and Hellhound with it's ol' shocks and worn brakes carries him like a newborn babe. It sure seem to know where to go, up to ma's favourite spot. Tha city below twinklin' like stars stuck on the earth. I wonda how them people below don't know what's going on. Why don't they know what's happenin' to us three: me, pa and Hellhound. It's quiet and I think he gone but he squeeze my hand with his frail one. With one last effort he pat ol' Hellhound on her dusty dash like she a retired huntin' dog. Pa, he curl up 'gainst me and his breathin' goes quiet. Then it's just me and Hellhound.

Ode to a Cheffrey

2011-08-18T02:12:00.000-07:00

Upon a recent foray into the neighbouring country, what was meant to be yet another life-changing adventure and possibly a week’s worth of stories, turned into a song of sorrow for my poor friend. During a valiant rescue mission to save a friend from the local “po po”, my good friend broke his foot and then (idiotically) walked on it for two days before being able to attend a hospital. Although I admit I hope they put a hot pink cast on, I just know he’d rock it to spite me.

Since his job requires him to be on his feet, it’s come to the conclusion that he might have to take a break in order to recover. This is not only a financial conundrum but my friend happens to lead an energetic and active lifestyle – while somehow being the most laid back person I know.
While working a 12 hour nightshift, I found I couldn’t get it off my mind, worrying about what he was going to do. So I compiled a list of possibilities:
- Join an interpretative-crutch dance group
- Paint waterfront scenery canvases
- Become a crippled buskar and put on entertaining sock puppet shows (crippled buskars make the best money)
- Begin writing a cooking course to teach, for future use
- Join World of Warcraft (oh wait…), or better yet, Dungeons and Dragons
- Hang out at the playground, just to rile up the local parents
- Consider writing a memoir – well maybe write it, instead of consider it
- Sketch caricatures for cash
- Sell the over abundance of “stuff” you have falling out the doors and windows of your apartment
- Become a sex-line operator… or a suicide operator but seriously which one would be more fun
- Gain lots of weight and become morbidly obese – it is considered a disability and you could have your own nurse!
- Win the lottery and get chauffeured around like Driving Miss Daisy
- Teach 4-H, you have enough experience
- Have more Arts and Crafts days with me!
I can’t wait for the day that my friend can look back and laugh, but knowing him that’ll probably be tomorrow. Not being able to imagine what it’s like, I figure I’ll just watch my step, leave my friends to the po po’s and try to cheer up my busted buddy.

How to NOT Sell a Horse

2011-08-10T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have a bit of an addiction -aside from sorbet ice cream- and that's watching horse sale videos. To be able to watch dozens of horse videos, one after the other when in the past you had to send away for one and only if you were a 'serious buyer'. If technology has done one thing, it's fuel the horse lovers obsession and enabled us more outlets to watch and learn.

While some videos make us envious and wish we had room for "just one more!" other videos leave us shaking our heads and wondering why someone would take the time to make a video if that was the end product.

Maybe that's a bit harsh but it's like those raggedy, thread-bare sweatpants that you love to wear around the house. You may love them, but you don't admit to owning them, let alone put them on the world wide web.

Here are a few if my latest horse sale video pet peeves:

Wearing shorts in a riding clip - Umm no. This is one of those "sweatpant" examples. You may love to ride in shorts, but never admit to it, let alone use it in your sale vid. No only is it unsafe, it's unprofessional. It says to your potential buyers "This is a backyard pony that I trained myself wearing shorts the entire time. We also wear camoflauge during duck hunting season."

Wearing flip flops/running shoes/barefeet or even better Crocs - Although this is a great way to show how well your horse moves off your leg, this is like wearing a hollowed watermelon as a helmet. My horse is very good about staying out of my space, but I couldn't blame her if she stepped on me while wearing flipflops. That would be her way of telling me I'm an idiot and I'd have to thank her for it. In a training video, it says I couldn't care less about this video so I didnt take the time to put proper shoes on.

Standing on your horse's back - This occurs mostly in horse pictures, not videos. I realize it's supposed to be impressive but my camera takes less than 5 seconds to take a photo. You may be trying to tell me that your horse is bombproof but all that I'm getting from that picture is you were able to stand on your horse 5 seconds before he blew up and threw you off. Congrats though, maybe you should take up bronc riding.

Not grooming the horse first - Really?? Should I even explain this? Let's start at the beginning : you take the time to charge your camera, you make sure it's a sunny day, you get your friend to help you take the video, you sit down and upload it to your computer, you even put some pretty music to your horse flouncing around the ring... and you didn't take the time to get the mud off him? I love ads that say " This is a stunning, fancy red roan" It is? Looks mud-coloured to me. Maybe if I turn my head to the side.... Nope, still brown.

Riding said horse in draw reins and/or other training implements - Your horse may go beautifully in draw reins... but how am I to know that everything won't fall apart the second they're taken off? Doing a sale video with them on says to the buyer "These are a crutch, I don't know how to ride without them and neither does the horse". Another example is "greenbroke 2yr old, easy to train and practically finished." then the poor 2yr old is shown riding in an 8inch shank bit with rockgrinder spurs... in those videos I feel the damage is done and although you could 'undo' it, it's painful to think that the horse would be so much further ahead if it had never been 'trained' that way.

Lunging a weanling or yearling around and around and around - Ouch, ouch, ouch. Jeez, that's great they lunge... but they could have learned that when their knees were properly closed. People forget there are lots of other ways to teach foals the basics without making their growing legs suffer. Not only that but when you see a foal in a sale video, you know it's a foal. You're not expecting to see a video of it winning Congress for HUS. All that is necessary is a vid that shows its movement, it's conformation, the foal interacting with people and maybe some clips of the dam. The best way to do most of that is to get the mare moving and have the foal follow, preferably in a larger field and not a 7 minute clip.

Palestra-Tan-Servizio Lavanderia

2011-08-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

THEY'RE BACK and this season looks like it'll take the cake over all others and what's better than guidos and guidettes showing the way they roll? Throwing them in a country that won't understand the way they roll. Hairdryers are blowing up and the girls are straightening their hair in the kitchen which makes me wonder: what will Pauly do without his blow out??

After just one episode, The Sitch is already breaking his rules and stirring the pot and surprise surprise Deena has decided that now Ronnie's single, she's not interested and would rather have Pauly... which she does in the most disgusting face-sucking way.

So now what do we have to look forward to? At least one trip to the exotic Italian cop shop, a few sparring matches and probably one knock-out, three-way kissing (Blech!) and a season full of random pick-ups. Of course, let us all pray that the inevitable doesn't occur and hopefully Sammy and Ronnie can avoid smushing.

This season's tag line will still be G-T-L but with the Italian twist of Gelato-Tiramisu-Linguine. Maybe bad-ass Jenny will gain back some of her tough-girl body on the GTL.

911 Animal Complaints

2011-07-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

Scenario 1: You see four adorable and cuddly raccoon babes handing out in a tree, apparently motherless. You think - they can't get down and you believe a police-run rescue mission is in order. You call 911 because supposedly this a bloody emergency. Me, the dispatcher, can tell you how this goes:

Me: Which service, police, fire, ambulance?

You: Police

Me: What's your emergency?

You: There are four raccoon babies stuck in a tree.

Me: Okay so you want an officer to shoot them down?

You: NO! I want an officer to rescue them.

Me: Okay well if an officer goes, they're going to be shot out of the tree. Trust me though, they'll make it down.

You: Umm never mind... *click*

Scenario 2: You're bit once by the neighbour's frothing mutt Miss Tickles. You freak out, imagining horrendous scenes from Cujo, even though you're safe and sound in your home. You call 911. If I answer, this is how it's going to go:

Me: Which service, police, fire, ambulance?

You: Police.

Me: What's your emergency?

You: My neighbour's dog bit me 10 minutes ago.

Me: Did you bite it back? No? Well the police aren't paid enough to come bite a dog and teach it a lesson for your wussy ass. Have a nice day.

Scenario 3: This is a regular one, and keep in mind I have to take notes when I answer a call. It goes like this:

Me: Which service, police, fire, ambulance?

You: Police.

Me: What's your emergency?

You: There's a coyote walking down the road.

Me: And it's just walking.

You: Yeah.

Me: Is it getting into garbage, or acting aggressive?

You: No.

Me: So it's just walking down the road?

You: Yes.

Me: Okay I'll send an officer out right away.

You: Thank you! *hangs up*

Officer: What was that about?

Me: Nothing, just more paper to shred.

The Power of No

2011-07-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

No.

No, no, no...

I don't normally believe I have 'pet peeves', or at least I do, I just hate calling them pet peeves. Unfortunately people who can't say no are one of them.

Want to go to a Celine Dion concert? No. Hell no.

Can you clean up that random pile of cat barf? Blech, no.

Will you be my Dungeons and Dragons partner? Sure! I mean umm no...

