Because winter...

A dear friend of mine sent me a text with the would-be words on her tombstone - 'Because winter.'
I think that honestly sums up 90% of the hunched over walks and sighs.  The other 10% has me convinced I should be medicated.  Vitamin D3 ain't doing much except keeping me in a constant state of 'Why did I? When was that? OMG, I totally did that.'
I'm an action fucking Bronson when it comes to taking risks. Most of which are terrible ideas and blow up in my face. But the pangs of guilt and self-criticism far out way the possibility of a catastrophic fire.
I've come to learn that this quality can be intimidating. And not in a 'sexy, she's so crazy, what a breath of fresh air' kind of way. But more in a 'she's unstable and not young enough to pull this off' kind of way.
My paranoia may be calling the shots here, but go fuck yourself.
When the snow melts and the ice begins to water my soul, maybe I'll wear my good bra and use kindness in kind. 

The perks of the wallow...

Getting out of bed. Getting in a hot bath. Getting back in bed.
This is my routine about three days a week.  An outsider looking in may see total laziness, or maybe total sadness...they would also see old mascara holding my eyes closed and a dusty nightstand littered with near empty chapsticks. 
The reality is...I'm quite happy to wallow. It's my time alone to be comfortable and shut out the world. Which can be quite loud and angry the other four days of the week.  There are days that I can't ball myself small enough under the covers and some tears may soak the pillow case that I'm not even sure is close to clean. 
But out of that, I laugh at myself - I can be quite funny sometimes. 
I even relish in the fact that no one cares where I am or what I'm doing during that time. I'm not needed.
And not being needed is as just as much of a fucking rush as being needed is.  And I will get on my soap box here and tell the world (all zero of you reading this) that it's okay to be on an island of you for a few hours. The world can wait because you will be there when it's time. The world belongs to you...and day naps are better than the sex I'm not having.

The walk into battle...

Nothing can beat the feeling of walking arm and arm with your fellow soldiers, sounds of the battle drum perpetuating the rhythm of your heart. Adrenaline flows through your every vein as you march in time to enemy lines.  ~I'm totally speaking metaphorically here. Ain't no fucking way I'm going into a real battle, I've got alabaster skin.~ But...then you get to those enemy lines, your own heartbeat drowns out the sound of the drum and you look to either side and realize you are totally and utterly alone- you laugh to yourself and say 'well shit, this is not how I saw this playing out.'
And you wince in self-deprivation as you take each bullet. And you find a sense of peace as the metal pierces your skin.  
I'm pretty sure that taking an actual bullet packs more of a sting, but you see where I'm going with this.
Do we give up when standing alone or do we keep fighting? Is the line drawn at the enemies feet?
I find myself playing out this scenario and answering these questions on a daily basis. The details vary, but the message is always the same - 'You FIGHT!' There is no peace in piercing metal. I can't even handle period cramps. Self-deprivation is a bigger killer than SARS. And if you stand your ground as if you're 10,000 men (or women, no discrimination here) you will win. 
Victory. 
And then you'll find your peace. Which I imagine is a lot like Tom Hanks at the end of 'Castaway.' At a crossroads with a full tank of gas and a future you can make your own. And you can't go fucking wrong with Tom Hanks. 

As the grapes turn...

Nothing like realizing halfway into a giant bottle of $16 wine...that your chance on price is gonna make for a very ugly 24 hours. 'Who needs $2,000 wine!? This is a steal!' These words will haunt me.
Details are fuzzy. I'm okay with that. 
I think.
I'm becoming terrible at hiding the crazy. A lifelong profession that has come up from behind me in a not so comfortable place.  I've avoided alcohol and people a lot lately. Because that's where freak flags fly. The part of me that also justifies a mouthful of Skittles and cigarettes thinks that this is how God wants me to be seen.  The part of me that doesn't forget my nighttime anti-wrinkle cream and sets the alarm thinks otherwise.  I just really hope the part of me that works out and always wears sexy underwear wins this battle. But I really love Skittles.
I'll recalibrate and may surface in a dark corner...drinking a wine from a wood shelf...out of a wine glass. 
Oh yeah, I can't drink wine - 13 hour hangover.
I'll be ready for keg stands by next weekend.

