Eskimo Slobber and Butterfly Whispers

I forgot that these posts don't have to be made up entirely of symbolism. Though fun to write, and possibly entertaining to read, it's not necessary to always write in hopes that I can relate a certain topic to a grandfather clock or the rusting hubcap on an abandoned '71 Chevelle. Too many new things are happening and my brain doesn't work fast enough to make alternate meanings for these things. So instead I'll just lay it out straight. Yo, I am fucking happy. There are so many premium people in my life who wouldn't even think about judging me (unless in a court setting. heeeyy!) and that is so great. I've always been myself but I used to have to put on a mask, if only to cover part of me. I had to censor what I would say in fear of being too weird instead of just weird enough. With the wonderful people I've met and become very close to this past year, I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Which brings me to the next awesome point. I'm a girlfriend. Not like "hey gurlfrand..look atch you gurlfrand." Eddy is golden. The bees knees. He reads this, right? You read this, right? I think it is so cool that he/you exists. I'm not trying to reveal everything that happens in our courtship (HA!) because it really ain't nobody bih'ness but ours. But for serious, apple is premium juice and Eddy is a premium guy. New Years Eve, Kwanzaa and the blue moon combined could not even come close to comparing to our night. You just texted me telling me to listen to a certain song. That's exactly what I want you to do. Not force me to do things, of course. But suggest things like listening to a song that I'll appreciate because I know that it will make me a better person. Thanks, bro. Anyway, I'm not bitter anymore about certain things because now I'm actually experiencing it. And even though I'm totally still conscious about many things relating to my self, I'm gonna try my gosh durndest to let my insecurities go. I'm cool. Eddy's the shit. So what's not to be completely 100% comfortable about. You kiss my lips with your lips, you kiss my cheek with your eyelashes. Yo, I am fucking happy.

Rainbow Pie

Do you remember gym class in elementary school when the slightly androgynous, white haired teacher who swished and swooshed with every move she made in her Adidas track outfit would pull out the oversized tarp that was sectioned to look like a flat rainbow pie? One slice of the giant cloth was dark green, the next blue, the next red, the next bright yellow. Ms. Martin would lead all of her little waddling students who would form a human chain to the blacktop on the nicest of spring days. Then she would unfold the tarp on the sparkling asphalt to reveal tiny holes at the edge of the rainbow pie for all of the tiny hands to cling to. On the count of three, knuckles turning white with anticipation, you raise the pie to the sky, hurry underneath and wait for the wind to gently carry it down around your shoulders. For the six whole seconds you're waiting for the foreign touch of the soft cotton cloth on your shoulders, you take notice of the small bursts of warm sun coming through the worn holes. All of your classmates huddled together, exploding with smiling innocence blush with blue and yellow. And then it happens. The quiet parachute lands, tiptoeing on the highest points of your exposed skin, winding all the way around. Hugging you, the rainbow pie is everything you could want. Colorful, thrilling and a gentle touch.

More then ten years later, the rainbow pie is entering my life once again, except this time I can hug him back without having the fragile tarp collapse between my squeeze. Everything is in the open with this, stretched out on the blacktop exposed. I hold his hand in mine, knuckles turning white with satisfaction. When I quick run under the tarp as its suspended high in the sky, the sun breaks through the openings. However this natural light comes to me in the form of his jokes, warm on my neck. And his energy, reflecting vibrant blue and yellow on my cheeks. As we lay, blankets guarding our legs, his hands fall to me, fingers tiptoeing through my hair and down the side of my face, winding all the way around. This is everything I could want.

Metafive

She ran swift with particular steps being careful as to not splatter mud onto her fresh whites. The cold November rain acted as a sheet, suffocating her lungs every time she inhaled. "Breathe deeper," the young woman told herself each time the faucet in the sky would open up. She had wished that which ever God controlled such things would cut her some slack and turn the hot water on for a few minutes, that way she could relax and wash away the chill. Little did she know the Plumbing God was away on vacation and the hot water heater was broken. All she could do was run, swiftly. Without messing up her shoes cause they were her last pair of whites and they kind of go good with a lot of outfits. So she ran. For three weeks. Just as the icy sheet began to form a noose around the young woman's neck that began spiraling up around her face, she was able to see a sliver of light coming from a new house off the side of the road. Overjoyed to find cover, the young woman approached the home with caution, nervous as to what might be inside. Pushing open the door, the young woman was greeted with everything familiar, starting with two tall Starbucks beverages sitting on the coffee table. One Chai Tea Latte and one seasonal Peppermint Mocha. The tiny quirks and accents of the open room seemed to set it apart from any other house she'd ever been in before. A tiny replica of a Rolls-Royce sat on a shelf next to a ripped first edition of On the Road. Although nobody else appeared to be in the house, the young woman felt like someone was sharing the space with her. She was comfortable.