It's really not that hard. Unfortunately for some, it seems to be. I realize that I have a hard time saying no when it comes to work, probably because I envision my paycheck shrinking and the stuff I want to buy going away with it. Guilt has a lot to do with it; it weighs on you forcing a yes out of your mouth. Guilt plays a large role in a lot of our lives: feeling guilty if you don't do what people want, feeling like we're not good enough, feeling like we're failures. I believe in embracing our faults and feeling good about them. I'm self-absorbed. Therefore I don't mind saying no to attending Celine Dion just because you like it. Why not feel proud that you're a failure, or feel good about rebelling against what people want. While you're at it, say no.

Flaws

2011-07-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

It's weird to think that someone will find flaws in you and dislike them when you've grown attached to them, happily or not.
For me, it's easy to look at someone and see their flaws. But then I wonder whether I could accept them.
Physical flaws can become familiar and endearing unless they go as far as to turn you off.
Can you grow to love and react to someone with flaws?
What about personality flaws? These I find harder to endure although they are less obvious: egotism, insecurity, vanity, apathy are more difficult to love than a snaggle tooth.
At what point do flaws control our opinion of someone?
Is that what everyone strives for, to be balanced and not over-flawed? Is that bland - we strive to be bland human beings?
Maybe a person's good traits overpower the flaws but we need both to see the difference.

Ugly People Making Out: The Car Crash of PDA

2011-06-30T13:11:00.000-07:00

Okay let's set the scene, because I know you've been there:

You're at a bar, you know, that one that has a scene for your younger bro but has a broad enough demographic to make your older friends feel comfortable. You're out on the dance floor and it looks like a European orgy, people are grinding with the wall from lack of space. You can't even get your hand up to fist pump let alone moonwalk. You're either pressed up against a cute stranger and pretending it's an accident or you've just pinched some girl's butt and now trying to escape to make it look like you didn't just pinch her butt. Let's say in your desperate flight you get stuck in the crowd. You're far from the exit and everyone's holding their ground. You try to make the best of. You begin to dance again. Everyone's bumping into the next, but the one on your left is persistent. Peeling your cheek off the big guy on your right, you check out what you think is Asshole Numero Uno on your left - only to find yourself in a three way makeout session with two fuglies.

Yeah, that's a dilemma. Where do you puke right?

But that's not the real problem. Okay, they're practically humping your leg from lack of room, but now you have to try to ignore them. So you go back to busting a move, but the half-shaved Sasquatch and the snaggle-toothed wonder keeping pulling your focus. Let's lay down the truth, you openly slack-jaw stare at them.

It's okay, I know you're not a freak, you're not turned on by it or anything (right?). This is how it is, have you ever seen two armadillos doing the nasty? Probably not, unless you're an armadillo breeder, in which case you're ruining my point.

Imagine it. It's not anatomically possible. It goes against nature. Unfortunately, that is what ugly people making out becomes. Impossible but it defies the impossible. And it's happening on your leg.

Now I've seen numerous fugly face-sucking sessions. Why they save them for the bar and yours truly's lap? Probably because their the spawn of Satan. With my expertise, I've devised some tactics to avoid ogling them like a bad homemade porn.

1) Fist pump - This is my best tactic. Everyone knows you have to look at your fist to make sure you're doing it right and if you're looking at your fist, voila, you can't see them. Now if you're not cool enough to fist pump, resort to my other methods.

2) Look at your shoes - Of course if you have no style and your shoes are ugly, you might as well stare at the car wreck beside you.

3) Shut your eyes - This is a last resort and for the love of life, don't open them, even if you think they're gone. Say you can't hear the sounds of god-awful suction noises. Don't fall for it. It's a trick. The second you open your eyes, they'll be off your leg and pressed up to your belly button. I hope you can smell your way to the bathrooms and have a buddy with good aim to toss a beer to your open hand.

Now I don't include these options because this is what I'd do, but most people wouldn't. Depending on what I ate that day, or what's in my throat, I can pick either/or.

1) Release the worst SBD fart you can muster. You know that one you were saving for a friend's pillow? Use it. This is a life or death situation. You're friends potential pink eye can wait.

I prefer my second method, because I'm pretty good at it and I'm possessive of my SBD's.

2)Cough.

I mean hoark it. They're not going to leave unless phlegm hits their faces. Make it sound like a degenerative disease that they could possibly catch. Pretend you can't help coughing, or you run the risk of getting hairy-knuckled, white trash style. When I'm feeling creative, I keep a bar olive in my pocket. Then I'll fake a sloppy sneeze and slap the olive at their faces. Of course, I am a lady, so I apologize profusely for kersnotting.

While I'm dishing out some well-advised knowledge, I'll give you the cold, hard facts and how to prepare.

Be alert.

These events don't just happen at the bar. These people don't have what we call polite discretion. They'll make out anywhere.

You'll go to take a bite of your smoked salmon bagel, and they'll be there.

Oh, you're just picking out a library book? They're there.

Burying your great grandmother? Yeah, they're there too.

Don't drop your guard and carry a mirror (perfect for looking around corners).

These are the facts of life people.

Drivers That Follow Too Close

2011-06-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

Yeah I get it, city driving is tough. I realize it's considered polite for everyone to squeeze together in an intersection so that no one's hanging out. That does not account for every other time my poor truck's bumper is ridden like a carousel horse by a bigger truck with a driver trying to compensate. I cannot stand it when I'm blatantly going over the speed limit and some jack with a brick loafer thinks I'm Grandma Geezer going for a jaunt in the countryside. That same jack also seems to think my bumper is a button that reads "push to go faster".

Many people like to hit the brake to tell them off but I've concluded that such behaviour only lowers you to so-and-so's level. Basically you've caught the hot potato and now you're the asshole.I prefer to practice a similar course of action, while being the "better person".

I drive an uber cool standard truck (just don't ask what kind or year because my 'uber cool' comment will quickly lose value). You need a standard to perform my tactic. It goes like this: Jackola is riding your bum-per. You assess the best moment- being the moment when he's about to hit your go faster button. Now you act. Downshift. Hard.

This way, he'll see your tail flying towards him, without the pre-warning of brake lights. Oh, there's a chance he'll smash into you. Don't do this with children in either vehicle. Serves him right.

As I like to say; tail-riding decapitates babies. That should be a bumper sticker.

Zomb-a-lom-bies

2011-06-28T14:12:00.000-07:00

Zombies

Inevitable

Not the most descriptive adjective for them but it’s the one that holds the most truth. You might not think this is where the fate of humankind will lead but I can prove it’s already begun.Maybe you’ll recognize my description as someone you know.

My sister and I used to attend an Anglican church. For me it wasn’t about religion, it was just a place to hang out with my best friend. We had a minister, who was a great guy - comical and easy going. Then like a switch, his sermons became monotone and dull, compared to their usual entertaining cadence. The true tell-tale sign of zombie-ism was the obese flies crawling on his face and hands, line-dancing across his brow. A zombie in God’s house, attempting to preach his words may seem ironic but like a shark they are not evil or malicious. It is just in their nature.

It’s not wide-spread. Yet. The signs are present and they will become persistent in daily life. The zombies will come and with the speed of locomotive gaining ground, they will cover our world.

