Someday

Someday i am going to learn
how to say No.
how to say what i'm thinking
never what i'm feeling
because i am still trying to learn
what that is again.

someday i am going to learn
Who i am
and what i Want
because in the end my capitalization is not
sporadic like you think
but has a purpose
a meaning
and a reason for getting up in the morning.

i wish i could pretend i wasn't
living my life to
spite the heck
out of the ghosts of my past.
like maybe i was driven by ambition
not the
deep-seeded desire to prove
that i
can be Someone
be Something
not just a broken girl
they left on the walk to
die.

ripped wings
torn dreams
i traded in for purpose.
a scarred lip
a broken wall
and all the little things in life
that don't seem quite
Alright.

Thoughts Divided

[And I would like to know how it's possible that you are the source of my pain... yet I don't want to live a life without you]

(I am tripping between lines, behind words, over schedules and under feet. I can't see past my shoulder or beyond my line of vision which is limited by time. Every day a new reminder of something I forgot... another taste of another bitter root and I am coughing, gagging up the remainders of another not-quite-A... just want it to go away)

{I smile because the moments inside of frozen window-esque picture frames are lovely on the walls of my thoughts... we spend too much money, eat too much junk food, but man, it feels good not to be alone}

{(When consequently I miss you... because while I am stumbling through a field of paperwork and miscalculations you are somewhere opposite me.... but I can't reach over the stacks of miles and lost time to get you... sometimes the file folders fall away to reveal us sitting next to each other laughing... but mostly leave us wandering amongst those we wander with)}

[{(And do I talk about him too much when I talk to you????)}]

[and I feel so scared of this, of you, of not knowing and always wondering... I know it's not any easier for you but somehow I feel it is... I think I wanna talk about it... but we both know if it's never said, it's like we never happened... and then it doesn't matter what the dice reveals....]

(and I know I have so much to do [but I'd rather talk to you] {(and it's so hard not to cry}))

{we almost both lost it today but we're still holding on}

- e=mc but only 1

and if you can find the method to this madness then you will get a dedicated blog post :)

So Many Words Have Passed

This morning came too early because last night was far too late.

This is the first time in a long time I have done this.

(Or at least it's been since March.)

And I am terribly afraid of you

(Though I told you that I'm not)

Because those three words I will not say

And all the others that could mean so much

Won't leave my lips

But the clock reveals the secret

By reminding me how very many other words

Have fallen off a lazy tongue, wanting one more moment

Before this is gone forever.

And I could have given you my heart

Could have given you my trust

But instead I gave you my words

And I may as well have given you both the former.

The Reason

The sun shines through dusty windows, making light-beam dancefloors for specks of old skin who are talking and mingling to a song for the deaf. Outside a thousand crickets are calling to each other like the way we used to do- across concrete, over side walks, behind the old buildings and over skateboard inflicted wounds. I got a new sketch pad for my birthday (actually I got four) and I remembered that I am still loved even though I thought love was dead. Lethargic yawn stretching into another nap and the 100 Greatest Rock Songs (numbers 81-60) are whining in the background. I think Slash looks pretty good for his age and find myself briefly wondering what kind of shampoo he uses.
I think about a lot of things when I think about days that feel like summer. I think about a lot of people I have known and places I have been- mostly nouns but the occasional verb I guess, and all the adjectives you crave. Am I really more than just a blue-eyed metaphor or was the song written for me? Sometimes I'm pretty sure everyone knows who I am but me. How weird is that? I know that when the night falls and the stars are standing aloof and silent, too good for this fallen earth with our broken lives and the brevity of everything, that I want to be there with them but I am only skin and memories instead of hydrogen suspended dust.
I look at you sitting beside me, my best friend, who so delicately reminded me that I need to update my blog. I don't know how it's so easy for you. Once I ran out of things to complain about and had to start being honest, it's like walking on pins and needles to update. I don't want to bore the world with a littany of what I have done in a day but I don't want anyone to read my thoughts. My thoughts and feelings are the only thing that keep me sheltered from the rest of the world. No matter what people do, they can never take away the deep-seeded wonderings and ramblings I possess about life, the universe and everything. I can tell them my life story, but as long as they can't follow my logic I know I will always be safe.
So perhaps I am just a coward. Perhaps I'm just jaded. Maybe someday people will think of me as a young Charles Dickens, but that might be pushing it a bit. Whatever the case, all I know is that no matter how much the world scares me sometimes, I am happy to be sitting here with you, pretending I'm not afraid and knowing that my thoughts are safer with you than myself.
And that's the reason I love you.

