Discerning "weirdos".

Sunday night bartending was slow, as usual. The barkeep-slash-cook from next door came in to buy cigs. He walked towards me to say hello and I could smell the reek of whiskey on his breath. He was more chatty than normal. Almost creepy. We exchanged small talk about how slow the night was and how great the weather had been. I could feel him intensely staring at me as I looked down during awkward pauses in conversation.

"I've made a ton a food tonight," he said with raised eyebrows, as if to entice me to order something as I've done countless times before.

"Not tonight," I smiled. "Nothing you have is on my diet, I'm sure."

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I hated being the skinny girl who proclaimed she was on a diet. It wasn't like that. I am eating clean and trying to bulk up. I wasn't begging for someone to say, 'YOU don't need to diet.'

I was hoping he was as drunk as I suspected and didn't start complimenting me, as if I were fishing. He did.

We exchanged more small talk about working out and gaining muscle. He claimed to be an exercise science major once-upon-a-time, and even though he was frail except for a small beer gut, he seemed knowledgeable.

I smiled during his workout suggestions and nodded when he told me the "secrets" of accomplishing my muscle-gaining goals.

As he started to leave he asked for a hug. I hated these awkward moments. When my nice girl image conflicted with my inner bitch. I reluctantly gave him one.

He pulled away and with sober-seriousness asked me, "Do you ever let go ?"

His use of the words "let go" perplexed me. My mind instantly created a montage: My favorite song, "let go" and it's cursive lyrics on my wall. Skydiving on 10/10/10 with the intent to "let go," The tireless tattoo ideas to prove I "let go", The minutes I spend tossing and turning before sleep, knowing I never have and maybe never will... His comment was too discerning and it instantly got under my skin.

I smiled and pretended to not be affected. "I don't know what you mean," I said sweetly.

"Sure you do," he said. He eyes were drunkenly lit. "You can't control everything. You need to let go every once in a while. Do you ever  LET GO?"

I was baffled by his word choice. And almost automatically said, "NO, I never do."

"It's going to catch up to you," he said. "You know that right?"

"I know," I smiled.

He went on to encourage me to take a day off every once in a while. A movie night. A lazy dinner. Somewhere along the way, he plugged his cooking and his 3 dogs and how much company that would be for me.

I was unsure how much of his spill was a coincidental attempt to ask me out, and how much of it was a sign.

I had been feeling more and more exhausted lately. Some nights I get so tired it's like I cannot sleep. The room just spins and my legs just ache and I'm convinced it's either my body winding down or me, dying. Some nights I'd swear if I wasn't too tired, I'd cry.

He left and I stood there contemplating the encounter. My faith seems non-existent these days. But it was hard for me to chalk this up as a 'coincidence.' A discerning 'weirdo' with all the right words.

I haven't fully decided how to internalize the encounter yet, other than continue my quest to "let go". So far, I'm still unsuccessful and it's either transparent to strangers or becoming dangerous enough that the universe is sending me a message.

At the end of the night, I just smile. Whether or not the discerning weirdo was a coincidence is ultimately, irrelevant. The meaning is in how it affected me...

The brief moment of clarity I gained was refreshing and unexpected. The fact that we can ponder whether these things are signs or mere coincidence makes the the world amazing, nonetheless.

What's the universal signal for "blow on your face" ?

I said I would write more... but already I've been slacking. A short recap of the hilarities I endured this week...

Sunday/Monday: I finally cried this week over the madness that my family has insisted on ringing 2011 in with. More specifically, Divorce, or - as I like to call it - the see-saw game of  "fuck you, no fuck YOU" that ensues before the actual divorce.

In the midst of pretending to know how to play mediator, I found myself strangely grateful for the following:

1. ... for discovering that I'm not broke, and I can cry/feel emotion again. (Still very much convinced that I'm "heartless" though).

2. ... for my deadbeat father, who was transparent enough, early on, that my mother divorced him before I was old enough to witness, well remember, the teeter-tottering of their hell-acious feud.