Cowboy

2010-09-18T21:26:00.000-07:00

He hopped off the horse like a Hollywood cowboy. that well-practiced swing of the leg over the horn, a cause for a head-shake from any up-tight equestrian. He may have been born branding cattle before eating solids but he was barely a man. Once on the ground, the awkwardness showed. Where to put his hands, a slouch or a straight-back, mussed hair or smoothed - he didn't know what to do with himself. Maybe it would come in time, or maybe I made him nervous; of course it could have been what was in my hands.
He finally settled for leaning on his grey tank of a cattle herder, one hand in his pocket, the other arm slung over the saddle. Cowboy couldn't look at me, couldn't take his eyes off the cup made by my hands. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn't the best talker, although when he did, he made sure it was important. Cowboy was the one who settled my anger when I first came here, at the beginning of the dry, burning summer. I was at a loss for words too.
Stepping forward I pushed my hands out to him, trying to get him to understand. His lips turned up in a sympathetic smile yet his eyes had become shaded grey. Coming closer, Cowboy enveloped my hands in his and my heart ruffled like a dying moth.
"Give him to me, Cinch." He could make his voice so soft and it still reverberated within me.
Cowboy lifted his eyes from our hands and brought them to my face. I saw fear in his eyes, creasing the corners and furrowing his brow. The shock from so many things made everything harder to comprehend.
"Why are you worried?"
"Because I know you believe in signs. This isn't one of them. It's the same as everything I've taught you this summer. It's the highs and lows."
My gaze dropped immediately, shame blossoming across my cheeks. I knew he was right. I had selfishly thought this was a sign; that my life was going to hell.
I focused on my hands and the softness cupped inside them. His hands stayed wrapped warmly around mine, waiting. Cowboy continued looking down at me, always patient.
"Why?"
Bursting out, causing my hands to tremble. Cowboy didn't answer for the eternity of a minute. He rubbed his thumbs over my wrists, stabilising me.
" It's not a sign. It's life. Growing up is hard, things don't always survive. What does survive get to experience both the good and bad things of life."
"It's not fair. We watched them all summer. You told me everything about them. They were home-free."
"Nothing is home-free Cinch."
Turning my face away I tried with resolution not to cry like a kid with her candy stolen.
"Hey, Cinch, it's not you," he said, nodding towards our hands, "you fell hard before you came here, but you're standing now. Every time you get back up, it makes it harder to fall."
Cowboy's eyes drove deep and those perfect, silent lips looked like every wonderful memory I had of him: a summer full of trust issues and trail rides and a growing friendship but never a moment where we stood this close or he looked at me in that way. I reeled in confusion as I tried to decipher what it could mean. I was a girl of signs and this one was a murky swamp. The splash of blue in my hands and the feel of his warm breath brushing my lips was a morose and intoxicating picture.
The depressing early morning discovery that weighed my hands pressed me to dread what had brought me to the ranch two months ago. I couldn't be what I was back then. That husk of a person, with more problems than a textbook.
"Cinch."
Startled at being caught in my inner-mind conflict, I looked back up at him. Cowboy had that slanted half-smile on his face, and it made me guess he really knew what I was thinking.
Cowboy squeezed my wrists lighting, tilting his face towards mine. He grazed his lips across my own, brushing my thoughts from me. Gently, he caught my lower lip between his, pressing his mouth to mine. The kiss was Cowboy, patient and quiet with something that made my heart hum. Before the kisses could be become feverish, he broke away. That half-smile stayed on his lips as he steadied his breath and I realized my hands were shaking.
"Let's go bury our friend Cinch, and then we'll watch his brothers fly for the first time."
Pulling away to look up at him, I nodded and looked back down at our hands. Gently pulling mine apart, I lay my little blue bundle into his. The little blue jay looked smaller in his hands. Smiling down at me once more, he turned towards the back yard, his ranch horse calmly following. I felt a small smile on my lips and knew this was a good sign.

Evangeline - (rough beginning)

2010-03-01T21:14:00.000-08:00

Lia followed the river’s edge, walking quickly enough to be mistaken for a jog. Throwing a wary golden-eyed glance behind her she kept following the well-worn path beside the lazy river. She mentally smacked herself for getting the other orphans mad at her. More importantly, she had made a smart remark to Nik, the ‘leader’ when she should have just kept her mouth shut. Now as she hastily weaved between a few trees lining the path, she was being followed by the angry mob of kids looking for a confrontation. Lia tilted her head to the side and listened. She couldn’t hear the other orphans anymore, so she slowed down to a bold walk. It was times like this that made her wish that Betty, the owner of the orphanage, didn’t have to leave so often. Betty always kept an eye out for her; she knew the kids gave Lia a hard time. Thomas, Betty’s son, who watched over the orphanage in Betty’s absence wasn’t much help. He’d rather sit in the kitchen, eating chips and watching episodes of Star Trek. How Betty could give birth to someone who grew up to be so lazy, Lia never understood.
Glancing once more behind her, she slipped into the shadows under a bridge that ran over the water. Brushing a few spiders aside, she sat down on a cold slab of rock. If they were still following her, she hoped they wouldn’t see her and just pass on by. She pulled her bare legs to her chest and wrapped her tanned arms around her knees. At least it’s cool under the bridge, she thought. She sighed loudly and then caught herself, glancing around to see if anyone heard. She relaxed a little. Lia began her usual pastime: dreaming.
She dreamt about having adopted parents, who were kind and lived extravagant lives, unlike her own. More than that, she wished she was with her real parents. She didn’t even know if they were dead or alive. Mother Betty, as they called her, had told Lia of how she was left at the orphanage many times; Lia demanded it often. She knew it off by heart; she didn’t need to hear it frequently. Lia was waiting for Mother Betty to slip up, to change the story. She never had but there was always something in her eyes. It was an old knowledge, a different knowledge than the one she was telling. She didn’t like repeating the story but she did it for Lia. The story was the usual orphan story told in many movies, with a twist. Lia had been left, swaddled in blankets, on the steps of the orphanage. She was found right away, because Mother Betty had heard a woman crying from grief and pain at the front door. When she got there, only the baby could be found. One more odd thing was the two long bloody cuts found trailing down the infants back. They had obviously been burnt shut. It was amazing that she had even survived. Betty had bluntly concluded that whatever had cut Lia had done the same to her mother, but she probably hadn’t survived. Lia felt that this was somehow wrong.
She reached back and traced the puffed white ridges on her jutting shoulder blades. Sometimes when she stretched her back, she could swear she felt a twinge of pain from beneath both scars. Lia grimaced and plopped her chin onto her knees. Her situation wasn’t that bad. She had food, shelter, a loving foster mother. Her only problems were the other orphans and getting adopted. In a few years she would be legally able to take care of herself. People looking to adopt didn’t want teenagers, possibly for that reason. Also because teens are supposed to be unruly. Then again, she was only fifteen and a half. In her mind, her rebellious years wouldn’t start until she could legally drive a car. Then maybe she could be illegally intoxicated and accidentally crash the car. Yet she supposed she would have to have a real family for that to happen.
She felt cold, suddenly engulfed in shadows as the sun was blocked out. Kids stood on both sides of the bridge. They varied in size, looking like dark, mismatched paper dolls. Lia mentally smacked herself again. She knew she should have taken a book to the basement this morning, instead of trying to play with the other kids. None of this would have happened.
Note to self: Shut your mouth!
Sighing heavily she stood up; she could see Nik’s outline ahead of the kid’s on her left. She jumped off the rock to stand in front of him. He was taller than her by three inches, making her tilt her head slightly to look at him. He wasn’t the tallest or the biggest but he was still followed by of the others. Mother Betty said Nik just tormented her because he liked her. Must be some hard-core love, she thought. Lia wasn’t exactly girly. Being almost sixteen, she still hadn’t kissed a boy. She had enough sense to know that Nik was cute - hell he was hot. He had an athletic body, short black hair, icy blue eyes and a quirky tilted smile. None of this mattered when he decided to harass you. Lia hated his piercing eyes, his elf-like ears and his mocking dimples. Her jaw began to hurt from her teeth clenching.
“Don’t tell me you’re mad. After your pathetic stand against me this morning, insulting me for no reason. I’m the one who should be mad.” -Lia huffed aloud and rolled her eyes.- “I think you owe me an apology; you really hurt my feelings.” He pouted charismatically, making the other kids laugh.
“Sorry.” Lia muttered. She began to push past him but he moved in front of her.
“Lia, that wasn’t a very honest-sounding apology. If the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree than your parents must have been barbarians.”
“Your parents must have been jackasses.” She retorted and surprisingly a few kids laughed behind her.
“Watch yourself Lia, Mother Betty’s not here to protect you.”
“I’ll be scared the day you can back up your words.” More kids laughed, knowing that what she said was true. Lia began to nonchalantly walk from under the bridge into the sunlight. Nik followed her.
“Maybe I’m saving that privilege just for you.”
“For me? Really Niki? You must really like me.” More tittering.
“Ya, I really must because I dream about you all the time. I dream about punching in that loud mouth of yours.” His face was turning maroon.
“Aww, sorry Niki, I’m not into the whole hitting thing but I’m sure one day you’ll find that right girl.”
“You wish you were that girl.” The other orphans looked confused, beginning to wonder if this argument held some weight.
“About as much as I wish for the clouds to rain glass shards.”
Lia looked up the hill, looking for a way out. Her only chance was the woods. None of the orphans would go in there. Even she didn’t want to, but she didn’t want to test Nik’s patience for hitting a girl. The Damarin woods were old. The trees were taller than most four storey buildings, if not taller. They creaked and moaned with age. It wasn’t that, but another noise, an undertone of whispers coming from the woods that scared people. Adults even avoided those woods. Right now, they looked better to Lia then the group of parentless kids surrounding her. Although, now they looked uncertain, like they partially sided with her. Nik was sounding a little too sure of hitting her and that seemed to scare them. He was watching her and started to follow her gaze, so she glanced back towards town and then sighed as though she had better things to do. She wished she did. Lia slowly sidestepped around Nik, putting herself between him and the woods. He was watching her like he knew; Lia was losing the advantage.
“ Are you going to drop this? Or are you going to hit me?” She watched his body stiffen. “Well?” Jutting her chin out to make it a better target.
Nik’s fists clenched, some of the kids were booing and pushing him towards her. Someone shoved him hard enough to end up face to face with Lia. He was close enough now to see that her creamy skin had greyed and her eyes were suddenly wide. Lia tried to hide her surprise but it was hard knowing that her nose was about to be flattened. I like my nose. His body told her that he could hit her but she searched his cool blue eyes for any hint of doubt. Just when the orphans whoops and yells were too loud to bear, she thought she saw a flash of something in him. Nik saw her victory, saw the truth he had let out. Maybe she’d be able to dodge it, Nik hoped.
At least he threw his fist out slowly wishing she would. It felt excruciatingly slow; time had stopped. There were no yelling kids, only then and a balled fist that he could no longer stop. Faintly he heard the sucking of air into many mouths, one was Lia’s before she twisted to the side, his fist landing on her shoulder. It pushed her around so she no longer faced him. And that was it. She was gone and time was back to normal. She was racing up the hill, sprinting for the woods. Lia couldn’t believe him, he had hit her. Stupidly, she had hoped… She didn’t want to look back now, this was her only chance. She could hear Nik’s yell of surprise and the kids scrambling up the hill - some in anger, some just wanting to see the outcome of the race. Nik was glad he hadn’t hit her in the face, but she had just gotten away and he knew the kids would make fun of him for that. He took off after her.
God she’s fast.
Nik put on a burst of speed, but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her for long. She was heading for the trees, Oh not the woods, I can’t stop now. If she goes, I go.
Lia felt heat pulsating around her body like a heartbeat. She didn’t know if she was scared or excited. Trees were looming in front of her, large and creaking. Even the trees had raised their eyebrows in surprise that a child would dare enter their woods. She was glad her heart was pounding loud enough to drown out all second-guessing thoughts. She took a large leap at the tree-line and landed with the audible crack of never stepped-on branches. She was in. She wished she could back out. Nik was behind her and catching up. The kids had dropped back finally, not wanting to follow any further. Nik was still coming. She ran in deeper, fighting the scratchy limbed protest of the trees. She hoped he wouldn’t follow her further, maybe just ‘chase’ her in and leave her for the woods to deal with. Lia dove behind a particularly large trunk and peeked around.
Nothing.
Something.
Nik. He was having a hard time with the branches as well.
“Hey! Lia! I see you! Stop hiding, you’ve gone far enough. Don’t make me come get you.” He sounded almost pleading.
She almost obliged.
Not.
Lia dove in farther, holding her arms in front of her to take the brunt of the tearing branches. She was not some child for him to scold. She’ll turn back when she’s ready. He was the last person who would try and take care of her. Hell, he just hit me! She wasn’t over that yet. Maybe just a little further. Things were getting dark around her and she admitted to herself that it was a bit eerie.
“Oh that’s it, I need to stop.” Lia muttered through gasps of air. She doubled over and clutched the nearest tree, its ripples of bark large enough to fill her whole hand. A hot, strong hand landed on her shoulder and yanked her around. She didn’t even hear him over her stabbing breaths. He looked mad, and exhausted.
“Lia! What do you think you’re doing! Running into the woods?!” He was clutching both shoulders now, shaking her for emphasize.
“You hit me! You actually hit me! I never thought you’d hit me.”
“Well, I threw it slow. I thought you’d dodge it.” He slumped a bit.
“Thought?! Hoped, you mean, if that!”
“Listen, I am sorry. Things did get out of hand.”
“Its all for them, isn’t it? Showing them you’re the big man. I’m alone; I have no one. None of the other kids will hang out with me and you still insist on bothering me. I guess it’s about time you finally got your wish: to hit me.” Nik had stopped looking her in the eye, he even looked embarrassed.
“Lia, I’m sorry.” She rolled her eyes. “I really am! I know I’m stupid around the other kids but what would they think if I didn’t give you heck for mouthing me?”
“ Who cares!” She shrieked. She yanked away from him and started to stamp through the brush again. Nik stood stunned for a few minutes then took off after her, falling into stride.
“ You’re right. You are. I’ll stop. I’ll try.” When she threw him an exasperated look. He grabbed her arm again and pulled her around.
“I don’t care if you’re mad right now. I’ve said I’m sorry and that I’ll be nice when we get back. We have other problems right now,” Lia looked confused, “we’re lost!”
“ What do you mean we’re lost, we just have to turn around and walk straight back out!”
“ No, did you watch where you were going at all?” At this, Lia blushed a little. “You didn’t run exactly straight. I have no idea how to get out. As far as we know, either way could get us back out.”
Lia flipped around and looked out one way - it looked dark. She turned and looked the other way - it looked dark too.
What have I done.

