bah humbug

i'm not a christmas person. i'm more of a halloween kinda person. i can identify with skeletons, ghosts, goblins and scary kids sticky with candy but the idea of a big fat dude sliding down my chimney while i'm sleeping is just a little too creepy. halloween's also better than christmas cause no one expects you to buy them some useless article, put it in a box, wrap it with tacky paper, stick a name tag on it and give it to them. and let's face it. the gift never, and i mean never, lives up to expectations. otherwise no one would have coined the word "re-gifting" now would they? at least on halloween, everyone is pretty much pleased with what they get. sugar fiends get a fix that will last them til thanksgiving, which by the way is also an okay holiday.

and lets talk about all those sappy commercials that run on television during the "holiday" season. everyone from dupont chemical to mcdonald's wants you to believe they embody the spirit of christmas present with those drippy, sugar coated vignettes about the college kid slipping in early on christmas morning to surprise the parents. in real life, the college kid would come home with a bagful of dirty laundry, sporting a 3 day beard,a hangover from a hell and badly needing cash and a hair cut. what is it about this time of year that makes people want to make you think they have the perfect life? am i the only one here who feels left out of all this freakin' holiday cheer?

and just to add insult to injury, let me just start to get over the disappointments and disasters you all like to call christmas and what happens? exactly one week later....bam! new years. should old acquaintance be forgot....well hell yeah. duh!

so, to recap...take your happy holidays. just leave halloween to me and my wraiths.

contemplations on a recurring theme

Sitting alone in the darkened room, listening to the staccato tapping of the rain against the window pane, she slowly raises her head. The echoes of absolute silence, other than the rain, reverberate through her mind as she listens to sounds from another time, another place, another life. A time when there were sounds of love, of something other than the emptiness and the darkness. The bottle of tequila sits on the coffee table in front of her, alone and neglected after surrendering its last drop of liquid escape. Rising from the sofa where she has sat for the better part of the day, squinting against the wash of sunlight, then watching the purples and pinks of twilight fade to the velvet black of night. She walks to the kitchen. Bending to open the cabinet beneath the sink, she feels around for another bottle. Hand groping fruitlessly, she sighs and leans against the countertop. God she’s weary, so worn, used up, dried out. Sighing again, she looks down, knowing what she’ll find even before her eyes make the movement and her brain registers the image. Picking it up, enjoying the feel of it grasped tightly in her hand, her mind going through the sluggish circles caused by the alcohol coursing through her system, she smiles. It’s not a happy smile. It’s not a joyful smile. No humor touches her bloodshot eyes . It’s not that kind of smile. An endless video loop runs through her mind as she gives the small vial a little shake, enjoying the sound of the pharmaceutical maraca. Smiling again, she enjoys the music of the macabre. Swaying slowly from side to side, the casual observer wouldn’t know whether she danced to some private music the rest of the world couldn’t hear or whether her intoxication had finally surpassed her limits. She’s lost in her own private world, a hell of her own making. She takes some comfort and a bizarre sense of pride in this creation of hers. It’s the one thing she can truly call her own and it’s the one thing they couldn’t take from her. Shaking slightly, she twists the cap and watches as the brightly colored capsules tumble out, left breathless by their beauty and the promise they hold. She remembers reading somewhere, perhaps in another life, that nature painted its most deadly components in vivid Technicolor, a warning to their unsuspecting victims. A dry laugh escapes her parched throat because she knows she would never be the type of person to heed a warning like that. She would be inexplicably drawn to the bright bands of the coral snake, the shining gold of the death stalker scorpion. Almost unconsciously, she reaches and takes the pills in her hand. Her eyes are open staring blindly as she watches the scenes unfold on the screen in her mind. A child, blonde and happy, smiling up at her parents as she unwraps a birthday gift, a slim, shapely teenager eagerly going on her first date, an attractive young woman walking down the aisle, dressed in white, on her father’s arm. She remembers these sensations but doesn’t know why. Surely that wasn’t her? Was she ever happy? Did she ever really feel that joy, that excitement, that sweet anticipation? The reel continues to play, fading to a slightly older woman now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her lip open and bleeding, silent tears falling. Nodding, she thinks, yes, I do remember this. This was me. And later, more tears, more bruises, more blood. More shattered dreams laying like the jagged pieces of a broken mirror at her feet, as she stares down in horror at them. Watching her life play out she finds herself swimming once again in that dark and dismal pool of self-doubt, self-loathing and utter wretchedness that has become her existence in this world. The words inside her head she recites like a mantra, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Over and over as if they hold some magical power to suddenly transform her, transform what she’s become into what she was meant to be. Looking around, disoriented, she doesn’t find the smiling, doting husband she though would be hers, she doesn’t see the laughing, playful children who would look at her with adoration knowing in their hearts that she was indeed infallible. She sighs and thinks, “there is no life here,” and with that thought swallows a handful of sweet release.

