Money, Mountains, and Madness

“It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?” Charles Bukowski

Lately my life has become more of Hunter S Thompson story than an actual life, which pretty much makes sense. I went from the bottle as a baby to watching psychedelic movies and listening to the Dead. I never really got was “mainstream” was. I was different, I didn’t like it, but that was just who I was. I had good parents, a decent upbringing, I never went without. I was just different, I didn’t even have a drummer to march to. I was over playing the triangle in the corner sneering at those that were keeping pace. One that that always drove me, however, was the desire to be something more, something better, something bigger, something more awesome than I was.

Flash forward into current times and I still listen to psychedelic music, I still have moments where I end up places I probably shouldn’t, and I always ALWAYS make mistakes. The coolest thing about it, though, is they usually don’t hurt anyone else. Usually is an operative word, and of course I try to defend myself and my wrong doings to the death. I’m human, I get it, I only wish the rest of the world could see how amazing being human really is. Being afraid to make mistakes is about as boring as sitting through a webinar on Sterile Compounding Practices (and that was just yesterday, yawn). Reading back over to Bukowski and his amazing depiction on the average human life, it sucks. We do wake up to alarm clocks, we do shit (sometimes not right away in the morning…) and we do go to work.

Work, “god damn what a bummer” as the illustrious attorney in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas said. We go and make money, usually we’re pretty fucking miserable doing it. There are people we don’t like, things we don’t like to do, the list goes on, but we still do it. We do it for the almighty dollar, we milk it, we watch the clock as it ticks down the end of the work day. Our ambition is never to actually go to work to work, it’s to go to work to make money. Think about it, would you actually go to work if they didn’t pay you? What would be the use?

Not to mention the boss aspect. I can’t relate to this, but I have people that can and do. I have had some shitty clients before, but that’s kind of different. They boss you around because they have the innate right to do so, they are giving you money, and you are going to take it from them. Give and take, right? Not really, the ability for some people to feel they can hulk and god over your life because they’re paying you is asinine and the lack of respect is foolish. It all comes full circle to that “ambition” statement. Sure we have ambition to make money, but we also have ambition to make money, and that money is what fuels our passions, our lives, or needs. Without money, where would we be and what would we be doing in life?

It brings me back to one of my favorite quotes by Bukowsi where he proclaims that he woke up a 63 year old man with $1.06 to his name. I wake up that way, although I’m not that old, but it’s ambition that forces me to get up to try to harvest more of that almighty dollar. I don’t necessarily have a lot of expenses, I do live life on the edge of a razor and that can get rather expensive at times. Expensive habits, expensive tastes, expensive desires, but none of this to try to impress a single soul but myself. I’m happy being me, living in excess, and not regretting a single moment. Like I said, these past couple of weeks have been some of the most, well, interesting that I’ve had in a long freaking time, and I don’t have money to thank for affording me this pleasure.

My wealth, my riches, my fortune comes in the fact that I have a personality that seems to lure interesting people into my world. I can go to a grocery store and find random strangers to strike up conversations with, I can talk to anybody at the nursery about just about anything ranging from this fellas track Corvette to a womans messy divorce. I can make people laugh just by being me. It’s was my dad used to call “turning people on” (not in the sexual way). I can honestly say I learned it from my dad, he could walk into a room and turn it on just by being him. Hell, just taking my car to get fixed at the dealership left me with four business cards from random people that just thought I was “cool” (I think they really mean hot, but whatevs, I’ll take it). My life has exploded with people that not only amuse me, but enlighten me as to who I really need to be in life.

All of the struggles with the eating disorder sort of have escaped my mind and I focus on what other attributes I’ve got and what it does for other people in the world. I can make or break a persons day….which the breaking part has been pretty heavy lately too. My reckless disregard for the feelings of others can be harsh, and although hurt never is intended. I can apologize until my throat goes dry, I’m pretty good at realizing when I’ve done wrong, but it’s always hard to explain why I did it in the first place.

“I knew it was a crime, I did it anyways. Why argue, I’m a fucking criminal” -Hunter S Thompson

Although I don’t often break crimes, we’re back to that breaking business. I speed, I might be distracted while driving, I might do other thrashing maneuvers on back country roads and mountains. I’d much rather be the one explaining to a traffic cop why I was spiritedly driving on a twisty road than to be explaining my off-centered adventures. That’s what this whole fucking blog is about, my adventures. Although some of them lately, I’ll keep to myself. As I told a good friend yesterday, I’m going to save them for my next book entitled…..well, I don’t remember, maybe he does.

Sometimes I forget what happened yesterday, sometimes my ambition turns more into a Bukowski like state of mind as opposed to a nose to the grindstone type, but my heart is usually in the right place, it’s just my body doesn’t always accompany it.

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Turd on the Run

“Tryin’ to stop the waves behind your eyeballs,
Drop your reds, drop your greens and blues.”

