Recent transaction I made:
"Yes, hello, memory correction service? Good. I need some bogus memories of the past 17 years replaced with the actual events, can you help?"
"Of course we can. We offer deluxe packages that dig through your remembered thoughts and dredge up the actual events as they happened. This way, you have the real memory and not the supposed or wished for event."
"Perfect. Hook me up. I have 17 I want to turn into real events, please."
::: Memory adjustment begin :::
17. Me asking you out. Old memory: you blushing and sweet and making a cute joke. New: you blubbering through a response, not paying attention and laughing at your friends behind me making faces at you.
16. First date to a college football game. Old memory: buying me dinner and discussing football with me. New: making me go up to the nosebleeds when I hate heights, and buying me a nasty stadium dog.
15. Playing miniature golf and keeping all the scorecards. Old: thinking it’d be a great reminder of who won what games and have a tally for life. New: shriveling in the heat while you complain about eating too much for dinner and having seriously noxious gas while on vacation.
14. Getting married. Old: coolest day we spent together. New: day before Easter, you didn’t help plan a wedding, your family sponging off my parents for lunch – which was spaghetti which I HATE.
13. Honeymoon. Old: fun on the beach. New: you yell at me on the way down saying I have too high of expectations and nothing will ever be perfect.
12. Buying a house together. Old: “We own trees” New: never cleaned it, never helped repair it, left it without looking back.
11. You having surgery. Old: you actually needed me. New: you whined and bitched and moaned and didn’t think anything I did was good enough.
10. Eating lunch with you at work. Old: get to see you in the evening when you were in school and working. Now: was your secretary and had to handle all the paperwork of your education.
9. Sitting on the deck in the evenings drinking a beer while you smoked a cigar. Old: chillin’ with my best friend talkin’ about the day. New: getting chewed alive by bugs while inhaling toxic fumes to which I’m allergic while listening to you tell me how wonderful all your plans are.
8. Going to your football games. Old: football coach’s wife, sitting in the stands. New: you never home ignoring me for your stupid plays, pitching a fit if I didn’t come to one of your games in a hailstorm in the middle of winter.
7. Going out to eat dinner. Old: time together, no dishes. New: you always inviting my friend along so you’d have someone to talk to.
6. Being generous to my friends. Old: glad you got along with her so we could do things. New: you falling in love with her.
5. Golfing together. Old: someone to play with finally. New: you telling me I’ve ruined the sport for you since your buddies would rather golf with me.
4. Driving me to work in the snow. Old: you’re dependable because I can’t drive worth crap. New: bitching and complaining about having to do something that would keep me safe.
3. Buying me pretty, sparkly bauble for 10 year anniversary. Old: you know what I like, and it has hearts. New: you fell for my best friend two months later – turns out she helped pick it out.
2. Emailing me at work everyday. Old: awesome that we get to talk all the time. New: using email and texting to cheat on me.
1. Anything you’ve ever done that was remotely nice or sweet. Old: you’re the best friend and husband. New: you cheated on me with my best friend and accused me of alienating people and said you couldn’t wait to see what life would be like without me.
::: Purge complete. Memories now replaced with reality. Have a nice day.:::
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It's time for a new allegory
I’ve been struggling for so long now. Just flipping lost in a black jungle filled with vines that want to trip me so that I can’t walk more than a few steps without falling, poisonous creatures that like to bite and send me into deep comas where there is no light, and the cold. It’s a bitter cold that seeps through any crack or pore in the skin and wraps its icy appendages around my bones and constricts until all the real warmth I’d accumulated over a lifetime was sucked mercilessly from my body.
The fact that I’ve been lost is not new to me; I’ve just not been able to put it in a way I could understand it. It’s like watching your life from a different vantage point. You can see the bad things happening, even see them transpiring in the distance, and yet you’re stuck on the damn railroad track. Stuck, held as if by powerful magnets designed to work against your very thoughts – so yeah, they ain’t letting go anytime soon. And the death train is getting closer and closer – it sounds the deep resonating whistle that stirs our very blood to the nearness of danger; and yet I still couldn’t move.
