... and that was when I found myself saying "Sure, you can put the pumpkin on my head."
This was quickly followed by my boss's entrance, and subsequent (and ever so subtle) "I don't know if I can handle this place today" as he exited. He was laughing. I assume that's a good thing.
I love people who are cooler about these things than I am. Especially art. At work.
(Photos, pumpkin, concept, and other assorted awesomeness credited to Phoebe, please.)
Having had one of the worst weeks of my adult life, I have to say that if I knew that the price for being able to eat dessert for breakfast whenever I want to was everything that's just happened I'd have to reconsider this whole decision to grow up thing.
One one hand we have brownie ala mode before any other meal of the day whenever I actually feel like putting forth the effort into obtaining one. This is a serious plus. I can imagine in my mind right now exactly how good that brownie tastes being the first meal of the day. Also, not having a set bedtime, being able to play in the rain without being chided, and taking delight in the simple childish activities that I took for granted (or simply never did) as a child. These are truly the best parts about being an adult.
On the other we have funereal trips, imminent sale and subsequent destruction of treasured childhood homes, bitter family feuds that it is no longer socially acceptable for me to lock myself into the bathroom to avoid, the worry of losing my shit and going to jail for beating my stepmother (possibly to death) because now I can be tried as an adult, cancer announcements, and people I love having horrible painful sicknesses that result in horrible painful surgeries that result in dying eventually anyway.
But I fell for the sugary lure of brownies for breakfast. I feel like I've signed a contract with some kind of trickster god or slimy banker. Like this is the turning point where I have to give doubly for what I've received. Or possibly this is when I realize how shitty my interest rate really is. Damn me at 18. If only I had known the hidden cost I'd have never consented to all this adult nonsense in the first place.
I thought about punching a wall today, because I’m suspicious that my brain has forgotten what it tastes like to suck drywall and blood off your knuckles.
I’m so tired that everything tastes like salt, especially before 8am.
During the zombie apocalypse our greatest enemy, no matter what it may seem, will be boredom. In case of alien invasion, this will be less true. At least according to my dreams.
I got a terrible haircut and secretly love it, despite what I keep telling people.
When there are “too many” stars in the sky it spooks me a little.
Sometimes if I look at you askance I can see all your armor.
I almost forgot to pack good shoes for climbing trees and was ashamed until I realized that’s best experienced barefoot anyway.
None of this is bothering me at all.
I am so sad. This makes me so sad.
No more crippler cross face, ever ever again. Just let it be known that I have a special place in my heart for a man who is secure enough in himself to wear a pair of speedos with a pegasus on the ass. Even if that security comes, er came, from (allegedly) threatening his wife with violence and doing steroids.
What? Stop looking at me like that. I'm allowed to like "Professional" Wrestling. I mean it! Even if I'm a goth, girl, sane, whatever. This man was one of the modern greats. I'm bummed. v.v
Father’s day sucks. I mean, really sucks. If I could think of one fucking day a year to not have, it’d be Father’s day. It’s awkward, shitty, and always brings up a bunch of bad stuff that at this point in my life I am more than sick of thinking about. Really, it’s old hat by now.
It’s too bad I didn’t get drunk and lay on the floor writing letters to my dad that I’ll never send. I did that last year, it was grand. The only progress I’ve actually made in this whole ritual is that I didn’t attempt to shop for father’s day cards this year. That helps a lot, because quite frankly they don’t make cards that really suit any of my father figures. Really, when was the last time you saw a card that said:
A) I know that sometimes we didn’t get along when I was younger, but now that I realize you’ve lived your entire life in serious chronic pain that only makes you more hardcore. You may be a right bastard, but you’ve gotten much less so in your old age. It’s been kind of hard to watch you loose so much of yourself as you get older, but I think you’re doing a famous job of it. And I damn well think that if you want to raise another barn you should. so, I hope that someday you’ll get a chance to teach me to shoot like you do, although not teaching me to use guns when I was younger may have been the smartest thing you ever did. Thank you so much for being the only adult (as in older, much older) person I know that had a seriously shitty upbringing that doesn’t take it out on their family. Or at least on me. You’re seriously the only person I share any blood with that can be trusted at all. Happy Father’s Day Grandpa!
