“cruisin down the information highway....uh oh, think i'm gettin pulled over”

And the grave-digger puts on the forceps
The stone mason does all the work
The barber can give you a haircut
The carpenter can take you out to lunch

Yesterday, after I studied all day, had a test, and had almost no sleep, I managed to drag my ass back to my house with one thought on my mind: sleep. Even if Jensen Ackles had been waiting in bed for me, I probably wouldn't have been able to sex him sufficiently. I might've managed a comotose b.j. I mean, shit, it's Jensen Fucking Ackles. (And on a sidenote: the way he gets out of that car sets my panties on fire. And since I've watched that video lots of times, there is a shortage of underpants at the casa de sal)

I was so tired, the thought of my bed was almost pornographic. I pictured it slowly revealing its soft, cream colored sheets. The bed sighing softly as I slipped into it. I'm weird like that.

Anyway, I walked up to my front door, and on the storm door, there was a note clipped there with a little clippy thing. On notebook paper, no less.

Seeing a note on my door wasn't a good thing. I didn't want to look at it. I didn't want to open it, and I thought about just crumpling it up and throwing it away.

Of course I didn't.

I read it, and at first I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe.

The note was from Brooks. I think I've mentioned him before, but I'll recap, because I really don't give shit one about my previous posts. Or finding said post.

Brooks was a guy who happened into my life, was a college boy, and decent. He had dark hair, blue eyes (my usual victim), and I didn't hate him.
We hung out, watched Chappelle Show, drank beer, and introduced our no-no parts.

The first time we had sex, it lasted about eight seconds. Now, I know that the first time with just about anyone is never great, exactly. It's like a trial run.
I didn't comment on it, but he felt he had to.
"Damn. Eight seconds," he kind of laughed, (testing the waters, really). I said the first thing that I thought of. "Well, if that was a bull ride, you would've gone the distance, tiger."

We both laughed about that, and after that, he lived up to the challenge quite well.

For the rest of that summer, we had a regular thing going. Usually I'd go over on a Friday night, we'd stay up all night having sex like we invented the shit, then as soon as the sun started coming up, I'd go home to get some sleep.
After sexy times were over, sometimes he wanted to talk. And if there's one thing I stood by, it was "less talk, more fucky".

There were a few things that stood out about this one, things I made sure to tell some of my best friends (names were omitted to protect the guilty).

First, everytime he came, he made sure to let me know. Not a big deal, right? In fact, some people would be extremely thankful for this.
It was the way he told me that make me want to die laughing every single time.
His way of announcing it was to say in a dramatic tone of voice "Here it comes..."

The way he made it sound, it would've been accompanied by this video:



And fireworks. The kind that spelled out "HERE IT COMES" over the bed. Maybe a parade, and a marching band too, just to be safe.

Part of me wanted to laugh hysterically, and part of me wanted to put my hand over his mouth at the crucial moment to keep him from saying those words. And a third, twisted part of me looked forward to it every time.

Here it comes.

The other thing about good old Brooks was that he was probably the least aggressive man I've ever met. I mean, we'd be making out, I'd practically tear my clothes off (and his too), and then just about everytime we had sex, I was on top.
I don't mind being on top, but he was kind of like a girl that just lays there and takes it. Like a blow up doll. Only, he was a guy.
I think he was just submissive. And of course, I tend to be dominant. That was fun for awhile.

Sometimes, though, it made me feel like I was the guy from Sleeping With the Enemy, pounding away at Julia Roberts while never noticing the disinterested look in her eyes...
Sometimes I felt like I should make him cook me dinner, then while he slaved over making me mac&cheese, I tell him how fat his ass was getting, or how he was letting himself go.
Then, I'd make him go down on me while I watched football, and drank a beer. And instead of 'domestic violence', we would call it 'home correction'.

Jesus, I'm a dick.



I thought about all that when I read his nice little note clipped to my door.
I thought about that, and I laughed.

I sent him a text message later in the day, and he returned with something along the lines of "I'd like to see you. Things haven't been going great, and seeing you would make my day."

And I actually considered seeing him. And by seeing him, I mean putting enough miles on his weiner that he would earn a salvaged title.

The end.

win/win

Today is such a gorgeous, overcast morning that I feel like a wonderful dream in someone's head.

