Random Play

I woke up this morning with some strange urge to write which would not be a problem if I had something to write about, so with my run-on sentences in overstock, I made a decision, conscious or unconscious (you be my judge) to write about absolutely nothing. Once upon a long time far away ago, I used to be fairly adequately barely mediocre at writing about nothing, babbling or rambling or bambling as I used to call it. Damn, I thought I was so clever, and so funny, and so inspiring (even if it was to nobody but myself and a handful of people that I was lucky enough to have grasped their attention) lucky, I say, because I could have just as easily been spouting off my nonsense to 4 blog walls, whatever that means, and I've never been really fond of an echo, which you wouldn't know by talking to me in real life because, hell, you'd think I love nothing more than to hear the sound of my own voice. I talk and I talk and I talk and I talk and I talk and I don't need a reason. I sing out loud. I laugh out loud. I live out loud. (Yeah, right, all except the living part, which doesn't mean that I'm dying, but I guess we all are, right?) Well....that's deep, but you didn't really expect to read this without me being just a little bit or a lot of, well, me? I haven't written or even attempted to write (not that I haven't thought about it or had dreams of coming up with some sort of brilliance-yahhh right!) for months now. Okay, maybe that's not so true, which makes it be----ummm...false? Sentences, fragments really, mostly, only. Like that. Let me find my little notebook that I used to (religiously) take with me everywhere. Let's see what I scribbled in there just for kicks and giggles. Hold on....

Haaaaaaaah! I'm flipping through...and I find too many fucking Wal-Mart receipts (they give you back your check now and I just shove it in my purse) and a note that starts out like this:

"(insert ex boyfriend name here), Is this wh...."

What the hell?

Let me find my other notebook.

Hold on....

Hmmmm...blank pages, blank pages, an address, a title, this title:

Simplicity (Complex)ity

'twas sure to be a blog all about how I can take the simplest of things and make them completely complicated. Well, duh, you say, I got that much from the title. Did you really? And again, I thought I was being so clever. True enough, I do get bogged down in the details sometimes, I might not notice the color of your eyes, but yeah, I saw the thread hanging from your shirt. I might not remember your name, but I'll remember the sound of your voice, the smell of your cologne and how you almost tripped when you walked away. Moth balls. Head scratching. The sigh and the breath at the end of your sentence. I know that you are lonely before you are even left alone to think about it. I know because I fuck the obvious and disregard it. I know because I see the things I want to see when I don't want to see anything else, when there is nothing left to focus on, but that tiny fucking thread on your shirt, that gets bigger and longer and more knotted every time I see you, when I see you, when I see you, when I see you. When will I see you again?

It would have been a good title though, right?

I find my Tropic Thunder movie ticket and my pass card to Epcot. Good fucking times.

I have those, lots of em...good fucking times, probably more than my fair share. In fact, I have a really great life, really great. There, I said it. My life is awesome, and I'm happy, emo yeah, but happy. I laugh way more than I cry, I sing way more than I shout, I dance way more than I pout, and I sleep way more than I don't sleep (couldn't think of anything cool to put there).

I'm figuring out shit which means I'm figuring out that there wasn't shit to figure out in the first place. Everything you need, you'll find within yourself. Of course it never hurts to have family and friends around when you have those moments where you decide to go full retard and you forget everything that's important, and it really is all about the little things. Right fucking now. Not dwelling on what I did last year or wondering where the hell I'll be at next year, but right this minute. And yeah, I'm good.

Are there people I miss? Every fucking day.

Are there things I'm sad about? Sure.

Do I sound like someone who has eaten up a whole bottle of anti-depressants? (here it comes, here it comes, wait for it, wait for it, wait for it...) FUCK YEAH, I DO! But nope, this is just me, another year older, another year older, another year older, another year.....older. And you thought I was going to say wiser.

Music still excites me.
The sunrise and sunset still move me.
My friends and family still sustain me.
Life still amazes me.