i don't care what size you are

this may come as a complete and utter shock to most of you guys out there but women, girls, whatever, do not, and i repeat DO NOT care about the size of your penis. we also don't care how horny you are, how hard you are or how sexy you think we are. we know that your condition probably has more to do with the fact that you just finished watching grade B internet porn or were playing around in your sister's underwear drawer than any allure we might hold for you. we do not allow ourselves to be ruled by our egos or our libidos. and don't instant message us on aim, yahoo, skype, msn or any of the other messenger services out there and immediately think we're sitting there waiting on you to ask us to cam with you. the odds of that occurring are exceedingly low. a well thought out and considerate conversation will get you a lot further with us than that single phrase every female on the internet is tired of hearing...."hey babe, u got a cam?"
and while i'm at it, lets talk about the issue you seem to have that allows the size of that appendage you put so much importance on to define your character and personality. let it be duly noted, for the record, that the bigger you say you are, the more likely you will turn out to be a complete ass. i can't emphasize this enough: you should be much more than the length, width, shape, color or texture of your "equipment" also, be warned, we now know to immediately deduct 2 inches off whatever measurement you give us to reflect a more accurate description of your "man parts."
so, do yourselves a favor, save yourself the embarassment and just grow the hell up. we no longer judge a boy by the size of his toy.

happy thoughts

closing my eyes and listening, not just with my ears but with each of my senses, with my heart and with my soul. seeing a vision playing out in full and wonderous color, just for me. a smile playing at my lips. i can feel the gentle summer breeze blowing through the sheers at the kitchen window, lightly fluttering and dancing to unheard music, knowing that if i look through the window i'll see a magnificent wrap around porch. a little bit too big for the scale of the house its attached to but thats ok because on warm summer nights, the rocking chairs are inviting me to sit, listen to the crickets chirp, and forget about everything but the stillness and the romance of the night. but for now i lean back against the countertop, smell the rich sweetness of freshly baked bread and hear the old screen door open, slightly squeaking and then shutting with the force of its own weight. it bounces a time or two before settling back into the frame of the doorway. cocking my head and waiting for the next sound, floorboards creaking softly beneath the weight of shoes, the sharp tap of heels hitting floor at a leisurely pace. my heartbeat quickens, my breath catches and the smile on my face broadens. with my eyes still closed i feel His presense entering my space, both commanding and gentle, boisterous and quiet, dominant and giving. the cat brushes up against my leg as i feel his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me into Him as He bends and lightly kisses my neck. sighing deeply and finally knowing a contentment so deep i can taste it in His kiss, feel it in His arms, hear it in His voice, see it in His eyes and smell it in the very air we breathe. i'm finally at home, with Him, in my perfect world.

monsters

i believe in monsters. without a doubt. they lurk in the shadows of dark, gray places, shuffling in the quiet of early morning. waiting for an opportunity to show itself to them. knowing that patience will reap its own benefits in the end. we can try to deny their existence. we can refuse to give them validity. we can boast about our invincibility in the face of their terror. but in the end, when we're left alone with our doubts and our fears and our inadequacies, we still tremble in fear at the inevitable. the monsters will raise their heads from the deepest corners of our minds, take a bold step towards us, like a hunter stalking its prey, its senses heightened by our insecurities, honing in on our weakness. occasionally, it'll play with us like a cat with a trapped mouse. and at other times, it springs, violently and suddenly, catching us completely unaware. but no matter the method of its attack, attack it does. slashing and gnawing at us, leaving us too weak to fight, drained and worn and humbled. and each time it crawls away, satiated, we're left to wonder....why didn't it just finish me when it had the chance?

may-december

she spent half her life waiting for him to come into this world. and the other half waiting for him to grow up. it seemed to her that the entire expanse of her time on this earth was spending waiting on him. and she waits still. for what exactly, she isn't sure. but somewhere deep down she knows whatever that something is, it won't be pleasant. she waits for him to call. she waits for him to think of her. she waits for the day when he doesn't call anymore. she knows there's no hope for a relationship like this. she understands the gap, but when she thinks of his voice, it doesn't matter. shielding herself from the inevitable hurt isn't as important as hearing his voice one more time. she knows she belongs to him completely. she knows he doesn't belong to her. at all. the inequities of life are extant. she sighs....and waits.

time marches on

the zeal of youth. their passions sear them like an all-consuming fire. burning brightly, mezmerizing and tantalizing. spreading and fanning the flames, preaching the gospel of truth as they see it, while the rest of the world stands back watching, wondering, rationalizing, puzzling. its a responsibility. a heavy one at that. this evangelizing of the young. and only the young can stand up to it. but after a time, it begins to wear them down, dragging them lower and lower until one day, they wake up, tired to the bone, their eye sight fading and their bones creaking. aches where there were none the day before. and they notice the burn is not quite so intense now. age is dousing it, cooling quicker and quicker until ice begins to form where once there was heat. and as a last concerted effort, the wrinkled hand struggles to lift the torch and pass it along to the next generation of revolutionaries.