I'm whining...again

I feel myself falling apart, leaving a huge disconnect between my brain and my body. I notice this when I answer the phone, knowing it's you on the other end.

No, you did not love me.
No, I wasn't happy.
Now? I'm tired.

Tell me to think of you and I'll remember how you left me. How she had shorter skirts and lighter hair. A smaller waist and smaller words.

No, I won't take you back.
No, I don't want to talk.
I don't know why I answered.

Remind me of the Sundays we spent together. In bed with my hair spiraled around your fingers. My cold feet pressed against your legs. The stubble on your chin scratching my shoulder. I'll tell you I missed you most on Mondays. I'm weakest on Wednesdays.

I know today is Wednesday.
No, there isn't somebody else.
I'm not looking.

Ask me why I'm content to be alone. I'll tell you about the burnt orange leaves crackling beneath me feet. How the cold air sounds different than summer's coos. Why I think silence in autumn is so sad. How I won't settle for someone who doesn't understand this.

No, you don't understand.
I know Autumn is an abstraction.
I already told you, there isn't somebody else.

Things I LOVE

I love...
that Barack Obama is our new president.
How an election can give me hope and something to believe in
How Sarah Palin will no longer be hailed as a beacon to represent women, giving all of womanhood a bad name.

How Ruth sings "Because" by the Beatles every time she takes a shower and I can hear her while doing homework in my room.
How Ruth is my best friend and sister who supports me when I say I want to be everything I'm incapable of being.
How Ruth compulsively buys jewelry and googles fabrigee eggs.

How Jon continues to find new ways to call me a lesbian whore.

How Esme smells.
How Esme will move to snuggle closer when I turn in my sleep.
How Esme leaves fur all over my bed.
How Esme will wiggle her way between me and whoever else sleeps next to me.

How it smells outside in the fall. Crisp is the only word I can think of to describe it.
Halloween.
Sitting on my roof with someone who promises to call in the morning, whether he does or not.

Feeling loved.
Being in love.
Not being lonely.

Dancing in the kitchen.
Making vegan pancakes on Sunday mornings.
Kissing.

Listening to an ex boyfriend beg for me back after I've finally moved on, so I can say "No." over and over.

Drinking whiskey.
Reading good writing.
Reading "Love Poem" by Paul Guest.

Fantasizing about being beautiful.

When I have realistic dreams.
When I remember my dreams.

Learning, believe it or not.

Northstar veggie burgers.

Billboards that say "BUSY!?!?!"

Drinking a glass of merlot while smoking a cigarette.

Mostly I love love.

This is just a list of things to sew me back together...sometimes I need to remind myself.

Summertime.

I'm done with you long days and short nights. Your hot hot weather. I'm finished with the trails of sweat dripping between my shoulder blades and collecting on my jeans.

Fuck you summer and your no summer romance. I'm done with your mosquitoes and bumble bees. I still hate you for frying my sunflowers.

I'm leaving you for the crisp autumn leaves. The only promise they make is not to promise anything.

Something I'm not used to writing. Bear with me while I attempt to evolve.

I thought I knew what love was and I wanted
to scatter it in pieces at my feet.
To pluck it from its grounding like a
porcelain vase cocooning flowers in its womb
and smack it on the floor.

The lavender and white orchids land quietly
while the rest cracks solid against cool kitchen tile.
I wanted to squeeze the shards in my hands,
watch the blood slide from my palms and
pray this would scar.

I wanted to pull my dress at every seem
til it tore from my body.
For the shrapnel to run my tights and
dig into my knees while I crawl across the floor.
I wanted to collapse on the sharp edges and
wait for you to find me here
in a stupor of laughter.

Mostly, I wanted you.

Unrelated Haikus

1.
I devoted the
day to remember your laugh.
I just cried instead.

2.
Mom taught us how to
hold our booze and forget how
to feel the longing.

3.
Maybe I should get
some medication to help
me fight the fake wasps.

4.
You said I was too
cold towards you. But I'm just weak
on your perfect hands.

5.
I thought about your lips
and wanted to steal a kiss
but feared your response.

6.
Sitting on my roof
chain smoking my cigarettes
wishing you were here.

7.
First time I missed you
I was eight hours away
pulling on Ruth's arm.

8.
I haven't dealt with
much since I turned four. I'm an
apathetic well.

Because I am known as "Squid"

http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=177

I can't help myself.