A Forest of Thoughts

The wind blew in new air, and with it old memories. 

The snowflake fingerprints you made that dissolved when they touched my hand.

Each one unique, can't belong to anyone else,

Standing out against the pale horizon 

Of my skin and a winter sky.

The withering sound of a long lost voice

Swept away by the crackling of icicles and years

Getting lost amid the pines of weeks and briars of more lost dreams.

But every trail I pick out through the woods of time still leads me back to you.

Tripping through poison ivy days I'd never live again

Happening upon a place in my mind I thought I had left behind.

I found you waiting in the summer, with thriving green eyes

The only clue that there was once something that could survive.

And I sat on the log, by your side where I was

When the snowflake fingerprints fell.

Enraptured by the thought that not all snow freezes and kills.

Then the bitter frost of reality snapped the branches down to earth

Slaughtered the shoots of new happenings

And the birds flew away...

But I exhale onto a dandelion

Watching the seeds dance

Wondering where they're going to land, or if they'll return by chance,

Hoping that when the frost is lifted

And the sun decides he's ready to shine

I'll see a glimpse of green again.

But that this time it will stay,

So that when I return from my memory's dense thicket

Caked in mud and snow

I can look at my own front yard

and see summer once again.

Metaphor

A tapping on the keyboard and the clacking isn't like the sound produced by other keys- not piano keys which fill my soul, or house keys which say 'you're home', or car keys that mean I am running far away.... instead I spill out cruel replies to your cruel words because we can't see each other's faces. It's so much easier to be callous when I don't hear it from your voice; so much easier to be harsh when I can't see your blue-green eyes asking why I said that. (And to think I actually slept that night.... is this where past betrayal leads us? To disregard someone who we used to say we loved, like they were nothing more than just an annoying child? Is part of the danger of unforgiveness holding the grudge against those who never even knew the trespasser?)

And are these ramblings (for the days when poetry won't come) just my way of hoping you're not like me? (Never fall in love with someone just like yourself. You start ignoring your own flaws because theirs seem beautiful) Or are they just my way of trying to work out what happened? (Last night you finally forgave me... it's so much harder to be mad when you have to see the other person's feelings scribbled across a paper face with pain's carving pen) All I know is that sometimes I'm tired of learning- I just wanna know for sure. Tired of the trial and error of everything and I just want to hide. I am not a scientist, even though biology is my best subject. I cannot test and work out and try again. I am a crazy artist who paints out the shades of gray, and weeps because black and white seem so harsh but sometimes you want the pang of honesty. 

And all my life is a metaphor.

When The Butterflies Won't Fly Away

I can't sleep because I've got a million songs and memories floating through my head. I saw your smile on someone else's face tonight while I was out. A quick flash and the things I tried so hard to forget were back as all the caterpillar feelings which had been sleeping in cocoons broke into a new array of butterflies. Five years. Who are you that you could have such power over me. Sometimes I wish I could meet you again, and let you ruin yourself as all the others did. Then maybe the butterflies could go free without someone having to first slash me open.

I pull up her profile on Facebook and sigh. I sigh because she's beautiful (man, I wish I was beautiful...*) and because she's my best friend and because she's leaving. I sigh because I want to know how it feels to be loved. (Instead of lied and led and all the 'L' words that are always Less than love) 

I peer at my phone but know that no new texts are coming. We both know we're not asleep but always hope one of us can finally catch a wink. The days are long and I think the reason we have to stay awake is because we so desperately hope the day isn't all there is. (I'm hearing voices telling me that I should get some sleep because tomorrow might be good for something* but it hardly ever is.)

So there are the ramblings of one who can't sleep because the music and memories won't stop playing. Maybe I'm just crazy. Maybe I'm just tired. But maybe broken records and torn vinyl aren't so different from fleeing dreams and butterfly have-beens.

* "Mr Jones" by Counting Crows

* "Unwell" by Matchbox 20

A Weary Night I Know So Well

So, this poem is rather unconventional because there is no set rhyme or meter, but bear with me. I am not a very socially acceptable person and this just a fact of life.


The nights are long and the lights are low
And you’re just someone I used to know.
Casting shadows on the wall
Because your words make me so small
I need a way to prove
That I can finally stand.
The washer’s going, the floor needs swept
I’m sitting alone and Jesus wept
And I am weeping, too.
Making droplets on my hand.