My eyes glazed over knowing I was going to be hit, smashed, obliterated by my sheer inability to jump from the tracks. Actually, there was nowhere to go if I jumped – did I mention I was stranded on a trestle over a deep gorge filled with sharp rocks and a flowing river determined to drown me. The train was a better choice, in reality and in retrospect.
And hit me it did. The force knocked me silly, bounced me off the tracks and blew me onto a nearby deserted island in the river. I was numb from the collision, thank goodness. Life was a haze of people calling to me from the river banks, trying to reach me, trying to send me life rafts, life ropes, hell, someone even airlifted in a case of Coke. I appreciated that. I was so lifeless that I curled into a fetal position and didn’t try to figure out what happened to me. I didn’t care. It was quiet on my island, at first. I could ignore people; I could ignore me.
But unfortunately the island became overgrown with silence and the numbness seeped too far into my brain, and those with good intentions just had to have me back. Some people missed me; I don’t know why. I didn’t even miss me. Totally disappearing is an interesting concept. But, here I am now. And, contrary to what people originally thought, I’ve been totally lost for a while because I’ve been forced to exist outside my tiny black island with no cognitive functions. I didn’t have any more metaphors to compare anything to so I’d have a nice order in my head. A way to understand this random new life. It’s been raw, and I’ve been failing - just letting waves of nothingness cover everything.
So I have to find a way to live off the nice black island. No more barreling death trains or islands of solitude. It’s wakey-wakey time.
New: Where I find myself now is standing next to a mangled mess of a large, luxurious car. I think it was an azure blue, and it’s been crumpled in front of me with mangled steel and fiberglass littering the ground around me. I had my safety restraints and airbag and they protected me the best they could – very well actually. But I’m still bloodied and bruised and now confused standing over the wreck that, well used to be my single most important thing (kinda). I managed to crawl out of it, and am still a little to shaken to stand. I sit in the grass medium staring at the gross wreckage wondering what happened – cause I’m foggy on that, like with most crashes. But instead of being alone, my cell is in my hand, there are people in sight, other cars who’ve stopped to help. And I can hear emergency vehicles in the distance. Now, I’m waiting to stand again.
The fact that I’ve been lost is not new to me; I’ve just not been able to put it in a way I could understand it. It’s like watching your life from a different vantage point. You can see the bad things happening, even see them transpiring in the distance, and yet you’re stuck on the damn railroad track. Stuck, held as if by powerful magnets designed to work against your very thoughts – so yeah, they ain’t letting go anytime soon. And the death train is getting closer and closer – it sounds the deep resonating whistle that stirs our very blood to the nearness of danger; and yet I still couldn’t move.
My eyes glazed over knowing I was going to be hit, smashed, obliterated by my sheer inability to jump from the tracks. Actually, there was nowhere to go if I jumped – did I mention I was stranded on a trestle over a deep gorge filled with sharp rocks and a flowing river determined to drown me. The train was a better choice, in reality and in retrospect.
And hit me it did. The force knocked me silly, bounced me off the tracks and blew me onto a nearby deserted island in the river. I was numb from the collision, thank goodness. Life was a haze of people calling to me from the river banks, trying to reach me, trying to send me life rafts, life ropes, hell, someone even airlifted in a case of Coke. I appreciated that. I was so lifeless that I curled into a fetal position and didn’t try to figure out what happened to me. I didn’t care. It was quiet on my island, at first. I could ignore people; I could ignore me.
But unfortunately the island became overgrown with silence and the numbness seeped too far into my brain, and those with good intentions just had to have me back. Some people missed me; I don’t know why. I didn’t even miss me. Totally disappearing is an interesting concept. But, here I am now. And, contrary to what people originally thought, I’ve been totally lost for a while because I’ve been forced to exist outside my tiny black island with no cognitive functions. I didn’t have any more metaphors to compare anything to so I’d have a nice order in my head. A way to understand this random new life. It’s been raw, and I’ve been failing - just letting waves of nothingness cover everything.
So I have to find a way to live off the nice black island. No more barreling death trains or islands of solitude. It’s wakey-wakey time.
