baldingrapunzel

I think of disaster scenarios and how to circumvent them more often than one can admit.
I think anyone who drives a Miata convertible with the top down has a death wish.
Every time I escape a situation in which I think I may be injured or die, I cross myself and give a thumbs up to God.
I am neither Catholic or Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The best part of the kiss was the way you squeezed the backs of my thighs. It made me feel like dough, like you were molding me into something beautiful, like your hands wanted to grow lips so they could kiss me too. In the dark you said, You shimmer like all the goddamn quarters in a fountain. I frowned and said, "So, I look like a wish?"  Yes. I pondered this revelation, looked at my own hands that were not crafting anything, and used them to push you off of me. Wait, where are you going? "I'm leaving." Why? "Because I'm not yours, I have to go put myself back in the sky"

This is what I said in the letter I didn't send:

I hate that your green eyes are so bright you'd have to squint to see me. In fact, I hate your entire face, the way your nose leans slightly to the left, and your unattached ear lobes. I hate that you drink too much. So much so that some mornings I awoke to earthquakes and others monsoons. I hate that you never looked at other women when you were with me, but you always turned away when we were alone. You despised my success and I your weakness. Your one perfection was the sense to know that I am beyond you. I pray loudly in the night that each day you will be met with stubbed toes and paper cuts.

This is what I said in the letter I didn't write:

I love you.

I work with sex offenders and I find myself always gazing at their hands. Most do dirty work: plumbing, construction, mechanic, and their hands are grime filled with poorly kept fingernails. And I think to myself how disgusting, you son of a bitch, you touched someone with those filthy hands. How they must have shuddered in the dark with those mangled claws reaching out to get them. Then again, some have such clean, manicured hands, and I think this is worse. These are the kind of hands you could lie to yourself and say I want this. Spend years believing you asked for it, how could this be wrong, when you're left with the memory of how good their dial soap hands smelled.

My mother never tucked me in at night. She never told me that one day my prince would find me, and we'd fall in love, living happily ever after. She said, "Monty, if a man really loves you, he'll cheat on you once, never tell you about it, and he won't do it again." So, when I see your ex-girlfriends and they're pretty women there is doom in my heart. I want to know that I'm the best you can get. I want to know that when you cheat on me that I will be able to look at the woman and say, "Hah, you're not nearly as beautiful as me." But I guess that doesn't matter, because if you really love me, I'll never know. On second thought, maybe we shouldn't fall in love at all.

I give words to people all the time. I wish I was the Alphabet Queen and individuals had to petition me or pay royalties to speak or write. The process would be so arduous that you wouldn't think to waste an "asshole" to that guy who cut you off or "I love you" to get laid. Everything said would be meaningful then or at least I'd be rich.

"Do you love him?" she asks.
"No, but I guess all of this would make more sense if I did. Unrequited love is the best reason to do anything. Getting loved back makes us all lazy."
"hahahaha, there is no one like you. I mean the way you think, how you come up with this stuff."
"Don't say that."
"say what?"
"There's no one like me. I...I hear that too much, and I don't want to be the last of whatever it is I am."
"You're the best person I know. My absolute favorite."
"Thanks. I think you're pretty wonderful too. Are we going to mail magical pants back and forth when we're off on internship?"

There's something about being in a city where you haven't been in love. No markers of the past in the streets, which means you could forget, forget you've ever been hurt, and your cheeks start to carry the weight of a once heavy smile.Walking, in the cold, breathing "smoke" rings in the frigid night air, I think of no one. I do not think that one day I'll likely cry here, scream here, punch the ground with fallen ego here. All the signs say welcome and my only thought is I like it here.

teach me how to:
jump on beds with ceilings so low
find a good book through osmosis
appreciate hotel room artwork
remain stoic on roller coasters
break promises
like soup

If the backspace key could betray...

When you've got no place to go,
it doesn't matter if the road is dark,
and the trees reach out
to suffocate every twinkle in the sky.

But

then you said "Hello"
and a little red dot
appeared on the world
and exclaimed
YOU ARE HERE.

When you've got no place to go,
it doesn't matter if the road is dark,
and the trees reach out
to suffocate every twinkle in the sky.

Because

the car is parked
and the distance
to where you're going
can be found
in outstretched fingertips.

When you've got no place to go,
it doesn't matter if the road is dark,
and the trees reach out
to suffocate every twinkle in the sky.

And

there was no change in direction
when you went away
the same street became
a different name along the way,
and the GPS proclaimed
ADDRESS NOT FOUND.