What happened to knowing it’d never be okay?
What false security lead me to feel this way?
What was I thinking to relax and close my eyes?
Not that it would have mattered, because the demons were disguised.(As you)

When the pieces fell and the children cried
Cause the puzzle’s broken and Grandma’s died.
I only thought of you.
When the resounding silence filled the void
Leaving me alone and paranoid
I remembered a detail of your skin.
(How did this all begin?)
(Hey, do you remember when?)

I couldn’t see the difference
Between the grass and the summer sky
Because love had made me blind.
Now the scales have fallen away
And I can see the colors again.
But without you all the shades are gray
So I guess it’s all the same.

And when did the moments slip away
Into picking at nails and staring past
Your face so I didn’t have
To look you in the eye?
When did my name lose yours
And all the things that made us laugh
Only make me cry?

I kissed the frame of a broken thought
And settled into my nest.
Wove my blanket out of my hair
Alone without my best,
Cause you took that when you left.

So tell the world what a fiend I am.
Spread your lies and make yourself feel bigger
Like my shadow on the wall.
It doesn’t matter to me anymore
I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all,
And can say without a shadow of doubt
I’ve been shocked by what you can live without.
Your life is your own call.

And I’d rather be alone
In my nest of shattered dreams
Than live my life beneath your thumb
Missing all the could-have-beens.

Tell your new girlfriend hello
And your sister that I said hi.
I suppose that soon she’ll hate me, too
For all I allegedly did to you
But I can’t change a lie
Or make someone see the truth.

The nights are long and coated in dew
And you’re just someone I never knew.

UPDATE

*ahem* For all of you readers of my blog, I would like to tell you about something I watched on television a few nights ago. I was sitting on my couch, eating some Little Debbies and watching Extreme Forensics, pretty much being the happiest person alive. (Yes, I eat while watching crime shows. Leave me alone.) Well, the scene that unfolded before my eyes was one of the sickest things I've ever seen in my life. I mean, we're talking, there were copious amounts of blood splashed through nearly every room of the entire house in question, some brain matter at the base of the stairs, blood drying on the floor, dripping off the kitchen sink-- yeah, it was nasty.



So I'm sitting there munching on my snack cake, shaking my head in wonder and thinking, "Man, this guy got it good. He musta ticked someone off really badly." The curious thing is that none of the blood fell in a pattern that indicated the man was running. The crimson droplets were small round puddles, which means they fell directly down from the wound. Irregular smear-type shapes that would indicate the victim was running from an attacker were not seen. (To see what I mean if you don't believe me, dip your hand in water, let it fall straight off your fingers, then start moving your hand like you were running and note the difference in the droplets)



It was at this point, (along with cash left on the victim's nightstand merely a few feet away from where he was found) that the forensic investigators realized something was amiss. One man noted that there was no blood spray on the walls or ceiling, as there would have been if the victim had been bludgeoned. (Bludgeoning was about the only manner of death that would match up with the severe trauma to the skull which was found on the body.) Suddenly, he realized the lacerations along the skull matched up with the patterns in the iron handrail located at the base of the stairway.

Cause of death?

HE FELL DOWN THE STAIRS!!!

Hmm, this rather sounds like something I was trying to explain way back in my second post. The moral of this rambling? I was right- THE STAIRS ARE OUT TO KILL US ALL!!!!

ABCs

The ABCs of a struggle too many girls have...


A is for anorexia- the choice by which we die.
B is for beauty- the dream which makes us cry.
C is for calories- that to which we cannot yield.
D is for depression- the other emptiness that we feel.
E is for energy- it is what slowly drains.
F is for food of course- the cause of all our pains.
G is for gum- what instead of food we chew.
H is for hunger- which we keep secret, or think we do.
I is for inside- where we are really screaming
J is for jilted- so we run to our own dreaming.
K is for kissing- as we kiss our joy good-bye.
L is for lying- "Yes Momma, I'm fine."
M is for missing- all the fun we've missed.
N is for nothing- which is all the things we did.
O is for the ocean- where we are afraid to go,
P is for panicked- that our bathing suits must show.
Q is for quiet- because if we talk we might admit it.
R is for reality- we're dying and thought we hid it.
S is for shocked- because we've lost control.
T is for terrified- that the hunger might brush our soul.
U is for unsure- we can't eat though we're trying.
V is for vivid- the pain of midnight crying.
W is for water- because it hurts too much to eat
X is for x-ray - we look like bones from head to feet.
Y is for youth- which we lost and no one won
Z is for zenith- when we wonder what we've done.

