Friday, July 26, 2013

India Arie

God put some shit on my plate all through the night. It was like a brazilian wax. It was the emotional equivalent of having any hair removed from around my asshole. It was a sharp ripping pain in a place I usually don't violate. What started out as an open letter of admiration to 'the original sweater boy' was some how twisted into something so offense he called me a sea slut. All mermaids are sea sluts. I gave you happiness in a factory and you mocked my entire existence. You then told me I'm a facebook fairytale and you refuse to chase windmills. welcome to the modern world and airplanes that fly through the sky. they land in places where you live. If you needed real life I could give that to you.

I know it doesn't matter if I see you, or touch you. I have your mind to communicate with. I also have a really great voice that you don't remember. And telling a girl you 'don't remember the sound of her voice' is just a hateful thing I wouldn't think you'd be mean enough to say. I don't remember the sound of your voice. If you expressed interested in me nothing you said would make me actually tell you I don't remember. I don't have a mean streak. It frankly makes me think of a mule. I'm going to work the analogy because after you I talked to the boy in olympia actually managed to be a bigger mule than you. I was going to go to church but I realize you can't break me twice in one night. I was a pony that chose to carry the weight of two mules. I feel like I have a broken spirit. Some people would say that church is where I need to be. It's simple if I see the preacher wife's face I'm going to want to hit her so bad. Her ability to get under my skin is mind boggling. I have so much built up aggression I probably shouldn't be allowed a keyboard. I'm going to write.

Having the last laugh is the actual written record that you can hold and touch. I can read this post and remember everything about the night I got so pissed off I forgot it was Saturday night. I have a moment when I think 'pull it together for the kids, you promised them chocolate fucking milk.' I can only say I feel like God let me down. And at this moment, I don't want to rejoice in the Lord. I don't feel like rejoicing. I feel like drinking. I hardly ever drink. Lately, I don't drink at all. I want a Sally Draper drink that is three fourths rum and one fourth diet coke.

God has his ways. The only reason I'm sober is that my mom made me bring the rum downstairs. It's a mystery how drunk my mom actually got. She got so drunk she (direct quote from my mother) 'I hid the bottle from my own damn self.' I can't yell at her. I've hidden bottles. I've hidden so much pot in this attic. If I searched I could get high for a week. I've stayed Pot Free. I want a blunt. I want three. I don't want shit weed blunts. I want dank blunts. But, I'm not mad enough to fuck up my piss. My mom just got home. I explain to her that I just got called a sea slut. I let her have it for hiding the rum. My mom gets it. If I tell her I need a drink. I really need a drink. My mom tries to tell me she wasn't drunk when she hid the rum. I call bullshit. My house is huge. When she first told me she hid it, I asked her if she remembered being crazy enough to hide it outside of the kitchen. She has no clue. It's to the point I've searched every corner in every room of this house. Not because I need a drink that bad. I've just failed at everything so hard tonight finding out where my mom hid the rum would be some form of accomplishment.

Why do people only fuck up with me on the one day of the month I don't have unlimited xanax. For some reason, as soon as that last pill is gone and I've got to get it together enough to call in a re-fill shit hits the fan. I know the pharmacy is open and I can refill it. I can numb down feelings of extreme fury and frustrations. I've been trained to take a pill when I feel like this. I actually feel so determined to stand defiantly in a pool of my own emotion. Just like Uncle David I'm standing on top of shit mountain declaring to the whole damn world that all I smell is roses.

I tried to explain to 'the original sweater boy' that I'm knew to this whole weird world where I see signs from God. I'm in a strange place where a nagging feeling in my gut is something I can only associate with a higher power. I have moments when I feel and see God in my life. God told me this morning two things I feel compelled to do. According to God I needed to listen to India Arie and write. I'm listening to a compilation of her works. Each song is lesson. Each song is prayer. Each song is simple almost to the point of cheesiness. I should be at church this moment. india arie is singing about a private party where 'I celebrate the woman that I've become.' God is screaming so loud india arie is singing about self-discovery on sunday mornings.