There have been countless times that I’ve gotten into the car, and just sat there. I sit, entombed in my machine, wondering where the fuck I went wrong in life. Why don’t I have a better job, a better house, kids that love me, a husband that cares about me, and maybe even some sort of rocking body that people would envy. I wonder what ever happened to that girl that used to play with Barbie dolls and….

wait a minute….

did play with barbie dolls, but really…I had more barbie CARS than I ever did Barbie stuff. I could care less about what the hell she was wearing, it was what she was driving with was so much more important. Was she going to drive her convertible corvette or was it going to be a red mustang sort of day? I sit in my car, I wonder what life would be like if I were Barbie. I’d probably have those kids, that house, that husband (Ken…I’d have Ken and his non anatomically correct package). I shake my head, I realize that’s not me. I’m fooling myself. I get depressed.

Really. Fucking. Depressed.

This is where you cue up Exile on Main Street and get lost in some passionate, gritty rock that hits you right in your midsection like some sort of emotional sucker punch. With the sadness of realizing I’m not where I should be, I realize that I’m probably where I need to be at this point in my life. With the opening couple of licks from “Rocks Off” i melt into this puddle of what I like to call “fuck it” and ponder life. I spend lots of time in my car, I spend lots of time pondering life, I also spend lots of time shaking my fist…but that’s for another day.

Why is it, however, that this fictitious perfect family scenario is so deeply carved into my frontal lobe. Why do I want the house, the kids, the husband, the damn golden retriever asleep in front of a fire place named Spot. All of those things that I see other people having, why do I want those things? Are they really as awesome as they seem in movies/public/my brain? Then the song changes and typically by then I get myself motivated to drive.

“He ain’t tied down to no home town,
Yeah, and he thought he was wreckless”

Torn and Frayed comes on and I start to realize that I’d be the worst stereotypical “mother” in the entire world. I’m selfish, I care only about myself, and I’d probably end up on the news for leaving my child on top of the car. My lifetime of experiences, good and bad, would follow me into my parenting and I’d probably turn my kids into little criminals. They’d not graduate high school, they’d work at a truck stop (which there is absolutely nothing wrong with that), and they’d probably never speak to me after leaving the house at a ripe age of 16. The girls will get knocked up, the boys will knock girls up, there will be drugs and booze. There will be fights, lots of those….but chances are, I’d probably still love them, but hate myself for thinking that there was any way in the world I could pull off such a gig.

With all this pondering, the music melts into Loving Cup….

“See your face dancing in the flame,
Feel your mouth kissing me again,
What a beautiful buzz, what a beautiful buzz,”

Aaannndd suddenly I realize that that concept of a “perfect husband” probably doesn’t exist. The concept of having somebody want to see my face in a flame and kisssing and all that sappy stuff doesn’t really exist, does it? Are there really people out there that feel that way, and if so, what the hell is the chance that they’d cross into my existence? Getting a beautiful buzz, now that’s something that comes when you have those butterflies in your belly when you see the one you love. The person that you cuddle up next to every night buzzes your brain better than any drug and you’re in a love sick puppy state. Sigh, and how long does that last, you reckon? At least until your kids are out of diapers,

“I need a love to keep me happy.”

That damn song always comes on right when I’m getting over the fact that there isn’t a perfect relationship, and again, it whirls me in another direction. He’s right, he sings those words, with so much passion, and makes so much sense. Alone. Finding yourself alone because you’ve been pondering stuff too much and spending time in your car too much too. Love keeps people happy, I think that’s why they have pets, but they die. They have relationships, but fight. They know what makes them happy, companionship, love….then luckily enough Turd On the Run comes on (which is a freaking amazing name for a song…

“Begged, promised anything if only you would stay,
Well, I lost a lot of love over you.”

How many times have I throw myself at the feet of someone and begged? Honestly only once, and it didn’t work so I didn’t try it again. How many times have I made promises. Eh, too many, but that’s not the point. Losing love is worse than having it in the first place. I have been the turd on the run, I have run after turds. I think about those turds. They were, well, turds. At the same time, I have to self reflect on who I am and why I think I deserve a turd, and more importantly why I treat other people like turds. I hang my head and for the next eight minutes I self loathe and wonder to myself if there is any sort of support group out there for turds. I also say the word turd out loud and sort of giggle. It’s a funny world.

Before funk sets in any deeper, Shine a Light comes on….

“When you’re drunk in the alley, baby, with your clothes all torn
And your late night friends leave you in the cold gray dawn.
Just seemed too many flies on you, I just can’t brush them off.”

There is a light out there, the light that shines on you comes from, well, you. You can’t expect a scenario, a person, or a social status to provide you with the inner light of happiness. The song spills wisdom and I find myself singing along like some sort of American Idol reject, grooving to the salty guitar licks and rolling down the windows. The personal capsule that I created for myself in the cabin of the car suddenly seems too small. I need air, I need sun, I need the world to share in my vibe.

Then someone usually flips me the bird or cuts me off, and out comes the Turd word again (rhymes, freaking awesome).

Moral of the story, listening to Exile On Main Street in it’s entirety is better than therapy, better than fighting, and probably better than having kids.

After the emotional roller coaster I usually stop and get a beer. It’s tough being me.

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99 Problems, but a ‘Stang ain’t one.

“Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

I hoped I’d grow up to be a wonderful, beautiful person that had a bunch of respect and friends. I hoped that I’d turn out to be something that makes my parents proud and make some sort of an example for the younger generations growing up. I guess I’ve given up on that certain adventure, and I’m just working to make myself proud. Screw the rest of the world, and what they think of my accomplishments, screw the people that expect more from me than I’m willing to give, and especially screw those that feel like they can step in and change things. Those people don’t understand, those people are confused, those people will be missed.

