Eating. That is the verb that circled ’round my brain today. I was thinking back to long ago. As far as my mind would travel.
Thinking of what I was first taught, first led to do.
Eat. That was it. Eat.
I do not know my birth mother. But I do know that I wasn’t taught to breathe that first breath. Sneeze that first sneeze. Cry those first tears. Cough that first cough. Eliminate that first, well…you get the idea.
The first thing I had to be shown, taught even, was to eat. I’m not sure when that was. If it was a rubber or flesh flavored nipple.
But I’m thinking that I’ve been trying to perfect that one task ever since. The first thing that was left up to another human being to teach me, I’ve perfected over the years. No, not the nipple thing, the eating thing.
I can eat, I can savor, I can enjoy, taste, revel and spew the thing that someone, somewhere, first taught me.
I miss my heritage. I feel alone at the dinner table. Should I be eating pita and hummus? Or corn and flatbread?
I guess it just doesn’t matter to anyone but me.
I’ll keep eating. All foods, all flavors, all regions, all countries. Because that’s the first thing that I needed another human for. And if I have to walk the plank, matey, I’ll not do it with an empty stomach. Nope. Because someone, somewhere, taught me to eat.
Most appreciated, whomever you are.

Or typing, as the case may be.
My head’s amiss. Thoughts fire on and off like pistons. Whack-mad-crazy. Gotta let ’em out, let ’em fly.
I passed eight ass holes yesterday. No, rather, eight ass holes passed me. I was driving, as I so often do to earn a buck. Trying, blinker on, to get over one lane. Just one. One, two, three, four…waiting…five, six, seven cars ignored me. Sped up even, to avoid any human decency. Blocked out my stare, pretended I wasn’t there. What is it about us humans that makes us treat one another so poorly? I wonder this. I often treat people like shit. But oddly, not in traffic. I’m a safe and polite driver. I’ll let you in. And when/if you wave, I’ll wave back. It soothes me. Makes me feel proud to do an anonymous good deed for my fellow man. But not those seven. Clearly they weren’t feeling it. Did they feel better, triumphant even, to remain those few cars ahead?
To speed up…and remain those few cars ahead.
I treated some folks like shit this week. Customers that annoyed me, friends who didn’t console me, family members that regarded other family members poorly. Even my spider received my disdain. I have an excuse. Pms. The doctor didn’t remove this debilitating ailment with my other parts. Bummer. I shoulda opted for the ovary scoop.
Hormone supplements might just be the ticket to quiet my crazy brain. Or not.
Here’s another persistant beckoning of my mind as of late:
Who do I trust implicitly?
Without doubt or reserve. Hmmm…
Can’t think of a one. Not necessarily due to any defect that my loved ones posess, but more likely my own defects that follow me from the days of thumb sucking and rocking. I just can’t tell you everything. I’m too afraid. Too
afraid that it’ll just be too goddamned much. Too much, too late, too labor intensive. Not to mention my ego. My self image that has me thinking that you’ll just judge hastily or blab extensively or worse, think less of.
Me.
I’ve screwed some things up royally in my life. If I hadn’t relapsed, I’d have celebrated 16 years of sobriety on September 12th. But to dwell on that brings me grief and self loathing.
No changing that fucking past. But damn how it still hurts me so. Lingers there, like a bad dream.
So many questions I have about the why’s and the who’s and the how’s of this life.
So much elequence that I see wafting past, that I get so ashamed of my limited output.
But you don’t really care and I respect that. I understand that my own life is significantly more important to me than
to anyone else. It’s the way it should be. You consider you. I’ll consider me.
But take it a bit easy, won’t you? No matter how much I hide or how much you think you know, take it easy.
You being a better example of kindness and love than me is something I already know. And my wounds are salty enough. I should know, I own stock in Morton’s.
Just do me this one favor:
Tomorrow, when you’re out and about and you see an opportunity to let me in, do it.
I know you’ll feel better. You will because you will.
And it’ll give me a reason to smile. Even if its magnitude is minute.
Even if it means a spec of dust in a dirt pile. I’ll feel better.

(Oh, and one more thing, if Lolita calls in a cricket order, tell her they’re on the way.)
Thanks, y’all.

