Silly junkie, drugs are for ...

sittin pretty in your unmade bed, half-crushed evidence strewn across the dusty floor. your shaking hands move quickly now, fingers flash across the keys barely keeping time with lightning fire thought waves. you fell off the wagon, legalized narcotic jittering through your shriveled veins. so long, it seemed, so long without it. pull that rusty nail from out your crying eyes as the temptation of another taste proved too much to bear. it'll hurt again tomorrow, without a drop in sight and no hits left to take. but the quick fix is never easy...
don't go back to your junkie ways, jackin' off random strangers for a few quarters to feed the monkey in that ice cold vendin' machine. strung out and twitching on the street corner desperate for your next icy sip of sweet refreshing goodness, knowing in a short while it'll leave you thirsty and dry and aching for more.
dehydrate from the inside out, drink more to need more. feed the beast, another cog in the corporate machine since they let you have that first taste at age 3. your sister's birthday party, everyone else was doing it so why not you too, baby blue?
run and jump and feel the rush until you crash, headfirst, facefirst, dignity first in a puddle of your own self-loathing. you did it to yourself, silly child - drugs are for lunatics. so they told you you'd go nuts without it, eyes glued open clockwork style. watch these ads or else, they said, you'd never be a real american if you didn't need the taste every now and then. we all need the taste. just a sip and nothing more. and in the end are you even sure its their pushing that got you started in the first place? just like that stolen cigarette, snuck out back to light it at age 10, coughed your lungs out and swore never again. and that one stuck, just crave the secondhand every now and then. but it wasnt sweet, wasnt good. you didnt need that fix like this one. just to function, think, breathe, keep moving like a real person instead of the zombie searching the house for her lost brains and keychains and you don't even realize you've become what they all wanted, everyone united in the need for speed. all colors, races, creeds, styles, cliques, nations holding hands and combing the desert for one more drop to still the savage amped up heartbeat...

you know i'd like to buy the world a coke, but that'd make me your enabler...

One Way Ticket, or Coyote Bloodlust

I checked the greyhound schedules again today. There it was, one-way ticket leaving tomorrow - $35 plus tax. The words popped into my head before I could stop them:

“I could swing that no problem”

And for a moment I saw myself leaving. Silently dragging that battered old suitcase from the garage back to my bedroom tonight. Carelessly throwing all my clothes that still fit and whichever books and movies I can’t live without inside. Buckaroo Banzai DVD wrapped in a matching t-shirt so it doesn’t get damaged, my one tragically geeky addiction. Close the top and sit on it a little as I finish zipping and hoping I didn’t forget anything I’d need one day. I wouldn’t be coming back after all, not setting foot in here again. I’d grab my laptop bag, my purse and wallet, softly drag the suitcase down the pitch dark hallway and out the front door. Ease the key into the lock and slowly close the squeaky screen door. Leave my keychain in the mailbox tightly wrapped in the note I’ve planned but never written. Hop into the taxi waiting two doors down and away I go into the night...

And then reality kicked in, the fog lifted from my eyes, the fantasy abruptly ended.
I could swing it, make it there, away from here - but then what? No job, no car, no home. Until he pays me back, no way to make 1st months rent all by myself or start utilities or live anywhere but the streets. Until he pays me back I’m pretty trapped, right where I’ve always been. And I think he knows that, inside. Wants to keep me under his thumb where he can watch me be just as miserable or more than he is here.

Of course I know that thought is insane, this can’t all be on purpose can it?

I slept last night. I don’t remember my dreams, and no that wasn’t the alcohol. I think I really slept last night for the first time in a long time. I wasn’t here. I spent the night curled up in the camouflage sheets covering the bunk bed of my friends’ son away at camp. I probably overstayed my welcome, made up for lost REM cycles when I finally let myself drift away. Woke up rested, refreshed and happy; talked, laughed, played with the cat that supposedly hates people, fist bumped the most adorable little girl I’ve ever met as I made my way out to the waiting car. And as I pulled open the van door, I sneezed.

I think I’m allergic to my family.

Or maybe just my mother’s smoke combined with cat fur from my feline friend. I can handle smoke. I can handle cats. But people smoking around cats (or cats smoking playing poker) somehow turns me into a walking Zyrtec commercial. I sneezed. We drove. I came home and was told to help clean a house I never live in except my room and bathroom, where I clean my mess on my own damn schedule.
Listening to my parents argue over why my dad vacuumed before dusting, I felt that familiar tension creeping back into my neck and shoulders. I’m sore now. Can’t get comfortable in this chair while I’m typing and listening to some crappy band with maybe 3 good songs on this cd. But I like those songs, and I’m too lazy to keep hitting skip. It’s almost midnight and I’m tired but don’t think I’ll be able to sleep here. Won’t get comfortable enough to let myself drift off, will wake up at every noise or sound or zombie scratch against my window. And now its back to insomnia for me it seems.