I woke up to a barrage of text massages (messages, I mean. Massages would be wonderful) from Remy.
Remy is a guy I had a fling with a couple-six months ago. Approximately. He's started dating a girl that he's in love with, and me being me, I'm happy for him.

Remy is one of those guys that I know that has to text/call me every so often to tell me how great their love life is, then talk about us getting together for 'one last fling.'

"Nope."

He stops mid-sentence, recalling one of our sexcapades fondly, then says "Why?"
I sort of shake my head, and say his girlfriend's name. He asks me if I'm firm on that, I tell him I am, and that's that.



I think that when I'm happy, I give off some kind of invisible, highly intoxicating, addictive quality. Because I am happy. Very happy. And that kind of happy just spills over into everything I do, and everything I touch. I'll get to the reason in a minute.

It must be addictive, because the exes have given my phone a workout. Ex-boyfriend, ex-dick in the glass case (break in case of emergency or nuclear war), ex-mandingo, ex-place to rest my vagina.

Now, don't get the idea that I'm some beautiful brunette temptress. That's not the case. I am all personality. I don't shit sparkles, I'm lucky if my flip flops match when I leave the house, and makeup is optional. However, my sense of humor, my attitude, that's top shelf. That bitch is a 10, and she wears heels.

Anyway, since my whole decision to go back to school, things have been looking up. Like the light breaking through the clouds. Like being the fat shit that gets the last Krispy Kreme. Like the sun shining just right so you can check out that hot guy's junk to see if it's real--or just stuffed full of socks.
You know, magical moments like that.

And since things have started looking up, there has been one person who has been there for me, who I have come to depend on, who has been the greatest man friend I've ever had. That's Ty.

I have come to depend on him, call him daily, and love him.

He is all those great things every man should be. He is fucking off the hook wonderful. He makes me laugh, he listens when I need him to listen. He laughs at me when I do things that make no sense (this happens often). He has been my rock, that one person who encourages me, believes in my abilities, and every single day lets me know just how much I mean to him.

Things have progressed with us. I don't know where it's going yet, I just know that we love each other very much. I haven't classified that love, it's too early.
All I know is that the end of every day, we talk.

It's not the kind of relationship that's dirtied up with a lot of stupidity or selfishness. He hasn't tried to drag me down, he has never tried to make me less than I am.

We're honest with each other, and like the relationship I've always wanted, we each support the other when needed.


"let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so.

One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and wish more than all the world for your return."

Looking for a mellow fellow like Devoe

Bell Biv Devoe.

Me and my brother loved these guys. When we first heard this song, it was on Mtv. I remember we stayed glued to the tv for like three days, waiting to record this video. On a freaking vcr.

When we finally captured this little gem, we watched the video over and over and over until we had their moves and lyrics down. We were like Bell Biv Devoe lite. Extremely lite.

The only thing was, there was just the two of us. We had to take turns being Devoe.

Then, it was like God answered our prayers. He must've wanted us to become 11 and 9 year old rappers.
Our cousin Jeremiah came to stay the summer with us. He became Devoe.


We all used to giggle at the line "Never trust a big butt and a smile".


The three of us practiced our routine so much that we needed a bigger venue. We needed appreciation. We needed an audience.

We'd performed for my mom several times, but after watching us two or three times every day (and somehow managing to hold in her laughter) she just wasn't blown away by our awesome moves and singing skills.

One day, Mom had to go run some errands for her husband. He stayed out in the garage, fixing something, and we decided to run through our routine one more time.
As soon as we started that haggard ass vcr tape, someone knocked on the door.
It was a friend of my mom's.

Like sharks that had just smelled blood, we told her mom would be back 'soon'.

And while she was waiting, why, we would just entertain her...

We entertained her several times.

She was a good sport about it, and somehow kept most of her laughter inside. When she did laugh, we just assumed she was laughing at that one line we always did.

When the Bell Biv Devoe tape finally got eaten by the vcr, my mom laughed as she was digging out the shiny spools of tape. By then, me and my brother had moved on to bigger and better things. Like, the air guitar.

Random stuff I've heard today...