Take a certain scenario, feeling upset, confused…and well…dumped….on my way to work I decided to exercise the one talent that I have that nobody else seems to understand – the ability to get my car sideways on exit and on ramps. Yeah, okay, to be honest it’s the most reckless thing I could possibly do, I could hit a slick spot and fly off into obilivion, but I do it anyways. In all seriousness, I bet there are lots of things that we do “anyways” that we know we probably shouldn’t. We eat entire frozen pizzas because, well, they’re there. We abuse ourselves at the gym and push ourselves because we thing we’re going to magically become something we’ve seen in a magazine. We try to convince ourselves that the credit card debt that we’ve magically acquired isn’t really that bad.

But it probably is, and it probably was, and it was probably wrong, but we did it anyways…

“Yeah, I know. I’m guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, and I did it anyways. Shit, why argue? I’m a fucking criminal, look at me.” -Raoul Duke Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

My car has been my best friend, my worst enemy, and my home for the past couple of months. Okay, maybe I exaggerate, I actually live somewhere, but I’ve found myself wanting to stay in the safe confines of the Tard more times than not. I can crawl into the (lack of) back seat and feel like I’m in my own little nap chamber…but then again, it’s never very comfortable. People don’t understand, and I doubt most people ever will. He’s my buddy, he’s my car, he’s damn good looking too. This morning, his good looks and my bad personality got intertwined and my nastiness came out. Not in the form of road rage, but in the form of spirited driving.

I typically go 63 miles an hour down the interstate – for the primary facts that a) I have a really long fucking drive every single day and I like to save gas b) I typically am as tired as I could possibly be and high speeds seem sort of scary to me and c) I’m in no rush, no rush whatsoever. I’m an old lady driver most of the time…but if you “poke the bear” as my good friend used to say it’s on. It’s on like Donkey Kong.

Sitting quietly at a stop light, sippin on awful coffee and listening to some wicked thug rap (baby, cause I’m a thug), a yellow Mustang pulls up aside me. Of course, the Tard, a quiet, unassuming, red BMW doesn’t look like it could smoke anyone, let alone an american Muscle car with balls practically drawn on the hood. With engine revs coming from the second left turn lane, I had a fire in me. I felt bile in my belly start to build up, this joker had a bone to pick with someone, and he was taking it out on me.

To be fair, he was on the inside, the corner had camber, and I have a six speed. This guy, this random yellow mustang guy, had a problem with life, he had a problem with his car, or he just wanted to prove a point. Being the kind person I am, and being the person with 99 problems as well, I decided to stroke his need for asshole driving.

On the interstate we played a few cat and mouse moves, weaving through traffic, me looking down once only because I was forced to decelerate due to a slow moving expedition and realizing 85 miles an hour seems like turtle pace. We weaved, we passed, we stroked egos…but then….we were both smoked. While in front, I saw four angel eyes in my rear view, haunting, ominous, flying up upon me faster than needed to be. A white BMW, a new while 428, an amazing car when you see it flying up next to you…then to look over and see a youngish blonde girl, who looks kinda like you, schooling your ass, and the yellow mustang guy, and flying passed you going at least twenty more miles an hour than you.

The urge to follow was strong, the urge to lift was also there, knowing that there is a line between adrenaline and danger…for once it was a line I wasn’t going to cross, and apparently the yellow mustang guy didn’t either. We both stayed politely in the middle lane, still going at speed, but watched her fly by. I couldn’t help but wonder why was she going so fast, what was going on in her life, what was she running from? What was she running to? Is she ever going to get to where she has to go? Does she even know. I put myself in her shoes, in a new 428, and realized it’s not worth it. Whatever drama is making her push the car to limits isn’t worth it.

The One Series and I tooled along and got to work, in one piece, and of course, yellow mustang guy disappeared into the horizon like a yellow bumble bee into the flowers. Of course he’s probably not considering the philosophical aspect of our adventure this morning, but for the short while the tree of us were engaged on the internet, it seemed our souls were combined. All suffering from some sort of pain, all wanting to get aggression out somewhere, all abusing the South Caroling Interstate system.

Yesterday, however, I had a chance encounter with a very attractive guy in a 135 at Fresh Market…and I had no desire to peel out and try to race. I wanted to know his life story, I wanted to know about his car, I wanted him to chase me, but at slow speeds.

Sigh.

“The sunshine bores the daylights out of me.
Chasing shadows moonlight mystery.
Headed for the overload,
Splattered on the dirty road,
Kick me like you’ve kicked before,
I can’t even feel the pain no more.”

-Rocks Off The Rolling Stones

Pain, yeah, it’s called having to refuel after a spirited day. Kick me again, please.

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Nobody knows…for sure…

“Don’t forget to love yourself.”
Soren Kierkegaard

I can’t even begin to explain where my brain has been, where my body has been, or where it’s going anytime soon. The problem is that it’s all a whirlwind of confusion. The ability to plan ahead has time and time again fallen by the wayside and I find myself stumbling around life thinking “what the hell is going on? how the fuck did I get here?” Although I haven’t exactly lost hope, it’s getting grim. I’m getting a bit cynical and am not really on an upswing. It seems I turn around and there is some other angry mob chasing me.