I think the only way to recover some of the faith I lost in God was to hear words like beautiful, wonderful, soul, strength, wisdom, and courage over and over. God was clear about one thingI'm beautiful. In my own fucked up overwhelming way, I'm beautiful. I'm not saying I'm a hot piece of ass. I'm beautiful because I have the ability to use words that make you feel something. If you're the original sweater boy there is a reason why you're curious what I'll say next. If you continue to read my blog you accidentally become a part of my story. You're one of the friends or strangers that see's my large open window and stops to peak in. I didn't intend to be the house on the corner that's notorious for the fact you can watch everything they do. Writing fell in my lap kind of like my love fell in your lap. I didn't ask for it. I know there is some part of me that's destined to tell a story. It's sitting in my lap waiting to come out. And like a dirty sea slut at a strip club named mermaids (There really is a nudey bar called Mermaids that I pass every time I go to the beach. I will forever more think of sea sluts and manatees when I pass Mermaids) like a sea slut writing fell in my lap and teased me to the point where I will put the effort into turning a slea slut into a mermaid. This blog is certainly the sea slut in my lap.

Even though I got so fiercely mad I had another moment when the velocity of my anger might actually allow me to teleport. I'd do it again in a heart beat. I've got analogies that will make me giggle for a lifetime. I'm not going to be able to look at a mule or a picture of a mule without thinking 'evil giggleremember when you called that guy a mule.' then I'm going to think about the anger and wrath I induced. It really is my way of saying 'Love you, kisses' to the few people on earth I care about. I don't do it on purpose. To piss me off and get all my wrath and fury you already have to have my love. You may have not earned my love. My love may be as random as the lottery. It may be one aspect of your personality that earns my love. It may be one gesture. Beautiful kenny that may or may not be a powerful magician's man slavehas my love. You'd have to know Kenny to understand how he could become the object of my teenage years. My friends that watched me live through it have no problem understanding I'm just the kind of girl that will alway's love kenny. He was special. He was sex and magic in a bottle. Yet if I had to call it I would say he probably decided men were more attractive than women. Women can be so dumb I'm ashamed I have a vagina. I have so much to say about dumb women I didn't finish my story.

The point is there aren't a lot of men that I earned my love. You have to be some strange character in my life like kenny. Where I can't explain it, I just love him. A perfect example I can't explain. I dearly love Rodney . I don't think the idea of earning my love will freak him out. He drew me some of the greatest drawings I've ever seen. I have them all. I'm sentimental enough to frame them if I had wall space. Another example is John Mike because he was curious enough to follow my tumblr. blog when no one else did. He's like married. I'm way so not trying to fuck him. Yet the fact he reads my shit when my own family refuses, earned my love. Love I can only describe as the outcome of touching me in some distinct emotional level. I love so many women I can't even start naming them. Women aren't as afraid of emotional connections. However, it's love without sexuality. So as far as pursuing someone and dropping my love in their lap, I have prerequisites. You nee a dick, I've had to wonder about you since the peak of my sexuality, you have to be smart yet humble, you have to be creative in some manner and most of all, there has to be something about you that makes you stand out from the crowd even when you're hiding.

I would have no interest in you if you couldn't write. I'm sorry but you earned my love on a ship. I don't think you understand the intense boding a woman can feel when she's talking to a man in the military. It feels like every message you send is a tribute and declaration of admiration. I know you were miserable. I know that a handwritten letter was enough to make you feel enough emotion that I became a memory for the second time. It was my words you loved. Or excuse me for using the word love too freely. They were words you liked. I'll never compare to women that have had the opportunity to see you live your life. I don't expect to. I'm sorry my love freaks you out to the point where you are irritated. I will be a balls out, tits out, cocky bitch and say I've met a lot of men that would fly without wings if they thought they could have me. There are men that want me without having any ability to comprehend the intensity of my love. In other words, they want me when I'm trying to lower the intellectual level of a conversation so they can keep up. It's pretty hard to convince a dumb guy that I'm not somehow interesting. If I would settle for the male manatee at my circle kright now some fat dude devoted to me like a loyal golden retriever would be picking up my prescriptions. My fat manatee would sense that I am a fire cracker that has been lit.

Jennifer you are right here with me in the attic. I can see you plain as day saying 'fuck being a dolphin. I want to be a fat fucking manatee.' You would explain the cuckoo poe song 'I wanna be a dolphin' and you would list out the rationale of why you want to be a manatee. They can be ugly to the point where you feel liking asking God why he'd make something so ugly. But, everybody loves a manatee. They are rare, endangered and protected creatures. Then if it was jenn she would point out something poignant like 'i wonder how many dolphins wind up in tuna cans?' People aren't eating manatees. I just wanted Jenn to know I thought about her the the moment I decided that I was going to say that I hope he spends eternity with literary equivalent of a manatee. I was being too kind. I don't wish bad thing for people I hope you bring home some endangered brilliant manatee. Someone to be your golden retriever.