Ponderings

I look at you & I wonder if you have any clue how lucky you are. 

(I don't think that you do)

I peer at the moon & wonder what it's like to watch a thousand people screaming their tears out every night.

(I think I'd fall right out of the sky)

I stare at the stars & wonder how they can look down on all the lovers without feeling alone.

(Or maybe sometimes they do)

I watch the people walking & I wonder where they're going.

(What's it like to have that purpose?)

I see the rain splashing down & wonder how it feels to shatter into fragments on the ground.

(Yet I think I kind of know)

I look at the mirror & wonder if I'm looking back, wondering if I know how lucky I really am.

(I hope that I do)

Something I Stole from My Best Friend

This is a list of assorted facts about me and the world in general I feel are essential to life:

1. Spiders are icky. My argument for this stands thus: How many creatures have eight legs and eight eyes? Exactly. Four humans do. So being watched by a spider is like being stared at by four people at once- it's unnerving.

2. I am proud to say that I have the best friends known to mankind. They always deal with me and my bad habit of leaping before I look, and love me just the same. It's awesome.

3. I would someday like to own a home or apartment that has a huge art studio, complete with walls for throwing paint at, easels, a pottery wheel, charcoals, paper, etc. 

4. When I get my income tax return, I am marching down to the nearest pregnancy center or anti-abortion clinic and donating every cent. This is my little way of standing up to the government for what they are doing with our money.

5. I think people would all be a lot happier if we ate ice cream together and sang a few songs. This is just my theory, but I believe ice cream brings people together.

6. I want to be like Madea when I grow up.

And I cannot think of anything else at the moment, because my stomach is screaming and my food is calling, but I leave you with this and hope you remember to put the snow to good use by making snow cream!! (For all intents and purposes, to make snow cream you add some milk, a little vanilla and sugar to a bowl of nice sparkly white snow. Mix it up and fall in love with it)

Flea-Falling

 If any of you were ever so foolish as to ask what annoys me more than anything, which I doubt you would considering the extraordinarily garrulous posts I have already graced you with, I wonder myself what the response would be. Even if I have to admit, I don't know what annoys me on a day-to-day basis. However, I have a pretty good guess, and that guess is a toss-up between Valentine's Day and fleas.

I have been trying to write a blog post on V-day for a good, solid week now. Yet I can't write a single paragraph without sounding like some embittered old spinster talking to a skeletal cat in the corner. You know what I'm talking about. The kind of woman whose limbs appear as though they'll crackle like icicles and fall off any minute. Seeing as I do not carry an abyss of an alligator purse that smells like it was walking yesterday, I do not wish to give this impression. (However, if you are all very lucky, I might let one of my ulterior personalities take over and update sometime.) Anyway, the point I am finally getting around to is, I can't write about v-day so I'm gonna gripe about fleas.

At some point during this grueling summer now past, my dogs decided they wanted to show me their affection by bringing unholy numbers of fleas into the house. Believe you me, when I realized what those mutts had done, I was very strongly tempted to put them in a box and send them to the Asians down the street as a Betty Crocker Complete Meal.

Thankfully, I love my dogs and was willing to forgive them this sin. Numerous itches and a hundred dollars of medicines later, we had even managed to mostly eradicate the little hopping vampires. However, there are two lessons you should tuck away in the event this ever happens to you. One is that my mother is neither ashamed nor afraid to take a vacuum cleaner attachment to a living creature's fur in order to de-flea it. (At least the husky didn't shed so much this year) The other is one I discovered by myself. Even when you crush a flea in half between your fingernails, the decapitated little bugger from Hades will STILL leap away into the unknown in its never-ending quest to drive you insane. 

I guess the moral of this story is we should all feel a lot sorrier for the people who sit on camels all day.

A Dedication

I look at you through the mirror of my mind, and I realize it needs cleaning. The details are blurring and you're starting to look like everyone else I ever knew. Is this the norm? I can only assume it happens to everyone. Maybe you were the other part of my heart, but when you left my heart changed and it's just an unmatched sock, waiting around for something. Better? Who knows. All I know is it's waiting for something different.