Everybody seems mad at me all of a sudden, including myself. That’s a tough person to argue with, I tell you what. Usually when you disagree with your decisions, actions, or lack there of you can usually forgive yourself and move on with life. Love yourself for the flaws that you have, enjoy the fact that you’re breathing and making mistakes, remember that although the light at the end of the tunnel seems variable most times, it’s still out there. Just like when you burn out a light bulb in a lamp, you don’t just throw the lamp away and say “screw it, I’ll get another one.”

Or at least, normal people don’t. I’m not conventionally normal, but then again, I do embrace the fact that I try. I really try, it’s difficult. I found myself some place very dark last week, someplace that I didn’t even know how to talk about to anybody really, not even those that are the closest to me. I tried, I really tried, I got a head shake and the response “what else is new, you change your mind about everything all the time, why can’t you just make a decision.” He was right, I’m a flake. I hate that about myself.

After feeling kicked in the equivalent of lady balls, I sat in my car and started jamming on the new My Morning Jacket, which I have to say, there are only a few voices in the world that can bring me back to stability, one is my dad, one is Jim at work, one is Jim James. They’ve all got their reasons, but this new album…it took me into a place of denial, of hate, of sadness, of remorse, primarily just a ball of bawling tears. Lots of them, flowing like the fucking Rhine River. I couldn’t stop the first few lines of the song “Get to the Point” had me under a spell.

“Well we talked and talked and carried on from
Sundown till the break of dawn
We put the needle on the line
It just kept skipping”

I took a mental journey to all those late nights with those that I thought I loved and loved me too. Late nights of talking about music, talking about philosophy, painting nails, hell, you name it. In those dark hours of night, after the sunshine takes a break for a while and the nocturnal excitement starts up again the world seems quiet. The world seems clean, and the promise of a rejuvenating sunrise looms on the horizon (pun intended). Those times it didn’t matter if the beer was cold, the air was warm, or even if the music playing was even that good. The warmth of conversation, the intensity of a new person, that feeling that you never wanted to stop.

I was taken to memories that hurt, they hurt because in every single circumstance I fucked things up. A perennially broken record with a needle that was bent a long time ago. Throw away the record player, update your life and get an mp3 player, screw it, who even needs music machines anymore?

“And now it’s done, you still call every day
To no avail
I never have an answer, I never seem to be there for you”

And the song goes on to haunt me in another way. All of the days, months, hours, hell, in a few cases years that I’ve tried to be there but just couldn’t. A constant distraction in my mind prevented me from really being “there” for anybody – for the simple reason I wasn’t even “there” for myself. I was constantly running from me, my thoughts, and hiding from everything that actually meant anything to me. Once something or somebody would get close I’d go into the self destruct mode not being anywhere for anybody.

I still look at my phone everyday and wonder why. I pick up the phone, but there isn’t a voice on the other end. I talk to you, but you aren’t around anymore. You can’t give me the advice I desperately need. Where are you? And then the music continues on to insert the knife and twist.

“But there’s only so many ways one can
Look at a given situation
And I wish you all the love in this world and beyond”

Looking at my pain and angst towards the past 20 years, I realize that the only reason that life has in fact become, ahem, messy, is because my outlook is of bitterness. Turning the leaf over and looking at it from a different perspective can make a world of change. Take a plant that is infested with scale, from the top everything looks fine, however you flip the leaf over and you see millions of little soft bodied assholes sucking the life out of your leaf. That leaf is putting on a brave face, but underneath it’s hurting. It’s suffering, it needs your help.

The chorus to the song, as is with most My Morning Jacket songs haunted me, but didn’t really make me emotional like the rest of the song did. The next verse lumped up my throat and pretty much made me cry hard enough to want to vomit. Emotionally exhausted, I wanted to turn that damn song off, but the haunting guitar picking keep me listening.

“Well I was feeling sympathetic
But still sorry for myself
Flying blind I really wasn’t listening”

The self pity party that I’ve been throwing is incorrigible and really, pathetic. I see my life, which has been amazing, full of amazing people, but for some reason I hold onto the pain stuff and ignoring the happy stuff. The stuff like my first experience really drinking Southern Comfort, the first time jumping out of a plane, the first time I rode a motorcycle. All of those things that my crazy ass has done were swept under a rug and the litter that lays above distracted me. I’d be reminded of my awesome life, but I chose not to listen. In my eyes it was awful, i was awful, I’ve done awful things to people.

Blindly, I stumble into the next day, wishing I could have about two decades back to realize how wonderful everything really is.

“So I’m trying to tell you plainly how I’m feeling day to day
And I’m so sorry now that you ain’t feeling the same way”

And then this line. I have a list of people that need apologies, I’ll start tomorrow, but then again…

“Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.”
Soren Kierkegaard

The Red Wax Diary

I’m not so very sure what has happen over the course of the past couple of months…there a few fragments of memory that I have, and then there are so many of them that I have discharged as bad ideas, poor decisions, and perhaps cries for attention. Examples include:

“I followed you home, but you stalled your car about four times”

“You turned around in somebodies front yard”

“Will you please leave before the neighbors wake up”

Okay, so I make things up, this isn’t a mystery, but the cool thing is that I’ve got a talent to stretch things farther and thinner than a spider web across door frames. I don’t really do any of those things, nor do I actually admit to being a bit reckless sometimes. If anything, my current lifestyle has pounded the fact that I NEED to be responsible to be successful in life. There are a lot of things that I can fess up to, making bad decisions is one of them, but one thing that I will NOT fess up to is NOT learning from my mistakes.