3. ... for having the gumption to recognize that marriage = bad news. I'd prefer chopping my ring finger off, instead. A good marriage is a Unicorn in the modern world... just a myth my friends.

My boss let me take a couple of shots when I finally got to work. And I gotta tell you, an empty stomach + tore up nerves + jager bombs ... is the way to drink. I can humbly say I was quite the entertainment for the 2-3 regulars that actually came in.

Tuesday: Kicked off my new weightlifting plan. Pretended I didn't see the guy working out in Timberlands and sweat pants trying to "holla" at me. I figured justifying being a snob based on his workout attire was... snobby... so instead I focused on the fact that I was curling more weight than he was. 

I also realized that I don't wear enough make-up or have short enough shorts on (i prefer pants) to workout out between 5-6:30 pm. Apparently, every attractive-but-sorta-skanky-looking girl in Wilmington got this memo. In their defense, there was good-looking tat-sleeved eye candy. Skank on, Skankbags.

Wednesday: My boss was still off duck hunting which means I had the office to myself again. I exercised the very complex skill of sitting behind a desk, in an office environment while accomplishing absolutely nothing, all day.  It's actually a lot harder than it looks.

Later, Allie let me practice some shots on her. It benefited us both -- I got to practice and she got drunk. My boss' were both in a good mood so more drinking-on-the-job ensued. I also realized that I need to look up the universal signal for discreetly telling someone they have blow on their face. I only know the Booger signal. Will that work? I suppose it's worth a shot. Here's to coke heads... and whatever  [ humiliation ] or [ after party ] must ensue whenever they see the extra powder stuck in their face-hair stubble hours later. 

 Thursday: Still solo in the office. Still unproductive. But go figure... the one day I decide NOT to wear a bra... everyone wants to stop by the office to  conduct business. Makes me wonder if my little boobies are more pretentious than I thought... somehow putting out some sort of memo that they're 'on display and nipples may be visible'... although I highly doubt an A-cup could ever be considered a "display" let alone be smart enough to send out a memo. C/D cup, maybe. (Bet that put you little bitches back in your place.)  ha.... I crack myself up.  

Happy Thursday. Despite the madness and the monotone.... I love my life!! <3

Red-Headed Fire Starters

My dream is to write a book. Not the kind that ends up at the dollar-store... (you know, the ones that look substantial and have catchy covers and you buy them because you're like, "THIS is only a dollar?" Then you end up reading two pages before you throw it into the pile of Clutter that has sweet cards from your mom you'd feel guilty for throwing away, old bills you think you should keep, and about 10 old Cosmo magazines with kinky sex articles that you haven't thrown out because you've been wanting to read/re-read them.) No... I want to write a best seller. 

The problem is: I can't lasso the never-ending sentences I always create, into some form of interesting and readable prose. What topic? What genre? What message? What meaning? I'd sit around for months trying to come up with a catchy title before ever forming an opening sentence. And let's be honest... the back story and first chapters of a book are boring anyway. It's the meat of the novel and action that's the most fun. So... I'm going to skip to that part.

The following "excerpt" is from an... adventure novel (let's say, young adult - fiction) Maybe even Mystery. No, it's gotta be an "adult" novel, because I plan on saying "fuck" occasionally... About two girls who are bored with their lives so they.... create their own trouble but end up discovering an important life lesson along the way. (I'm making this up as I go...) Weee...

Red-Headed Fire Starters

(random chapter)

We sit down on a couch that I swear is made of cashmere. I get caught up in groping it when Allie nudges me and gives me the squinty what-are-you-doing-pull-it-together eyes. Vick comes back into the room with a tray full of drinks. I notice the ripple of muscles bulging up his tat-sleeve arms. I wonder if he's flexing or if our cosmos are that heavy. Either way, professional drumming is doing his body damn good.