I checked the schedules today while we all took a break. And wish I wasn’t trapped for a while longer by my own stupidity, knowing he’d never intended to pay me when he said he would. My fault, I know. Nothing I can do about it now but steep in my own self pity (please no tea-bagging jokes), but I’m not quite that pathetic just yet. I’m a fighter, supposedly strong enough to handle heartache. I’ll work something out, eventually I’ll figure a way to leave and never look back at that locked door or that letter-wrapped key in the mailbox.

I was actually happy last night. Weird I know. Not that I’m usually sad or down or depressed or whatever. Its just there’s always that coyote urge in the back of my head, that wanting to chew my own leg off just to escape and hobble away on a bloody stump, eventually breaking apart a chair to make a peg and trying to find an ex-parrot for my shoulder. The instinct usually stays even when I’m out and having a good time, or in and enjoying my solitude. Its there, lurking in the shadows – the need to break into a run as fast as my stubby legs can take me. I lost it for a while there last night. Didn’t feel the hunger or the bloodlust, didn’t notice the veins throbbing down my calf, didn’t look for the weakest spot where the bone would snap between my teeth. I didn’t feel like running.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to belong in my own skin.

And it was nice.

Health Crisis or Crisis of Conscience?

Anyone watching the news lately will probably have heard we have a health care crisis in this country. Debates rage, tempers flare, the dreaded S word (shhhhh socialism) gets tossed around like a football in the park on Sunday. So of course, I feel obliged to offer my opinion. This isn’t a list of pros and cons, isn’t a fact sheet on fiscal projections or budgeting. This is just one story and one girl’s point of view.

My uncle passed away when I was 15 after a 6-month battle with esophageal cancer that spread to his stomach and lungs when chemotherapy failed. He had insurance, had been with the same provider for at least a decade. They denied him coverage for a different treatment that probably would have saved his life because it was deemed “experimental”. They also cut off payments halfway through his hospital stay and he died in a rest home leaving behind massive debt. For 6 months after he passed, my mother, whom collectors mistook for his wife because she had been his power of attorney, received daily phone calls asking her to pay his debt down from his leftover healthcare bills. She had just lost her brother and had to spend up to an hour each day telling people to stop calling her, hanging up the phone in tears because it reawakened her grief. He had insurance, she shouldn’t have to deal with this on top of trying to cope with his death. I know this story is all too familiar in the current world of HMOs.

Then there is the other side of the spectrum, the uninsured. I haven’t had health insurance since I was 18. I managed the mandatory visits, the small fees here and there for those checkups too important to skip. But I never go in for expensive tests. I put off going in if I was sick until I absolutely can’t avoid it anymore because I couldn’t pay for health care and pay my bills at the same time. And I know I’m not alone in this, that my story probably echoes many stories out there. I keep hearing this argument that I chose not to have health insurance. Yes, I chose to go to college and simultaneously have a roof over my head and food to eat. I chose to only apply for part time jobs with flexible hours during my college years because I needed to work around my class schedule. I chose to get an education with the hopes of getting a better job in the future rather than get no education and probably still be stuck in a job with no insurance. I chose all these things, and they were all very tough choices to make.

My father refused to help me pay for college. I started at 16 through an early admissions program, continued through age 24 to receive 2 degrees. I went multiple years as a part time student after Texas tuition was deregulated and the rates rose. I took one semester below half time and the next semester completely off to work and save extra money for my final year. In all this time, I only had federal aid (work study and Stafford loans) for one year because my father refused to give me his tax information to apply for the FAFSA. I have no idea why, something to do with making my own way in the world. I worked 40-60 hours a week in sometimes up to 4 different jobs while juggling a pretty intellectually grueling degree for my first half of college. I also managed to tear a ligament in my ankle and be hospitalized for an allergic reaction to black mold during this time. Without insurance, I wasn’t able to afford surgery for my ankle, which didn’t heal correctly and still has problems over 6 years later. I talked the doctors out of keeping me overnight (a stay I would never be able to afford) for the black mold allergy and was bedridden for a week at my parents’ house trying to recover. During my second degree, somewhat less intellectual but more physically demanding and time consuming, I contracted acute bronchitis. I let it get to the point where I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, and basically couldn’t function at work or school before I found time go to the doctor. This trip wasn’t as expensive as the hospital visit, but I still had to borrow from my mother to buy the antibiotics and pay the doc. And I hate borrowing money, it makes me feel like an unemployed moocher. I had two more relapses over the next 6 months before I completely recovered. I know this history isn’t that traumatic. But these are just the health issues for which I was forced to seek help. I have scars, burns, other minor things that probably should have been treated properly. I fell off a chair into a printer table at 19 years old leaving a jagged cut down my thigh to my calf that needed stitches. I sealed it with superglue. When you can’t afford the hospital visit, you learn to get creative. I toughed out colds and normal wear and tear with OTC cough syrup and pain killers. I suffered through years of migraines with Excedrin proving my only friend.

