Birds are dumb

There is a bird who lives in the tree outside my bedroom window. He (I'm assuming he because he has the poor taste to be so god-damned happy in the mornings) sings in his happy-chirpy voice at first light.

I've started noticing that he's also happy-chirpy in the evenings. I assumed, not being wild about birds and therefore not knowing anything about birds that don't live in cages, that after the sun was up he would go on about his day. Fly out into the world and conduct his little birdy business and return after sunset for sleeping-time.

No. That's not what happens. He sings in the afternoons too. And well into the evenings. I think this bird is mocking me. He's mocking my headache and my usual surly grumpiness in the mornings and my stress and my frustration.

I don't know why one little birdy can be so completely happy. Is it the way he's made? Perhaps his happiness stems from his existence. Maybe he is happy simply because he is alive and has a voice. Do birds have earthly pleasures? Do they experience confusion and love and torment and sexual desire?

Perhaps being a bird would be better, but I rather like my silly, twisted confusion about life. I just really wish this little guy would go sing outside another girl's window once in a while.

Mundane shit

I set up the coffee pot for tomorrow.

I brush my teeth while I do it, pouring water with my left while brushing with my right hand.
My breasts bounce with the effort, and I pull my shoulders back ever so slightly to make them stop. I learned this trick when I was 13, the year I got my breasts.

It feels normal, like going to school or doing homework or putting gasoline in the car or paying bills. I'm supposed to do these things, because these are the things every day people do, right?

Is this what it feels like to be dead? When I die and go wherever people like me go, will I have to set up the coffee pot there? Will I have to put on my fake smile and go to work and tell everyone how just fine thanksforasking I am?

God, I hope not.

Are you listening, God? Get someone else to set up that You-forsaken coffee pot, please.

Too much

I am full. Full and hungry and empty and bloated, all at the same time.
I eat my food like I eat my words: I take big, big bites, more than I can handle, and I roll it around in my mouth before swallowing it whole.

It gets stuck in my throat and I pour water in to force it down. It's heavy inside me, food and words and water, but I'm still unfulfilled. I want more, when more will only make me sick. Words aren't enough, and food is too much.

I can't stop taking those big bites, though. Can't stop myself consuming more. Surely I'll drown soon, if I don't learn to chew.

Hate-filled

Sometimes, I hate this blog.

It's the place where I spew out the mad jumble inside my mind. I've been honest here, painfully, terrifyingly, amusingly honest. I did that on purpose. I needed a spot where I can say the things that need saying, spew the thoughts that will eat my mind alive if I don't get them out.

A funny thing happens to me though ... when I'm writing about the pain, I'm so wrapped up in the writing...

Is that the right combination of words?
Does that make sense?

Is it clever enough? I really want to be clever about this jack-assed pain, does that sound clever at all?

...so wrapped up in the writing that I don't feel the pain. I re-read it sometimes (all the time) to see if it's still true, still honest, still clever. And most of the time I'm just reading about somebody else's life. I'm so disconnected from it that I no longer feel it.

Except when I do, and then there's this big fist around my heart. And it squeezes so tightly that I can't breathe, can't think, can't move around it. I can't shut it out, and it swallows me whole.

Sometimes I really hate this blog.

Pretending

My face aches with this pretend smile.
My lips are sealed against my true thoughts; words bounce around inside my mouth, throwing themselves at my lips.

I ache with a need.

A need to open my mouth and take you into me. I would cover you with sentences and caress you with my grammar.

My heart is an open wound. I cup my hands around it, but that doesn't help.
With every beat it vibrates away from me, out of control, and drips pain all over my brand new panties.

Un-sight

New makeup. Old face.
Lashes extended, blackened, become the gatekeepers for my tears.

I pretend there is something in my eye.
The skin is tight, discoloured and wrinkled, but only on one side.

My other eye is clear and normal.
One appears tired and care-worn while the other sparkles with naivete.

My eyes, like the two halves of my soul, don't match one another.

Someone, somewhere, has the mates to my eyes. And I want them back.

Happy mother's day

Apparently it's my fault my mom is a mother. Because of this, I have to pick the restaurant today.

I hate picking restaurants, particularly when I'm taking someone out to celebrate their shit.

You moms out there, when your grown kids want to take you out for lunch and will take you wherever you want to go: just picking a fucking restaurant, okay? We love you, we don't really care where we eat. We just want to get it over with so we can avoid as many crowds as possible, then come home and level our hunters.

Okay, maybe that last part is just me ...

Hard, dry words

I have stuff to say. But it's just a big clot in my brain, like Cream of Wheat that sat in a bowl until it got all hard and inedible. My words aren't ready to be consumed yet, so instead I give you a list of crap about me. It's dull, but I wrote it just for you.

• I listen to Gordon Lightfoot's "If you could read my mind" at least twice a day, and I have to fight back tears each time.
• I always feel better after cleaning or exercising, but I never do those things regularly. When I do them and remember how good I feel after, I chide myself for not doing them more often. I've been having this battle with myself for years.
• Sometimes when I'm talking to a friend I'll make notes about things I want to ask them about later.
• I make lists of things to make lists of.
• I take baths that are so hot they make me feel lightheaded afterward, but while I'm in them I feel cold.
• I hate the act of shaving, but I hate having body hair even more.
• I listen to Rammstein's album "Rosenrot" every day when I take my shower and it makes me want to say "fuck" and wear boots and stomp around in water puddles.
• I enjoy the act of typing, and sometimes bring home data entry jobs from work just for something to do in the evenings.
• I hate milk.
• I am in love with Megan Fox.