~*~

I live for your phone calls and the weekends when we get to pretend you're not going away. I love the quiet dignity you match with my boundlessly passionate existence. And I guess it's a darn good thing one of us has an ounce of sense, or we'd probably be sitting on some beach somewhere, too poor to buy Cherry Cokes but refusing to come home. (Wait- why is this bad again!? ... See, look what would happen to me without you.) I am truly thrilled to say that you're my bestie, and I wish you'd hurry up and finish your homework because I want to hear about your new kitten. :)

~*~

You've been my soul-sis for so long, and now you're someone's soul-mate. I can't tell you how happy we all are to see the ring finally sparkling on your hand. (I believe he heard me screaming ecstatically when you called to tell me, no?) You've been the best example of a true prayer warrior and friend I've ever seen, and as I kid I aimed to be like you. (Do you even know how happy I was that first time you told me we were just alike?) I can't wait to see you in your dress, or for that (hopefully not too-far-off) day when you call me to tell me I'm gonna be an aunt for the eighth time in my life. Thank you for being so wonderful- I hope all the blessings come right back to you.

Labels. Not for people, or anything else apparently.

Okay, so I had told you that I was going to conclude my multi-part series of things that are out to get me. This, evidentally, was a lie. Please forgive the dishonesty, but it has come to my attention there are still many, many more things in this world that tick me off. (Saran wrap still rates right up there as number one. I mean, seriously, I don't see how anyone has ever gotten it off the roll far enough to smother someone with it. [I guess Saran wrap should come with a child safety warning]) Which brings me to my next point:

Stupid labels.

I mean, for real. How come on the bottom of the Orange Juice carton, does it say "do not turn upside down"? I mean, every single time I read that, I'm just like, "What kind of sick, twisted person thought to do this?" And on the front of frozen dinners, it reads: "Serving suggestion: Heat before consuming" or something similar. No. I *like* frozen enchiladas that break your teeth when you bite them. I will *not* listen to your little "suggestion".

Also: Sears hairdryer: "Do not use near water." Hmm, my hair is wet. I can't use near water. I think I shall dry my already dried hair with it. *blink* On a superman costume for children: "Does not enable you to fly." And last but not least, on a 96 pack of Crayola crayons, I opened the top of the box, to read an audaciously persistent font informing me from the flaps hidden beneath the aforementioned top, "do not open this side." Seriously. Who even cares what side I open my box of crayons on? Will I somehow have less than satisfactory performance from my crayons if I open it on the side I choose to open it? Will the colors fade? Will black be white and green be orange? WHY BOTHER BEING SO STUPID WHEN THERE IS NO NEED TO BE?

...

you'll have to forgive me. I've gotten succesively less sleep each night that passes and I think it's catching up to me. Thank goodness my pillow doesn't say "do not use on mattress" or something. I'd never sleep again.

P.S. what is with the "not to be removed under penalty of law except by consumer" tags on mattresses? Since when am I consuming my mattress?

Never Again

Biggest regret in life? How can someone even ask me that? If I were to sit down and start listing regrets, the interesting pattern is they all start with "you". (Which I find ironic because you loved your lists so much)

What were you anyway?

You were a part of me that I never knew existed. Inside your eyes and beneath your skin there lay a thousand layers of me that never surfaced until we met. Flaws, perfections, loves, hates, pains, burdens and all the things that make us real: I loved them all. You weren't an angel who was always right, but you were me and I was you and we were us.  It's not supposed to make sense, and if doesn't, I don't care. All I knew was I was grateful because you picked me up so I could fly.

Where would we  be now, had Shakespeare not penned our tale? If the tragic shadow that overcast our lives had been fanned away like the smell of an unpleasant smoke?

The truth is, I don't know. I can't even imagine it anymore. And of all the things I've learned in life, the absolute craziest was that it can go on without you. I didn't like it. I didn't want it. But life still went on, as it often seems to do.

When you left, of course you took the part of me you gave. You took the me-ness that was you, and left the remaining bits of me bleeding on the floor. I wept and shuddered and tried to hide, but Grace has a funny way of findings us.

Gentle hands were led to me to help me patch the wounds. The sweetest girl I've ever known became better than the best friend I had already considered her. If you ever taught me anything, it was to truly be grateful for the light on her face and love in her heart. I thought that I appreciated her, but now I know that I can trust her, and that's more than I can say for you.

I couldn't fix the wound you left because I can't see my own back. But I can't see the scar either. You might have taken part of me when you left, but the blood clotted, the scar tissue softened and I went on. Differently, but still went on. What's left now is  a changed me... a thankful, older me.

The regrets were all a part of you, but you're not a part of me anymore. 