Like that MMA fighter, like that buffet sushi, like that time that I decided to let the shady mechanic work on my Hyundai and made it start on fire. All of these things are stepping stones to a future of wisdom, of sage advice, of experiences….all of these things are, well, sort of not a badge of honor but a scar of pride.

I look around, I’m thirty, those that I grew up with in the quaint little town of Genoa City are all responsible (or so it seems) adults with kids, relationships, careers, and a future that seems bright. Through the wonders of social media I’m able to use my voyerism to see what I’m missing out on. I see one of the girls that I grew up with as my “cousin” with two kids, a spouse and all sorts of cool pictures of kid stuff to post. I see my best friend since second grade (although we hated each other in first grade) turn into an awesome chick that knows what she needs out of the world; more important are the things she doesn’t want compared to what the society things she should have. She’s a hero to me, the one that has kids is a hero to me, those that are living happily and well adjusted are heroes to me too.

I have all these heroes but ignore the fact that I can be my own hero. Of all the bad decisions that I’ve made, I have to take a moment are realize that those that I “hero-ize” had to make some mistakes and really tough decisions to get to where they are. The ones with kids, they had to convince themselves that it was a the “right time” to become a mother. To those that decided that “wife-hood” isn’t for them, it took a hell of a lot of courage to come to the conclusion that walking away is much better than living a life of a lie. I see these things, I respect these things.

I’m jealous of these things.

I was supposed to be happily married. It didn’t work out, doesn’t matter why, but the most disturbing part was the “kid” aspect. I was pregnant, I miscarried, violently, and my life was upside-down. Sure, you can look at it as a blessing in disguise, but at the time it was a nightmare. I didn’t talk for three days. I didn’t cry, I was confused.

I was engage to an amazing person that encouraged me to be the best person I could be. I evolved, I become awesome, and after that presence was gone I collapsed. I turned into a crying mess of blonde, eating and drinking in excess. There was no comfort, I wanted my red head back. I was devastated, I screwed things up again…that’s when I decided that the world was a scary, sick, depraved place.

Enter the red wax.

Makers Mark…..it has been in my life for, well, a decade now….and although I know that it’s the poison of the Kentucky hills, it has always been a crutch, a stabilizer, a go to for the nasty stuff going on in life.

Case in point my friend sick from Hepatitis leaned on Makers for some sort of comfort as he slept on a bale of hay in a barn (true story). The fact that those that get the weird satisfaction from ripping wax off of a next of a bottle….that moment that you have to decide to get 46 or the regular.

The fact that Makers Mark is one of those things that just sort of heal pain, and sits quietly in the corner waiting for you to ask it for an opinion.

The opinion, of course, is never going to be one of sound reason. The opinion is typically full of peppery comments and snarky remarks that will never EVER get you a husband, an child, or a job in some sort of big spectrum business empire. It will not get you a Bentley, it will not get you a slamming hot body, an it will certainly cause you to have to explain your emotions, reactions, actions more often than not. The curse of the red wax is on the hands of those that enjoy, but at the same time they infest the soul of those that obsess. Those that decide that the cure for the common life is the red wax poisoning are the ones that realize that companionship can come from a stuffed bee and YouTube. Those that realize that the red wax is poisonous to the health will realize that the gym, healthy eating and saving money is the key to happiness will prevail.

I’ll tell you this much, I still very much tote a stuffed bee around with me, his name is Zips, he’s the only “possession” that I have that I could not live without. I also have an odd tick of Anorexia that wants to surface and make me frown upon calories and embrace a life of constant exercise and movement. It’s a vicious cycle…and at this juncture the only real relief I get is from watching Roadkill and eating red bell peppers (it’s a long story)

Fact of the matter is this. I’m contemplating putting out a weekly via interwebs in which you can access via password only that will lead you into the “red wax diaries” a running dialouge of the, ahem, adventures of the little blonde girl getting to where she has to be in her life. Call it “The Great Red Shark Adventure Part Two”. Thing is, there isn’t a shark….instead of gas money, I’m asking for a writers wage. All of these adventures don’t come cheap….

Who’s coming with me….actually….I’d rather just do it for free and harvest the Karma that resides :-D

The battle of the bulge

“his conscience?  It is easy to guess the the concept of” conscience” that we here encounter in its highest, almost astonishing, manifestation, has a long history and variety of forms behind it”
-Friedrich Nietzsche

And then there was the guilt, and then there was the remorse, and then there was the realization that the decisions you made didn’t really matter as much as you might of thought. Nobody was killed, nobody was injured, nobody really had hurt feelings. Yet still your conscience, like a burning candle in the dark, haunts you, flickering in the darkness of your thoughts. The candle on conscience haunts you, even once the sun rises and the sun  challenges the flickering light. The candle flickers your mistakes, your misadventures, your embodiment of bad decisions. There is a candle burning in each of us, and the magic wind of extinguishing doesn’t exactly exist.