Burgundy Wolf - (rough beginning)

2010-03-01T20:52:00.000-08:00

She didn’t know where she would go, she just had to leave. She knew it wasn’t really her fault, but in a way, it was. Sweat ran down her body, probably to stay for a few days at least. A new name, she’d need that. Favorite colour, favorite animal: Burgundy Wolf. It was obviously fake and no one could track that. If they tried to find her. Burgundy, Burgundy Wolf… Wolf, just Wolf she guessed.
Hop on a train, the best bet. She was jogging although she didn’t know why. If someone was coming to find her, they’d be slower than her. It was so late and the only light came from streetlights that left aged, eerie polka dots on the concrete. Wolf stayed in the dark, just to be safe. It was odd thinking that the dark could be safer now, but it would hide her. Soon everything would be black and she thought it was best that she take the old path through the woods to the old train station. There would be no traffic that way and no one would be walking their dog at this hour. The train station at the end of that path was out of use now, but freight trains passed by it slowly. Slow enough for her to jump on one she hoped.
She slipped off the suburban street into the cool, sweet darkness. The gravel was scratching under her tennis shoes and she side-stepped onto the grass, becoming silent. Andrea- Whoops, Wolf, couldn’t keep her mind from racing. She had to be strong since she was alone now. That meant she couldn’t cry. It was so difficult not to cry when you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her backpack was already feeling heavy and her body was still too warm under the layers of old sweatshirts. She didn’t want to take anything off because of the cool night air. She didn’t even know if she could get a chill anymore.
The trees were towering and she felt like a two year old who had done something bad and needed scolding. She didn’t like it; she swore they were laughing at her. Wait, they were. No, someone was. Some people, up ahead, were loudly laughing. Wolf held her breath and stopped. They couldn’t have heard her, but were they waiting for her?
Survival took over, or maybe it was panic. Wolf crept as quietly as possible into the woods that lined both sides of the path. She didn’t want to go too far in but she didn’t want to be heard either. Pine needles made her flat-treaded shoes slip; the ground was still damp. Wolf thought she could see their outlines on the path. Men, obviously, maybe just barely. They stood hunched close together like a pair of malicious hyenas. They had stopped laughing and were whispering. She was passing them inside the trees, she was closer to the station now. Then she was beyond them and she could breath a little easier. She stayed within the trees but inched a bit closer to the path. Someone else was coming, a lithe shadow gliding down the path. Wolf sucked in an gulp of air and jumped back into the woods. Crouching she peered out. It was just a young girl, like herself. She had a stack of books in her arms and she seemed wary of the darkness. The library. This trail was a shortcut to it from the suburbs. Wolf stayed low and waited for her to pass then began her trek to the station again.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad on her own. No rules, she could travel anywhere. As long as I don’t get caught her mind whispered within itself. Sure, living with her family hadn’t been that bad, but things were different now. She was different. Wolf shook her head, dislodging that thought. Now was not the time to analyze herself. New York City could have possibilities. She could get lost there, make a new life. She could become something that she was not, at least not these days. She could be an architect and design large buildings. Buildings so big that other runaways could get lost in them? She laughed at herself out loud. Buildings weren’t really her thing. She toyed with other ideas as she walked. A model, that would be an extravagant lif…
A sharp scream pierced the night, making her senses jump awake. Wolf instinctively crouched low, looking around her for a source. Pitch black, but still she sensed nothing near her. The girl! Wolf’s mind yelled at her. That new ripple ran through her body, like a shiver after a good kiss. The feeling was becoming familiar. Without thinking she ran back the way she had come, dropping her pack as if marking her place. The girl and those guys, I should have said something to her! She knew it was pointless regretting the past but she could save her now.
Trees whipped by in a steady stream and she could smell their cigarette smoke coming closer. She was surprisingly silent and it felt like each step she took was a leap through the air. Their backs were to her and she could see their grease-stained hoodies. One still wore his mechanics overalls and steel toed boots. They had the girl pinned against a tree, her books were fallen tombstones at her feet. Fear rolled off her like the stench of a pig farm. Her eyes were clenched fists on her face and her body hung like a limp fish. Wolf didn’t really know what took over her, just that since she was different now, she could save her. Taking one last leap through the air to close the gap, she pounced like an animal onto the first guy’s back. Shouting in surprise he fell forward, hitting his face on the trail’s packed gravel. The other guy, who had been holding the girl by her neck against the tree looked surprised. Before he could turn to run she launched herself on him. He twisted back to throw her off. Wolf used the momentum to jump to the ground near his feet and kicked his legs out from under him. Grabbing his hoodie by the front she impulsively shoved a fist into his eye. Thinking he would need another, she pulled her fist back once more. He was out cold. Lowering her fist, she looked around surprised. The other was knocked out as well and the blood coming from his nose was mixing in with the dirt under it.
“ Are you okay?” She stepped toward the girl, bending down to pick up her books for her.
“ Ya, I’m fine. Thank you so much. I thought they were going to… well you know.” She also bent down, shakily though, to pick up the last few books.
“ Are you okay to walk back home? You might want to report these guys too.”
“ That’s probably a good idea, I’d hate to think they were loose around town still… Oh My God!” Dropping her books again, the girl threw her hand up to her mouth. Fear began flowing from her pores again. “What?! Are they awake?” Wolf looked down at them. They hadn’t moved.“ What are you?!” Screaming once more, in a very horror film manner, the girl took off running.
“What’s wrong?!” Burgundy Wolf sighed, “Oh bloody hell!”
Wolf could still see the vague outline of the running girl against the horizon of the trail. She turned on her heel and began her trek back to the old train station. Passing one of the guys she gave him a swift kick and not feeling fully satisfied, swiped at a nearby tree. The damaged tree wept sticky tears from the fresh, jagged lines and watched as Wolf’s back disappeared into the dark.