Still shivering from the heavy rain, the young woman walked over to the ready fireplace, lit a match and let the chill fade away. As the orange glow lit up the entire downstairs, the young woman stripped out of her layers and settled down on the fringed rug that welcomed the heat. Stretched out on the plush carpet, she let her fingers run through the tassels at the edge until both her hands and the fringe became tangled. Holding hands with the rug, she felt sheltered.

At five in the morning, the young woman woke from her temporary slumber, fingers still knotted in the hands of the carpet. She followed the obvious luminescence from the window to the back porch. The hard rain had disappeared hours before taking the burden with it. All the young woman saw when she stepped into the air was her breath fogging up her vision and a dizzy moon. With the same hand that held onto the carpet so tight, the young woman kissed the giddy night. All was right.

Assembly Line

I've been putting off writing anything because I wanted something great to happen first. But nothing great has happened. Not even anything good. The past three weeks I haven't been able to breathe. I don't find any time to do what I want because all I have time for is class, homework, class again, homework again and dinner. At least I can eat. And nap (not the sleep kind). This shit blows. I wanna liveeeeee motherfucker. Not do homework 24/7. And I think since I constantly reject hangouts, I've started to slowly turn friends away. You know goddamn well I don't want that. About an hour ago, I entered a funk and I have no idea how to escape. On top of that, Maxey diagnosed me and I have a disorder. I've had the disorder since I can remember. Raw. I'm fucked. Stay away from me!

Things that aren't premium:
- TWO offers that I can't do anything about because I am too considerate. I am the WRONG person to do this to, assholes.
- Volcanoes on my face.
- I can't breathe.
- Remember when I used to twist wave? STOP BEING A DICKHOLE WHO CAN'T KEEP IT IN HIS PANTS!! >:o
- May is right around the corner... I can think of three reasons why I will cry. No more teenager, that time when you graduate and I will miss everything you are and how you've become one of my closest, most special friends! and that time that the other one will graduate and he won't know how great it could have been.

black slacks.

I don't feel like writing. So much has happened since I last said anything but nothing seems poetic enough to tell about. Ooohh, except the POETRY event I attended... :) That's poetic, right? That Saturday was incredible. Everything was perfect from the weather to the words to the crepes to sitting in the backseat effin' up da seatbelts. I wish I could relive that day and that night. I'm not feeling any metaphors. I'm not necessarily sleepy, I just think my head isn't in it right now. It was. And now it's not. Everytime I go on any website or even look to my left, I see a Free People magazine or ad and I'm reminded that I have no money to afford beautiful clothes like that in the magazine. But then I'm reminded again that I am unique and wear weird clothes that don't cost a lot and that puts me at ease. I want to go camping this weekend so I can at least say I did it and it didn't involve my parents. I can be an adult in the woods. I lied. I'm sleepy. I'm growing closer to friends and falling away from others.

Metafour

I gotta get over this funk. This obstacle. There are other roads out there if only I'd allow myself to follow them. I would like to think I've been on a dirt path this whole time, unaware of what might be in front of me. Woods all around with old gravel and dust kicking up under my shoes. I kinda like the idea of not knowing what old house this dirt path leads to. A house with twenty-five rooms, all waiting for me to open the doors and expose the secrets. A home with grass growing so tall, strangling the ideas from leaking out into the real world. I can't help that I feel more comfortable taking the risk. I feel obligated to take care of the overgrown grass and open every door to every room because maybe the house will understand that I'm the one who holds the right size key and the proper lawn mower. This house may be racked with termites eating away at the wooden beams keeping the structure intact, but I'd almost rather take the plunge with the support. I could choose to travel down the newly paved road because it's safe and has reflectors on the broken lines. It'll lead to a newly furnished house with a good sense of humor and a substantial library. Even though the house is secure with the thermostat set at a comfortable temperature, the bedroom doors are all open and a pile of fresh grass clippings sit clumped together by the garbage can. The mystery isn't there and neither are the butterflies.

I'm not finished.

You.

I have adjusted.
I'm not happy.
I don't do my work to the best of my ability.
I have Kanye West singing to me.
I've got bruises on my shins.
I have an empty stomach.
I developed a sense for scary dreams.
I've developed a sense for dreams with signs.
I wear more mascara.
I bit the skin around all my fingers because I'm stressed.
I have a band-aid on one finger.
I have lower abdominal cramps.
I have friends.
I know how to art.
I don't know how to speak up in class.
I do know how to hug those I love.
I have Journey singing to me.
I have a sense of humor.
I have a personality.
I have to poop.
I put twenty pounds of clay on my face yesterday.
I want to have more.
I have too much.
I, I, I.
You, You, You.
Me.