That flame you’re haunted with was ignited by your very own brain, that candle was fabricated by the wax of your your experience, that wind is a figment of your imagination. You’ve been lied to, your mind develops an imaginary illuminator  of life, and your heart wants nothing more than to understand what the heck ignites that flame in the first place.

I’m staring at my very own candle of conscience right now. It torments me, reminding me of my bad decisions, my months of irrationally thinking, and my moments of playing on my impulses instead of thinking things through and remembering things can hurt you, things are bad for you, and fire is hot. I look at my surroundings and shrug, NY conscience has become a raging inferno instead of a flickering candle, and I’m not sure how to blow it out. Even with a tanker truck and firemen, I’m not sure if ever be comfortable with the heat that exudes.

“find what you love, then let it kill you” Charles Bukowski

I’ve become a creature of impulse. Although there are some things that I’ve always liked and enjoyed, there are things that I’ve denied myself for, well, as long as I can remember. There isn’t a rational reason, except the fact that u have an unreasonable standard that I hold myself to. The world is a dangerous place, and if i decide that I’m going to enjoy a facet of it, somebody is going to be mad about it. Things that make others happy, that I feel I should  too, make me want to pull my hair out. My conscience eats at me and I’m a smaller, not as good person  because of it. I feel worthless, hopeless, smaller than a gnat and worse than an Un scooped pile of of shit.

Case in point, I enjoy things, things that perhaps incluse calories, things that perhaps cause my ass to get bigger, the kind of stuff that makes me fill out clothes a little bit more than they did before. I tried on pants this morning that I wore this winter and split them in half, I’ve gotten fat. I don’t fit in my pants anymore. I got sad, I got depressed, my conscience told me I was a bad person.

Was I really that bad of a person, or was I really just chasing the person that I truly want to be?? The person I am now is a bit confused, scared, and challenged with the concept of dying old and alone, but only because I realize that “love” only exists in sort of perfect environment for perfect looking people in perfect places. Imperfection, just as me, don’t deserve anything like those perfect people obtain, and my conscience reminds me of that. I hang my head and realize that my love isn’t going to be perfect, and my, conscience tell me that if I would have eaten less and exercised more, I might find the perfect something….

But what does my conscience know? The only reason this has become a big issue is that I know I have to go to the doctor tomorrow… I have to face the scale, the ultimate tool of self worth. I’m positive I’m going to hop on that machine and realize that I am a bad person. I’m terrified, my conscience knows what I’ve been doing, and my conscience also knows my bad decisions. I hang my head and know that I’ll never be able to get back to my “perfect” self. I’m a monster.

My conscience screams, my eyes cry, and my heart is scared.

The battle of the bulge

“his conscience?  It is easy to guess the the concept of” conscience” that we here encounter in its highest, almost astonishing, manifestation, has a long history and variety of forms behind it”
-Friedrich Nietzsche

And then there was the guilt, and then there was the remorse, and then there was the realization that the decisions you made didn’t really matter as much as you might of thought. Nobody was killed, nobody was injured, nobody really had hurt feelings. Yet still your conscience, like a burning candle in the dark, haunts you, flickering in the darkness of your thoughts. The candle on conscience haunts you, even once the sun rises and the sun  challenges the flickering light. The candle flickers your mistakes, your misadventures, your embodiment of bad decisions. There is a candle burning in each of us, and the magic wind of extinguishing doesn’t exactly exist.

That flame you’re haunted with was ignited by your very own brain, that candle was fabricated by the wax of your your experience, that wind is a figment of your imagination. You’ve been lied to, your mind develops an imaginary illuminator  of life, and your heart wants nothing more than to understand what the heck ignites that flame in the first place.

I’m staring at my very own candle of conscience right now. It torments me, reminding me of my bad decisions, my months of irrationally thinking, and my moments of playing on my impulses instead of thinking things through and remembering things can hurt you, things are bad for you, and fire is hot. I look at my surroundings and shrug, NY conscience has become a raging inferno instead of a flickering candle, and I’m not sure how to blow it out. Even with a tanker truck and firemen, I’m not sure if ever be comfortable with the heat that exudes.

“find what you love, then let it kill you” Charles Bukowski

I’ve become a creature of impulse. Although there are some things that I’ve always liked and enjoyed, there are things that I’ve denied myself for, well, as long as I can remember. There isn’t a rational reason, except the fact that u have an unreasonable standard that I hold myself to. The world is a dangerous place, and if i decide that I’m going to enjoy a facet of it, somebody is going to be mad about it. Things that make others happy, that I feel I should  too, make me want to pull my hair out. My conscience eats at me and I’m a smaller, not as good person  because of it. I feel worthless, hopeless, smaller than a gnat and worse than an Un scooped pile of of shit.

Case in point, I enjoy things, things that perhaps incluse calories, things that perhaps cause my ass to get bigger, the kind of stuff that makes me fill out clothes a little bit more than they did before. I tried on pants this morning that I wore this winter and split them in half, I’ve gotten fat. I don’t fit in my pants anymore. I got sad, I got depressed, my conscience told me I was a bad person.

