Of Aliens, Achilles' Heels, And Joints.

My thumbs still crack as much as they used to, tightening and cramping with about as much regularity as you exhibit. In the cold night air, first five wet, clicking snaps go off, starting with one abrupt sound, like a tree branch breaking underfoot in the middle of woods devoid of birds or any other small, noisy creature--then, more hesitantly, with the rasp of skin on skin as the appendages are pulled back manually, the other four fingers go. Crack, snap, click, pop. Then the other five on the other hand, in descending order, an arpeggio of joint, fluid, and bone.

There are people who will tell you that cracking your knuckles like this will swell them up like soft flesh balloons in your old age, penitence for years of self-abusement. People also tell you that you'll go blind from masturbating too much, and that you cannot lick your elbow. Well, I can, so I'll continue on being That Person who does it as a nervous reflex, a self-calming ritual as soothing as sucking your thumb, yet still publicly acceptable at nearly 21. Plus, what if they crack themselves? What if they elect, on their own biological and anatomical accord, to freeze up and crack? I have never had to force my thumbs to release like the trigger of a gun. I have never had to wrestle with them in a pantomime of a singular thumb-war and get them to give and function again. Instead, they always do it on their own-- a tightening, followed by a reflexive bending, at which point the spine of the thumbs give way like the spine of last year's biggest best-seller-- a fictional account of one passively-aggressive, neurotic man's triumph over the impending doom of intergalactic space invaders come to rid the world of it's inhabitants and bring back all the Fluff to their planet of Doom and Fluff-less peanut butter, which has since been opted for a movie, like War of the Worlds but with less Tom Cruise-- as the heel of your foot pushes down on it where it lies, spread-eagle on your bedroom floor, now broken, eternally open to those two pages detailing the struggle between the main character's desire to turn his back on his world and wallow in his own self pity, or to climb through the alien spaceship's air duct and kick some E.T ass, and you look down at the face of your former lover on the back cover's flap, trapped somewhere yet still smiling thinly under your Achilles and you think, "Well, if that isn't fitting?" and then you smile, and mash down on it just a little bit harder, because, you know, you're alone in the privacy of your own house and bedroom, and no one else is around to see your quiet-yet-clicking moment of vindictive triumph about something you should have rightly been over nearly six months ago, after they traded in a huge second book deal and a Lamborghini for your relationship.

After all, life can be stranger than fiction.

---

The thing that I love about writing fiction is that it never ends up ANYWHERE near where I thought it would when I started writing it.

And who knew War of the Worlds stayed with me so intensely, bad acting and all these years later?

XOXO

And P.S-- Yes, I can really lick my elbow.

Hell Is A Place Called Not Knowing

It always feels like someone is leaving. Mostly, because someone usually is. It's like trying to have a relationship with an opening and closing door-- most of what you get is the breath of cold air right after the feeling of someone who has departed. You see the words "Enter" and "Exit," but they both start with "E" like "Ecstasy" and "Epiphany" and "Enabler" and "Excommunicate," and so you are confused and stay put, dancing from one foot to the other, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Apparently, the grass is always greener on the other side of that door, or so they say, so while some graze contentedly-- or, at least, pretending to be contented, like a woman exiting Barney's with an arm full of shopper's remorse and a decimated credit line-- that must mean that others are still waiting on the other side of the door, tapping their feet and checking their watches, waiting for the people who Just Can't Say No to come back.

D.A.R.E seemingly did too good of a job in some rural elementary schools-- at least, with the rigid refusing part, if not with the saying no to two of life's most fundamental and key elements to any sort of personal happiness. Because, after all, what is a good story without copious amounts of alcohol and a little weed? Boring, that's what.

And so, there's this little waiting room like something straight out of Purgatory for the people who are too sure that absolutely nothing is wrong to sit in and cool their heels and wait for an explanation to come back through that door; any sort of explanation will do, as long as it's not half-assed and holds more of the truth then most people are willing to give. It's a waiting room like that of an oral surgeon's, or a podiatrist, some office where lots of poking and prodding goes on and you know, you just KNOW you're going to be in a lot of pain, full of a self-righteous silence that barely covers the underlying tension of "Oh god, what have I done?" and "Oh god, what have YOU done?" And you're left staring at two words, two maddeningly heavy words weighted with implications that are far too large for you, you in your hurried, semi-frantic, holier-than-thou martyr's state to really even begin to understand...

So will it be "Enter," or "Exit"? Do you want off this ride, or are you going to wait one more turn of the merry-go-round before you finally decide to scrap it all and jump off? Or, are you ready to finally throw all your baggage (not, as was said with such fervent feminine finality, "it's not just baggage-- it's like excess luggage with the overweight fees and carrying charges,") down onto the floor of that place everyone is looking for called Home and announce, "Honey, I'm Home"?