When you've got no place to go,
it doesn't matter if the road is dark,
and the trees reach out
to suffocate every twinkle in the sky.

in the dark,
through bent window blinds
the orange glow of street lamps
reflect involuntary snow angels made.

knock and creak of aged wood and spoken Honey.
the story of a long day that when observed objectively
is 13 minutes shorter than the one before.

kitchen sink blasts
away the proof of hands filled
with presumed failure.

leftover pasta
flannel sheets
turned backs
and dreams
to fast forward lonely nights.

in the light,
through hooded lids
the orange glow of sun rays
reflect involuntary promises made.

There should be a "you break it, you bought it" policy for misused hearts.

Before I had sex, I used to wonder how people who had sex could act normally around each other. I mean how could you talk about your math homework without thinking, "I saw her breasts," or "I made him cum with my mouth."  I wrote it off as immaturity until I bumped into my ex and he said, "Woah, Monica, you're...uhm, I love your hair, you?, uhm, look so prett... what are you doing in Chicago?" And I blurted out, "I've seen your penis," instead of what I was thinking, which was I almost fell in love with you before you dumped me. Whenever I run on the treadmill (which is rare), I always imagined myself running from zombies. I should have imagined myself running from ex-lovers.

I want to have an out of body experience through my words. It's the only way I can embellish the truth without being accused of lying, but as I dictate every action in Simon Says fashion, the repetition of my name drags me back to reality. So, I call myself by the only name I'd want to be called if my name wasn't what it is---Simone. Simone wears heavy eye liner, and took up smoking skinny cigarettes...on the treadmill because she convinced herself that cardio coupled with cancer increases lung capacity. She wears rainbow socks underneath business suits to offset the oppressive force of conformity.

Simone knows the definition to 43.9% of the words in the dictionary. This is due to the fact that her P.E. teacher gave her the option of participating or reading the dictionary. She knows the exact percentage because of a bout of insomnia and the accompanying boredom that led to this calculation, a small house fire, nail polish used as eyeshadow, and a scar on her right knee from her adventures in an alternate universe.

Simone cries every time she watches Drop Dead Fred. The only man she's ever loved is also from a movie, the Neverending Story, and the actor is the now deceased Jonathan Brandis. He committed suicide and she is convinced that if they'd found each other, he'd be alive, and they'd be living in Vancouver with a yet unnamed mastiff puppy and a cockatiel named Larry.

Her favorite meal is cereal with chocolate milk. She realizes that this choice is not a universal taste bud delight, as such, she only has this delicacy alone on Sunday mornings to avoid looks of disgust.

She has a pierced outie belly button nicknamed Pinocchio. In her adolescence, she believed that said belly button was composed of excess adipose tissue, which led to a brief stint of anorexia.

Her biggest pet peeve is people who lick their fingers before turning the page in a book.

Simone has never fallen down.

There are times when I feel the sun only shine on my face or the world revolving under my feet (much like when you step off of a treadmill), and there are no questions because I'm the only answer. It's narcissism at it's finest, but who cares? I'm smiling and I happen to have a beautiful smile, so it's a bonus for the world.

I love the word agape. With slightly different pronunciation it can mean both love and a state of being wide open. Which like the spelling of the word is the same.

I wanted to bring my life closer to you, but you always ran away, because you think you don't deserve me. And you don't. So, why can't you make yourself better and I wouldn't have to sacrifice so much to be with you. Every truth between us is clandestine, and I tire of the game...between every spoken assault is a muttered affection, between every written detestation are cramped fingers and a million displaced birds seeking shelter. I need to know what's inside of you that's inside of me.

I don't have a vice, which makes late night quandaries less interesting. I never wanted to drown my sorrows, always figured they'd evolve and grow fins. Which would just leave me with a flooded house and piranha in the water. And I'm not even sad really...just alive, it's like when I rode my brother's bike, and the seat was too narrow, went too deep in my crevice, each peddle and bump punctuated, virginity rubbed away and forgotten like a newborn's first screaming breath. This was living. And it always made sense to me to be raw and sore...with a smile on my face.

but I can't. Not that anything particular is keeping me awake. I have an interview tomorrow, and I told myself I should review some questions. One of which is If you could invite three people to dinner, DOA, who would they be and why? Which got me thinking about Frida Kahlo. I've admired her since 9th grade, she was a surrealist painter, back in the early part of the 20th century. She was impaled on a bus pole from vagina to throat and lived...



I always felt like I could relate to her, the things she said resonated with me. For instance:

I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.

Upon having to have her feet amputed she said...
Feet, what do I need them for, if I have wings to fly.

Her last words..
I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return.

She was given a shitty deal, but she was passionate and beautiful and I don't care that she had a unibrow.