In Love and War

Sometimes I wonder if the reason we’re alive
And crawling, though we should be dead
Is because deep inside we never quit fighting
And we never gave in to what’s left

Though the battle was waging and the lines were dividing
You were pulled left and I was pulled right
My skin kept tearing, the scars bursting forth
In spatter of blood color-coating the night

But we wouldn’t let go even when we lay broken
Our hands smashed but still in a clasp
The broken fingers gripping each other
Like the last silhoutte clings to the fading moon’s grasp

And they took you away to your deathbed
Where they waited but they waited in vain
I cried out in anguish when they buried me alive
For I was not dead; only in pain

They made you a prisoner of war
And corrupted you with brainwashing lies
Told you that we were not fighting together
But instead we were on different sides

They threw off your focus and made you believe
That the love I was fighting for was only a lie
The bullets kept piercing, my soul kept on screaming
And the antagonist said, “why won’t she die?”

Because I am a lover but also a fighter
To be a lover is always to fight
And I may not like the post-traumatic symptoms I carry
But I know in the end it is right

I could have evaded the war that I suffered
But for me it was never a choice
Because the day that no one will stand up to fight
Is the day that belief loses its voice

And I? I believe in love, believe in us
And all the things that people claim I shouldn’t say
Because they’re too deep and so vastly meaningful
The world will think them cliche

But I will declare it to the end of the world
And will never give up the fight
And I know that the reason we’re still alive
Is because someone has to stand for what’s right

At The End of All Things

Today I will conclude my.... seven?... part series of things that are out to get me. Just think of it as the Harry Potter Series, only a heck of a lot shorter and without Fred and George. (I could go on to complain about certain unfortunate circumstances that occur in the final novel of said series, but I won't) The final item on my ever-growing lists of forces, institutions and objects out to get me is simply called a cell phone.

At the young, impressionable age of 14, I was given my first cell phone. It was small, black and had rather catchy ring tones. I loved that phone. And boy if I wasn't so darn proud of it. It was mere months later when the first in a trilogy of unfortunate events occurred...

One day I was working on a rather annoying math problem at the kitchen table, somewhat preoccupied with wondering where my phone was. X's and polynomials seemed completely insignificant compared to the mystery of the missing phone. On top of that all, I had a pounding headache which was not helped at all by the thumping of the washing machine, which was busy cleaning our clothes in a room right off of the kitchen. I scribbled down an answer (I imagine it was wrong) and carried on with my current frustration.

Approximately ten minutes after I had rubbed my sore temples for the third time, I heard my mom shuffle into the laundry room. She opened the lid, made a terribly inconvenienced sigh and shouted so loudly it's a wonder the neighbors didn't hear: "OH CRAP." It was in this moment that I laid my head down on the table, the cogs meshing in my mind. I knew what the answer would be as soon as I opened my lips, but had to moan out the question anyway... "What?" "YOUR PHONE WENT THROUGH THE WASHING MACHINE." 

Long story short, after much lecturing ("Why didn't you TELL ME it was missing?!" she exclaimed. "You'd be mad at me!" I replied ironically.) I was taken to Wal-Mart where she purchased a new, ugly, cheap phone for my personal use. After a while, we were eligible for a free upgrade so I got a phone that was the same model as my first.

I suppose from here I could draw out the tale of how a few years later I killed 2 phones in 2 days... the second of which flew out of my pocket on a rollercoaster, when I had been under the false impression I had left it off of the ride. My mom, (now having recovered from the shock of realizing she produced a daughter who kills expensive electronics) jokes that my phones committed suicide, especially the last one. Said the roller coaster was too much for it to handle. Yeah Mom, ha ha. 

I'm not really sure how to conclude this series, other than perhaps by saying I suppose I'm just another victim of Murphy and his laws. Thank you for following this cynical (yet hopefully amusing) blog. *bows*

Another Day, Another Dollar

The cruel institution I am talking about today is not really one that afflicts solely myself, but rather haunts mankind as a whole. In this 100% Geneva-approved, yet still agonizing chamber, the fires of waste are always burning with a green-hued sort of legality. Dollars incinerate into ash and smoke. Another paycheck is used to refill the Kleenex box. And all our hard-earned dimes fill the rattles of young hooligans destined to become lawyers and politicians.

It may sound like I am describing the average American's private idea of the underworld, but for our uses here it has been conveniently abbreviated the IRS... in other words, the "Infernal" Revenue Service.

I can't even pretend I know the full extent of the horrors our money is consumed by. I'm sure I could look it up somewhere, but that would probably cause me severe fits of indigestion and disrupt my overall psychophysiological homeostasis. (I'll be darned if I don't get taxed for those last two words there) I have heard it goes to our roads, pays government employees and funds our school systems. But that is all heresay.