Because this is not an endless revolving door. Someone who lets someone else who's not supposed to really be there in too many times is called a Push-over. And the next thing you know, Security is breathing down the back of your neck, saying, "Did YOU let him in? Did you really think this would end well, you poor stupid shit?"

And all you can say in response is, "You always go and I just wanted you to stay."

Ok. So I'll bite. What did I do?

XOXO

In Absentia

It's one of those mornings where it feel like marionette strings are pulling me awake and out of bed.

Girl like painted doll-- pale skin, blue eyes lined in black, pink lips. A blink and a small pick at a zit and the illusion is shattered in the mirror, a thousand fragments of life and reality falling to bounce on the tile floor.

I cough and my body clenches and unclenches, throat screaming in pain, wet globs on the sidewalk making a path to where I have been and where I am going like Gretel with tuberculosis. As I sit in class, the ghost of questing fingers creep along the inseam of my jeans, and my skin crawls, bile rising and threatening to revolt. The dust in the street whips through the air and against my cheek, and it feels and tastes and smells completely foreign to me.

Craning my head around to see his face, I realize I am looking for a dead man everywhere, but looking never brought anyone back to life.

I look at the invitation. I consider, carefully, both sides of the response. The weight of a “yes”, the finality of a “no”. Wonder about propositions. Wonder about lies. Wonder about what “having coffee” really means. I have been reading long enough to become excellent at reading in between the lines. Wonder where “coffee” ends and “something more” starts. Wonder where and when the time for explanations is. Wonder about how much sway resemblance has. Wonder if flattery will help. Wonder if I really am that sort of girl. I make my choice. Wait five minutes. Find myself back again, looking at those words. Reconsidering. I leave again. Come back. Decide on one thing at the moment—I desperately, desperately need someone to listen. I realize even as I navigate away that I will accept. Not now, but sometime soon. Sometime soon, I will be back, still needing an ear, a shoulder, some reassurance, a sounding board. Actors have stand-ins; why can’t we have stand-ins for life when the leads come down with something? Isn’t that what’s already in practice? Leading lady; leading man; understudy; stage manager like magician. I feel the tug on the invisible marionette strings again, dragging me across the stage. The audience claps. A brilliant performance. Red and white flowers sent. Red lights flash like strobes. Roxanne without Sting to validate her. No red dress, not tonight. You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right.

The first sob startles me. There's momentary wonder and glances around to see if the sound really came from me. The next thing I know, I am pounding the sides of my fists against the cold tiles of the shower's stall, the weak trickle from the showerhead flowing down my back as I plead with whoever will listen to me through the tears that fall, unnoticed, down the drain with the rest of the water. "Please, please, don't let me shut down again. I don't want to. I don't want to!" The voice is uncanny, desperate, someone speaking from inside of me whom I didn't know existed. She sounds small, scared, exhausted. She sounds like she has something to live for, but no idea how to fight for it.

I have always held that crying in the shower doesn't count. Then again, I've always held that crying is something that shouldn't be done at all.

I listen, even though I have absolutely no answers. If I could do something for you, believe me—I would. If I could afford to lay down enough for both your life and mine, I would. If I could be the kind of girl who runs hot and cold like you do, I would. And if I could somehow reassure you that actually not being afraid to pick one or the other and run a steady temperature won’t end your life or wreck your unknown future, I WOULD, if I had the slightest idea how to go about fixing you.

Broken people don't know how to fix each other any better than a shoemaker can fix a broken camera's lens. It's all about perspective, and if you aren't willing to see it from mine, then there is absolutely nothing I can do for you, no matter how badly you want someone else to do all the work and excavating of your buried skeletons for you. Scars and substances and smoke and mirrors aside, trying to play with your shards like a puzzle yields absolutely nothing but bloody fingers and a bad taste in my mouth-- Colgate and Camel Lights.

Walking away and waiting are pretty much the same thing. Both are about an expanse of time as tangible as miles and walls that need to be hurdled. A phone that doesn't ring is still a phone. It's not like a tree falling in the forest-- it still doesn't make any sound. Effort expended is a life-lesson in physics-- what you give is what you get, and I'm tired enough to not get out of bed anymore on my own accord. The Peroni on the nightstand and the ashtray on the balcony keep track of the fact that I am still alive. The shape under my sheets suggests I am not.

The alarm buzzes constantly. No matter how many times I paw at it, it doesn't stop keeping track of time slipping by. The numbers on the display mean nothing anymore. 7 at night and sleep. 4 AM and awake. 2 and full sunlight and waking up for the first time.

You need like a newborn child; like a ravenous baby; like Romulus and Remus searching for the she-wolf to suckle them, mortal women no good. The mirror doesn't lie well enough to me; the constant checking reaffirms it; the pain and the weakness cinch the deal. Mortal, mortal, mortal. It rings through me like a death knell. There is absolutely nothing I can do for you, if you are not willing to do anything in return.

“In absentia” is more than a role-call response.

XOXO