B) You suck. I’d say that I just want you to die, but god knows your other more important daughters don’t actually respect you enough take care of you when that starts to happen (I’m thinking cancer, like everyone else on your side of the family), so I imagine that’s the only scenario left in which our relationship can actually suck more. I think it’s really cool the way you have to lie to your new family about still keeping in contact with me because the people I spent 10 years of my life with, the people you drove me away to be with, hate me so badly they don’t want you to speak to me. So I hope you’ll forgive me if this just ends up in the big fucking pile of all the other stuff I never send you, because I am after all your daughter and that’d just be too damn proactive for me. I hate the fact that I’ve had eight years of shitty relationships in some sort of psychotic effort to prove to myself that I could ‘fix’ ours. I also hate that now that I’m in good relationship with a great guy the only things that we ever fight about always manage to boil down to you. Also, I still have that scar on my chin. Ok. I take that first part back. I hope you get hit by a bus. But not really. God I’m confused. Thanks a lot for that. Happy Father’s Day Dad!
C) I know after you ditched my mom you ran to , because she fucking looked you up the other day and found you. I know you think that might be far enough away to keep you safe, but you had still better pray every fucking day that she never decides to tell my grandfather what you did, you sick fuck. so you killed my cats, so I’m pretty sure that unless you’ve REALLY got a friend in Jesus my Gods of hate and fury are going to turn your innards to out-ards. At this point my grandfather might be preferable. How do you feel about shotgun wounds to the gut? Happy Father’s Day Shmuck My Mom most Married That One Time!
C) I don’t know why you keep sending me Christmas and Birthday cards even though I haven’t spoken to you since the divorce. 4 years of trying, and I still haven’t written back. What planet do you fucking live on? It’s almost as if you think that I didn’t actually ever see you hit my mom. Bet you don’t know that I used to stand outside your bedroom door those summers I stayed at your house with a knife in my hand trying to work up the courage to kill you. And all that other stuff you did to her? If you thought she wouldn’t tell me about that, you were wrong. I don’t care that you’re loaded and don’t have anyone to inherit all that money. You can’t fucking buy me. I seriously hope you get in a crippling accident and don’t die and have to live the rest of your life in a fucking hospital with nobody to visit you while you melt away in serious constant pain. I hope the boredom drives you to chew your tongue off, but the nurses get to you in time and you still don’t die. so, I hope the only thing they play in your hospital room is the fucking Lifetime channel. Happy Father’s Day Ex-Stepfather!
D) I’m not even sure I should be sending you one of these, but really, I didn’t want you to feel left out. I’m not sure how you managed to convince my family to move to Texas, but at this point in my life I’m sick of fighting to get my family to pick me over their newer, better families so whatever. I’m so beyond anything other than resigned bitterness at this point. Maybe someday you’ll irreparably fuck up too and then I’ll make some time to hate you but I’m too busy hating everybody else right now because honestly, you’re not remarkable enough to be anything other than annoying, and even that’s only when I actually have to be in the same room as you. I know you think you know me, and know you think that you have some sort of wisdom to impart to me but really, if you actually knew anything about me at all you’d fucking know better. You’re in love with the sound of your own voice giving sound to your ideas, but you actually do love my mom and that’ll get you some fucking tolerance for now. But just one warning, if you EVER try to guilt me into moving to again I will promptly lose my shit and get in your face, and it will not be cute. Happy Father’s Day Current (And possibly Future-Ex) Step-Father!
If you have seen these cards, please do not hesitate to notify me immediately. I know a few assholes that could really use some Father’s Day cheer.
Cheers, bastards. Cheers.
It's very easy to tell when you're underwater. You don't even have to open your eyes. Just listen. Listen carefully, and the water will let you know. Perhaps it's rushing. Perhaps it's still. Perhaps it's stagnant and dead. You'll know. If there's nothing else to listen to, listen for the sound of your heartbeat and you'll know. If you don't know what your heartbeat sounds like underwater then go fill up your bathtub, get in, hold your head under, and lay very still. Do this.
Do this because it is an important thing to know in case you wake up in a stagnant lake with nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat amplified by the water to let you know that you've gone under. Hopefully, you will at least have your heartbeat to help you identify your underwater status. I don't, but still somehow I know. I guess I know because everything smells blue and green, although I may have been tipped off by the slow fall of silt and sediment settling over my eyelids. Regardless, I toy with my knowing for a long time before I finally decide to open my eyes.
It's a long way up.
There's watery sunlight breaking through the patches of brown and green algae on the top of the water, but that may as well be on the other side of the world. Down here there's a different kind of light, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Underwater there's perpetual twilight, or perpetual pre-dawn. I can't really tell the difference. Tired of lying on my back and staring upward I roll over on my side, and prepare to push myself up so I can explore these strange watery surroundings, perhaps to find a clue as to why I came here. I nearly roll over the edge of the precipice I landed on and into the fathomless blackness below.