At 14 I began life as another workaholic American, who enjoyed feeling useful and not running to her parents for all her financial needs. However, I was quickly running to my father all the same, demanding to know WHY this 67 cents was deducted from my first paycheck and WHERE was it going and can they TAKE YOUR MONEY before you're 18?! It's called Federal Taxes, to the government, and yes, they'll tax anyone, he told me. (Of course I thought this was all complete rubbish)
However, at the beginning of the next year, I was sent my first refund check. I must have sat around for days trying to decide how to best spite the government with it.

Finally, I couldn't come up with any business that wouldn't be paying taxes from my money right back to the government, and I think I spent it on make-up...
In the end, the moral of this story is: it's not always bad having a minimum wage job. At least you're donating less tissues for the IRS agents to wipe their noses on.

I May Not Be Jim Carrey, But A Number Plagues Me Nonetheless

Our fiend of the day is not in fact so much a physical force or an animate being. It is more of an idea, an abstract thought put into concrete form.
It is the number 27.
The aforementioned number and I have been on ill terms since it first came into my life in... eegads!... could it really be... third grade?! And ever since it's first entrance in my life, it has symbolized irritation.
When I was learning my multiplication tables as a young and innocent child, the nines stubbornly refused to be placed in my memory... particularly one equation: 3 x 9. For days my dad plagued me (helped me, he called it) by incessantly POUNDING these numbers into my head. "Three times nine?" "TWENTY-SEVEN!" I would scream, wanting to make it go away.
It was a warm fall day, (yes, this is SC, do not tell me that a warm fall day is an oxymoron) and it was the worst day of my life. Nothing went right on that accursed, ill-omened day. I nearly failed my science test, my mother chewed me out for something that I feel sure is surely insignificant, and my then-best friend called me crying from somewhere... yeah. When I looked at the calendar, the date was the 27th.
Further proof that 27 and all things related are doomed?
A girl I once was friends with (who turned out to be a maniac) had a date of birth that, when the digits were multiplied, became 27.
When I was 14, my first ever job ended up bearing a Federal tax deduction of 27 dollars.
I could go on but I think anything related to taxes is evidence enough that the subject discussed is evil. Which leads us to my next enemy...

The Charlatan of the Kitchen

Today's topic features a particularly persistent nuisance that
is, surprisingly enough, a common household article. However, do not let its cheery yellow packaging disarm you. It is a cruel device that has actually been used in many infamous murders. There are three rolls of it sitting atop my parent's refrigerator right now. Can you guess what it is?
That's right. Saran wrap.
I absolutely, incomprehensibly, utterly and in the most
undeterred passion of my existence, HATE Saran wrap. It is a vile fiend that does not even come close to preserving food. Ha! It merely exists to stick to itself, bind my hands and produce a lovely breeding ground for bacteria because it won't stick to the bowl I am trying to cover.
Saran wrap travels under many names and guises. [Add generic
store name here] plastic wrap. Cling wrap. Despite these names, it
never changes. Packaged in an falsely optimistic color, such as yellow, it looks promising enough. Alas for appearances. Beneath a flap of cardboard lurks a strip of serrated metal which snags everything in existence BUT Saran wrap.
The moral of this post? Saran wrap is a lying charlatan that should be shunned from shelves and homes. Buy aluminum.

Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Does Whatever a Spider Can (Like Scaring the Daylights Out of My Sister and Me)

In my previous posts I have mentioned two of my arch enemies: Gravity and the Stairs. Today I will be moving on to a group of creatures so vile, I hesitate even to call them "creatures". No. No living thing could be so evil as this all-encompassing entity that is known as: the Spider.

Spiders and I have been on ill-terms since I was a young child. When one would creep across my floor, the situation usually resulted with me screaming at the top of my lungs, and some weary family member dragging themselves in to kill it. I am not quite sure why I am so repulsed by spiders. Actually, I am pretty compassionate to most living things. If a spider is outside and away from my house I feel no pressing urge to kill it. However, once it crosses the steps to my house, it is on my turf. And it is my prey.

One instance in which a spider inched into my life was when my equally arachnaphobic sister Rose (is arachnaphobic a word? Spell check says no... well it should be)and I had the house to ourselves for a week. While our parents were chilling out in the Bahamas, they left us to the task of our lives.