Like I said, probably pretty tame compared to most stories. And that’s exactly my point. A lot of people work 40-60 hours a week just to pay for food, shelter, gas, car, living necessities to make it day to day. For them, insurance is a luxury. A lot of minimum-wage (or part time) jobs don’t provide insurance or pay well enough for the employee to provide for themselves. We already have Medicaid for children and Medicare for the elderly. Is it really that much to give an option to functional adults so they require LESS care when they age, where we'd spend less on Medicare for diseases caught or prevented early?

For me this is a question of how our society should be viewed - if benevolent aliens landed tomorrow, would you really want to be seen as a culture that let people suffer because they weren’t lucky enough to be born rich or skilled enough to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps? Try putting yourself in someone else’s shoes if the alien scenario doesn’t do it for you. What if you were to suddenly suffer misfortune such as, oh I don’t know, losing your job and being unable to find one before your health insurance expires? Would you want to be without health care because you chose to not find another job in this market or not pay for it out of pocket when that meant sacrificing another necessity like rent or electricity? I know this isn’t an ideal world, nothing is perfect. But maybe the path to civilization is learning to give a little extra to help your fellow man, knowing that fellow man is also giving a little extra to help you. You know, love they neighbor as thyself and all that. Call me a hippie, call me a commie, call me whatever you want, but I still believe the world would be a better place if we reached out a hand to help instead of a fist to punch. Then again, what do I know? I'm just a leftist, liberal, commie, socialist, know-nothing raised on TV and bad star trek episodes with a strange affinity for horror movies.

Oh Jon Stewart, you say it so much better than I possibly could:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Drag Me to Health
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Joke of the Day

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Drag Me to Health - Universal Health Care
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Joke of the Day

Cosmic Battle Between Good and Evil - a scene from my play Finding Jesus

ACT 2 SCENE 3
[God, Jesus, Rabbi, Pastor, and Satan sit at a round table playing War. Soft Jazz plays. Joe enters and quietly watches the group]

God: Aces high, I feel the bloodlust. That means faces ten and count yer pips … got it Santa –

Satan: Stop calling me that! Yeah, we both like red – and we both promise rewards for acting a certain way, but that is no reas –

Jesus: (interjecting) Don’t get your panties in a twist, big red.
[all but Satan laugh]
Awww, I think ‘bubs getting a little red in the face –

[more laughter]

Joe: Hey, you’re the one that stole my watch.

Jesus: [jumps in surprise] Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that.

Joe: Just give me back my things and I won’t press any charges.

Jesus: [takes long drag of joint, passes it to God, coughs] … Things?

Joe: Maddie’s jewelry, my camera and watch –

Pastor: [sings off key] You better watch out, you better not cry –

Satan: STOP with the Claus jokes or I’m going home

God: (mocking) I’m gonna take my balls and go home, boo fucking hoo! Draw!

[all flip a card over, revealing face]

Rabbi: Two! Luck is not with me, my friends.

Pastor: Seven!?! Damn it Jesus; we agreed no miracles this round.

Jesus: Dude, I got a nine. Do you think I’d give myself a nine? Thirteen maybe, but nine? Seriously.

Satan: There’s no thirteen in this deck Jesus. Maybe you should lay off the smoking – it’s starting to affect your game -

God: I got a king, that’s a ten pip. What’d you get ‘bub?

Satan: Queen of hearts. Ten pip as well –

Pastor: Lucy’s a queen, tell me something I didn’t know!

Satan: [confused] What?

Pastor: [speaking slowly with exaggerated hand gestures] You are a QUEEN!

Satan: I drew a queen if tha–

Jesus: He’s saying you’re gay, Luce.
[takes a long pull from beer bottle]

Satan: I don’t get it. How does having a queen card have anything to do with being gay?

God: Do we have to spell it out for you again?

Satan: Spell what out? I’m not gay. I got the queen; that means we tied – right? War!

[God and Satan both flip over another card]

Rabbi: And thus the cosmic battle of good versus evil continues…

[Satan groans as God wins the round]

Joe: Are you supposed to be the devil? Why are a rabbi and a pastor playing cards with evil incarnate?

