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Fuck you.

Maybe I just gave up.  maybe my whole life doesn't hurt as much as i think it does.  I'm just a fucking child.  A baby that couldn't handle her own weaknesses.  popping pills and taking the easy way out.  Why didn't anyone ever teach me that failing was okay?  That practice is fun?  that laughing and trying again is possible. 
Why didn't anyone tell me they would love me anyway?  They say they did, but I don't remember.

Stop your incessant whining.

Your  huffing and puffing and bad-mouthing others flaws is just all that self-anger leaking out squeaking its balloon-sized lips making that horrendous noise that people cringe when they hear.  screech.

You are living with two strangers.  He seems to know you sometimes.  but i don't think he likes you.  i think hes lonely and afraid of being alone.  of dying alone.  I need another bottle of wine.

"this is awkward," he texts me. What we thought was a dance performance is actually a 7 year-old dance party with parents.  His son has anxiety problems too.  they are both so afraid.  they love eachother, but they are so afraid.  "He doesn't want to dance; he says he is no good."  Well, don't lie to him and tell him he's good.  tell him its okay not to be good.  tell him you would still love him if he couldn't get the high score on Mario World or memorize a thick stack of Spanish flashcards or rattle off 101 reptile facts.  Tell him you would still love him if he couldn't ride a bike or blow the biggest gum bubble or didn't have a row of perfectly straight white teeth.   Tell him you can't dance.  Show him you can't dance. Show him its a good time, anyway. 

then cut a fucking rug.
Jam a bunch of people together in a tight space like a bus or the subway and something crazy is bound to happen. What's the most memorable thing you've seen on mass transit?
I rarely see anything "crazy".  More like subtle and beautiful.  Mass transit is not for the hurried or the bothered.My life isn't exactly mapped out to make mass transit a regular viable option.  I live in the city and work in the suburbs.  When my car was in the shop for a week, I used mass transit to get to work and back, but it wasn't easy.

I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to eat, shower, and walk about 1/4 a mile to the bus stop...a peaceful but eerie walk through the unusually empty streets in the greyish gloom of an August morning in Minneapolis.  I took the W downtown, walked three blocks north and waited for 15 minutes for the Southwest Station bus to arrive.  The W was packed full of regulars; men carrying thermos mugs and brown bag lunches having casual conversations that can only occur on buses:  "Humid enough for ya?"..."Catch summer training stats for the Vikes?"..."How has Agnes done with the latest round of chemo?".  I felt like an invader.
Waiting for the South West Station bus, every passing bus would halt at the corner in front of a man waiting for the same bus.  The doors would open with a rush of air: "Nicollet Mall"... the man would shake his head and thank the driver....the door would close and the bus would roar away.  The man was so casual about his long steel cane with the red walking tip that it astounded me any of the bus drivers had been observant enough to stop.
The ride from downtown to the Southwest Station in Eden Prairie was a two-hour ride.  The man dressed in the same polo shirt and khakis everyday napped the whole way.  My third day on this route I had to lean over and shake him awake as our bus pulled into the station.  He wiped saliva off his face with his sleeve.
My ride home was an excruciating three hours.  The day the shop finally called to say my car was finished, it seemed especially long.  Until the last downtown stop, a big rough looking man stepped on the bus with a woman and a stroller.  The man had a scorpian tattooed on his neck and the woman had caramel skin and heaps of kohl-black eye makeup.  Sitting pudgy and cherubin in the stroller was a tiny cartoonish version of they man with black curls boinging from the top of his head.  He grinned, gap-toothed at anyone who looked in his direction.  The old women that shifted nervously when his parents stepped on board, now cooed with delight at the new passenger.  His mother played peek-a-boo, coaxing squeals of delight from her son, much to the amusement of the passengers. 
What a precious day for a family ride on the bus.

maybe I should dream without my medication more often.

I have been on Effexor XR 150mg daily for about 5 years.  I could no longer function anymore, thats why I started taking it.  I would have anxiety attacks on a daily basis.  I would be driving in traffic and suddenly think to myself: "what if I had an anyuerism right now?"  Now that is fully possible at any moment, really.  But a "normal brain", I would assume, has a defense mechanism for that.  Some kind of voice to say, "why the hell worry about something like that?  Can't do anything about it."  But my brain would fixate and obssess and eventually drive me into the nearest gas station to lock myself in the restroom until someone (like my oldest sister, bless her heart) could call me on my cell to talk me down.  I couldn't control my racing morbid thoughts. 
I once dated a guy with a 2 year old son who would run around the joint with hard candy in his mouth.  As he had wonderful and memorable moments with his son, I would have terrifying visions of the child choking to death or tripping and jamming a sucker deep into his esophagus.  He mostly just ignored me and/or shushed my gasps and warnings.  One particular year, his best friend came back on Army leave and seemed deeply concerned about my behavior. He put one hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye: "You know, if he does choke, I'm trained in the Heimlich.  I'll just pop that baby right back out.  It will be scary, but life will go on."  It was the first time a man ever acknowleged my fears instead of being appaulled, angry or exasperated by them. 