Tobias (Rough Beginning)

2010-03-01T20:44:00.000-08:00

Darwin’s theory is that creatures evolve. He’s right; it’s proven. Charles Darwin used finches on the Galapagos Islands as an example and that one type of bird branched off to adapt to their surroundings. Over millions of years creatures adapt to their environments or to changes in order to survive. I guess there’s not much point in stating this now obvious fact.
Although, what about us? I’m sure many people, more educated than myself theorize that slowly people will change to survive, like the finches and the horses and the bears and so on. I don’t know how they supposed it would happen, I can just tell you how it did happen. I can also tell you when and it wasn’t over millions of years. Or maybe it was, in the wombs of many, slowly changing without appearing to do so. I just know that to us it was sudden. I’ll start where we all believed it to happen- in a sunny hospital room bustling with expectant nurses and doctors and of course, a husband and wife.
Marian Cobble was a beautiful woman. Not in the way that men fantasize about but in a motherly way. She had lively green eyes and chestnut hair curled short to perfection. She could bake delicious cookies and settle down a class of thirty kids with one glance. Her husband, Stephen Cobble, was known as Mr. Cobble at the bank he managed and doted on his wife whenever he wasn’t working. He owned the latest Cadillac sedan and for Marian’s thirty second birthday he bought her a matching one in ivory- pearlized of course.
The one thing they didn’t have but dearly wanted was a child. After a year of trying the ‘traditional way’, they tested a newer method with the best doctor in the city. This time it worked and Marian became pregnant. This was all kept hush hush from the neighbors.
The Cobbles had baby showers and interviews at the best schools and changed their diets and bought things for the baby room; they were very excited. Marian grew respectably large and was the envy of many women in their suburban neighborhood. She had normal contractions and a clean birth, as clean as they get anyway. Until the baby came out, Stephen thought it just needed to be cleaned up a bit. The nurses knew something was wrong. Marian was resting from exhaustion.
The baby was cleaned and nothing changed. The doctor had no idea since he hadn’t seen anything like it. He wanted to run tests but that was where Mr. Cobble stepped in. They had their dignity to maintain of course. Mrs. Cobble hadn’t a clue; she wanted to see her baby. She expected something a little squashed, maybe off-colour but not what her husband hesitantly offered her. It was little, like any other baby and had the normal list of body parts expected in a human. It certainly wasn’t missing anything or had anything extra. That was where the similarities ended. What was most prominent, it was hard to say. To Stephen it was the eyes, oh so large and fully black, slightly off to the side. To Marian, the ears, comically donkey-like. They flicked every which way, catching the noises of the nurses who were doing their best to look busy and not stare. His nose bridge (for it was a boy) ran wide between his eyes and somewhat flat, ending in flared nostrils. What Mrs. Cobble would later call his most beautiful feature. It reminded her of Michael’s nose during his Jackson 5 days, she would reminisce. His feet were flat and his fingers abnormally strong and over time they grew claws which he could fortunately retract. Un-retractable claws on a baby were as dangerous as unprotected coffee table corners in Marian’s mind.
The Cobbles were speechless, Stephen was disgraced and they didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t long, even before they named him, that a nurse went to the local newspaper and told of the peculiar baby. The press was all over it and by the time he was named Tobias Montgomery Cobble, the press had smuggled photos in their papers. It seemed the entire country knew about him and at first they enjoyed the limelight then they grew to distaste it for the disrespect that grew around their name. The boy they had dreamed of was born a mutant. Although his mother, who adored him, taught him to be kind and giving, couldn’t fail to notice the increasing differences between him and the world. He was extraordinary but frighteningly so. He was so agile it put the local cats to shame and he could outrun and out jump any of the best creatures out there. He had few friends growing up but they were of the truest sort. Most people thought he was a dangerous thing bound to become a weapon. He never gave them reason to believe so but people were blind. He was smart and he was lucky to have teachers who excepted him. He made his mother proud until the age of seventeen when he ran away.
As he had grown up, his father had learned to ignore his monstrous son by staying late at work. Although he loved his wife and to some degree Tobias, his pride was hurt. He wanted a boy to play ball with but Tobias was so fast he could play all positions himself. He tried to plead to his wife for another child but she was happy with what she had. Eventually, by chance, she did get pregnant again and then Tobias ran. His mother, Marian, grew sick at first and almost lost the baby until Tobias snuck into her hospital room late one night. He told her he was fine and that he’d keep in touch and that he loved her. She understood and helped him in every way possible in the following years. He would come late at night to visit her and his new sister, who was born normal but he loved her anyway.
The government tried tracking him, they were persistent on running tests but he always got away.
Tobias wasn’t alone in the world from the age of two onward. Soon another like him was born, and then another and soon there were several. When he was older and on the run, he would find them, give them hope. There was always followers as well. They were a kind of cult who believed the new breed were saviors, or aliens, or gods. They helped and they had connections. Soon, ‘The Breed’ gathered and began living together, slowly growing, much to the alarm of the government. They were watched for signs of hostility but they didn’t mind and they kept quiet. Tobias was known as ‘The First’, a living god among The Breed.
It didn’t end there.
Another kind came, they just weren’t as noticeable.
Babies were born. They looked like any other, but they were different. They could do things.
Out of fear, most of them kept quiet. They felt alone and didn’t realize at first that there were more. As they began to use their powers more, which they usually gained control of after their hormones kicked it, their eyes changed. They became their ‘true’ colour, almost like their powers brought them out. Whitish blues, deep purples, rich burgundies and vibrant yellows; hues not meant for eyes.
Their powers were more fantastic than their eyes. Each was different or had some variation. Comic book powers came to life with people who could fly, morph, move things, become invisible and read minds. There were others, things that people could imagine, even just little things. Others could shape things, like wood, metal and water. One man, Richard Tillings, could turn anything into nickel. Some powers were more helpful than others.
It would seem that when the two breeds became of aware of each other they would band together. Unfortunately that is not how it happened. Tobias was loved as he grew up and therefore learned to care in return. Others were not so lucky and although they respected The First, they began to not believe in his way of living. Those who did not trust humans or The Others moved away to form their own community. A small group of both breeds stayed with Tobias to live in harmony.
Soon the government realized that Tobias was not a threat but the newer communities were becoming hostile towards each other. Raids began on one another and lone wolfs of each breed had to be careful of getting picked off. The humans were getting restless, wanting action taken against them but no one knew how to proceed. They didn’t know if the laws applied to them or not.

The Matador

2009-09-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Where I come from, women are enjoyed. They work hard in their own way, but they also take great care in themselves. They are alien beings compared to us men. While we are drenched in sweat and the dust turns to mud on our skins, theirs trickles like spring water down their curves. We men dance with the bulls in a jarring, frantic jive. The women, their very walk is a dance, meant to enthrall with every twist of their hip and extension of their leg. These are the women I'm used to.
In L.A. the difference from women here compared to my women in Spain is stark. These women are a different creature. Their power is raw and young, unlike the age-old seduction game I'm used to. They work alongside men and above them. Sometimes they work back-breaking jobs, jobs that are meant for men. They don't take no for an answer and often their first response is no. They walk with purpose, like they are always late and sometimes sacrifice femininity in place of succeeding.
This was my waitress, of this breed. Her hair was frazzled at the ends, in need of a trim. She usually forgot to reapply her lipstick as needed. Her arms were muscled from busing tables and her elbows were often bruised from bumping into the counters. She was nothing I was used to.
When we met, it was at the bar across from her diner. A friend and her went out for celebratory drinks to congratulate themselves on finishing their first year of law school. In all her differences, I couldn't help feeling drawn. Her seduction was a trickle compared to a torrent. A glance, catching my eye, a slight smile that parted her lips. I played the game, learning as I went. It was more of a dance with her, like a bull. Go the wrong way and you could be speared. I learned much of her ability to reject so easily and that she could hold her own. Her moves were subtle and at times I wondered who was the matador. Part of being a matador is the thrill of dancing with such a powerful creature. With my waitress, it was much the same.

Due to Unforseen Weather Conditions...