My friend is in the hospital. She’s getting her gall bladder taken. Fine. Sure. This better be it. This better be the last of the Godamned bullshit. Enough already! Fuck, man. Let it go. Let her be. There’s no excuse for this travesty. Ah, but travesties avail. They permeate our skins and make us wonder why the fuck we were put here in the first place.
I want to take a hiatus from this blog. The blog which Eh-Net gifted me. No more writing. No more purging. No more obseqious ass kissing up to the powers that be. A strike of sorts. A picket line impenetrable.
Fair, you say. Fair, I say. Fair is a weather report. I don’t care. I want justice in this life. I want fair. I need fair. I thrive on fair.
Fair is what moves me through the day.
I’m not cut out for loyalty. I’m not a good friend. I’m afraid of the sticking around. But here I stand. The forces of this life make me stand glued in the face of sprinting far. But I don’t wanna. I want to take off. Run. I’m just not cut out for this sort of thing.
I’m not as brave as I look. I’m angry. I’m pissed off. I’m tantrum bound. I still believe in justice. I want to believe in fairness.
If God blesses everyone, then Eh-Net better be on the top of His friggin’ list.
She needs a miracle.
And for once…
…I have to admit that I’m just not it.

I slept through midnight on the 4th. I was tired, after all.
I’d already had an adventuresome preview. Rewind to Friday. Spent the day lolling about. Until 7pm. Dinner time. Was supposed to meet my POC’s, Eh-net and her mom at a local eaterie. I waltz in doing the “Kramer” a few minutes past 7. The gang’s all there. But, I sense an additional life-form at the table. A cute girl. From the back, anyway. I get closer…a bit closer. Holy shit. It’s my sister. She’s sitting right there. Really.
Damn. They pulled it off. I’m not easily or willingly surprised. I hate surprises. Loathe being caught off guard. Even worse, to display emotionalism, especially in front of an audience. I prefer keeping my emotions under my rigid and tight reign. But it was out of my control. I was filled with joy and it leaked out of my eyes.
Where are those damn plumbers when you need ’em, eh?
My sister. Ffej came. She showed up for yet another important (to me) occasion. What a miracle.
What a miracle it is to have my sister back. An active participant in the life of me.
What on this earth did I ever do to deserve the gifts of family and friends that I have been given?
Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch.
It goes back to that grace thing.
Eh-net, who’s been in so much pain recently, came. I’ve known her for such a short amount of planet-time, that it’s almost surreal to think we could’ve formed such a bond. That she’d WANT to be there. For me.
I received so many calls on my birthday. Friends from miles away, friends from blocks away. Friends new and friends of old.
I’m relieved, in a sense, that 40 came while I slept.
Not enough water did I drink to account for all my joyous tears.
Thanks, y’all. Thanks for a wonderful life.
I couldn’t bear it here without you.
And 40 would be so much more of a struggle without you, the ropes that pull me up.

40 is coming. 3 days away. 40. Gosh, I’m not prepared at all.
I’m way too immature to have acquired such notches on my timeline. Nostalgia permeates my days of late.
I look at the photos from my 30th. I look so young then. I see a different woman in the glass today. More wrinkles, more flab, more grief and worry. I long for the days when I thought I was invincible. Went to Mexico on a song and a prayer. Lived out of my tent on the beach and ate pescado fritas, got my huaraches swiped and ran from the corrupt policia who were trying to steal my passport. Traded my Swatch watch that my sister gave me, because I got robbed at a saloon. By two gringas who seduced me. I didn’t care about my life then. I didn’t give thought to my future. I was a morose and drama filled mujere who wanted to emulate my hippy friends. But it’s today. It’s now. It’s fast forwarding to 40. I’m concerned about mergers and acquisitions, expansions and my rung locale on the corporate ladder. I’m still a dichotomy between Wall St. and Greenwich Village. I lean towards this and sway back to that. I never wanted to be a grownup. Never had any respect for them. But here I am, in my facade, dressing for the boardroom. Ever my bored room. Who can separate my being? You? Me? Him? Her? Them?
Bohemian ways should prevail. I’d leave tomorrow if they’d just grab me.
It’s getting so close. So close to the sensible suits and the 40 year old haircut.
No stopping it now…