I choose...

I've come to the conclusion that people (not opinions) are assholes. Everybody is one.
As much as I wanna give into 'just can't win'...I just can't give in. I'm about as laid back as they come. So much so, I'm almost asleep as I write this. But I can be a badass warrior when it comes to people and things that I love. I will protect to the point of putting thirty bullets in a dead body. That was totally metaphorical by the way. 
We can't choose where we come from but we can choose where we go from there. And I choose from this point and this half bag of stale popcorn that I will only eat fresher popcorn and I will smile when I tell someone 'fuck you and your shriveled twat.'
I already feel amazing! Positive thinking, people. It saves lives - and wastes popcorn.

Dream a little dream...

I think it's the impending cold weather and well maybe the borderline depression that has me convinced that a mid-morning nap is absolutely necessary.  I've never really been one to analyze dreams but when one comes around that is a blaring 'wake up call' you tend to take notice.
For instance...today, crammed into a 45 minute nap I dreamt the following:
Living in an apartment with no door and only muslin curtains for walls.
Left on a train where my seat was a toilet and I had diarrhea as I ate Asian fruit from a can...and there was a full car of passengers seated behind me.
On my way back to my island themed apartment...I took a bike. On the interstate no less. Only to be joined by my high school guidance counselor in a Nissan Altima packed with her grandkids wanting to know about my life.
When I get back to my apartment there's a small child lurking around. One that I should have been caring for and totally neglected. And security cam footage of my bed which had been soiled by orgies of all my past lovers during the time that I was gone.  So...am I the neglected kid in this scenario? I wish.
I think I'm about two crazy emails and an ASPCA commercial from being nothing but a pulsating heart. Frazzled nerves abound.  But diarrhea on a train!? Come on subconscious, cut me some slack.

Let them eat cake...

I've always been the 'dream girl' in the first flush of a relationship.  Those years of acting training have really sealed some deals for me.  It's when I let my guard down and let it slip that I'm only interested in what a Bravo housewife has to say on the matter (politics, sports...what have you).  Or when I'm  straddling them after sex with my belly fat hanging over my jeans and quite seriously ask...'what was your favorite part?' that I start to lose them.  
But during that first flush...I'm funny, smart, soft to the touch and somehow just so fucking skinny.
By about year three- they realize that the frigid binge eater that gags during a very rare blow job isn't the Marie Antionette he had envisioned.  Curses.
I think I'm gonna shake things up a bit. Start with the crazy. Long winded text messages about my feelings and Hanes Her Way's in assorted colors.  Make them feel trapped right in the beginning so the only way to go is up. Trickery to my advantage. The rest is well...cake.

Puppies aren't food...

I've made it my life's mission to desensitize myself. Which is the exact opposite of how I want to live it. I once read a story about some teenage asshole that thought it would be hilarious to bake a live puppy in the oven.  I read that nine years ago and it still will not leave the dark caverns of my mind.  Late at night as I circle every challenge I make myself like a shark - I say aloud, 'don't think about that puppy' and BAM! That's all I think about. In extreme and unnecessary detail.  Upside is that it gets me out of my own bullshit for a few minutes. Downside is that A FUCKING PUPPY WAS BAKED IN THE OVEN.
I do this with all forms of media as well. If a song stirs any kind of emotion, I will buy it and listen to it about fifty times in a row so I won't be affected by it if it comes on in a public place.  The image I've created for myself trumps reality. I watch 'Melancholia' every time it's on for this same reason.  Flawed and legitimately unlikeable characters that finishes with the world ending. I totally LOL now.  Lars von Trier is a comic genius.
Where does this convoluted haze cross the line? When I do this with people. It could be a newsworthy person, a new Facebook friend, a potential business contact or better yet...a best friend or lover. (Side note: I hate the word 'lover'). I saturate my world with everything there is to know and feel about them so I won't be surprised by any move they make. This never works by the way. They don't know I'm doing this, I'm slick. But I'm still flabbergasted by the sheer inhumanity of humans.  Or what I perceive humanity to be.
These might be the practices of a master manipulator.  I know these types of people - I can smell my own. Or quite possibly and more than likely...I'll be forever alone, even in the best of company.