FMJ:

Mama and Papa were laying in bed!
Recruits: [singing] Mama and Papa were laying in bed!
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [singing] Mama rolled over this is what she said
Recruits: [singing] Mama rolled over this is what she said
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [singing] 'Oh, give me some...
Recruits: [singing] 'Oh, give me some...
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [singing] 'Oh, give me some...
Recruits: [singing] 'Oh, give me some...
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: P.T.
Recruits: P.T.
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Good for you
Recruits: Good for you
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Good for me!
Recruits: Good for me!
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Mmm, good!
Recruits: Mmm, good!
----

Alice Cooper:

One thing
No lie
Ethyl's frigid as an eskimo pie
She's cool in bed
Well she oughta be 'cuz Ethyl's dead
----


Randoms (who made me laugh really hard at this line of conversation):

Yes. That is totally creepy. Disturbing, actually.

Do you know how much he wants for it? Its, uh, for a friend.
----


Misheard lyrics to the Jovi's Livin on a Prayer:

Gina's gonna die of old age

Tommy's cock is six feet in height
----

the demon code prevents me from declining a rock off challenge

When I was growing up, I never realized how great, and completely fucking off the hook talented my mom was/is.

She can cook anything. I mean literally, fucking anything. If all she had in the house was mustard and diet coke, she would somehow manage to make beef wellington. She's an amazing cook. Our friends would always swing by during dinnertime, because mom's culinary skills were legendary.
She also has her own measuring system, and her own words for common seasonings. "Woozy" for worcestershire sauce is probably my favorite momism. And anytime you ask her how hot something should be, her standard response is 'hot enough to burn your goozle.'



We call her Barb Vila, because she can fix anything. She completely redecorated the house we grew up in. She painted, remodeled, replaced fixtures, and raised the value of our house about $20,000. She maybe spent $2,000. Maybe.
I remember she always had tons of projects going on. She was a genius when it came to making things. She had so many great ideas, and the finished product was always fucking brilliant.

Then, there's the face she can sew. I remember always looking forward to halloween. I never wanted a store bought costume. Store bought costumes had so few options. With Mom's costumes, if you could imagine it, she could make it.
One year I wanted to be a witch, and she made this awesome cape. I loved that cape. So did my brother. I think we both wore it until it pretty much disintegrated.


Anywho, my mom's birthday is coming up in a little less than two weeks, and I have no idea what to get her. So, I started making this list of the random awesome things she did for us when we were kids.

I've been working on this list for over three days, and it's nowhere near complete. I'm going to ask my brother and sister to contribute (handwritten) their favorite memories of Mom. I'll probably make a big book out of it, and give it to her.

I think the thing that I loved the most was our birthdays. Mom would always make us a cake. That was awesome, because we got to pick any kind of cake we wanted. And I don't mean we pointed to the box of cake mix in the store. Everything was homemade. From scratch.

It was my brother who thought outside of the box. I remember one year he asked for a completely random cake, no the usual chocolate/vanilla combo.
He asked my mom to make a turtle cake.

Ladies and gentlemen, that opened the floodgates.

For my birthday, I stepped it up a notch and asked for a triple layer cake. I was proud of my ingenuity, until my brother asked for a triple layer cake, too.
I remember thinking "what a little bitch ballerina", until he told mom he wanted one layer chocolate, one strawberry, and one vanilla.
Son of a bitch.
Not to be outdone, my very next birthday, I upped it. I asked for a pink lemonade pie. My mom kind of looked at me and said "You want a pie?"
My brother laughed at my pie. Until he tried it. It was fucking delicious.
I probably wouldn't eat that shit now, but as a kid, it was heaven.

There was baked alaska, lemon meringue pie, cheesecake, ugly cake, soda cake, james bond cake, cookie cake, shake and bake cake (and I helped!).
You get the idea.
Each year it got a little (okay, a lot) more ridiculous. And Mom baked up our ridiculousness every single year.

And it went on like that until I turned 18. I think mom would've gone on with our crazy cake demands if we'd just slowly upped the crazy quotient, but it all ended when I told her my plans for my next birthday cake (this was a day or so after my actual birthday). I told her I wanted an armadillo cake. A la Steel Magnolias.
She looked at me over the top of her reading glasses and said "You want me to make a cake and then draw an armadillo on it in frosting?"
And then I told her. It had to be the shape of an armadillo.