I really felt the need to post a picture of my new tattoo. It is on the left side of my lower back, going along my hip. It's my new favorite tattoo, courtesy of Ruth. She does beautiful work, and I am proud to have it.

A draft of something that lacks emotional distance. Bad Idea!

"All I wanna do these days is bitch." I tell him. He's pushing my bangs out of my eyes. I think he's listening, but nothing he says is in response to what I say. "I mean, I have so much going for me, but I'm just not happy, you know? I'm sad."

"You have these big Bambi eyes that always look wet." He tells me.
"I've got a full ride, Dad pays for everything, my job is just money to blow....why am I not happy?"
"And your hair is the exact same color as your eyes, this rich brown."
"Maybe it's because I'm fucking obese or something." I look over at the picture collage I made of models clipped from catalogs, my thinspiration.
"Your freckles are the same color too. You never see that. Usually it's those red-head freckles."
"I fucking hate my freckles."
"You curse like a sailor." Finally he responds to something I say. I think he's gonna partake in the conversation now, so I keep going.

"I don't want to be that girl that always has something to whine about when all people see is all this shit I have going for me."
"Why don't you write more?"
"I don't want to be the girl that is always complaining about nobody loving her."
"Write something for me."
"Maybe it's because I suck in the sac or something. Or maybe I'm a suck-ass kisser."
"At least a haiku or something. You used to always write those."
"It's probably because I have a small mouth and huge fucking chompers." I expose my teeth and bite the air between us.
"You're a great kisser." He says and puts his index finger between my teeth to stop me from gnawing away at the space between us. "And you're a minx in bed."
"You think so?"
"What? Like I don't know?"

That shuts me up for a second.
"We aren't gonna do this again."
"What?"
"Date, fool."
"No shit."
"See, I'm the girl that only has stories about ex's and no current guy. I'm living in the past."
"Yeah, me too."

He grabs my hand and squeezes three times. His eyes are glassy and his hair is in his face. He puts a cigarette between his lips, lights it, then hands it to me.

"Thanks." I say.
"So why aren't you happy?" He says, lighting a cigarette for himself.
"I dunno. Maybe because I've been having those dreams again."
"Coke?"
"Yeah. Too many people have been talking about it lately. It gets on my mind, I guess." I instinctively rub my nose and sniff.

I watch the smoke leak between his parted lips, knowing he's watching me.

On Republicans

They honestly believe in the bullshit they spew. It is terrifying and embittering.


Vote democrat...seriously.

Oh god

Pineapples soaked in vodka will fuck you up and make you a beligerent fool.

more haikus

7.
Runaway with me
to a place where nothing grows
and everything dies.

8.
You might notice me
the way that I notice you
if I were thinner.

9.
There's a ghost sleeping
where you used to lay your head
but without your smell.

10.
Walk away from me.
No. It's better if you run.
I wouldn't blame you.

11.
Fingers in my hair
as we sway in the kitchen
thinking, "This is love."

12.
I'd never been more
wrong than the moment I thought
I had all of you.

Haikus fom Nashville

1.
At the store I thought
that I saw you twice and hoped
I could bring you home.

2.
I bought some blue paint
for my bedroom that scares me.
Sleeping with lights on.

3.
My fear of the dark
was easily healed when you
would cocoon my spine.

4.
I love being here
in this fucking heat and not
knowing anyone.

5.
Mom makes soy meatballs
and invites more people here
but I miss you most.

6.
I liked the way you
looked at me the last night we
could spend together.

Let's talk about sex

Will it fit?

a) YES!
b) Make it fit!

Oh me oh my, I'm gonna miss my friends when I go to Tennessee.

An announcement

Contrary to what you may have heard, I'd like to set the record straight. Chopan is a dirty rumor spreader.

I am not a hooker.

...but I do anticipate a slut phase in my near future.

This is just a blog with no artistic value.

I have post batman depression. I can't think of anything I feel like doing besides watching batman again.