2009-09-10T22:09:00.000-07:00

For the last week or so, I've been feeling quite lost. Like a plane caught in bad weather and having to land in some barren field of nowhere.
Since this blog is "what's on my mind", I'm steering away from my writing exercises and hoping that my words don't begin to sink into my habitual tar-pit of depression.
Starting on a positive note, I feel like I have many options available to me. As a creature of the earth and a being of technology, I have the power to travel great distances and land in Ireland and wander for a month if I felt like it... which at times I do. Having this freedom to be able to go somewhere on a whim helps to lift the cage I keep feeling around my heart. Above all, Ireland pulls at me, and not in the usual clawing, rude manner that I'm used to of other things. I can feel it tugging at me and I feel like it might be home. I don't like saying that, because when spoken aloud, people regard it the same way as when you're sixteen and you say you don't want kids when you grow up. You don't know what you're talking about, you're too young or ignorant to understand what you're saying. Similarly, how could I know that Ireland is my home, when I've never been there? I suppose it could be true, I could step out of the airport and find myself homeless. The pull I felt could have been the pull of the full moon, or the spin of the earth. In the end, there's only one way to find out.
As much as I love this freedom to do what I want, which is a two year old's dream, I still feel the slam of doors, the shutting of windows and the duct tape over the cracks in the walls. Not everything is as easy as hopping on a plane. I have a job to consider, which would mean leaving behind thirty-eight much loved dogs. Dogs know of the present, not the future or past, although they can be shaped from the past and can look forward to dinner in the future. They would move on, but I still feel that some benefit from my presence and I suppose I have to decide whether that would be worth staying. Or if my job would be waiting for me when I get home.
Its little things, pebbles in the river, that make the bed. They add up and create conflict on the things that we want. Consequences. The choice then is whether it's worth the consequences.
Above all, I love change. Sometimes the change is bad, and I feel the weight of its heavy cloud. Although I am looking forward to that change, I can't help but feel lost this time. It's like I'm eighteen again and trying to decide what I want to be. My mind is so full that after a day of walking with the dogs, I realize that I didn't hug them as much as I wanted to and my brow hurts from squinting. At times I wish I could empty my mind, but choices have to be made. I want to change now. I'm ready for change but the change isn't ready for me. Whether it's the idea of something new or just everything happening around me, I feel my mood soaring up and down again. At moments I'm happier than Peewee Herman before he got caught and then I swoop down and fear driving in case of what I'll do. I wish there were classes for twenty-two year olds with issues like these.

2009-08-17T23:02:00.000-07:00

In his rearview mirror, the cab driver saw a puny child, a boy, crawl into the vast back seat. Ted, the cabbie, waited while the boy settled himself, clipping his seatbelt securely over his birdcage ribs. Looking out the windshield again, Ted fiddled with the a/c, frusterated by the tickling bead of sweat on his brow. Checking the rearview mirror again he was startled to find the boy gazing at him patiently.
"To the Parliament Buildings, please."The boy's voice was smooth and strong compared to his frail body.
"Don't you have parents or something we should wait for?"
"My dad died when I was a year old and my mother died two days ago. " His eyes met Ted's, lacking tears but deep ghosts of purple hovered under them. Whether they were from grief or malnutrition, it was hard to tell.
Ted pulled his bullshark of a car into the line of moving metal monsters. Cutting up streets and around parked cars, he realized he forgot to ask the kid if he had any money.
"Hey kid,"
"Timmy."
"Timmy, how old are you?"
"Ten."
"You don't look it. Don't you ever eat?" He said this quite gruffly, slightly regretting sounding so harsh. The boy barely noticed.
"When my father died, we lost everything. My mom did what she could but she was uneducated and had a hard time finding jobs. Legal ones. And no one will hire me yet. Mom got sick, bad, and then we had no way of feeding ourselves. She's dead now."
He had repeated that last comment, like he was securing it as a fact.
His eyes followed the entrancing yellow line again. Ted's mouth flopped into a frown. Not being able to feed yourself, let alone your son, the guilt would drive you mad. He actually prayed the illness took her before she could lose her mind. Ted was often quite tactless. Used to growing up in a harsh world ; he was a blunt man. Today, around this boy, he held his tongue to all of the thoughtless questions he had. Possibly being around this frail boy or knowing of his situation subdued his harsh curiosity. Yet he couldn't hold bad some.
"Shouldn't you be at a funeral or something?" Atleast his voice had lost its gruffness.
"Couldn't afford one."
The boy sad in the back seat, hands clasped together, staring at the surrounding buildings. His eyes were black holes, sucking up the passing images yet processing nothing.
"Don't you miss her?" Ted blurted out.
" Of course!" Timmy's face finally showed something, a touch of surprise.
"Then why are you going to the Parliament Buildings? This isn't exactly the time for you to be sightseeing." Ted was also sure that Timmy was supposed to be in some sort of orphanage.
"I'm going to do what my mother should have done. Protest. My father worked hard for the government and because of some technicality, we couldn't get his life insurance. Not only that, but when she got sick, they did nothing for us." His solemnity when he spoke, the words drove them home like glass shards in the flesh.
Ted wasn't sure the boy's notions were completely accurate but he seemed to have an unreasonably bad life. He also believed that the boy and his place in life would raise a lot of stink in the media.
Ted eased the sleek road warrior up to the curb flanking the mammoth, antique buildings. Turning around in the driver seat, he faced the boy.
"Hey kid, Timmy, who's taking care of you now?"
"Some orphanage, near where you picked me up."
"Timmy's arms matched his knobby legs like birch branches. His hair flipped over one eye, the hacked ends brushing one angular cheekbone. This image burned into Ted's rough heart and he almost wished he could adopt him. Unrealistic he knew, he just barely made it himself in this rough city.
"This ride's on me, I just want you to give them a hell of a scare with your protest."
Timmy nodded, his eyes hardened to glassy black beads. He reached out to open the car door.
"I wish I could do more. Do you want my sandwich? It's not much." He felt a bit frantic, trying to find something fo make up for not being able to save the boy.
" No thank you," he replied so politely, "I'm not hungry. Not anymore."
He climbed out of the cab, closed the door and waved to Ted from the sidewalk. Ted waved back and watched the boy turn his back to him and march away on his spider-thin legs.
Ted sat there for a moment before turning his mobile beast back onto the road. He'd be making a call to a buddy he had at a local news station five minutes later.

My Old Lady

2009-08-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

I can't say old people are for me.
Nope, the majority of the time, they down right scare me.
That proves to some extent that my sister and I differ from one another.
She loves old people without a scrap of fear. It's something I can't fathom. Not only that but she'll wipe their bums without hesitation. I might not fear that but I probably couldn't stomach it.

There is one geriatric old lady that I adore. She drools like a mad woman, has one pidgeon foot, is lumpier than an old couch and seems to believe the old adage, " a firm bed is a good bed."
At 84, I think she's doing quite well. She'll do anything for a tasty treat and she still loves her walks. Her ears even bounce when she's feeling particularly energetic.

My old lady might not be the typical geriatric but the only fear I have for her is making sure she keeps all four feet securly on the ground.

In Loving Memory of Fidelle ~ Died August 10th, 2009

2009-07-15T13:04:00.000-07:00

I remember catching that hard-skinned, sour-fleshed Granny Smith apple. Tossing it in the air as my immaculate converse sneakers slapped the fresh floorboards in our new house.
Moms going to kill me for having my shoes on in the house. Even if they're straight from the box.
Speak of the devil, walked into the dining room after me, carrying a crucifix of all things. She eyed my sneakers that apparently weren't being sneaky enough. Turning her back to me, she hung the gory crucifix to the wall behind the king's seat. Casting an eye back at me, with its dark slash of eyebrow. She always thinks I'm up to something. Like I'm picking my nose behind her back or something. She's lucky I'm not. My mouth formed into an insolent concrete pout. Clutching the apple, I crossed the room, bashing my shoulder into a wooden oak dining chair. I heard her draw breath to reprimand m, so I hurtled out of the room.
That'll teach her for uprooting me.

WARNING! Gruesome content, might disturb some readers.