The two blondes that came in with us were admiring his trophy rack in the corner and come over to see what he fixed us to drink. I notice an album cover and a gold (or bronze, or platinum... or something) disc hanging on the wall. Big boobs' over-teased, over-dyed blond hair had been blocking it before.

He must have noticed me admiring his plaque because in an in-conspicuous tone says, "Got that baby when I was drumming for the California Hell Boyz. That was for our first single, "Renegade," which hit #1 on the rock charts after only 3 weeks."

I shot him a big fake smile and made sure my eyes lit up with fascination. I could tell he had said that countless times before. So far, I was not impressed. His name was Vick Metz and even though he was beautiful and reeked of badboy deliciousness, he seemed to have the intelligence and attention span of a 13 year old. Now he was the drummer for a group called "LIK"... a California band that recently blew up when the lead singer got arrested for fist fighting with an A list actor.

We stand up to greet our drinks and slide off the couch (it was fucking cashmere I swear) I giggled at how smooth the material felt on my bare ass. 'Who wears a thong with a short ass skirt, I thought,' oh right--skanky fake me--I answered myself. I could hardly keep from laughing as I thought about asking Allie if she had pooted on his expensive cushions. She was always pootin in public and laughing about it. I called her "Smelly," my strawberry blonde best friend who pooted on purpose like a 8 year old little boy, but looked like a model.

"Ladies, what shall we toast to? My boys will be here soon and before long you'll be having the best night of your life and tomorrow you may not remember it..." he paused and smiled and we all chuckled. Allie knew how I felt about that statement. And about being here. She looked at me and winked.

"Lets toast to..." he paused as if to seem like he was coming up with something original. "Let's toast to rock-star living and porn star fucking." Again, giggles.

Don't throw up. Don't throw up. I kept coaching myself. I wasn't drunk. I was just disgusted. I was against everything this douchebag stood for. Why the hell were we here again? Oh yeah--Allie's ultimate plan for revenge. 

We didn't dare drink whatever concoction he made. That's what got her sister in to this mess. And why we were here. The glasses were as big as my head and as I went to take a fake sip, my big ass fake eyelashes hit the rim. I shot Allie a glare and pointed to my eyes. She whispered to Vick then grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the hallway. She didn't utter a word until the bathroom door was closed.

"What is your deal?" she said sharply in an angry whisper. "You said you wouldn't be this way." She turned from me to the mirror and adjusted her low-cut black lace top so that more cleavage poured out. Allie had great boobs and she knew it. I remember the day we bought that shirt. We laughed in the dressing room that if she exhaled hard enough her boobs were going to explode that tight shirt into lacy smithereens. It was always her go-to.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying." I said sincerely. I looked at myself in the mirror. Everything about me was fake tonight. I was wearing a low cut green shirt and a bra with 5 inches of padding. I wanted to wear a backless shirt with no bra, but Allie raved that this green looked amazing with my auburn hair and she insisted that I show off my boobs. I had no boobs. The fake cleavage in the mirror was a combination of my padded bra and strategically placed bronzer. Thank God Vick's pool was still under construction.

"We just have to mingle a little longer. He'll be here soon." Her eyes got wide as she said it. She had the biggest blue eyeballs I had ever seen. And her makeup looked exceptionally pretty tonight. Even though I was annoyed I was fighting with fake eyelashes and fake titties and having to converse with shallow skank/douche bags... I smiled because I loved our adventures. And her.

"We're almost done. Then we'll go celebrate with a drink of our own." She sounded so confident as she took my drink and dumped it in the sink. She filled my glass with water and then reached into her purse and grabbed the food coloring we bought last night. Once she had my water the same color pink as her drink, she dumped hers out and made another fake cocktail.

"Cheers" she said with an accomplished smile.  I wondered when we switched roles. I was older and normally the confident one. Lately it seemed like she was always running the show.