I LOVE BATMAN

I'm not just jumping on the Heath Ledger bandwagon either. (Even though he totally stole the show in that movie because he was by far the best character) I've seen ALL of the batman movies many times. As pathetic as it sounds, some days I just like to sit in my room and have a batman marathon and watch all of them back to back.

I could go on and on proclaiming my love for batman...Christian Bale being my favorite. He put Michael Keaton to shame.

anyway, the point of this isn't to dote on batman. If there is anything I learned from Jon and Ruth babbling about writing it is that every time you put something in words you have to put something at stake. What is my batman obsession's deeper meaning?

Could be a deep seeded desire for a man in pleather and odd sleeping habits. Could be an attempt to impose myself in a fantasy world where I feel protected by a winged (and sexxxy) man). Could be a fascination with echo location.

Whatever it may be, I am bat shit crazy (excuse me I mean guano crazy) for batman.

I wish I had a sense of humor so I'd write funny stories

Your eyes are a lighter blue when you cry. Two big baby blue wells sunken deep into your head. Not with a few tears, either. You have to be struggling to catch your breath, vision blurred, cheeks weighing down the corners of your mouth for your eyes to turn this light. It’s almost like you’re sobbing the color out of your irises.

You’re hard to look at when you’re like this.

“Sarah, please.” Is all you say when I close my bedroom door to blot your image out of my room.

“Sleep in the guest room. Leave when you wake up.” I mumble this through the door. My cheek pressed against the white frame. I know you hear me and I know you’re still standing on the other side.

It’s harder than I thought to pull my face from the frame. My arms feel thick and heavy. I pick up the clothes you have strewn across my floor and fold each T-shirt, sweater, and jeans. I pluck the paintings you made from my walls and stack them on your clothes. I pull the plastic ring from my finger, placing it on the painting of the skeletons. The skeletons had words hidden in their bones. A rib on the left read, “I love you.” The femur read, “I don’t want to die alone.”

I tighten my blue robe around my waist and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the femur. “Who said you were gonna die alone? I’m sure you’ll find some slut by then.” I yell towards the door. You take this as an invitation to re-enter. “I want to be with you when I die.”

“That’s dramatic.

“It’s honest.”

You sit next to me. Your thigh is against mine. My first instinct is to move closer to you, before scooting away.

“Sarah, please.” You say.

“Don’t do this. Don’t beg.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You always are.”

“I mean it.”

Before I can say, “You always mean it,” you press your lips to my cheek. For a second I feel myself give in. The breath leaves my lungs in one gust. My skin feels light, almost as if I’d leave it behind if you were to move me in any direction.

“Don’t kiss me.” My voice sounds weak, barely audible.

“Why?” You ask before kissing me again.

“That’s not how break-ups work. Don’t you get it? I’m done.” I stand up and stare down at your face. Your eyes are red and glassy. I imagine they feel like your eyelashes are twisted into knots.

“You’re done.” You whisper. You don’t ask, you just croak the word, “done.” I nod my head. “Well I’m not.” You say this defiantly while you stand up, and press me into the wall with your arms around my waist.

I feel your breath on my neck, and your moist cheek pressed against my shoulder. I’m losing my nerve.

“God damn it.” I say while allowing you to pull the edges of my robe. “I don’t have any will power.”

You exhale, “I’m sorry,” between kisses.

"I know." I say.

Another essay for my creative Non-fiction class

Daddy-Daughter Day

Daddy-Daughter Day was Mariam’s idea. That was before we called her Mariam, before she went to high school and insisted we call her Mariam. Back then she was Najwa, named after our grandma. Najwa was her middle name.

Naj was the oldest, followed by Ruth, then me. This was after the divorce. After Dad gained full custody. Dad went to work. The three of us went to school.

Najwa came up with her new idea during our walk from the bus stop to our front door. It was just something to make Dad happy. Something to soothe the deep circles beneath his dark brown eyes. Something to make him notice her.

“Let’s make Dad dinner,” Najwa looked at Ruth for a response, knowing I’d go along with whatever Ruth decided.

“We dunno how to cook, Naj.”

“I do. All you guys have to do is decorate.”

I looked at the two of them and adjusted my bright yellow Lisa Frank book bag with purple and pink kittens printed on the front.