My brother walked in and heard us talking. He immediately jumped in with his idea for a cake. In the shape of Optimus Prime.
A life size Optimus Prime.
I think I asked my mom if she would make me a cake that was as big as a wedding cake.
Then, me and my brother decided that mom should make a cake in the shape of a giant turd.

And she lost it. She just started laughing. She laughed until she cried.
And from then on, when she made our cakes, she would call Shenanigans whenever it started to get ridiculous.
And she never made that turd cake.

....tender....

It kills me everytime that guy lovingly sings 'tender'.

Last week when I went to get my hair cut, my awesome stylist found a couple of little bald patches in my hair.
When she told me, it freaked me out a lot. Mostly, because whether I want to admit to it or not, I'm vain. (and yes, I think that song is about me.)

I've always been that girl with beautiful, shiny thick hair. And when she said 'bald patch' I immediately pictured myself looking like someone had just thrown some hot grease on me.

As I was sitting there, waiting for her to get finished cutting my hair, I thought to myself 'maybe it's just something gross, like a ringworm.'
So, I went to get it checked out. It's alopecia. Mostly it's caused by stress, or other factors. Taking medication for depression (which I do) can cause hair loss as well. No biggie, right?

Well...
At my doctor's urging, (mostly after my bloodpressure was somewhere in the stratosphere) I've done some bloodwork stuff. Peed in a cup, had blood taken, gave him a motorboat, that sort of thing.
It's not a pretty picture, really, but I'll play the hand I'm dealt.
What it boils down to is this. My grandma had congestive heart failure, and I may have the same thing.
I don't like to admit it, but it makes sense. When you add up all the symptoms, the hair loss, and all the other things that have been going on, it's like the puzzle pieces all fit.
Plus the fact that I've had issues with my thyroid, so I should've at least weighed the possible outcomes.
Me being me, I just naturally assume everything will be okay. That there aren't really bad guys hiding in the bushes, that terrorists will never hijack the plane I'm on, that Santa is real, and snakes really can't climb trees.

As bad as this is bothering me, I've thought some things over.
I may not even get those test results. Would knowing change anything?
I could just take this as an opportunity to live better, exercise more, and have no regrets.
I could make it the best thing that has ever happened to me. I could take it as a second chance to really live.

Then, there's the antidepressant thing. They make my bloodpressure really high, but what I'm taking is the only thing that has ever helped me.
I could probably stop taking them, but really that isn't an option. And I don't want to get on the fucking drug merry-go-round of 'will this work?" Okay, then let's try that. Fuck that. I've been on that ride, and it blows dead rats.

It's a little upsetting, but I have mostly accepted what may be/what may not be.

And I'm just putting my thoughts out there, trying to make it all fit together in some sort of coherent way. I don't feel too sad about it, because everyone dies. Everyone owes life a debt, and dying is the paying off of that particular owing.

Damn, that sounds kinda emo...

I haven't really told anyone much. I've made jokes about the hair loss thing. Comb over jokes, mostly. But something like this, I don't want to tell anyone, because I fucking hate it when people look sad, or try to be sympathetic. Fuck a bunch of that.

I don't want sympathy, and I don't want a fucking encounter session. I don't want 'sorrys' or cliches or 'we'll figure this out' or any kind of lifetime movie moments.

I guess that's why I've kept it to myself. Because when someone tries to make me feel better, they usually do the exact opposite.
I don't want a bunch of sachaarine emotions, I'd rather have insults, and sarcasm, and jokes at my expense.

I really believe that life is exactly what you make it. It's not your parents, it's not your job, your car, or the zeroes in your bank account.
If you think life is shit, then you make it shit. If you think it's a wonderful place, it can be that, too.


One of my best friends said something to me once, and it was so simple, but so profound, that I took his words, folded them up, and placed them for safekeeping in my heart.

He said that when he was in the military, he remembered one of the longest nights of his life. It was probably the hardest. He told me, "Sal, I thought that night would never end. I thought that I'd never see the sun shine again, I thought that I'd never come home. I thought that I'd never see anyone I loved ever again, I'd never laugh, or smile. And then, you know what happened? The sun came out. I know this seems really hard right now, but the sun will come out again, Sally. It always does."



and on i read
until the day was gone
and i sat in regret
of all the things i've done
for all that i've blessed
and all that i've wronged
in dreams until my death
i will wander on