It's a long way down.
The sight of the drop unnerves me a little. I think for a moment that I can see far away giant shapes moving slowly in the darkness, but I cannot capture them in my direct gaze. The sole source of motion being at the corners of my eyes makes me dizzy and this time I nearly topple over the edge but falling underwater is so slow that I catch myself with both hands. Something on or near the back of my head is loosened by the motion, and creeps down the back of my neck, slightly warmer than the cool temperature of my surroundings. Once I'm righted on my ledge, I put a tentative hand to the back of my head and investigate.
In the hollow beneath the dome of my skull I find things suspiciously soft. I probe a little deeper, and the further I go, the warmer it is. Unsettled, I pull my fingers out and they come away with what I can only imagine is brain tissue. I roll the strings of tissue back and forth between my fingers; it's a little less tactilely pleasing that I imagined. It's pulpier, less spongy, but that could be from whatever knocked a piece of my skull out. I'm a little comforted by the fact that it's not as disturbing as I had imagined seeing my own brains would be. I let my hand return to the back of my head and gently run my fingers over the exposed area. It's about the size of my entire hand, palm and fingers combined. The edges of my skull around the opening are ragged and sharp with bits of scalp and hair hanging off the edges in some sort of pathetic effort to cover the wound. I run my hands through my long hair vigorously, parting it to the side instead of in the middle, knowing that this will help cover what I decide to think of from here on out as my "condition".
Bored with my "condition" (head wound) and a little afraid of the giant serpentine things lurking in the darkness below me, I decide that this is as good a time as any to go for a swim. There are types of fish in the water with me, but none of them will get too close. They're all pretty small, the largest being no more than two thirds the length of my forearm. Most are minnows, who shine in the almost dark by not much reflecting light as shining with their own inner luminescence. They run in ribbons around trees and rocks and small seaweed forests, a liquid silver road that constantly changes its destination. l the fish are silver, but only the minnows glow. I decide that this so blatantly where I should go that I head off in the opposite direction, around the side of the rock that I landed on and off towards the darker parts to the left of me. The distance I look into hints at larger fish, but whenever I try to focus in on them they play at being rocks or shells, or occasionally large bits of flotsam that float downward, further and further obscured by the deep until they become nothing at all.
I cast one look back at the shining path, and continue on my way.
Floating is like walking only you need less effort to actually make it happen. I amble down a wide but crooked path through the rocks that just up from the floor deep down below. I wind my way around huge clumps of seaweed and driftwood, trying to ignore all the little eyes hidden in the darkness of their floating fortresses. After a small eternity I reach the edge of a forest. Huge rotted trees, I almost remember they're oaks, rise up from the depths, their roots so deep down in the darkness that they seem to go on forever. The path is less clear here, and it's a little darker in the trees, but I drift in anyway. I shake off the foolish notion to look backwards and see if the minnow path is still visible. There are things you should never do in strange places. Things like eat, sleep, and look backwards. Things like stray from the path. The rules aren't too hard to keep to as long as you're mindful, and it keeps you a little safer. I know I'll need all of the safety I can get as I drift past the first of the giant oak trunks. Sometimes knowing is a terrible thing.
As I float onward, I realize there are no fish here in the woods. It's right about at that moment that I start to see what I think are fish, but realize are just the memories of fish that used to be. They hint at color and beautiful fins and circle me a few times apiece before they disappear into the murk between tree trunks. I repress my delight, and move onward. There are other memories there as well, now that I look, hiding just beyond the line of trees that mark the path. Broken crowns and old baby carriages, fine dresses and once familiar-now forgotten faces. A little further along a herd of horses breaks across my path, manes impossibly long and streaming wildly in the underwater currents. One slightly greenish horse stops just long enough for me to lay a hand on it before it turns on an ivory hoof and wheels a few feet further into a distance. Its blue eyes burn with a deep inner fire, and its body language is playful. I have to close my eyes and stand very still to keep from chasing it until I hear them dissolve into foam. Only then is it safe to open my eyes and continue onward. When I open my eyes they're all gone and the forest is completely silent. I continue onward, hoping my moment of weakness didn't cost me my sense of direction; everything here looks so alike it's impossible to tell if I'm coming or going. I assume I'm headed in the right direction when I reach a small clearing the likes of which I hadn't passed on my way in.