Najwa’s version of cooking dinner was unwrapping some pop-tarts or microwaving a TV dinner. She instructed Ruth to make a card that read “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!” Ruth was in fourth grade and already a talented artist. She folded white computer paper down the center and wrote smooth letters with curls at the end of the Y’s in “Happy,” “Daddy,” and “Day.” She designed elaborate borders with stars and hearts then passed the paper to me.

“Write your name right here,” she pointed to an empty space on the card. I fumbled with the red crayon and scratched SARAH in all capital letters. She grabbed the card and spelled Ruth below my name. She drew a heart next to the R and I felt a pang of envy that I didn’t think of that first. Naj leaned over Ruth to sign her name in elegant letters. She handed Ruth and me a foil bag of pop tarts for dinner and shoed us away from the kitchen table. She put the TV dinner at Dad’s place at the table, the card next to the plastic plate.

We heard the garage door creak before we heard thick weary steps up to the door. Naj flung the door open and exclaimed, “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Daddy-Daughter Day! Come see.”

She led him to the table where he sat in front of the meal and eyed the card.

“Did you make this?” He looked right into Ruth’s blue eyes.

“Yeah.” She chewed the inside of her cheek and looked down.

“It’s beautiful Ruthie.” He pulled her to his side and squeezed. Ruth wrapped her arms around his thin waist. I jumped in his lap yelling over and over, “I signed my own name!”

Naj sat in the chair next to him and waited. She flicked the edges of the card and watched Dad kiss my freckled cheeks and compliment Ruth’s artistry.

“It was all my idea. Look. I made you dinner and fed the girls so you wouldn’t have to.”

“Oh thank you, Najwa. That was very thoughtful.”

I slid off his lap and moved to the chair across the table. I watched him drive the fork through the chicken patty, and dump salt on the mashed potatoes. His glasses slid down his nose when he looked down. Shoulders slouched and back curved, he always seemed tired and small.

Najwa must’ve thought Daddy-Daughter Day was a success. The next week she decided that Daddy-Daughter Day should happen at least once a week. She became more confident with the dinners, Ruth more elaborate with the cards. I thought it was a way to make Dad smile.

The last Daddy-Daughter Day Najwa made a baked potato to go with the chicken noodle soup she found in the cabinet. She stabbed holes in the potato and put it in the microwave like she’d seen Dad do many times. She set his spot at the table, signed her name next to mine and Ruth’s and put the card next to his plate. We heard the garage close and the car door slam. His steps were heavy. Najwa swung the door open, her arms outstretched, “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!”

“Oh thank you.” He said passively and bent down to squeeze Ruth to his chest with me close behind, eager to shove Ruth out of the way and claim Dad as my own.

“I thought I’d try something new today…” Naj was saying when Dad sat at the table. She flicked at the corners of the card, sitting in the chair next to his. Ruth and I sat across the table and watched his glasses slide down his nose, his shoulder slouch. He drove the fork into the potato.

“This isn’t cooked.”

“I poked the holes in it and put it in the micro-“

“Oh well, it still isn’t cooked, now is it?”

Najwa stared at the potato, then at Dad’s hand nudging it on the plate with his fork. I watched his face twist in Najwa’s direction as if he caught her attempting to poison him.

“I’m not a horse! I can’t eat raw potatoes.”

“I just thought…” Naj choked on her words.

“This is disgusting.” He pushed his plate away. I kicked my legs beneath the table and watched her bottom lip shake. She stood up fast, but the tears streaming out of her brown eyes were faster. I looked to Ruth for some answer as to why Dad wasn’t pleased this time, why Najwa was so sad. Ruth chewed the inside of her cheek before looking up.

“Daddy?”

“You card is beautiful honey.”

Ruth grabbed my wrist and pulled me from the table.

The next week Najwa said we were done with Daddy-Daughter Day and stayed in her room when we heard the garage door open, the car door slam.

The product of a creative non-fiction class

Stiletto

She’s in the other room yelling about something. Mariam, my oldest sister, is always yelling about something. This morning it is about church. She barges in the room I share with Ruth. First, she pulls back the sheets from Ruth’s twin bed, then mine. “You better get up now, we’re going to church.”

Ruth rolls over and yawns the words, “We don’t even believe in God, Mariam.” She reaches for the blue comforter with cartoon moons and clouds. Mariam jerks on the end of it and spits, “Get up.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not going.”