2009-07-14T13:26:00.000-07:00

Before, walking down a dark, forlorn alley with my tall, masculine boyfriend seemed like a safe enough adventure. Six or seven strides in, still seemed safe. Step nine was a doozy. The hazy shadows crisscrossed our own and even the light beer buzz muffling my mind cleared at that sight. From the unintentional squeeze to my hand, I knew I wasn't alone in that feeling. As the front men cut us off, I looked up at my boyfriend, for hope. Seven were too many, and he knew that. I actually prayed they only wanted money but the chilling ball of ice in my abdomen said otherwise. Their hoots and whistles reminded me of a foreign tribe hunting. Their eyes, touched by moonlight were bitter and hungry. My greatest fear tore through my mind. The overpowerment, punches, blood, repeated agony, defeat and being left for dead. That was the nice version. My teeth being kicked into my ripped cheek, my head smacking wetly into the pavement, blows cracking my ribs; the degrading stream of hot piss and accompanying horks of spit, tearing of the insides, furious tearing and infinite scars.
Looking up at my boyfriends face, a face that would never do those things to me. He would fight to stop them, but I could see in his eyes what would happen. They would make him watch.
They circled us like wolves. Sick and dying elk was what they saw. Their numbers gave them confidence.
The desperation clawed from my innards, out of that ball of ice and up to my lungs. My breath came shallow and harsh in the cool air. It hurt to keep quiet and I felt a scream of anguish crawl up my throat. They only laughed harder. My boyfriend did his best but they made him pay.
The desperation was liquid ice to my veins and as the window opened, I seized my chance. The one coming towards me was a fool, shoving a loaded gun down his pants. Thinking my grab was enticing, I wrapped my hand around his heavy mound of steel.
Tables turned; the wolves were sharp and their vileness was tangible in the air. Grabbing my boyfriend by the neck, they hauled him up. Quicker than my elk eyes could follow, a glittering incisor was against his throat.
What to do.
I felt so close to the light at the end of the tunnel. I worried that fear would blind that light from my eyes. Deftly unhitching the safety with my thumb, I threw some prongs into the brick wall nearest me. Puffs of brick dust made mini mushroom bombs and the wolves leapt back. Confusion crossed their eyes but their grip on the throat they held remained fixed.
A person's will is like a golden thread, surprisingly strong yet susceptible.
At that moment, mine broke.
I did what I wanted to do most, I raised the gun to my temple, pressing firmly. It was odd to see alarm in their eyes. Quite unexpected. The light at the end of the alley was closer and washed me in the best calm I've ever felt. My body relaxed within itself and I couldn't help but smile. A minute passed, frozen, as the light grew.
" I hope you like dead meat."
They must have seen my finger lay itself upon the trigger because bodies hurtled towards me. They took forever. My boyfriend was free and he joined them.
But the lights were too close now, the most beautiful ruby and sapphire lights. They crawled up both ends of the alley. Like a perfectly laid trap, the wolves were cornered. I drew the gun away from my temple and felt the perfect circle indented there. Arms encircled me and I was asked a lot of whys. I knew if the lights hadn't saved me, there would have been more to that circle. I couldn't help but feel a deep peace in that knowledge.

2009-07-09T12:42:00.000-07:00

I remember when the power went off; it was a cue to fulfill my task.
Oh right, my task.
The encompassing darkness crushed my body like a bear-hug from a perverted uncle. Shuffling feet and muttering came from around me and finally a trembling voice called out reassurances.
I realized I was crouched on the ground so I stood up, bumping into a lamp. Useless lamp. Striking forward, clawed hands struck at my eyes. No, not there. Back to my task.
Moving like a shark in brine, I swept slowly, back and forth through the darkness. Using people's voices as radars, spots to avoid. My slow progress was worth the effort; the voices were now looking for me. I would succeed before they found me. Giant blood-sucking bugs dove for me as I reached the entrance. A last minute crouch saved my neck and I crawled the rest of the way to my prize. Wrapping my arms carefully around it I made my way back to the entry, now the exit. I made it. I could hear the voices again, wondering where I was. One of them seemed to know, but they were too late.
Suddenly the lights flickered and came on.
There I stood, in my chinos and argyle sweater, between the living room and the bedroom, teddy bear clutched to my heart. I faced our entire regime of dinner party guests. Wide eyes and stifled laughter faced me as well as a pitying and exasperated wife.
"As I was trying to explain, my husband is afraid of the dark." she huffed, shaking her head.

The Battle

2009-06-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

The hurricane neared, its mass of undulating bodies turning red, flushed with heat, rage and blood. It coursed, like lava, down their limbs to be flicked from fingertips, airborne for a moment only to land on the neighboring body. The bloody lava made its path like that: course, flick, splat, course, flick, splat.
Its Gothic dance melded with the main jive, the swish and clang of blades and soft slice of skin, muscle, bone. Cries fell on rage-deafened ears, which were mindless to the pain. Every whirl, stretch and thrust were made to live and kill. Only the exhausted swung wildly, madmen among mad men.
Seconds, minutes, hours passed unnoticed, a waste of passed time. To get it back could be to get your life back. The ground had turned soft, flesh does that. Now the ground was alive, with lava and limbs. No flicking though, just lava, rolling down smooth expanses, to drip into the quenched dirt. But it would take more; it always does.

Classy Condiments

2009-05-07T17:10:00.000-07:00

Use the words: Mayonnaise, Mustard, Soy Sauce, Relish, Pickle, Hot peppers and Ketchup in a story.
His taste in women was complex. If his women were a type of food, I'd say they were pickles. Had I told you that in a conversation, you would reply back "How odd." and I'd say "Not at all you see, pickles are tangy and he likes his women to have a zesty attitude. Now I mean pickles, whole, in a jar with garlic, not pickled relish. It must have garlic because he likes his women to carry a scent of mysterious musk that lingers. Not garlic smelling of course but you understand my analogy." and then you'd say, "Well what about in a sandwich, how could you relate his pickled women then?" trying to stump me of course. I'd easily reply back " It would be on a whole wheat bun, because he wants his women to have healthy buns."
"Who doesn't." You'd mutter.
"I suppose it was a given. He wouldn't have it with mayonnaise, nothing so fatty and boring as that. Mustard I assume would be his choice. Putting mayo on a sandwich would be like putting ketchup on a hotdog for him and he wants a one-of-a-kind woman, not what every other man has. He would top it off with hot peppers."
"That's a bit of an odd sandwich, I don't think I could stand the hot peppers."
"Of course you wouldn't, that is why his taste is complex. What one man shudders at, another man devours."
You would sit there and ponder my comment before concluding, "You haven't mentioned beauty at all."
I would sigh at your foolishness, shaking my head. "It's not about beauty to him, otherwise I might have compared his women to soy sauce."
"Soy Sauce?"
"Yes, dark, tantalising on your tongue and dangerous to your health. Instead I refer to his women as pickles, green and warty because he doesn't care about beauty on the outside."
"Yes well I've bitten into a pickle before and there is nothing beautiful on the inside."
I would push back my chair at that point and stand up to leave, throwing down some paper for the bill.
"Then one day my friend, you may find yourself hungry."

Terrible Two's

2009-05-04T12:47:00.000-07:00

You are two years old with a name that has the initials C.A.T.
Name: Chevrolet Avalanche Tacoma
Nickname: Chevy in adult language, Sh-wee in two year old language
Favorite Food: Gravel
Siblings names/ages: Jayna age. 6
How they treat you: Silent Revenge
Thoughts on toilet training: Why poop in the toilet when you can poop in the big thing they call a bathtub.

Here I am stuck in my crib, I've just started to figure out how to escape it but it's hit or miss. If it were nighttime I'd be scared. Beside my crib, on the wall with the ratty shredded wallpaper are three little holes. At night that's where they come from. The worms I mean. I haven't seen them come out of there, but I just know. If you were my age, you'd understand. Us two year olds just know things; things that others don't. It's okay when you're really really old, you'll realized them again.
Anyways, those worms come out of the three holes at night and they fall into my crib. I don't know why but every time they do, I have to cry. Even though they're actually quite pretty. Being the size of half of my daddy's cigars, its easy to see what they look like. Some are indigo, other a vibrant yellow-green but most are black and they all have glitter showing through their skin. I always stand up, because who wants to lie in a pile of worms. It's not long before my mommy saves me. She always asks what's wrong and if I had that kind of co-ordination I'd roll my eyes at her. I walk through the worms to get to her, still wondering why she's even asking. Then she picks me up and I look down, and they're gone. They must have gone back in the holes.
So here I am, stuck in my crib in the daylight. Although today I've stolen some tape and I've stuck it over the holes good and tight.
No more glittery worms visiting me tonight.

A Change of Pace

2009-05-03T12:54:00.001-07:00

Since I seem to only write depressing things here, I decided that I'll start posting some writing exercises I've been doing from a book called Write Brain.
Exercise 1:
Include the words: Exorcist, jambalaya, keepsake
Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil running around and around on his wheel. I mean, I do an honest day of work. Although I should feel saint-like being an exorcist, I still feel that I'm just recycling these demons back into the system. Maybe I've exorcised some of the same ones over, how would I know. If I could only take some sort of keepsake from each, to let me know if I meet them again. Like a special jambalaya recipe, then I could say "Hey how do you make jambalaya?" right before I make the demon burst from the body. Although I can't say demons believe in honesty at all costs. I don't even think humans do. The reality of it is... I bet demons make horrible jambalaya.