I consider stopping for a moment. I've suddenly become tired and painfully aware my condition (hole in my head). I hope that my brains haven't been leaking out behind me the whole way here, little brain crumbs and memories marking my passage into this strange forest. I swallow the urge to look back and make sure they haven't. Sometimes the rules are easier to hold to than others. Floating past the hollow is more like walking than the rest of my journey; my legs are heavy and tired, my feet sore. I manage to make it past the clearing without succumbing. Out of the corner of my eye I can almost see something underneath the open space, something enormous with unbalanced proportions of mouth to body. It stretches its jaws open so wide that I can hear teeth bigger than I am scraping against the tree trunks. I stand very still, unable to turn around and unwilling to move, hoping that even in my fatigue I managed to make it far enough to be safe. There's a deep groan that goes on for almost forever, and then the great toothed thing rushes upward, swallowing the couple ofdreamfish that lingered in the clearing. One giant eye regards me with hungry disappointment as it sweeps towards the surface. The greatfish's bulk is so huge and it's movement so forceful that my hair gets swept up in the wake of its departure, but I mange to think myself just heavy enough to not get swept away. I stand there still for a few moments, calming my nerves and counting my blessings before continuing onward.
I don't get very far before I. See. Her.
She's standing in the path waiting for me, as patient as the water itself. All it takes is one look at her to know she's no mermaid or naiad, nymph or siren. No, she's older than all those combined, too old for even a name. She's the Mother of pearls, and her children are merely shadows of her beauty. Long green hair, glowing skin of burnished silver and iridescent blue, full lips that I know would remind me of the sky if I could only remember what it looked like any more. I can't tell if she has a tail or legs. It seems to me that she has both at the same time, but thinking about that too much makes the hole in my head hurt so I just focus on the rest of her. She's naked except for the three strand bracelet of human teeth wound around her left hand, and the crown of fingers and seaweed that graces her brow. She moves slowly like only the greatest of predators can afford to. Every move speaks of a hunter's deliberateness. Her countenance speaks of old death. I realize that I've lost some of my brains, not my bravery, and meet her gaze. I loose a little of my initial fear when I see her eyes. They are the eyes of fish, empty and expressive only in some long-forgotten primitive way. Then I remember that I've forgotten myself and that she's the queen of this nothing place, and I'm merely a traveler in her space with a rather large hole for a skull. I muster up some genuine respect, make as best of a curtsey as I can underwater, and wait for her response.
She just stares, and for a moment I think maybe she's dead too, and just as lost here as I am. Then I look, I really look, and a chill creeps down my spine.
I can tell from the way that she stares hungrily at me with her fish eyes and the ever so careful way that smiles while keeping her teeth from showing that she's hungry. Somehow I know that behind those full blue lips are hundreds of thousands of tiny hooked needles of bone. With a coquettish toss of her weed-woven hair, she smiles again as she tries to hide that her mouth is made for eating slowly. I smile what I hope is my most dangerous smile, and go to move past. Underwater, there is no speed, no haste. We pass each other like icebergs. As our shoulders parallel, her hand reaches out and her bony fingers interlace with mine. She tugs gently and I turn in mid float to face her. She starts singing, and it's a song I can see as well as hear. The song, her song, is beautiful and soft and sad, full of highs and lows only the water can carry. I can almost remember where I've heard it before, but the memory slips away out the back of my head. Then the water starts to curl around her, forming shapes and visions. Things start to take shape in the curls of sediment and seaweed and tiny bubbles that form the miasma around her. Kings and sailors, whales and elephants, and white, white horses dance out of the ripples around her and tear off into the murk. Distressed at their departure and her inability to communicate to me what she needs to, her song turns more desperate, more violent. The vibrations of her delicate throat start to whip the water around us into a boiling frenzy. She is almost screaming now, and something I might once have thought of as pity compels me to squeeze her hand lightly in a comforting way.
The noise stops, but now she's staring at me again in that hungry way that makes me so uncomfortable. I decide to be bold. I reach my hand into the back of my head, ripping a handful of meat from the wound in my skull. There's no escaping this, I tell myself. Better to have it be my choice and be done with it. Never let it be said that I wasn't devoured on my own terms. It's warm and sticky, but I'm already starting to go numb in my arm. I thrust the wad of brain in her general direction, and reach in again for more with my left arm because my right has stopped working. That wad I manage to place directly in her hand. At least I'm pretty sure I did, because it's getting dark now and that makes it kind of hard to tell. I'm pretty sure that the darkness is actually the blood rushing out from my head, but I don't really need it anymore anyway. I can't even tell if I managed to make the queen have an expression or not, because I've started falling, spinning counter clockwise as I go, and already she's too far away to see.