Mariam pulls her tan arm back. Her manicured fingernails flash in the June morning light

when she smacks her open palm against Ruth’s freckled cheek. She then snaps her head in my

direction.

“Yeah, I’m going Mar,” I say and kick my legs off the bed. Ruth fights the tears that well in her blue eyes. I don’t look at her.

After church, I remember that Mom wanted me to clean the house today. She was “sick of this house looking like a pit from hell.”

I start with the shoes scattered across the foyer when I hear Mariam yelling. It’s about her outfit or her make-up. I don’t care which. I know she’s going out tonight, and like every night she goes out, Ruth and I count down the minutes until she leaves. I think she’s demanding to borrow Ruth’s red halter-top.

She’s been cruel to Ruth all day.

I’m stacking the shoes next to the stairs. With four girls in the house, the shoes accumulate quickly across the scratched wood floor. I’m not paying attention to which shoes go where. I just want them to take up as little space as possible because Mom doesn’t own a shoe rack. That is a luxury she’d say “Only people like your father who’re richer than God have.” I pile Mariam’s red stiletto heals on top of flip-flops when she stomps down the stairs. She’s wearing Ruth’s halter. I expect her to walk past and ignore me. She usually leaves me alone.

“Squid, what are you doing with my shoes?” She spews my nickname. No one in my family calls me Sarah.

“I’m putting them up so that we can actually walk through here.”

“Those are my forty dollar stilettos!” She’s huffing and whining, and before I can tell her that I’m not hurting them she’s stomping to the kitchen where the phone is. “I’m calling Mom. All you guys do is try to ruin everything!”

I can’t take her shouting anymore. My hand still on her shoe, I’m feeling my blood burn hot in

my cheeks. Maybe it’s guilt for not even looking at Ruth this morning, for not standing up for

myself. Maybe not. This heat in my arms is more likely rage. And my fist clamps the leather

straps of her forty fucking dollar shoe. She’s got the phone and still shrieking at me. I quit

listening. I don’t make a sound when I hurl the shoe at her head.

I missed and I’m disappointed until I hear her start to cry. Probably the shock. Not of the shoe whizzing past her head, but that I threw it.

“You’re gonna get it,” she says and dials the number to Mom’s work.

Reasons for which I am ignoring my parents

I'm ignoring pappa bear because I'm sick of feeling like I disappoint him.
I'm ignoring mother because I don't want to tell her why I disappointed dad, and how I have to take a class this summer and won't be seeing her for a while.

I'm refusing to deal with these issues because dealing with them would entail my acceptance of my failure. I just want to believe I don't suck for a few more days.

The good news is Ruth just got back in town, we are now staying in Columbus for the majority of the summer, and I get to take a creative non-fiction workshop.

The bad news is I am a fucking idiota!

Ruth

She just left today...and it is times like these I realize how co-dependent I am.

My world stops turning and I realize I need Ruth to function. She is the other half to my brain and together we make a single genius.

without her I am a drooling mongoloid.

Tell me we both metter, don't we?

"If I only could make a deal with god and get him to swap our places...be running up that road, running up that hill with no problems"

Kate Bush is brilliant.

I don't know what I feel like talking about, but I feel like talking.

...................................

I have people to talk to, people I could call or see. I dunno what it is, but I have no motivation to contact anyone, and I hate feeling alone/ being alone. Seems contradictory, right? Maybe it is just skipping the middle man. I'd call Derek, or Joe, or Dustin, or Sam, we'd talk for a few hours...kind of a long time...but then we'd hang up. I'd still be here in my red bed thinking about how a phone call is a long way off from a cuddle...and how a cuddle is never just a cuddle...but sometimes you want it to be a cuddle and nothing else. Does this make sense?

I didn't think so...this is why people who think in word salads shouldn't be allowed to have a blog.

I guess what I was trying to say is that at some point I'll end up alone anyway, so why bother putting it off? I'll just stick with being alone right now, and five seconds from now, and five minutes from now, and an hour from now, and so on.

I'm not saying I want to be a hermit. I'm just saying I'm gonna be lonely any way I cut it.