I can no longer imagine life without the drug...until i get the stomach flu and cannot hold it down.  Guess what?  no choice in the matter any longer.  Today I'm living life in explosions .  The drug has not fully worn off  so I have this satellite dish in a storm experience.  Picture is good, regular program is clear.  Suddenly the pixels break up.  Stop action.  no sound.  Choppy motion.  Imagine all that, but with all of your senses...and as your reality.  Its very cumbersome and horrific sometimes, but its really just the real me slipping through cracks in the Effexor-barrier and becoming exposed.

Anyway, my dream...

Part of my dream was rollerblading with my nephew.  We were extremely good!  We zoomed through the icy Minnesota streets over by the Target store where I grew up.  We played seemingly un-dangerous Knievel winter versions of rail-slides and wheel-grabs; stuff that I may have seen in the X-Games in the late 90s.  His aunt Julie was there, don't ask me why, with her proverbial pink glass of rose wine.  Seeing her, I immediately realized that what I was doing may have lead him to a very untimely death at 15-years-old.  I sat down and starting unlacing my skates.  "What were you thinking?" I asked him, as if he were the adult and I wasn't responsible for his well-being.  He argued with me as most children do.  Nothing about that was dangerous, per se.  "Go back to that semaphore and try it again," I said.  He did: rail-slide, pop-up with wheel-grab, toe-tap, trip, slide on face straight into bowl.  "No!" auntie Julie yelled jarring and spilling a bit of her wine.  "Don't do that!  Don't second-guess him.  If you do, he will surely fail and hurt himself."

In the Target store, everyone with whom I went to high school was employed.  They looked exactly the same as I remembered, except air-brushed and sporting hip haircuts.   It was like The Hills version of my high school; a god-damned nightmare.  Jennifer Hutchins with a cute little black shaggy bob laughed as she pointed out how I had taken to drawing my eye-brows in ebony liquid eye-liner: a nice subtle arch over the eye, then a dramatic swoop and dive down my hairline, finishing with a swirl to end with a flourish.  Jamie Bren, fifty pounds lighter and glowing with peachy sheen, had joined a new worship community.  She snapped her fingers and out of nowhere popped a diarama like in a Comcast commercial showing how her newest husband fought her physics exam on a white horse; weilding a guilded sword: A giant morphing sand creature changing and shifting into equations and symbols....My  vocabulary fails me.

My point is, this whole thing makes me want to stop the drug.  I am WITHOUT A DOUBT more creative and focused.  I'm like a meth addict for creating.  I paint and write and art like there is no tomorrow, because without the drug, there IS NO TOMORROW.  Its like I have traded in my talents and gifts for a normal life:


1. the ability to maintain a relationship....even though I don't necessarily want to get married.  The thought of it scares the straight shit out of me.
2. the ability to maintain a 9 to 5 job for longer than a few months.....although I don't really mind my job and even enjoy it from time to time....I make decent money and have a decent level of flexibility.....it seems mediocre and unimportant sometimes.
3. the possibility of not totally disturbing and destroying the happiness of a child and/or children that all women in our culture (or world) are believed responsible to bear sooner-or-later in there lifetime.  again, scares the roarin' devil out of me.

I feel like I am at a very crucial time.  I'm at a cusp or a turning point.  I have a decision to make:
1. Keep up the drugs.  Buy a house.  Get married.  Love my job.  Have a baby.  and hope I never lose my health insurance or that Effexor XR is never pulled from the market....OR....
2. Stop the drug.  Lose the boyfriend and the job and the shot at a "normal life".  and finally be able to write a novel.  Probably many novels.  Maybe a few multi-media peices, a collage or two....a sculpture.  I don't have this kind of inspiration or vision when I am on the drug.  I wish I did.

I am torn.

Fear sucks.  Its just so easy not to do anything.  To do yoga at home only when I feel like it.  To talk to my friends via Facebook or MySpace.  To not have to have any responsibilities outside of living in a clean home.  No one has to be disappointed in me.  No one has to rely on me and inevitably be let down.

I like my work,  but they would do just fine without me.  they were doing just fine without me for long before me.  I am being paid well for doing things that are mildly important.  Maybe the district would be more efficient in some ways...less efficient in others if I wasn't around. 

But my home would quickly become a junk-house without me.  The Boyfirend is good for many things...cleaning not one of them.  Maybe he would find someone if I were gone, but I love him pretty well.  His son and I have pain-stakingly built a loving, although tepidly uncomfortable relationship.  That is essential.  It has taken years of interaction and structuring of trust.  I bought him pencils and a drawing pad, a Bionacle, a Martian Matter spaceship. and a Batman bathrobe for Christmas.  Presents are important in their family.  Thats one of the few ways they show love.