The darkness now is genuine, not just a blood filled veil. I'm going down and down and down, and soon I'll settle at the roots of the great trees above and it'll be safe to sleep then.
Well, safe enough.
As I walk to the mailbox, good ol' familiar that it is, I begin to notice something rather awry.
There is not one mailbox on the corner, but two.
One is red.
One is blue.
Before I think in anymore Seussian rhymery, I read the inscriptions on both. The blue mailbox is weatherbeaten and friendly, and appears for all intents and purposes to be simply an ordinary mailbox with the pick-up times of 11am and 2pm.
The red one is shiny and new and inviting, and simply promises "Deliveries".
Eager, I unceremoniously dump my mail into the blue mailbox and with giddy hands yank open the chute on the red.
Bees flood out. Giant mutant bees. We're talking bees the size of small birds. They're pretty pissed that I disturbed their habitat. I give an apologetic shrug and back away slowly for as long as I can muster the courage to do so, treating the angry buzzing mob like you're supposed to treat a wild dog you come across in the street, carefully, quietly, leave its territory but show no fear....
The angry bees are patient with this charade, content to contemplate my calm departure for as long as I can manage to maintain it. They regardme cooly with emerald segmented eyes filled with rage and infinate patience.
I keep backing up for as long as I can before I finally turn tail and run.
The sound of a thousand tiny voices echoing through the valley wakes me from my slumber. The last conscious vestige of my mind remembers that I haven't been here since the last time I was actually here. It doesn't matter. This is always where I start, whether I remember it or not. This place is that deeply rooted in me, as much a part of me as my soul, chin, or nose. I look up, and realize I'm in the field, below the electric tower. It hums softly in response to my attention, and for a second threatens to drown out the singing voices. The sound of metal vibrating tapers off, almost shamefully. Everything here is so steeped in regret. I touch it with the flat of my hand, a benevolent gesture, but it blackens and hardens at my touch. The fact that it's all beyond healing has finally seeped into this sacred place. Even memory is tainted. I pull back, and notice that my fingers are enveloped in a blue frost. My fingernails are the kind of purple that makes people uncomfortable about their own bodies. I can't tell which came first, the blackened steel or my frosty touch, and am unable to reason out which was the cause and which the effect. It troubles me. That's when I notice you sleeping at my feet.
You've had a million different faces. Today you wear them all. I see a little of the wolf, the child, my twin, the highway man, the sword, the ace of wands, my childhood friend, a washing machine. You wear them all. Your guise is always perfect, but somewhere in the seat of my heart, I know. It's always you, and I always know. You flicker in and out for a moment, like some sort of b-movie special effect. I'm a little afraid to touch you with my frozen hand, so I nudge you with my toe. You rise, shifting form and shape as easily as changing you mind, and we're on our way.
We take the path that used to have the hedgerow but now only has a tangle of briars on one side. The other side has the ghost of a fence; just a few rusted wires and rotted out posts. I can see little jeweled eyes watching us from the rotted out remains of the stumps that are posts as we make our way down the ribbon of immaculately trimmed grass. I muse to myself that the path is longer than I remember. In addition to the cold and wind which I know are there but don't really feel, it makes for quite an epic feeling. I'm suddenly overcome by a profound feel of certainty that we will have to face many trials on this path. We crest the first hill and I catch sight of the first, a flock comprised of thousands of birds. They are all different sizes and shapes, yet still variation on the same species. Large eyed and brown with speckled heads, their dismay tears from their black throats as they darken the air before us. I look to you in this moment, and you're holding back because you can sense I'm afraid. I start to hum to myself at that point, a tuneless dirge. It's not good; it's just something to busy me while my fingers slide underneath the flesh of my rib cage. I hook them up and to the left. My index finger catches on a rib, and suddenly, just like the little red vending machines at the zoo or aquarium, my hand is full of corn kernels. It's just a handful, not much at all, but the cacophony and fluid motion stops and suddenly all eyes are on me. Hard and unblinking, they stare from their spotted faces. A few even open their beaks and pant, dark purple tongues lolling out, all dry and scaly. I rattle my handful of corn once, twice, and before I can reach three I pitch it over the (ghost)fence and into the barren field beyond where it scatters and bounces and rolls downhill far away from us. The hungry eyed birds debate their course of action for a split second before fleeing to the field where they proceed to destroy each other for the kernels. The sight of them wheeling and dancing with death in the sky chilling and somehow beautiful, but the noise is blood curdling and with a glance you convey to me quite efficiently that it is time to move on.