I'm not trying to bitch about it either...I guess it was just something to talk about, because that's what I was thinking about, and I felt like talking.

Reasons for which I am pissed off.

I dated a 25 year old divorced asshole just because he was cute...and had to ditch him yesterday because he's an apathetic douche.

I hate wasting my time.

fuck.

At least I get to go be an ass in Nashvegas now, rather than being a good girlfriend. That is a mega huge plus.

~venting~
*apologizes to internet community* (except I think James is the only reader...Ruth and Jon are never on here...hi James.)

Baby-sitting

“Tell me about yourself.” He leans back in a pink faux-fur, plush chair. “No, seriously, I want to know.”

I’d be more privy to relent information if my hands weren’t duct taped to the arms of a chair facing him. Or at least if my ankles weren’t taped to the legs of the chair.

“Darling, speak, please.”

“I’m twenty-four and I work in a pet store on 8^th avenue.”

“Good. But I’ve been watching you on and off for twenty years now. I knew that.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“No. No. No. It’s not about what I want to hear, I just want to know you.”

“Right.”

“Think of it like a confessional. It doesn’t matter what you say here because we’ll both be dead in a few minutes.”

I nod my head and eye the revolver he has across his lap.

“So. Tell me anything.” The way he looked at me, I knew what he wants me to say.

“The first time I felt a penis I was four.”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear! Keep going.”

“He was my baby sitter and I accidentally walked in on him using the bathroom. He saw me before I turned around, terrified.”

“If I have to keep prompting you to finish the story I’m going to get angry.”

“When he came out of the bathroom, I was in front of the TV watching cartoons. ‘Do you like what you saw’ he said. I didn’t know how to answer. I felt like I was in trouble. ‘Don’t be scared’ he said. Then he picked me up by my arm and dragged me to the bedroom. He pulled my hair and I saw fistfuls of dark brown curls fall to the floor. He pressed my face into the bed and pulled up my skirt.”

“This is where the story gets good.”

“Right.” I said.

“Keep going.”

“He moved my underwear to one side and pushed all of himself into a place I didn’t know I had. I remember it hurting and screaming for anyone to help. He pressed my face harder into the mattress.”

“I see.” He smirked and moved from the pink chair. He held the gun limp in his hands and came over to me. “And did you miss me all of these years?”

His breath was hot in my face. I turned my head as he used the gun to pull my skirt up.

“Because I missed you.”

Sometimes I feel like a bitch

Like when I do things, or get involved in things I know I'm not ready for.

I'm never really ready though. Fuck it. I'll do what I want.

I write this like a story but you know better

Before you jumped on Jeff’s car, thinking it was a joke, before you fell off and hit your head on the pavement, before the seizures and the blood collecting on your lips, you called me. You just wanted to chat.

~

My little sister came over, her boyfriend too. I called Sam, and left a voice message. “I’m celebrating my birthday, and it just isn’t proper if my best friend doesn’t show up. So, get ye ole ass over here, Sam-a-loaf!”

I sat on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Pulling the white filter from my lips, my voice constricted, I revealed a secret. I looked at my sister, aware of the beer in her lap, and said, “I don’t think I’ll ever fall out of love with him.” “I know.” She said. “I feel like I’m watching a movie where the guy and the girl are supposed to end up together, but it is taking them forever to get there.” She said.

Then I broke a promise. I told her what we agreed to keep secret. I told her how you said you still loved me, how you miss me, how you still think of me before you fall asleep. I told her how you don’t want to hurt your new girlfriend’s feelings. I told her how I don’t want you to break my heart again. I relived this conversation with bitter hope.

~

My phone glowed before it rang.

“Hey Sam, you on your way, yet?”

“Sarah? Are you calm and sitting?”

“What the hell, Sam?”

“Willis was playing around and he fell. He hit his head.”

“Well, is he ok, or what?”

“We don’t know. Andrew said we should get to the hospital now.”

I left my sister so she could take care of the dogs. I didn’t cry, not at first. I felt as if nothing changed, as though I didn’t know you were hurt.

~

In the car I rolled my window down. It was cold. I didn’t turn on any music. It wasn’t until I turned onto Summit that I realized I could lose you forever. Not just to your new, prettier girlfriend, but to something greater. Something I never understood. I felt sick. My throat was acidic, my tongue dry. My fingers felt too close together. My toes touching each other irritated me.