I need to go to a Corepower yoga class today.  Teacher training starts in February for them and I want to feel comfortable there before I spend thousands of dollars .  I need to stack the odds in my favor as much as possible.  One day of depression and stress may just blow the whole thing.  It has in the past.  I cannot let it anymore.  Life is too short.
No matter what their budget is, everyone loves a bargain. What item or object do you love the most that cost you the least?
Since I am a shameless emotional shopper, I can only remember my latest budget miracle: a plastic tile bearing a pair of hibiscus-donned flip-flops next to the phrase "MAHALO for removing your shoes".  It was a dollar at the thrift store.  I live in the sub-zero degree tundra that is metropolitan Minneapolis, Minnesota therefore I am obsessed with anything tiki-style or related to the pacific islands.  Since I called in sick today (and I'm actually just depressed...but my company-paid sick leave is not specifically  labelled as PHYSICALLY sick!) I might just spend a couple more dollars on some tiki mugs or some little tissue umbrellas for the drinks I am bound to consume within the next few hours. 

the birds outside my window are a maniacal bunch.  Mangy little winged devils; they chirp and chatter at one another stopping only when the belch and roar of the garbage truck frightens them comatose...momentarily.

I took a personality test online.  Something very scientific and accurate; created by well-educated professionals, I'm sure.  They branded me "Aesthetic" meaning, I see and look for beauty in all things.  Also "Creative": I am adept at generating new ideas and finding connections others may overlook. Then "Warm":  I care about others and am a good listener....place favorite cliche here....Others were Passionate, Loose, Arbitrary....but the last one that came up was interesting: "Inefficient".  Now theres one for my LinkedIn profile:

"You like to live your life without plans, and when you do have a plan you're happy to ignore it. While you're not necessarily opposed to getting work done, you're very good at finding other ways to spend your time. You are not anal, or even particularly well organized. You don't enjoy sticking to your plans, and don't mind when you don't finish on time."


Reminds me of something I said to someone once: "Don't worry.  Life will teach you what it wants you to learn.  And if you don't learn the first time, the second time is REALLY gonna hurt."

It would serve me right to live a boring and unfulfilled existence.  Giving others cocky advice like that, Life would be ironic and humorous to not give me a second chance.  I can see just see it now: Life standing in front of me with her arms stretched out, palms skyward, a smirk on her face.  See?  Haven't you learned yet?  If not, things can get a heck of a lot more uneventful...

It's raining.  That's what is wrong with the birds.  December in Minnesota and it's raining.  They are drunk on puddle water; confused to the brink of insanity.  Is it spring?  Where are all the goddamned berries?!   Maybe they are singing Nostradamus lullabyes. 

Nah.  Life wouldn't give me that kind of break.
I'm happy playing mommy sometimes.  I like shoving my neice under one arm and taking her to the restroom to change her diaper (Oak City in Bloomington has a very clean and happy changing table in the handicapped stall.  how very maternally correct!).  I like it when the Boyfriend's Son is home for the weekends because the Boyfriend can't say no when I ask them to take out the garbage.  Life sucks when youre the role model, huh Honey?

I'm officially my grandmother.  i went to sleep last night at 9:00 PM and forgot to take my Bene-fiber.  What the hell happened to my youth?  One minute I'm sipping Kettle One cocktails until 5 in the morning in the V.I.P room.  the next I'm dozing off at 7PM watching the home improvement channel.  Thirty has been the strangest experience thus far.

My grandmother never had tattoos, so at least i have that going for me.  I must contact Dang in a professional manner soon...I need healing time before Jamaica.  mmmmmm...Jamaica....never been.  but i cant wait.  never met a beach i didnt like.  even in Mazatlan, the beach was just fine.  its the ignorant and rude tourists that make it the shit hole it is today. 

But nevermind that, its just a good day.  Aloha Life.

me neither.

but I remember Luke.  He struck me like a curveball on a
homerun.  I thought he was gay...good looking, loved to dance, liked to drress up... he had a sensational mouth...I was pleasantly astounded when he asked for my phone number.  He was the only guy who was completely truthful to me:  "I had sex with a girl I didn't know two nights ago.  Maybe we shouldn't fuck.  you just want to lie next to me?" I kissed him everywhere i knew was safe.

I remember the Proletarilate...although i cant recall his real name.  he was so angry with me for being light-hearted.  and i was just playing devils advocate because everyone knows i am NOT light-hearted.  He hated when people talked to him on the bus.  he didnt want to talk about the weather or the Vikings game.  He didn't want bullshit...he wanted real life.  "that is real life, man" I said to him, "people want to make a connection, they dont want to be alone.  so they say the first thing that doesnt sound weird to them.  Are you telling me you'd be okay with me if i sat next to you on the bus and said: hi, i'm totally insecure.  i have been in an abusive relationship and push men away like rabid dogs...which sucks because men are generally the pot from which i choose my romantic partners.  i noticed you sitting here and i felt something light up between my legs...please don't reject me.  i will take it out on the next man i see."...?"