Still.
Still.
Still, yeah, I guess I'm still pretty good at this bambling thing after all.

So....I caught a glance in my direction.
Or....maybe nothing more than a reflection.

But....

I'll see you.
I'll see you.
I'll see you when I see you.
When will I see you again?

a bout and about

my box of 72 colored pencils and book full of empty pages

sour kisses and sour cherries

llamas that eat hands

a bulldog named beefy (tomorrow it will be meaty)

my new quilt

90 degrees

honeysuckles

improv (making this shit up as i stumble along)

baby ruthless aka his newest muse

the color blue

figuring it all out

realizing i was wrong

realizing i was wrong about being wrong

realizing i was right

realizing i forgot what it was that i was right about being wrong about

pink lemonade

butter crunch

silly dreams

hideouts

dirt roads

laughing at (everything)

flow-ride-ah

dirty girls

telepathy

New Again

scream-o

people who hate spoons

t-shirts (I'm bored of cheap and cheerful)

starfish, snowmen, and bridges

U-toob

sunsets (early ones and the ones for muggings)

writing my own songs

singing them to nobody but myself

and then, forgetting the words

going places

getting lost on purpose

writing crap poetry on the slight offchance that someone might not find it so crappy

details

arguing with myself and knowing that one of us will always end up winning
or losing

double knots

double dares

flip flops and messy hair

the smell of a suntan

having no a/c and riding with my hand dangling out the window

wondering why

wondering how

wondering who

wondering where

wondering when

wondering what (the fuck)

wandering

switching gears

changing lanes

crossword puzzles at 4:30

the time (right before and right after and every second in between)

blinking and almost missing it all

catching my breath

twirling my hair

being scared shitless but doing it anway

knowing (or hoping) that i'll be cool to my nephew for at least another 2 years

trying not to take anyone or anything for granted

learning (always)

having the best of times at the worst of times with the best(est) of friends

(new, clean, clear, huge, wide open, dark, vast) space(s) (travel, cadets, man)

lists within lists within lists

distortions

imaginary real life

daydreaming at night and sleepwalking during the day

clearing up misconceptions and clutter

using the same styrofoam cup until it leaks (or at least until i think the mold is going to kill me)

scoring concert tickets

jack (white, daniels)

striking the match

watching it burn

throwing gasoline on the fire

stopping dropping and rolling before it consumes me (just in time)

drifting off to sleep while sitting here

rambling

standing my ground (in quicksand)

choking on my own words

hacking them up to form a mess that (sort of, kind of, almost) resembles a blog

Soap Scum

Something silly that stupidly stuck.

You know how you try really hard to wash shit away. Take, for instance, a very nice long, scalding hot, bubble bath. Oh, it's soothing, oh how it's cleansing, but when you get out of the tub, you're left with a dull nasty ass ring. Hmmm, unpleasant, but you'll get to that on Saturday. So, another night, another bath and so on and so forth. You get "cleaner", but the tub gets nastier, right? Okay, so by Saturday it's so freakin' fucking filthy that you have to clean it or you might as well go head first into the point of no return, a tub so disgusting that no industrial strength cleaner would do the job. Might as well just buy a new tub, but you're not quite to that point, yet, so, on your hands and knees and because you're arms are just a touch too short you climb in the tub to do the scrubbing. You try all sorts of new kick-ass cleaning products. You're a sucker for anything. The layers are so thick you can scrape it off with a knife. You do a reasonable job. The tub is now clean and safe for bathing again.

Until next weekend, when you'll be on your hands and knees doing the same shit with the same fucking sponge inhaling the same stupid chemicals.

It's funny, or maybe it isn't and maybe I'm just crazy or different or maybe I think way to much and draw a relation and a correlation where there is none, but I think that tub is a lot like me. See, the same thing happens, night after night, day after day. I scrub. I wash. I use all the newest prettiest smelling supposed to be the cleanest gettingest soap you can buy, but no matter what, I am always dirty.