Before we get much further I notice a bird on the ground. It's not one of the killer flock but a sparrow. Small even for it's breed, it lays stunned on grass. I pick it up with my good hand, and it starts to come to, regarding me with contemplative eyes. We come to sort of an unspoken understanding, and I put the bird in my mouth. At that point a get an uncomfortable feeling of deja-vu, but it passes, and I can feel the sparrow's beak clacking comfortingly against the back of my teeth. I turn to you to see what you have to say about the whole thing, but you've had your back to me the whole time, still watching the bloody massacre of the birds from afar. The wind blows through your long/short/none/long hair and for a moment I'm overcome with a powerful sadness that reaches from the very ground up through my legs and into the core of my spine. You turn around, face shifting from friend to family to foe to mine to friend again, and we continue on.
The next valley between hills is quiet, and I'm almost certain that the birds might be the only trial we encounter this time. I can see none of the familiar mountains in the distance, and here, in the space between places, I feel our road might meet us with peace. Then I see her cresting over the hill, wilting the frozen greenery all around her as she stumbles across the soft ground in her strappy high heeled shoes. For a moment I think you've mistaken her for me, but I soon realize the rattling in the back of your pipes/throat/pipes is simply laughter. Her hair is lightened by the highlights that I was never allowed to have, and a simple tiara sits atop her golden curls. It's missing a few rhinestones. I decide not to call out or mention this to her, not out of some once held kindness but because I know that (with only some small amount of satisfaction she'll always be the beggar at the ball now. I think idly to myself that she should have some sort of theme song, to mark her passing though this place, but nothing immediately springs to mind. I content myself with silence to mark her approach to our progress.
As we close in I recognize her face. It's my sister, my step sister, grown into the little woman she'll always be. We close in and she stands very still in her prom dress, visibly frightened. It's a pink frothy thing that moves like the ocean as the wind that picked up plays havoc with her outfit. Her hair never moves. I try to pay her no mind, but her empty glass eyes remind me so much of her mother's that I'm frozen in time for a moment as everything slows to a crawl. The billowing pink waves of her dress, which has grown to enormous proportions, are blocking our way forward. Her painted face is no more or less like a doll's than it has ever been. We are almost close enough to brush hands now, and I'm still trying to figure out a way around without getting hopelessly tangled and drowning in her sea of chiffon. Now that we're close enough to speak, I hear her telling me she's frightened that I'll ruin this big day for her. I tell her that her telling me she's afraid of me is like her telling me that the sky is blue. In response she reaches up and tears out a hunk of her elaborately coiffed golden hair but my step mother is not there to see, so she sits down silently on the grass and I'm quite certain she would genuinely cry if only she could remember how. I think of some witty phrase pertaining to alligator tears, but forget before I can say anything. So we stand, you and I, and we wait for this tremor of false feeling to pass from her. Finally, frustrated by her constant getting in my way, I tell her that her shoes do not match her dress and as soon as I say the words they become true, her golden slippers turning to clunky black mary janes. She realizes this and dissolves into the ground slowly, first skin then flesh finally followed by bone, until only a few teeth and a tiara resting upon the now lifeless dress. One good gust of wind is all it takes to send the dress fluttering over into the field beyond the fence, and with our path clear yet again we continue onward.
You flicker in and out again, leaving a series of reverse shadows in your wake as you continue to press forward, jumping in and out of this place as quickly as you change your skin. I have to run to catch up, but it feels good. It's all wind in my hair as I climb up the hill next to you. We crest the hill together, shoulder to shoulder, and its a toss up as to who sees the next sight first. At the bottom of the hill lays the smoldering ruin of what I assume used to be a person. I think to myself that three is a sacred number, and that soon the trials will be over but I know that you'd tell me I was getting ahead of myself so I push the hope from my mind and let my feet carry me down where the wreck of a person is.