You're on a big fancy boat looking for tuna just like one of those motherfuckers on the tv show I hate. My Don Cesar boy made me watch the tuna catching show. That's either a sign that he was destined to break my heart or a sign that he'll randomly message or call me when I'm no longer interested. I remember sitting there in the don cesar thinking 'here I am paying money for some man to force me to watch some damn show about fishing.' I recognized then that any form of dating is pretty much accepting captivity.

What may be hard for many people to comprehend is that I am so intense I'll always love 'the cute boy with glasses wearing a sweater' that I now just call 'my one-night stand at the Don CeSar' He was a gift from God. I've never tasted caviar. I don't know if I would even like it. I only know if I had describe what I thought caviar should taste like it would be that night in the Don CeSar. Honestly one night with him is better than any memory I have of you. I usually wouldn't point that out. I really think it's distasteful to say mean things. However, in a fucked up way your a horse that really loves getting punched in the face. Maybe to treat you with cruelty is the only way to earn your attention.

What made him better than you? I would've never knocked on your door if he hadn't pulled off something I thought was impossible. My female friends can try. I can only explain that it's something I only accept from men. He had me convinced I was beautiful. Not just my mind. I can't even believe I can say this because I have such low self-confidence, but it's not just my mind that is beautiful. I won't win a pageant. I'll always have a best friend like Jenny Biscuits to compete with. She is going to win a beauty contest every time. Yet, thanks to the fact I dropped a grand on an irrational, risky and dangerous one night standI met a man who used words, facial expressions and every part of his body to prove to a stubborn self-loathing bitch like methat I'm beautiful.

It's funny because he was actually able to talk about my beauty openly. I would drop another grand to have a man I'm physically attracted to be as honest as him. Don't get me wrong every creepy dude and a shit ton of men over forty could spend an afternoon trying to convince me I have the right to call myself beautiful. I don't care what old and creepy guys think. I care about what some really really adorable, super intelligent, sexy, slightly shy yet bold guy thinks about me. He was bold enough to tell me that I carry my weight really well and in all the right places. When the world seems to be on a mission to make me feel like I must need two seats on an airplanethe cutest boy I've ever seen in my whole fucking lifetouched me in a way that actually managed to celebrate every pound on my body. The very fact that there was more of me to play with got him off. Since I got what I consider 'pretty fucking fat' sex has been awkward. I'm so never going to put a number out there to proclaim my state of fat. I'm not telling you my dress size. I'm just going to let it be this grand mystery. To the point you wonder if I am fat or if my family members are just cruel. They've all fucked with my head to the point I'm officially diagnosed as body dismorphic. Jenn my fellow lover of manatees, if you're still reading you will distinctly remember my 'mirror face.' It's one of those insecurities I'll only discuss when I'm fiery mad. I used to make this face every time I looked in the mirror. Well jenn, the severity of my inability to look in a mirror is so bad my 'mirror face' isn't something to laugh and joke about.

Something strange happens in my brain when I look at myself. I see a monster so ugly you feel compelled to vomit. If I had to stare at my reflection for any length of time I would puke. It's a violent and uncontrollable reflex that I can't control. Friends notice I never look in the mirror. Angela Waters, how many times did you have to fix my hair or adjust something about me I didn't catch because I absolutely refuse to look at my reflection in the mirror. I'm so fucked in the head I stand in front of the toilet to brush my teeth. Even if I'm not looking at myself, the thought of standing in front of a mirror repulses and disturbs me. I'm stubborn. I will walk around with toothpaste on my face on a regular basis rather than look at my face in the mirror. I still think the fact that I had toothpaste on my face when I went to a shrink, was the straw that broke the camels back, as a doctor he declared me fucked up enough to require uppers and downers to function. Toothpaste all over your face because your not capable of shit like looking in a mirror, will make a doctor a doctor realize you need a speedball to live.