Rose was about to get in the shower when she spotted one of the fiends sitting on the edge of the tile towards the ceiling. She shrieked, and I intrinsically knew. (How come they always like to hide in the shower and scare you?) I dashed to the door, knocked and asked rather rhetorically, "Are you okay?" "SPIDER!!" she cried and I ran to find a fly swatter.

When I returned, she had opened the bathroom door and was standing in a yellow fuzzy towel, staring at the spider in abject horror. "It's too high!" She protested, waving the pink swatter around manically. I stammered a moment before yelling, "Here!" and then shoved a can of Lysol (conveniently located under the sink) into her waiting hand. "Are you sure I should use this?" "Why not?!" I demanded. "Maybe it'll just grow it eight times its size!" "It'll work- JUST SPRAY IT!!"

The aerosol leaving the can hissed loudly, and was followed by a pungent mist which filled the air. As the death cloud descdended upon the spider, its legs branched out like an exploding koosh ball. Scuttling down the shower, instead of dying as it ought, my sister and I let loose a unison screech of horror... only to begin coughing and nearly retching on the Lysol mist still hanging in the air. Rose didn't even have time to rub in the fact that I was incorrect about Lysol killing spiders.

"DROWN IT!" I hacked, "DROWN IT!" One hand over mouth, Rose leaned forward and turned the faucet on, full blast, with the free hand. Within moments, the spider had slipped down the drain to his fate. We looked at each and laughed nervously before spending the next three days wearing a perpetually suspicious glance towards the shower.

To this day we still wonder if a mutant spider dwells somewhere in our septic system.

Stairway to Heaven (These Steps Are Trying to Kill Me!)

It is a well-known fact of life that Gravity and the Stairs have long been conspiring together against the innocent and clumsy. However, it has only been in more recent years that they picked their latest target: me. (This is probably due largely to the fact that I grew up in a one-story home)

Long had I lived a relatively normal life, when around the age of 12 gravity began to notice me. Unfortunately, "notice me" is used in this case as a euphemism for "began trying to slowly kill me". With much thanks to Gravity, I am forced to admit that I am completely incapable of safely walking down- or UP- stairs.

While it is true that three of my falls can be attributed to a rather slick-soled pair of shoes that I owned at the time, the rest were all due to Gravity- Gravity and his cruelest of accomplices. On one particular incident, (when the aforementioned shoes were safely in the closet) I was innocently walking down my best friend's stairs. Alas, far more diabolical plans had been set in motion for my descent. 

A mere three steps from my destination, I happened to look up back over my shoulder. Apparently, gravity had caused some unknown object to fall and surprise me with a "bang!". While this cruel little trick diverted my attention, the Stairs seem to shrink six inches. I moved my foot to step down, only to find the stair was not where it had been before. I tumbled down the last steps, hurting my pride and spraining my ankle. Now three steps may not seem like too many, that is until you fall down them. 

So many other similar incidents have occurred I find it pointless to even mention them. By this point, you may believe I have pretty efficiently lumped together all of the forces in this world that are out to get me. But you would be very wrong my friend. We are far from done.

Tales from the Tripped (In Other Words, My Life)

The following anecdotes I leave for you here are all true stories from my own life, told through a light-hearted slant. Enjoy!

Some would say I'm paranoid. But I say: Is it still paranoia if they really ARE out to get you? Let me introduce you to my first enemy: Gravity.

When I was a toddler and up until I was about 7 years old, I was convinced that flight existed somewhere within my realm of possibilities. The answer seemed simple. If I just flapped my arms hard enough, I would be off my feet and on my way in no time. I jumped from chairs. I jumped from the dining room table. Once, I even tried to crawl up the bookcase and jump from there. However, my mom spotted this before I reached the top, and quickly began what can only be described as a very decent imitation of a baboon first introduced to espresso. After screeching some manner of inane babble at me, she removed me from the vicinity of the bookcase and returned me to the floor.

This was when I first realized something was up (and it wasn't me). My arms wouldn't flap hard enough. I couldn't jump from high enough. My own mother even seemed to mock my dreams of flight. (Her psychological processes absolutely befuddled me. I never broke my neck doing anything.)And then one day I learned the awful truth.

There exists this force in the world called "gravity". Apparently, it hated me. It didn't matter to gravity how hard I flapped, how high I jumped or how badly I longed to fly. I would always get to know the ground better than I would like as I landed on my face one day and split my bottom lip.

Now, if a scar bedecking the lower right side of my mouth is not evidence enough gravity is out to get me, you can read on to my next post. It is the true story of my perpetual struggle with gravity and his accomplice: The Stairs.