Was I really that bad of a person, or was I really just chasing the person that I truly want to be?? The person I am now is a bit confused, scared, and challenged with the concept of dying old and alone, but only because I realize that “love” only exists in sort of perfect environment for perfect looking people in perfect places. Imperfection, just as me, don’t deserve anything like those perfect people obtain, and my conscience reminds me of that. I hang my head and realize that my love isn’t going to be perfect, and my, conscience tell me that if I would have eaten less and exercised more, I might find the perfect something….

But what does my conscience know? The only reason this has become a big issue is that I know I have to go to the doctor tomorrow… I have to face the scale, the ultimate tool of self worth. I’m positive I’m going to hop on that machine and realize that I am a bad person. I’m terrified, my conscience knows what I’ve been doing, and my conscience also knows my bad decisions. I hang my head and know that I’ll never be able to get back to my “perfect” self. I’m a monster.

My conscience screams, my eyes cry, and my heart is scared.

The battle of the bulge

“his conscience?  It is easy to guess the the concept of” conscience” that we here encounter in its highest, almost astonishing, manifestation, has a long history and variety of forms behind it”
-Friedrich Nietzsche

And then there was the guilt, and then there was the remorse, and then there was the realization that the decisions you made didn’t really matter as much as you might of thought. Nobody was killed, nobody was injured, nobody really had hurt feelings. Yet still your conscience, like a burning candle in the dark, haunts you, flickering in the darkness of your thoughts. The candle on conscience haunts you, even once the sun rises and the sun  challenges the flickering light. The candle flickers your mistakes, your misadventures, your embodiment of bad decisions. There is a candle burning in each of us, and the magic wind of extinguishing doesn’t exactly exist.

That flame you’re haunted with was ignited by your very own brain, that candle was fabricated by the wax of your your experience, that wind is a figment of your imagination. You’ve been lied to, your mind develops an imaginary illuminator  of life, and your heart wants nothing more than to understand what the heck ignites that flame in the first place.

I’m staring at my very own candle of conscience right now. It torments me, reminding me of my bad decisions, my months of irrationally thinking, and my moments of playing on my impulses instead of thinking things through and remembering things can hurt you, things are bad for you, and fire is hot. I look at my surroundings and shrug, NY conscience has become a raging inferno instead of a flickering candle, and I’m not sure how to blow it out. Even with a tanker truck and firemen, I’m not sure if ever be comfortable with the heat that exudes.

“find what you love, then let it kill you” Charles Bukowski

I’ve become a creature of impulse. Although there are some things that I’ve always liked and enjoyed, there are things that I’ve denied myself for, well, as long as I can remember. There isn’t a rational reason, except the fact that u have an unreasonable standard that I hold myself to. The world is a dangerous place, and if i decide that I’m going to enjoy a facet of it, somebody is going to be mad about it. Things that make others happy, that I feel I should  too, make me want to pull my hair out. My conscience eats at me and I’m a smaller, not as good person  because of it. I feel worthless, hopeless, smaller than a gnat and worse than an Un scooped pile of of shit.

Case in point, I enjoy things, things that perhaps incluse calories, things that perhaps cause my ass to get bigger, the kind of stuff that makes me fill out clothes a little bit more than they did before. I tried on pants this morning that I wore this winter and split them in half, I’ve gotten fat. I don’t fit in my pants anymore. I got sad, I got depressed, my conscience told me I was a bad person.

Was I really that bad of a person, or was I really just chasing the person that I truly want to be?? The person I am now is a bit confused, scared, and challenged with the concept of dying old and alone, but only because I realize that “love” only exists in sort of perfect environment for perfect looking people in perfect places. Imperfection, just as me, don’t deserve anything like those perfect people obtain, and my conscience reminds me of that. I hang my head and realize that my love isn’t going to be perfect, and my, conscience tell me that if I would have eaten less and exercised more, I might find the perfect something….

But what does my conscience know? The only reason this has become a big issue is that I know I have to go to the doctor tomorrow… I have to face the scale, the ultimate tool of self worth. I’m positive I’m going to hop on that machine and realize that I am a bad person. I’m terrified, my conscience knows what I’ve been doing, and my conscience also knows my bad decisions. I hang my head and know that I’ll never be able to get back to my “perfect” self. I’m a monster.

My conscience screams, my eyes cry, and my heart is scared.

Love is a dog from hell.

“Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”
Bob Marley

Fact of the matter is I really fucking hate reggae music, it sounds like the same damn thing being played in a loop. I guess it’s not that much different from the dubstep that I listen to, but at the same time it’s totally different. Bob Marley, however, is one of the grooviest dudes ever. He had hope for a brighter future, he had courage to stand up for what he was passionate about, and well gee, that hair. How awesome what that medusa like tangle of dreads that always looked like a parrot was going to pop out at any time. Bob Marley is good in my book, I’m not going to listen to the reggae channel on Sirius though. I do remember a time that I used to binge listen to Legend in my years of high school angst and wonder what the world would be like if circumstances were different.

What would I be like if my aunt were really my mom and I was raised by them instead of my mom and dad. What would happen if I were born into a family with real problems. What if I were born a boy? All of these things would twirl through my brain as I would lay in bed listening to “Three Little Birds”. I remember carrying myself through the day singing that song to myself, the haunting words “every little thing, is gonna be alright”. Nowadays I think to myself, “how the hell does he know!”