"These fucking eyelashes are driving me crazy. And they itch." I said as I leaned in to the mirror. One edge had began to peel up. Allie reached into her purse and handed me the glue. I hardly recognized my face. I was wearing a thick layer of foundation that covered up any trace of my freckles. My eyeshadow was thick and smokey and even though it was not my typical style. It did look sexy.

We adjusted our short skirts and gave each other one last look over before we opened the door. As we walked down the hallway, I heard the loud mix of chatter that meant more people had arrived. As we grew closer I could pick out Steven's voice and my heart instantly sank. I had never framed anyone before and I prayed like hell that Allie knew what she was doing and who she was messing with.

Paper hearts

(written 1/3/11)

Any masterpiece of a thousand years

Could easily begin the same.

With crooked drawings of the deepest red

Of a shape before the shame.

A little hand that draws and scribbles

Was made by the shape she learns

A pink cutout for all she knows

Will express all of her love.

When paper worlds could not supply

The amount of hearts she’ll give.

To every person who ever filled

Her white heart to its brim.

But what to do when paper worlds

Were better left unused?

When cutouts were just flimsy things

The recipients all abused.

When a grown up girl regrets her skill

Of a perfectly drawn paper heart.

After watching all it could ever mean

Be ripped and torn apart.

She’ll pretend the shape is a paper weight

That holds stacks of unwritten words

For years and years of trying to draw

With fingers as numb as hers.

Men hold her hand to trace the shape

And find her a yellow frame.

She smiles and looks at it every day

But inside she feels the same.

And although they try to change her mind

She cannot feel the truth

Of a love as pure, as a hand drawn heart

Created all on her own.

Of all the shapes in all the world

And all the stencils one could use

Nothing sadder is the day

When forever a heart outlines a bruise.

What kind of love can fill the lines

Of a shape she has never known?

When no man can fill the void of

The one who taught her how to draw?

I LOVE beating dead horses... this one in-particular.

'Beating a dead horse' is absolutely without-a-doubt my favorite thing to do! I mean SERIOUSLY, if I did not spend 15 of my 17 waking hours every day (2 hours for miscellaneous food/bathroom breaks) tirelessly battering an obviously dead "HORSE"... then WHAT WOULD I DO? Invest that time in something PRODUCTIVE, or positive? Yeah right! Life is WAY too short for that. Eventually, I'll give this thing the proper burial it deserves. For now, I'll just play it safe and keep pummeling this horse while I'm still young and full of my best Potential. BESIDES, If I stop beating this dead horse... then someone else may ACTUALLY see me as a caring & loving human being who deserves to spend her time doing something OTHER than..... BEATING A DEAD HORSE.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Did I mention that by "beating a dead horse" I mean... exhausting myself in a relationship that may have been over years ago?

Sure, I know... let the PITY PARTY CONFETTI fly... I'm not the first to be in this awkward place. But, to everyone else I am the poster-child for being STRONG-WILLED and INDEPENDENT, when in actuality I'm just a weak-nerved 'horsebeater.'

The truth is... this irony exists because I'm also the poster child for innate goodness and I'm too damn stubborn to admit that I was wrong. I have fantasised for too long about what this relationship was suppose to be like... and now I can't separate the reality from the dream I've pieced together along the way. A marriage proposal hasn't happend. The drinking hasn't stopped. The AMBITION hasn't started... and I'm so fucking "sweet" that I blame myself. I'm so STUPID that I think in order to change him, I have to change ME. But, "ME" was fine before. If anything, I'm not even "me" anymore. I'm his version of "me"... and that's WORSE, because now I'm not even sure who THAT is.

GET YOUR INDEPENDENCE BACK SWEEETheart. What am I waiting for? Oh right.. I'm waiting for that fantasy to happen. What's meant to be will be. If he realizes it later, great. If he doesn't, SO WHAT! My independence.... my heartbreak.... IT HAS TO BE... IT HAS TO BE... IT HAS TO BE BETTER.... than beating a dead horse.