All of a sudden I'm staring up at you, or the sky, or both. I'm not sure. I can feel the papery crinkle of my skin as it smolders and flakes. I wonder how long it will take beetles to take up residency in my eyes. I'm tired, and I think to myself that I don't want to die in this no longer sacred place. Maybe once, before the unfortunate truth of reality eclipsed its remembered beauty or something overly flowery like that, but not now. Just simply not now. I look up at you, and you've changed back to the washing machine in your grief, one greenish purple tendril hanging out from underneath your lid. I applaud your decision. Washing machines can't cry. You rattle a little at that. I tell you that if I have to go here in this way that I want you to dump me in the dirt beneath the white pine. Old family spirits won't follow me there because someone, Olive the first corpse I'd ever seen, thought the sound of the wind through pine trees was unbearably sad.
For half an eternity you drag and drag and drag me on, and I look under the fence in It seems as good a place as any. Also, I request that you take the bird out of my mouth. It's gotten frightened, because the lapse in reality has forced it down into my throat where it sits, pecking furiously to get out. I had always thought the bird in my throat was angry, not scared. Knowing that it's just fear gives me an uncomfortable feeling in the hollow pit of my stomach and for the first time since the whole ordeal has started I'm glad that I'm dying. Washing machines can't dig, however, so I try to do you the service of dissolving into the dirt. First, there's the business with the bird. You're really not in a position to help me with that either, so I have to use what's left of my presence of mind to roll over on my side and try to cough it up. I taste blood and feathers, but that little bugger is pretty lodged in there. I just kind of let my head roll back because I'm tired of smoking and burning and pecking, and I'm finally content to take the sparrow with me into the earth if it really wants to go. I open my mouth slightly for a proper death rattle and it uses the force of it to finally rip through and leave a hole in my throat which hurts a little, though not as much as I'd expect, and I have just enough time to be grateful that it wasn't a whippoorwill and then I'm dead.
Being dead is kind of like being alive only with less moving. Also, things are either much lighter or heavier. My body, for instance. Everything about that is lighter except my feet, which are impossibly heavy. I assume that's because the dead are supposed to stay where they are for the rest of their un-lives. What with being dead and all it makes sense. I keep waiting to have some sort of real feelings about the situation but death has prepared me for a long comfortable stretch of boredom and I find myself just not caring. I gather enough oomph to muster a passing feeling of fondness for you, and you toss your sack over your shoulder and cast a look back at me through your one good eye.
So many one eyed old gods to choose from. I'd remember your name if I could remember your face, but death has a certain way of taking things away from you before you realized you had them.
Oh well, I’ve got a lot of time now anyway. The focus of the world narrows to you, choosing to go forward and face whatever other challenges there are for you to meet. Far be it from my corpse to stop you. The wind picks up again and I hope that you manage to restore the magic or joy or whathefuck ever brand of nice this place used to have. I know that's not your quest, but things have a tendency to happen around gods whether they're trying for it or not and I have just enough left in me to hope that's what your presence here will do.
It was a good run. Then there's nothing but silence and darkness for a very, very long time.
I always wake up surprised to be alive.
Arrrrrgh!
Ok.
Wait for it.
Waaaaaait for it.
Just a little longer.
Be patient.
Ok...
MONSTER TRUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There, I feel better.
A lot of people look at anorexia as a disease or a sickness, and guess what. They're right. It is. But that doesn't make the act of not eating any less fun for the rest of us non diseased persons. Plenty of people all over the world don't eat. Some choose to, some are born into unfortunate circumstances that make eating a luxury rather than a daily routine, and some are famous and everybody knows fame is all you need to sustain yourself. But aside from the squalor and the glamor, there's a whole world of fun to be had by means of self-starvation, even for us common folk! That's right people, you don't need to be rich and famous, or kind of rich and kind of famous, to delve into the luxurious pleasures of food deprevation. I'll not go into too much depth, but here are some of my guidelines for not eating for kicks. For you see, not eating is cheaper than drugs and in the long run is just as bad for you (which is an added bonus for all you self destructive yet thrifty types out there!). Not eating is also cheaper than eating. First, you have to assess if you are not eating for the right reasons or the wrong reasons. Examples of right reasons: Boredom: Hardly anyone ever things of not eating as a cure to boredom, but little do they know that once you stop eating, a whole world of fun opens up right before your eyes! How long can you make it without eating? Is this the hungriest you can get, or can you feel even more empty? How little can you eat and still not feel hungry? By modifying your behavior in a way that you body is not used to, you will begin to have questions about what you are experiencing, and how far you can push it. Only by continuing to not eat will you be able to find the answers