Recently, I’ve been laying in bed at night thinking. In a vague way about something, someone, and everything revolving around those. I lay in bed and think about you, but I don’t know why. It’s haunting, it doesn’t go away and I toss and turn and curse the skies for the fact that my brain is so wrapped up around a circumstance that I have no control over. I never did, I think that’s what allures me to think about the topic so much. I feel compassion, I feel passion, I feel, well, feelings, and those suck.

So I lay in bed, thinking, night dreaming without sleeping really, and try to associate this sort of thought pattern with a sort of philosophy that can help me through the tough times.

“If we train our conscience, it kisses us while it hurts”

Friedrich Nietzsche

Speaking from a life of a girl that does nothing but ramble and get into adventures, the conscience is a four legged dog from hell that brays at you every chance I get. Maybe that’s why my insomnia haunts me, it’s actually that damn dog howling my colorful past and beckoning what the future may hold. Can I live my life with the dog of conscience howling, you’re damn straight I can, because I don’t regret a single thing that I’ve done in my life, and boy some of them were shitty. I can supply lists of people that I’ve screwed over in one way or another, but at the same time I was using my own sense of self preservation. Fuck those before they fuck you.

Sometimes all that happens at once, and it gets sort of messy, but in a fun sort of way.

I lay in bed at night, thinking about you (and don’t worry, “You” isn’t really a person, its a though wrapped in a person embodying a future that will never come true). “You” don’t exist, just like I don’t really exist. That person in the fabricated world of “every little thing is going to be alright” is a fallacy. I don’t really have plans for tomorrow, I just fear the night, knowing that the preslumber thought patterns will be full of hazy recollection of something that never was and what will never be.

-cue the Led Zepplin song-

…or just throw in a long vague poem about the “you” that doesn’t exist and the “me” that never will, and dissect it to my own liking and footnotes.

“The things about you I appreciate
May seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.(and this is where I think of soap on a rope and this becoming some weird erotic movie)
I’d like to have you in my power
And see your eyes dilate. (I’m thinking this has something to do with the roofie that was slipped into the drink)
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.(Parts, like car parts, like a lube job)
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower
Or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.(Um, can’t we work on Kant and Nietzsche first)
I’d like successfully to guess your weight(bad idea, bro, bad idea)
And win you at a fête.
I’d like to offer you a flower. (for the record, guy that doesn’t exist, my favorites are white daisies and liatris, I’m not a fan of carnations and I scoff at the thought of having some damn lily in a bouquet)

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.(Like an over the shoulder boulder holder? classy, dude)
I like the shoulders too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential (I have to say, I’ve always like my collar bones, they’re one of my favorite parts, besides my nose…)
(I’d like your particulars in folders
Marked Confidential). (I know where you can get some of those pictures….only a few people have them…)

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose (Finally, my nose. I’m telling you, it’s awesome)
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath)
In rows.(if by in rows you mean slightly irregular but still good looking yes.)

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges. (I do have a way with giving, you know, that look)
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work.
On hinges …(That’s a stretch, it’d look pretty freaking weird if they worked on levers or pullys)

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands. (you have no idea…)
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,(spit, can we swap that? and you know)
Something familiar for something strange.(my ex had a cat named strange….)
I’d like to give you just the right amount
And get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you not and hold a teacup. (lets change that one to martini glass and rhyme something else)
I like your legs when you unwind them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.(I hate pants, like really hate them)
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.(and all the awesome scars that they possess)

I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
Where to find them.(and well, you’re sort of the bee’s knees too)

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.(that sounds sort of spooky, like perhaps I’m some sort of weird demon that has been stalking you in your sleep)
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
And have you chase me.(I’ve actually done that one before, it didn’t work out well, so let’s save our frequent flier miles and go someplace, I dunno, not ghetto?)
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
And cancelling other dates.(Well, I suppose so, but I really like those other dates…what are you offering)
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.(Um, hopefully you mean when I breath, cause I mean, I don’t think there is any sort of breast pump that actually makes them bigger with a pump)
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. (Those are like, bugs, right?)

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide. (I haven’t thought about it, am I sort of against becoming a forensic file)
I’d let you put insecticide
Into my wine.(would you like spinozad or would you rather something more toxic)
I’d even like you if you were Bride
Of Frankenstein (I wouldn’t call him frankenstein…)
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
Or Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.(we’re going to have to get back to talking about bugs and martinis, that’s a bit over my head)
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics. (I can rock some mathematics…show me your equation and we can make this work)

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.(Self-abuse no more, I’m moving on)
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in. (Yeah, stalkerish, I’m kinda into that thing…will you peep through my windows an…)
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
And see you grin. (Smirk, I’d rather smirk)
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin
I’d like to make you reproduce.(Good lord, no way, bucko, not in this lifetime.)

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look. (well, I suppose you can be my first look, if you’re as good looking as some of the others)
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
And mate you with my rook. (That sounds dirty)
I’d like to be your preference
And hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook. (I already did that, it was messy)
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book,
Your future tense.” (As in is gonna be…)
John Fuller