New: Where I find myself now is standing next to a mangled mess of a large, luxurious car. I think it was an azure blue, and it’s been crumpled in front of me with mangled steel and fiberglass littering the ground around me. I had my safety restraints and airbag and they protected me the best they could – very well actually. But I’m still bloodied and bruised and now confused standing over the wreck that, well used to be my single most important thing (kinda). I managed to crawl out of it, and am still a little to shaken to stand. I sit in the grass medium staring at the gross wreckage wondering what happened – cause I’m foggy on that, like with most crashes. But instead of being alone, my cell is in my hand, there are people in sight, other cars who’ve stopped to help. And I can hear emergency vehicles in the distance. Now, I’m waiting to stand again.
Monday, March 16, 2009
50 reasons Im happy right now.
Reasons my life is better now than 4 months ago, in no random order: (gotta find something positive in all the crazyness)
1. I can listen to music as loud as i want
2. i can sleep in as late as I want (you get the gist of the beginning of each)
3. go to bed as late as I want
4. take whoever I want to bed
5. not take anyone to bed
6. having the whole bed to sprawl out in
7. drinking in bed
8. drinking on the floor
9. drinking on the deck (you get the gist of these)
10. being a able to take a bath because dudes do gross nasty things in the shower.
11. Penn Relays - dream of a lifetime.
12. text anyone I want
13. phone sex with random strangers (okay, but not really, but I could)
14. laundry right now
15. grocery shopping one day a week - as in each and every day
16. not having to eat dinner every freakin' day
17. no more ESPN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (ladies give me the high five)
18. bloggin
19. kicking my shoes off where ever i want
20. not being rushed in the bookstore
21. going to any damn movie I want to, chick flick or other
22. driving as fast as I want
23. not feeling bad for reading
24. reading any damn thing I want when i want
25. not listening to someone else whine about his/her cold
26. putting off random house chores
27. grilling steak the way I want it done
28. gaining back confidence
29. no one telling me Im annoying - i can be as pain in the ass as i wanna be now, fuckers.
30. stopping to pet the stray cats in Petco
31. feeding stray cats at my house
32. feeding the birds, and spilling the sunflower seeds on the ground - because hey, it's MY money now.
33. stepping over cat puke and not hearing someone bitching about how fast i should clean it up - that's a big Duh!
34. bathroom time all to myself - no more random pop-ins.
35. more friends
36. self awareness that i rock
37. no more dead weight to drag around
38. being hit on at a bar and knowing I could go home with said dude, if I wanted
39. not dealing with anyone else's bad mood but my own.
40. being able to write this list and stopping here because i could go on, but I seriously doubt that anyone will ever read this far or give enough of a shit to care.
41. going on cuz i don't want to lose
42. finding a long lost friend on Facebook
43. Obama and the stimulus plan
44. friends find me online
45. my cousin moving back to the east coast
46. playing golf and enjoying myself
47. gonna win states
48. getting to know my parents again
49. The Fray dropped a kick ass album - yeah I like mellow shit
50. Knowing the friend who challenged me find 50 reasons just ate his words
Friday, March 13, 2009
Mini scare tactics
Death comes in the form of a 2008 black Chevy Tahoe, or maybe a 2002 Ford Focus – but whatever the car – there is one constant behind the wheel, the driving force of destruction – the parent picking up their little darlin’ at 340 when the final bell of the day releases the mini-Satans into the custody of their creators. The antics of the mini-Lucifers is definitely a blog for another day – so this is all about the demons sitting in their mini-vans, muscle cars, gas guzzlers, pieces of shit, and plain ol’ two axle conveyances.
Every day the bell rings at the same time. The same time. No surprises. 340. Your child won’t exit the building one minute before that, but some parents just don’t get it – it’s very like discussing politics with a rock and expecting the rock to suddenly develop the formula for Middle East Peace. The parents begin the Indy 500 line up around 315 – just in case we let out early one day. And these people take their place in line as serious as a free month’s supply of groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Usually it’s the same cars lined up each day in a random order, depending on who arrived first. And these soccer moms take this personal if they aren’t the first vehicle next to the door when it explodes with hundreds of hormone-addled hyper 12-year-olds.