Right now, there's a layer on me that I can scrape away, but there's another layer that I'm never able to get to.

It won't stop me from trying though.

How about you?

Are you scared of what you might find underneath?

Feeding The Fear

(Keep your friends close, but, not so close that they can eat out your eyes or gnaw through your skin.)

Once there was a woman
who didn't have any friends
she lived isolated and all alone
with dust bunnies and rocks, her only pets

one day she saw a little mouse
scurry across the floor
she started feeding it cheese and crackers
and pretty soon, one turned into four

the table was set for five
they had tea parties and interesting conversation
she made them all tiny little clothes
i swear, this is so not an exaggeration

But...

four turned into forty more
and before long they ruled the house
crazy to think all this madness started
with just a single solitary mouse

you see, the woman and her nagging fear
of not wanting to be alone
had encouraged them to multiply
and now they were out of control

there were far too many now,
some didn't even have a name
she was embarrassed at what a mess they made
and positively ashamed

One day, she rode into town
and bought herself a cat
a couple gallons of poison
and a few hundred traps

but these rats just sat and watched
they were far too wise
after all they had been domesticated
and completely humanized

they lured the cat away
all it took was a ball of string
they drank shot glasses of the poison
and for some reason, the traps would never spring

she knew she had no choice,
she'd kill them one by one
she ran upstairs to her bedroom
and started looking for her gun

she opened up the closet door
gasped in horror and despair
took one last ragged breath, fell to the floor
Whaddaya know...she was dead right there

now's about the time you ask yourself
what could have gotten to this woman (after all, it took a hundred mice to make her crack)
what buckled her knees in disbelief
what sight could have brought on a massive heart attack

You see, by feeding all those mice
she was in turn feeding her deepest darkest fear
the one where she was destined to be alone forever
So, can you see where this is going, my dear?

Okay, I've made you wait
and tried to hold you in suspense
but, it's time, this rhyme gets put to rest
so, I'll leave you with just this

Don't let your fears control you
you do whatever it takes
don't be like the woman, don't give in
and for goodness sakes
don't feed them cheese and crackers and cookies and cakes
but if you do,
don't be shocked and horrified (or drop dead)
when you find a closet full of snakes

Forced Entry

The Re-Opening

It hurts like hell to open up and use this paper and this pen
because the words seem to slice
and cut
and tear
like a rusty razorblade across my skin

I'm hoping to unleash them,
let them flow,
let them scream,
and let them shout
but no matter how many times I write it down,
it's never,
ever
deep enough
to completely bleed it out

Out With The Seriously Fucked Up, And In With The.....

I remember now.

It wasn't all good. In fact, some of it just plain sucked ass. You never ever treated me the way I should have been treated, the way I deserved to be treated. You made me feel like shit. You walked all over me and took me for granted. You used me and when you were done, you threw me away.

But...

Only because I let you.

And I still wonder about you...

Yeah, I do. I'll admit it. Do you think about me at all?

But, mainly, I guess...

I think about her. Do you call her "Baby"? Does she know that you hate mushrooms, Days of Our Lives, and pretty much anything that she will ever like? Does she know that you will do your best to make her feel like the most insignificant being on the planet all while claiming to be her best friend? Does she know that she will never be able to love you enough? Does she know that she can give all of herself and it will never be enough?

Or is she silly and just hard-headed enough to think that she could be the one that changes you, changes everything?

It's funny.

I almost feel sorry for her.

Know what's funnier?

I should have felt sorry for me.

Know what's even funnier than that?

I really feel sorry for you.

You see, I can do better. I can still find someone to love me the way I should have been loved. You, on the other hand, have only one way to go from here.

And "Baby", it ain't up.

They say....(who the fuck is "they" anyways) there are many stages that you have to go through when getting over someone.

Guess which stage this is...