you are looking for. Self starvation is also good for boredom because you will spend a lot of time thinking about whether or not you'll actually eat those two crackers or if you can make it another few hours. Stress: I don't usually advocate not eating as a way of dealing with stress because that borders on Anorexia. However, stress is the perfect set-up into the joy of self starvation. For many people, stress naturally suppresses their apatite, giving you a great platform to get started. And why spend all that time worrying about real life stresses when you can worry about calories, nutrition content, and whether or not your hair has started to fall out? By emptying your belly and filling your head you'll feel that stress just melt away. Anger: Not eating out of anger sounds strange at first, but is there really better way to make those people that pissed you off feel terrible then by slowly starving yourself into oblivion? I think not! Again, this is made easier by the fact that anger (stress) naturally suppresses the apatite. Note: this technique only works for people who have at least journeyman's status in passive-aggressiveness. Inebriation: Why spend lots of money on drugs or alcohol when you can just starve yourself straight to your happy place? This step may take a little more work than the instant gratification of other forms of inebriation, but the constant and sustainable high is well worth the wait. Slowly work yourself up to eating every third day and you'll float away on the euphoric feelings of dizziness, light headedness, and sleepiness. Also, the empty hollow feeling you get in your torso can also induce feelings of giddiness. Love your hangover? Don't worry, you'll crash soon enough. Self destructive tendencies: Again, I don't usually advocate this because it skirts too close to real eating disorders, but really, it's kind of brilliant. Nobody should have to bother having to answer all kinds of awkward questions, wearing long sleeved shirts in unseasonable weather, or worry about running out of space that is easily covered by conventional clothing. They can simply stop eating and gain that gnawing, sharp pain in their stomach constantly. I haven't done this one much myself but I imagine this reason would need a bit balancing of food and depravation than the other reasons because eventually you stop feeling hungry and just get a headache. Added bonus of watching yourself slowly disappear if you do it long enough! Examples of wrong reasons: Vanity: Really, looking like a dilapidated skeleton is not pretty. I think that Nicole Richie is about another 2 pounds away from being cast as Death in "The Four Horsemen". Unless you're trolling for necrophiliacs, there is no such thing as starving yourself beautiful. Only creepy people want to fuck skeletons. And I can pretty much guarantee you that you don't want to fuck those people. If you want to lose weight just diet and exercise or get addicted to diet pills like a normal person or something. Neurosis: Ok, hello! We are truly in Anorexia Territory now. If you feel compelled to not eat because of circumstances beyond your control, you need to seek immediate help. That way you can start not eating on good terms later on. But if you start down the rocky road of the AnaFriends, you may never come back. Remember, this is recreational not eating. You have to own your self-starvation. Don't let it own you. Please, think of the puppies. "I Forgot": That is some serious denial shit right there. I can get skipping a meal or even two, but nobody just forgets to eat for a couple of days. If you find yourself rationalizing your self starvation by constantly saying that you forget to eat, chances are you're either Anorexic of well on your way to becoming so. Just a reminder, and you'll hear me say this a lot, you have to own your self starvation. You need to be able to start eating again if you want to. Not that you'll want to. But just incase you change your mind, you need an exit strategy. Constantly forgetting to eat doesn't work to well with that. Acceptance: This kind of falls under vanity but I feel that it deserves its own section because it is one of the most popular reasons that school aged girls starve themselves. Guess what? School (high, college, etc.) is full of shitty people, and they won't like you whether you're starved skinny or not. And if you look deep enough, you'll realize that you pretty much hate them anyway. Just accept your life as an unloved mediocrity and move on. Self-starvation is not for you. It will not be fulfilling to you in all the ways you want it to be. You can't starve your way to fame, you can't starve your way to love, and you can't starve your way to beauty. The best a person like you can do with self starvation is starve your way to pity and therapy. Save yourself the time and effort and just move straight to depression. Ok! I'm glad we got that cleared up! I was going to go ahead and post my tips and techniques but I really want you to think about this and make sure that you fall into one of the right reason categories before providing you with more information. If you fall into a wrong reason category, get help or a life or whatever. Just don't read the next part because I don't want to be responsible for you fucking yourself up, because you can't take responsibility for your life and would just blame me for all your Anorexic problems anyway. See you next time! XXXOOOXOXOXOX!!!!! ~T~ P.S. I switched from K to T because T looks more slender and I feel it better represents my choice of hobbies. Go team recreational not eating! Yay! Also, today’s post was made possible by my unbridled love of reality televison such as ANTM and Search for the Next PCD, thought SFNPCD is more binge and purge than straight up dep.