Because if you aren’t first, then you are stuck in the slog that is the two block backlog that weaves around the building until about 355. It’s like being tied to a whipping post and being flogged every few seconds as you watch others breeze through the torture line. And pain be to the person stuck trying to go against the flow of over anxious moms battling younger siblings and leave the parking lot on the back edge of the school. They glare venomous hate at you because they think you’re getting away with something by not sitting in the line straight from the 10th circle of hell.
Some stick their heads, all coiffed within an inch of the hair’s fake blonde life, and yell “You need to get in line. You will kill a child going the wrong way.” That would be some serious points then, I think like yelling back.
There have even been fist fights in the parking lot among parents who have accused one or another of cutting in line. Like their precious darlin’ can’t walk the extra five steps to the mom-wagon? The best part is when the moms start high-revving their engines to each other. I’m waiting for some serious drag racing to break out in the parking lot. I can see it now, a three-year old sibling will drop the obsequious report card filled with A’s (every soccer mom’s porn) between the racing vehicles. Amid screaming and screeching tires, the moms race with wild abandon to be the first to the double doors at the end of the school – stopping just short when the sheriff’s deputy finally steps outside to regulate the commotion.
No teacher is within a mile of the disaster. Many hide in their rooms knowing so many parents are on the premises – I don’t know why – the parents are all about the line. No one is gonna break this tradition.
Every day the bell rings at the same time. The same time. No surprises. 340. Your child won’t exit the building one minute before that, but some parents just don’t get it – it’s very like discussing politics with a rock and expecting the rock to suddenly develop the formula for Middle East Peace. The parents begin the Indy 500 line up around 315 – just in case we let out early one day. And these people take their place in line as serious as a free month’s supply of groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Usually it’s the same cars lined up each day in a random order, depending on who arrived first. And these soccer moms take this personal if they aren’t the first vehicle next to the door when it explodes with hundreds of hormone-addled hyper 12-year-olds.
Because if you aren’t first, then you are stuck in the slog that is the two block backlog that weaves around the building until about 355. It’s like being tied to a whipping post and being flogged every few seconds as you watch others breeze through the torture line. And pain be to the person stuck trying to go against the flow of over anxious moms battling younger siblings and leave the parking lot on the back edge of the school. They glare venomous hate at you because they think you’re getting away with something by not sitting in the line straight from the 10th circle of hell.
Some stick their heads, all coiffed within an inch of the hair’s fake blonde life, and yell “You need to get in line. You will kill a child going the wrong way.” That would be some serious points then, I think like yelling back.
There have even been fist fights in the parking lot among parents who have accused one or another of cutting in line. Like their precious darlin’ can’t walk the extra five steps to the mom-wagon? The best part is when the moms start high-revving their engines to each other. I’m waiting for some serious drag racing to break out in the parking lot. I can see it now, a three-year old sibling will drop the obsequious report card filled with A’s (every soccer mom’s porn) between the racing vehicles. Amid screaming and screeching tires, the moms race with wild abandon to be the first to the double doors at the end of the school – stopping just short when the sheriff’s deputy finally steps outside to regulate the commotion.
No teacher is within a mile of the disaster. Many hide in their rooms knowing so many parents are on the premises – I don’t know why – the parents are all about the line. No one is gonna break this tradition.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Wet Paper Bag Hell Not So Good
It’s nice and scary waking up and realizing you’re still alive. I kinda forgot what it was like to feel things. I think I’ve been living in a dark, wet paper bag. It was pitch black and every so often a rancid smell of rotting corpses would wash over me. It was easier to stop feeling and living while existing in the world of wet paper bag hell. Oh, and for those keeping track, wet paper bag hell is one step below the handbasket ride to hell. When in the paper bag you’re already in hell, not just traveling there. You can’t hear anything or even participate in your own life. Things just happen for you and you feel like a moron because you’re in hell and can’t really even move or speak to change the course of the direction you’re heading.
