Mix up all the fancy ingredients you want. Ship your cheese from Holland and your beef from Kobe. Have a pig ferret out your mushrooms and have a virgin stop on your wine grapes.
You still can’t beat the best meal ever:
Macaroni and Cheese (with bacon and those crumbly bits on top)
Tomato soup (with a bit of basil)
Salad (and a few extra sunflower seeds)
And a PEEP for dessert.
That’s as fancy as I need.
*Courtesy “Quaint” in Sunnyside, New York
I’m used to New York. I’ve been here, I’ve lived here, I know the town and it’s native inhabitants. I am not one of them. I just couldn’t let go of that last small shred of manners and politeness.
For instance: To me a locked bathroom door usually means that someone is inside the bathroom. Probably peeing. More than likely half way in their lower clothing. The locked door probably, in my opinion, means that they do not want you in there while they are peeing/taking off their pants/etc. Wait patiently and you too will have a chance to pee/take of your pants/etc.
Unless you’re in New York in which case a locked door means that you start yelling “Why the f*** is this door locked! Who would lock the f*****g bathroom door? Open this s*** up now.” And when the door locker says “Um, just a minute.” in response (probably because she is peeing AND has her pants around her knees) a good New Yorker will demand that the waitress unlock the door.
See, it’s that kind of stuff that made me move to Maryland.
“Do you think you can do that?” he asks. It’s the most uncomfortable, non-sexy conversation ever. I’m crying. He’s frustrated. The phone is burning a hole in my ear.
I feel upset and put-out. Nothing feels right, nothing is going right, everything is crashing down around me and I’m not sure why. I’m grouchy that he’s trying to come up with solutions while what I really need is a hug. A hug that isn’t coming because it can’t bridge half the Pacific Ocean. So I come back with a non-committal.
“Yeah, I can try.” whatever
“I want a yes.”
Oh. Right.
“Yes.” It comes out all by itself and I’ve agreed to do it all. That feels so much better.
…Sometimes my choice to submit surprises me. But it’s a good surprise.
…but it’s not advisable.
So I’m headed out of my hometown. I was excited to start an adult life on the island I grew up on. I thought that this nurturing place would give me the same kind of support I got as an adolescent finding her way. Being an adult I was sure I’d finally be given a look into the worlds that are closed to children, and an entree into those communities that would help me become a healthy, happy, grown-up sexual being.
But once you’ve done high school in a place, you will forever do high school in a place. Sex is always high school sex, community is always high school cliques, and relationships are eerily similar to lunch-time gossip brawls.
Except now everyone has potbellies and gray hair.
It’s a sad thing to know that that nurturing I remember from my fair island is so tainted. Children I knew grew up to be spiteful and angry. With the added benefit of legal alcohol. I’m back were I started. And it’s not where I want to be. So I’m headed away. From Maui to Korea with a new found appreciation of how good it is to leave home.
So, I have a hard time keeping up the blogging which would seem to say that I’m not a teenager anymore. But I still thought I was hip and down with it all since I have a Facebook account, I check youtube regularly, and I still follow the latest lolcats.
But then I found myself at a dance class with a bunch of seniors and the words “I won’t twitter and you can’t make me” came out of my mouth.
Yes, I denounced the twitter. I won’t do the twitter. I don’t know how that twitter stuff works and I refuse to learn.
I sound like my mother…
I have secrets. Like most people my true self is covered in layers of conformity. In order to fit in, fill in and fall in I have my many personas. It is only in those rare moments that I share the elements that make up myself to myself. When I do share them I become raw. I tear away deep layers of personality epidermis and leave myself exposed to all elements. It is this danger that has made me so reticent to really be myself, much less share myself.
However, I’ve just found out that three of my inner-secrets are shared.
1) Auditory Hallucinations – I hear things. I always have. Conversations when I am alone. Voices in empty hallways. The silent whispers of people and things that never were. I hear them often. They speak to me, repeat my thoughts, create my psychic landscape and give me my ideas. I spend so much time ignoring them that I depend on any other auditory distraction available. T.V., music, radio, my own voice.
2) A list of “don’t die yet” books. I keep a list of books I -must- read before I die. It is less than 200 now, but I’m adding to it daily and when this list has been crossed off completely a new one will take its place. This is the list I refer to in at my most suicidal. It is the list that tells me that yes, I can kill myself, but I might as well wait till I’ve finished this next book.
3) Pill stashing. I know this is not new to anyone, but I am glad I am not the only one that hordes pills of questionable use in case I ever finish the book list. They’re a comfort, not a temptation. They let me know I have control.
I just found out that other people do these specific things too. In fact someone has the exact stash of seroquel I have.
And that means three of the things that make me “me” also make me “you”. Things that are me are us. I am part of the whole, even when I’m only part of me. It’s a weird feeling to belong without trying. But I like being like myself once in awhile.
Well, it happened, it struck again. That demon that lurks under my third rib bone poked out his ugly head and took over. His painful bites and stabs did what they were meant to do. I spent days crying. I sobbed till I ran out of breath. My mouth grew into a permanent frown. And my brain relented to the gaping maw that is my soul devouring my body and surrounding me with hopeless depression.
Suicide is too good for this demon.
Then the cloud lifted a little. My demon started getting tired. He just didn’t have the energy to hold onto his complete domination of my spirit. That gave enough space for the bunny rabbit of mania to hop into his place and fill me with the need to walk for miles, eat lots of popcorn, and clean everything from top to bottom. Slowly, the cobwebs were swept from the bedroom corner and my brain. The windows were thrown open. Light filled me from the fourth rib bone on up and my demon was evicted into the cold wintery abyss.
This is nothing new. It’s all happened before. It’s my cycle. It’s the cycle.
Except, when that demon was munching on my sanity I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember when I didn’t feel this oppressive sadness behind everything I did. Waiting. Lurking. I was incredulous to find out, in between my protests of “It never goes away! It never stops!” that most of the summer was spent manic. I’d never been manic. I’d never laughed. How could I possibly felt anything but the desire to die a painful and quick death. How could anyone find enjoyment in anything but pure oblivion?
I guess you do.
So the demon is gone. He’s been kicked out.
And I hope he stays out.
It’s not all sex, drugs and rock’n roll.
That swinging couple on the fourth floor (the one who has brought you the “screaming five minute orgasm” and the “is he spanking her at three in the morning?”) got together at a few minutes to midnight Wednesday and…
took turns eating cold corn-on-the-cob over the kitchen sink.
Man we are so kinky!
Double scoop waffle cone in 48 degree (F) weather.
Chocolate chocolate on top of pumpkin cheesecake.
The world is falling. My brain is spinning faster than the earth. My life is slipping further out of reach. My lungs have refused to fill with air. Even my stomach rejects the food I fill it with.
And I am out of fight.
So instead:
I spend a whole morning cumming over and over. My head slung over the edge of the mattress, the room upside down, as I scream and scream and scream.
I sleep in till three in the afternoon.
I read trashy novels about men in riding boots.
I wear the same sweat pants I wore yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
I forgo underwear. I shun bras.
I lie on my back for hours staring at the bug with the huge pincers crawl over the light fixture.
I say simple words in french over and over so it sounds like I speak it fluently.
I listen to Ricky Martin.
I brush my hair one hundred times.
And at midnight I take a piping hot shower and crawl under the covers clothes-less to enjoy tart, sweet, bursting strawberries covered in a soft down of mold. The same way everything else is covered in a soft veil of frost and depression.