It wasn’t until Sam got in the car and asked if she should drive, that I noticed how hard I was crying. I insisted on driving. I had to drive.

Andrew called Sam. He told her you were stabilized, that you were going to make it. Only twenty minutes from the hospital, I pressed on. I had to see you.

~

At the hospital your step-mom came to me, her eyes wet, her face scrunched.

“He had to go into emergency surgery. We don’t know if he’s gonna make it.”

“I thought he was stable?”

“No. No. No he’s not. He’s got blood on his brain. He’s got it in his brain. He’s got it in his brain.”

The nurse lead us into a waiting area. I sat near your dad. He looked bigger than usual. He sat with his head in his hands, then looked up at me. “He better come out of this so I can kick his ass.” The idea that you might not “come out of this” made me sob. I attempted to hold back the noise, wanted to hold back the tears. I felt stupid.

~

We waited until three in the morning, when your dad sent us home with a promise to call when you were out of surgery. He called around four and said you made it out alive. Now we just had to wait and see if you’d make it out the same.

I watched the clock turn.

I watched our friends sleep.

I watched the dog run in his dreams.

Nine thirty he called again. He said the doctor’s expect a one-hundred percent recovery, that you’re lucky because few people make it out of a coma with this surgery.

~

I went back to you. Only your family could visit you. They said that you could hear things. That when you heard them cry it agitated you. You would gag on the ventilator and throw up. This is why I couldn’t see you.

The next day you woke up once when they pulled the ventilator from your throat. The tube pulling against your dry lips, you coughing the words, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Then asking your dad for his chapstick before falling asleep again. I went back to your room. Your mom sat with one hand on yours, the other on a Styrofoam cup with coffee. Her blue eyes sagged beneath her brown hair. Your grandma stood at the foot of your bed and asked who I was. “Sarah.” I said. “I’m an old girlfriend.” I said. She looked at me, “I remember seeing pictures of you. He always liked to show off how beautiful you are.”

You started to squirm, and your feet came out from under the blankets. I reached down to cover them back up. Your mom asked if I would prop up your arm, that it’s been swelling pretty bad and it should stay elevated.

I grabbed your hand and pulled it onto a pillow in your lap. I grazed my fingertips against your arm. I looked at your mouth, slightly agape. I could see how you knocked your tooth out of place. Your upper lip was swollen. You had two black eyes. Gauze wrapped around your head, and tubes came out beneath the wrappings. An IV pierced the bend in your arm. An oxygen monitor clipped around your index finger. You looked tragically beautiful. I rubbed your arm again, this time you opened your eyes and looked at me for a second, then closed them. Your eyes snapped open again. You stared at me for a long time, they never looked so blue. “Willis, honey, it’s Sarah. You ok?” It sounded like you tried to say something. You kept staring at me and tried to sit up. You started pulling off the monitor and tried to take off the IV. You tried getting up. I pressed my hand to your chest. “Stop it. What are you doing? Just hold on a second. Lay down.” I said. You wouldn’t. “Maybe you should go.” Your mom said. She was holding you down. I turned to leave and you stopped.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I still don’t.

~

I’ll be able to see you again on Saturday. You should be talking by then.

Things I'd Like to Say

I would like to tell the world that EVERYTHING will be alright.

I'm working on this.

...also I'm pleased that my blog is no longer "under review." If I like anal beads, they got no right to judge me.

Tarot Cards

I give up on those little fuckers.

For those who may wonder what I'm referring to...

I had a reading for the whole year, moth by month. February brought lonliness, confusion and minor illnesses (as the cards said it would). March brought financial distress in the form of a speeding ticket and an enormous electric and gas bill. And what was April supposed to bring? I'll tell you what April was supposed to bring. Some call it the "soul mate card." I call it the get your hopes up for nothin' card. No I didn't really want a soul mate, anyway...but it was supposed to be a sexy, steamy, "perfect match mentally and physically" card.

Well, April came and went and the relationship is nowhere to be found.

Thug Life

Before I set up this blog the default they had made me look like thug life.

Try them britches on for size.

Off topic, I'm an internet jukie and I can see this becoming addictive.