Despite my recent foray into Satan’s anteroom, I think I managed to find my way to the edge of the wet paper bag hell – no I’ve not yet escaped from its dastardly clutches, but damn if Im not in the neck of the back and away from the zombie-like creatures who crawl around on the walls in the back. They’re the ones emitting the putrid dead animal smell – avoid them they have strange sticky skin and long dagger-like teeth that are as sharp as lasers. They also have this amazing talent of whispering sweet nothings into your ear. They convince of things you want; make you think that there are things that you can’t live without and you must pursue these items or people at any cost. What a flippin crock – and yet so easy to fall for in a place with no light and no reason.
Im glad to be rid of those personal demons – nasty business. Here in the neck of wet paper bag hell the more important things are needs. It’s much easier to determine between want and need here. And, in fact, I have left go some of my wants. (Like a Shelby Cobra is all that necessary in the mountains and snow). And as soon as I started letting go – I got some of my needs taken care of – some I had forgotten I had. But every so often one of those damned personal demon type creatures calls to me and I lapse back into my impatient wants. Damn. But now, there is enough gray light, here in the neck of hell, that I can ignore the wants after a few minutes of severe salivating. For example – I want a guy who will adore me every second of every day – but really I need someone who will just worry whether I made it to work or not. I want a guy who will call me every night and listen to every mundane thing that happened to me that day – but really, I need someone who will just show up occasionally and know me well enough to realize I just talk to hear my own voice sometimes.
Oh, and here’s something I didn’t realize I needed, until it hit me like a pile of rancid meat, people who are willing to run through a brick wall for me. I got ‘em. I’d forgotten about them in the back of the bag while I was being plied with ridiculous thoughts like “hey, you’re a loser.” Those damn demons again. But I kinda reintroduced myself to them, and am better for it. Having your own personal army is a nice thing. Very safe.
So I am currently stumbling my way to the entrance of the big ass wet paper bag, trying to avoid the walls, they are amazingly sticky and want to capture a person’s determination and slowly draw them back to the pitch black so the smelly demons can drool on you. Icky. It’s been an interesting trip – one I’ll not be taking anytime soon again. Well – I gotta find the damn door outta the bag first. Im still in the grey area – but it’s getting lighter.
Despite my recent foray into Satan’s anteroom, I think I managed to find my way to the edge of the wet paper bag hell – no I’ve not yet escaped from its dastardly clutches, but damn if Im not in the neck of the back and away from the zombie-like creatures who crawl around on the walls in the back. They’re the ones emitting the putrid dead animal smell – avoid them they have strange sticky skin and long dagger-like teeth that are as sharp as lasers. They also have this amazing talent of whispering sweet nothings into your ear. They convince of things you want; make you think that there are things that you can’t live without and you must pursue these items or people at any cost. What a flippin crock – and yet so easy to fall for in a place with no light and no reason.
Im glad to be rid of those personal demons – nasty business. Here in the neck of wet paper bag hell the more important things are needs. It’s much easier to determine between want and need here. And, in fact, I have left go some of my wants. (Like a Shelby Cobra is all that necessary in the mountains and snow). And as soon as I started letting go – I got some of my needs taken care of – some I had forgotten I had. But every so often one of those damned personal demon type creatures calls to me and I lapse back into my impatient wants. Damn. But now, there is enough gray light, here in the neck of hell, that I can ignore the wants after a few minutes of severe salivating. For example – I want a guy who will adore me every second of every day – but really I need someone who will just worry whether I made it to work or not. I want a guy who will call me every night and listen to every mundane thing that happened to me that day – but really, I need someone who will just show up occasionally and know me well enough to realize I just talk to hear my own voice sometimes.
Oh, and here’s something I didn’t realize I needed, until it hit me like a pile of rancid meat, people who are willing to run through a brick wall for me. I got ‘em. I’d forgotten about them in the back of the bag while I was being plied with ridiculous thoughts like “hey, you’re a loser.” Those damn demons again. But I kinda reintroduced myself to them, and am better for it. Having your own personal army is a nice thing. Very safe.
So I am currently stumbling my way to the entrance of the big ass wet paper bag, trying to avoid the walls, they are amazingly sticky and want to capture a person’s determination and slowly draw them back to the pitch black so the smelly demons can drool on you. Icky. It’s been an interesting trip – one I’ll not be taking anytime soon again. Well – I gotta find the damn door outta the bag first. Im still in the grey area – but it’s getting lighter.
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