French music sucks le cock...

I've spent about a sum total of 48 minutes in French themed cafe's.  This of course makes me an expert on everything related to France...and some parts of Spain.
These cafe's all have their satellite radios tuned to whatever's topping the charts of France.  Remember that Vanessa Paradis is more than Johnny Depp's baby mama.  She's also a pop star. Or a le pop starlette.  I totally knew that translation without even looking it up. Francophile.  
Once you get past the 1983 electric drum stylings, you fall into the chasm of lyrics and tone of voice. You'd think the absolutely necessary 3rd chocolate croissant could quite literally sugar coat it, but it can't. It's what more than likely made that 3rd chocolate croissant quite necessary.  Maybe the French are geniuses after all.  I'll share-
Vanessa Paradis - Love Song
And the chorus...and what seems to also be every verse, totes the magnetic lyrics:
Love, I don't know
Nothing about love, you know
Hold me till the day is done
All night long let's have some fun

Well, fuck me. 
How do they get the dough so golden and flaky? 

Toni Braxton had it right...

The slide down the wall cry is highly underrated...or overrated. Not sure which. But I will say it feels damn good.  Taking out three bags of trash left some wall space so I thought I would give it a try.  
Purging. Long sobs that make you feel incredibly sexy somehow. Oh Toni, thank you.
The humility and hilarity is getting up. Aging, creaking knees remind you of your recent month of idling. Also...you notice the dog threw up on the rug (probably a week ago) and you should clean that up. I still haven't by the way. I'm a fucking rebel.

Don't make yourself small...

Today, I got day drunk in my pajamas. After all, it's Columbus Day. How else do you fuckin' celebrate it? Then I got a call from my local police station that they wanted me to come in for a photo line up.  I could have scheduled it for tomorrow. But that Riesling with a side of leftover fried fish had me feeling pretty ballsy. So naturally I went immediately.  Ballsy is what had me there in the first place.  I ain't gonna take shit from the Aussie hussy complaining that a Long Island Iced Tea ain't strong enough...so I sure as hell ain't gonna take it from some punk asshole trying to get his hands on my Clark's backpack. 
I feel like I'm insulting punks here. I love punks. I hate cunts.  Cunt asshole. Better.
I could have taken the day and just cruised under the radar. And a year ago, that's exactly what I would have done. What a difference a year makes. I also would have given the cunt asshole my bag and probably a smile. I'm southern, I can be real fucking charming like that.  But not today. I'm done making myself small.  There's no radar on the radar that can detect the existential limits I will push myself to.  Take your step-up lunges and I will raise you a Bulgarian split squat.  
Turns out -wasn't the guy. It came down to analyzing head shapes. Something I recommend everyone do at some point. I'm convinced anyone with dents at the temples decorates their basement bedroom with fairy lights and burns stolen credit cards cause they like the smell.  
Do I feel pretty in my faded pink plaid pajama bottoms and panties that have been through about eleven too many periods? No. 
I feel pretty unglued. 
But sickly...I can walk around forgetting to put make up on half my face and still feel convinced that I could fuck a high school quarterback.

Coming in through the rear...

I've always been tickled and slightly aroused by the mundane.  In a sense that it brings me peace and a mecca of self assuredness.  What do I do with that self assuredness? I take the mundane and spiral into the ridiculous. A vicious cycle only stopped when met with a swift kick in the face or a tongue in the ass.  Relationships seemingly flourish and wilt as a result of this. And my concept of what is 'wholesome' and what is 'tarnished' begin to blur. Yes, I want security in the comforts of the day-to-day...but the seething truth of it is, I want to be fucked in the chaos or a small town Best Western.
The battle of wits that I have with myself usually end with a casualty of one.  The saying 'life is a journey' takes on a whole new meaning when the journey is full of small, rusted, one-engined airplanes and unforgiving locals. I'm a fanny-pack toting tourist of my own mind. 
A gospel of God's angels and tattooed antagonists battling it out for my soul.  This leaves me feeling...well...soulless.  And when feeling soulless, I turn to the immediate satisfaction from pretzels and cream cheese and inspirational quotes on Facebook.  

That shit is deep. And a reminder that I need to clean the toothpaste spittle off the mirror.