Natural Selection

2009-03-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

I don't like myself. I don't think anyone likes themselves. If they do, they're lying. People that seem to like themselves are the ones who are most guilty of self-hatred.
Many people feel a dislike for the outer things, such as their hair, their butt, their clothes and whatever vain thing you can think of. I'm guilty of that too, of course. At times I can look in the mirror and vaguely agree that I look okay, spin one circle and feel gut-wrenchingly disgusted at myself. I wish it weren't so back and forth like that; it can be tiring.
My disgust runs deeper than that. I hate the way I laugh, which is after every sentence I say because I don't trust what comes out of my mouth. It's a laugh done out of nervousness. What a waste of a laugh. I hate my emotions. My own emotions. People run on emotions, we'd be machines otherwise. I hate what I run on. I can't trust my own reactions. Sometimes I get so hurt by something, and I'm angry, and I feel wrong for being that way. I can't even tell if it's a normal reaction. I wish I could be the carefree, happy person that some people want me to be, but I can't keep wearing masks. Its not always a mask, but sometimes. I feel guilty if I don't put it on. I feel guilty for being mad, which makes me sad. I always wonder if I'll forever be sad. Some say you have to make your own happiness. Or it's all in your mind. Mine seems to be broken. Two angers definately don't make a right, but it sure happens often. Now here I am, sitting alone in an empty room. Its always alone. Listening to country... which has to be a sign that I'm depressed. I just want that smile, someone to touch me, make it real laughter and nothing out of nerves. Seems to be about eggs in a basket. I put one in and the rest follow. Only to have them smashed on the ground. Is it normal to live life saving yourself from hurt? Never fully trusting? I suppose in the end it's about saving yourself above others. That's what everyone is doing, bailing out before they get hurt, at the cost of others. You just have to know when to bail. That's my fault, bad timing.
Am I honestly that stupid? I haven't felt this stupid in a while. I feel like everything I do is stupid, every attempt, every gesture, every mistake. I don't know how long I can last like this. I don't want it to happen again, but if its so reaccuring then maybe it's how it's supposed to be. Kind of like natural selection. The dumb and the weak are supposed to die off so the rest can live on. So they can live together, not alone, and be happy for the rest of their long lives.
I can already feel it beginning.

2008-06-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

I died on Friday. I drove fast, crashed through the guardrails, flew over the edge, went through the window, hit the ground below and my truck flipped on top of me. Atleast that was the plan. I felt crazy that night, like my last bit of patience with myself twanged and snapped. I couldn't stop screaming, I could barely see past the tears and the hopelessness seeping out of me could have drowned a million rats. I don't want to talk about why just yet; I'm not ready for that.
Although there must have been something sane, a fine thread holding me back. I wanted help, part of me wasn't ready to die. I called for help, scared the bejesus out of a woman working dispatch who couldn't find a crisis line quick enough. I told her to send the police because I couldn't drive without crashing. What are the odds, the one night that I remain sober and I try to commit suicide. It took them half an hour to get there... I couldn't stop thinking, they could be picking up my remains with the time it took them to get here. Would it hurt them to know that they were too late to save a life? Whats the difference for them between driving a suicidal to the hospital or cleaning up a car crash? More paperwork for the car crash I suppose. When they pulled up I started crying hysterically again - I was so scared. They had their top lights pointed right at me, like a criminal. I didn't want Mary to stop talking to me on the phone; I wanted her to tell them to go away. I knew I had to say goodbye to her and face them. I couldn't even look up. They were timid around me, but very cop-ish. They were worried everything they said would make me snap, but I suppose they didn't realize how much they scared me. By the time they moved my truck onto a side road and I was in the back of the cop car, I was exhausted and confused. I didn't know what would happen in a situation like this. How do you fix a suicidal? Its not like rewiring me in an hour. The police officers kept joking among themselves in the front, unconcerned. They must deal with this a lot. They put me in a room right in front of the front desk, so they could watch me. By that time, I had texted my sister to tell her what happened and that I'd talk to her tomorrow, then I shut off my dying phone. Fortunately, when by the time I had sat down on my hospital bed, she was on the phone with the front desk. She was going to drive out right away, it was about 4 a.m. Knowing that made me feel safer, and much happier but it seemed like forever waiting. I talked to a nurse, I talked to a doctor, I talked the cops, I talked to bloody well everyone and they all asked the same questions. After a while the answers come out in a monotone voice. I felt numb sitting there, staring into space. I either couldn't think or I was trying to decide what sticking my tongue in an outlet would do. Boy did I regret the girls picking that Friday as dress night. It would have been nice to be wearing sweats. My sister was there when I woke up. I've never felt so happy all at once. But like she said, she can't be there all the time and she shouldn't have to be. They told me I need to stop drinking and that I can get help for that. They gave me a crisis line to call at any time. They said I just need to make it till the 30th when my first psych appointment was. I was happy all Saturday, then I was down most of Sunday. I'm up and down again today. I'm either thinking about how great it would be to have a dog, or I'm thinking of ways to kill myself. I have a hard time not letting it sneak into conversations. People seem to find it weird when you randomly start talking about drowing yourself. I can't help it. I dont know how to stop it. I feel like things are going to get better and then at times I feel like no matter what I do, I keep sinking. I don't know the answers and I never understood the point of writing unless you could answer your own questions. Which makes writing pointless to me I suppose, but it also feels like everything in my head can't be contained any longer and it needs to go somewhere.

The Rollercoaster Goes Down But It Also Goes Up

2008-06-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

I've never been so up and down before. On a day when I would expect myself to be down, I'm happy. Working from ten to nine at two different jobs - I would expect to be depressed. Who wouldn't? I'm happy to be back at work again, both of them. Even though I feel more than lost at both, atleast I'm doing something. I had two whole weeks off - to think about what I wanted to do I suppose, or maybe to fix myself or just take a break. Well I can't say that's what I did. Instead, I crashed. I was awake until five a.m. and then slept all day which for me is a huge sign that I'm in trouble. Basically (and everyone I explain this to laughs) I stay awake late as a way to keep away tomorrow. I don't want to face a new day. Hell, I don't want face any day. Then I sleep all day in an attempt to avoid admitting that tomorrow is now today. If I could, I would sleep a life time. In a sense, that sounds suicidal, but its not. I'm just saying I want to fall into a permanent coma. I really dont think it's unreasonable. Who doesn't like to sleep? Anywyas if I wasn't sleeping, I was either with my horses or drunk. Eventually at the end of the two weeks, my body foiled me and I got chest pains every time I drank. I'd be a poor alcoholic. I wouldn't say it was too weeks well spent. I didn't do anything that I should have done. I didn't work out, eat well, fix my sleep schedule, figure out what I wanted in the future, I didn't even plant my poor plants in the garden. Today though, I feel better. I called my doc (on maternity leave again, jeez you'd think she'd know how to use birth control! Another one?!) and decided to get help. I don't know what form that will be exactly, but I know even with a good day, I've crashed through the floor and I'm sinking into the basement's unset concrete. I need to talk to someone. To me, paying someone to listen isn't a bad idea. Let's face it, no one cares if you're depressed. I know that no one will continue to read this. Well I atleast know one will; it seems blogging is a good way to keep in touch with what eachother's thinking. It's not that no one cares, it's that people only care to a certain extent. If it causes them grief or time to listen, then they don't want to be involved. No problem. I understand. But it hurts. I think I'm somewhat used to it because now when people want to know how I'm doing, I have a hard time telling. What's the point? Its like bad sex, they're already planning what they're doing tomorrow in their heads. In the defense of seeing a therapist, I think I would listen to someone if I was paid. Or atleast pretend to and maybe that's all I need. So I can't say it was a two weeks well spent but I think being able to come back to work gave me the jolt to atleast make a phone call. Wow it may be almost three a.m. at the moment but atleast it's not five and I did just come in from a run in the rain.

Getting an Eye-full

2008-06-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

I can't even look at myself anymore; I see nothing. I used to be able to look into a mirror, into my eyes, and see my future. Now I just see empty, tired eyes looking back. I've felt lost before, but I never thought I'd see myself so helpless. It scares me now to see myself. It's like a wound, you can't stand to look at it yet you can't look away. I find myself looking at pictures, zooming in, trying to find something but seeing nothing. I'm trying to find when I lost myself. I don't know if it was a year ago, three years ago; maybe eight years ago, when I didnt have any responsibility. The answer isn't in my eyes, but I know I used to see something there - hope, a successful future, ambition. They're all the things that I don't feel anymore. I dont know where I'm going, maybe thats why it was in my eyes that I searched. They should be able to see where I'm headed. If a persons eyes are a supposed window to their soul, does this mean I'm soulless? I feel nothing and yet I feel everything. At times I like the pain. After nearly ten years of it, I'm used to the pain. It's familiar. Even when I've felt so alone, its there. Its always been there, even when I'm happy. Its waiting on the outskirts, expecting that bare second when I let my guard drop. My soul can't be missing, even if I can't see it anymore. A soulless person wouldn't feel pain. They would feel nothing, love nothing, care for nothing. I'd like that better. If my eyes are empty, and I'm void of a soul, then I must be on my way to feeling nothing. No hurt, no broken shards ripping up my insides - just black, bleak and hard eyes staring back. I can't wait.