I've only ever run into one kid that was prescribed an equally potent cocktail of upper and downers. He was on disability. I'm officially crazy enough to choose a life where I sit back and get paid by the government not to enter the workforce because I'm crazy. Yet I fight. I read the perfect quote out of Prozac Nation that might make it more clear. The author is crazy like me. She's describing what it feels like to be bi-polar 'If the editors decided I had to write the entire contents of the newspaper, by myself, I still wouldn't be busy enough to satisfy this enormous, deleterious need I have to keep moving. There will always be this deficit, this flabby remainder of self hanging over me, demanding more attention than I and seventy-two other people put together could possibly satisfy. What I wouldn't do to be Alice climbing through the looking glass, taking one of those pills that makes you small, so small. What I wouldn't do to be less"

I can relate to every word. What I wouldn't give for a newspaper to write. If you're thinking 'than why don't you get a job for a paper?' I have zero faith in my ability as a writer. You would think since I do write with the ferocity of a mad woman, you would think I felt confident about my writing. I'll be terrified of writing professionally for the rest of my life. I would tell you I have a zero percent chance of ever seeing my work out there managing to sell more than 25 copies. I would firmly tell you about 25 people would buy my book. Technically, I have eighty strangers that read my other blog. I might be able to sell one hundred books. I'm about to slam wordpress with about 30 posts from this entire venture into an unknown land where I struggled with mixed messages. People in Australia will read this post. The fact you were special enough for me to chase with the arrogance of youth will make people all over the world wonder if you were worth this fight.

I might be wrong about there being zero percent chance of me selling books. The thought flies through my head that If I charged money for a more vivid, in depth discussion of my life that someone reading this would pay to see how this story unfolds. The second I post this strangers around the globe will think 'If she's not charging a fortune I would pay to see his picture.' Don't worry I wouldn't post your picture for all the tea in china. I would never think you deserve the satisfaction of strangers finding you attractive. If I manage to pull an Elizabeth Wurtzel. If I use my words to write the next Prozac Nation you might have to face the fact that mermaids are real.

If it were possible to publish your picture in return for the ability to hand you all the money you need to get your children through college I wouldn't allow the world to see your face. Every now and then my bff can take a picture of me that I can look at. She will catch me at the right time and angle, when I'm just simply happy, and I will see a picture of myself and I don't see a monster. When I look at those pictures I realize that life is just an illusion we create for ourselves. I can face the fact the monster I hallucinate in the mirror isn't real. Those pictures of you that are old enough that I remember looking at them while you were on a ship have a certain power over me. I think you are so beautiful when you weren't this simple man your so proud of. It's not that you've aged. I'm more attracted to you now that you're at a point you think you're soft and pudgy. I prefer my men to have the comfort of a little fat. The point is it's not that you've aged. Your recent pictures don't make me think 'damn that is one pretty special boy.' I see a cardboard cut-out of the boy you used to be. Like life took a three dimensional character and toned him down to two dimensions. You are absolutely right if you are no longer capable of being three dimensional you are a waste of time. If the third dimension is something you can only associate with addiction I Don't Want You. In fact if you feel that way I would be the first person to tell you I don't date cardboard. I'm not living the sad and predictable life you lead when your partner can't see you thrive in all three dimensions. I am proof that the chaos of the third dimension creates something beautiful even without recreational drugs.

I'm not afraid of fairy tales. No one is going to take away my faith in a happy ending. If you managed to convince me that magic doesn't exist and there is no such thing as a message from God I would eat a bullet like my Uncle. It's no idle threat. It's simply the truth. That moment I stop dreaming and appreciating the wisdom hidden in fairy tales I promise that will be the day when I become completely dedicated to suicide. My brain is too intense and it never stops. I want to put a bullet in it so dearly to make the chaos stop. But, I don't because you used another song to try to express your disinterest in me, one line compared me to the nuisance of having a psychedelic angel tugging on your sleeve.

I always say for me heaven would be the chance to re-live my life again. To feel and remember the moments of life that caused me Joy and Pain. Then I say that the next phase of heaven is having the golden opportunity to lists the gifts and talents you take with you in the next life. I would ask God to make me a creature that appears in people's life like a fucked up hallucination of a psychedelic angel. I would've said I don't care about the consequences, make me something so complex I become psychedelic. It's just a bonus that I can be an angel tugging at your sleeve. I asked for insanity. I know I stood there and told God 'Give me the drive to make something out of nothing.' Give me madness and let me prove to the whole damn world that life is better with the taste of chaos slightly infusing your plate. That insanity is like putting some salt on your watermelon. It defies a simple explanation how something salty could somehow make fruit sweeter. It just does.

God keeps me fighting. He said to listen to india arie. At this point we've switched teams. You would actually have to convince me that you are worthy of a song like this. I know you are still an ass. In so many ways you'll always be my mule. And you can fight to turn my love into something ugly. I am just the girl that would stand in front of you with a mirror until you break down and see your own reflection. It's up to you with you create the illusion of a monster.
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