Satan: Oh yes, you’re still here. Wait, let me get into character.
[stands and badly tries to act threatening]
I will steal your soul and you will burn for all eternity in the fires of my dominio –
[Jesus throws popcorn at Satan’s face]
Dude, ow! That almost hit me in the eye! Ow, God - salt. There’s salt in my eye! It burns, it burns!

Rabbi: Now isn’t that the definition of ironic?

[Satan rubs his eyes with his sleeve and meekly sits down]

Pastor: Ok, ok I got one! A rabbi, a priest, and Jesus walk into a mosque –

God: Not again… Don’t you have any new material?

Pastor: Fine. Knock, Knock?

Jesus: This is getting old real quick, man.

Pastor: Knock, knock?!?

Rabbi: [sighs] Who’s there?

Pastor: Armageddon

Jesus: This better not be as fucking lame as it sounds -

Pastor: Armageddon!

Rabbi: [sighs] Armageddon who?

Pastor: Armageddon outta here!
[laughs obnoxiously]

Jesus: … Alright, just smite him and get it over with.

Pastor: Come on, that was funny!

Jesus: He could use some serious smiting.

God: I can’t smite him just for telling a lame joke

Jesus: What if you gave him a warning smite across his brow?

Satan: She can’t smite him Jessie, don’t crucify yourself over it.
[Snickers]

Jesus: [lights up a cigarette] You sure you wanna go there Kringle?

Satan: Stop calling me that!!!

God: Children, children. Do I have to smite both of you?

Rabbi: Again with the smiting. Just smite them both and get it over with already.

God: [knocks rabbi’s cards off table] Consider yourself smote.
[sips martini]

Joe: I hate to interrupt the, uh, smiting … but could someone please tell me what you are all doing in my kitchen?

God: Pull up a chair, Joe. Been meaning to have a little chat with ya.

Joe: Sorry, Miss… but who are you?

God: You know, it’s amazing how many times I get that. Don’t you recognize me? Maybe see a slight resemblance between myself and anyone else here?
[sips on a martini]
No? How about a quote? ‘I am what I am’ … but I don’t like spinach! Still nothing? Ok, how about this –
[Pastor and God point at each other across table mimicking the Sistine Chapel mural. God eyes Joe expectantly]
Man, did I really make you this stupid or was environment to blame? I am Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah ... any of this registering?

Joe:[laughing] You can’t be God, you’re a woman.

God: [mocking] You can’t be Joe, you’re a pansy.

Joe: Wait, how do you know my name? And why are you in my kitchen, God damn it!

God: I really don’t like it when you take my name in vain. Or damn things. I’m really the only one allowed to do tha-

Joe: You shouldn’t blaspheme!

Rabbi: He really doesn’t understand, does he?

Joe: Understand? I understand that there are five people sitting at my table, trashing my kitchen, and one of them happens to be the guy that mugged me in Jerusalem. Now, give me back my things and get the hell out of my house!

God: [stands, building in intensity] I am the creator of all things. I am Elohim, Adonai, Hashim, El Shaddai. I am the light, the liberator, the sustainer. I am the god of Abraham and Hagar, the god of Moses and Miriam. I will be because I will be. And YOU will be because I WILL it.

Joe: (walks to coffee maker) And I will be getting some coffee because you woke me up, woman.

Satan: Score one for the red team, he’s a nonbeliever

Joe: You expect me to believe in God and Jesus after HE mugged me?

Jesus: Christ man, I didn’t mug you!

Satan: (sarcastic) It wasn’t you, it was the one-armed man? Draw!

[everyone draws, losers moan as Rabbi wins]

Jesus: Last time I was down there, they nailed me to a fucking tree. I can’t imagine what they’d do if I went there again… “hi, I bring you peace and love” “kill him!!!”- But I did get a really kickass scar! Hey, Joe … wanna see my scar?

Pastor/Satan/Rabbi: No!!!

Jesus: Come on, it’s great. And chicks dig scars, I’ve gotten so much play you wouldn’t belie—

Satan: Nobody wants to see your scar!

Jesus: After all I’ve been through this is what I get?

Satan: Jesus Christ! It’s been two thousand years, get the hell over it!

God: So, Joe… whaddya know?

Joe: I know you don’t exist

God: Then how am I here? In your kitchen, playing war with Satan? Draw!
[everyone draws, groans as Jesus wins round]
I’ve been watching you lately, Joe. I don’t really like what I’m seeing. Was it really that easy? You lose your faith over one little thing –

Joe: One? I was mugged by Jesus –

Jesus: I didn’t fucking mug you man!

God: Regardless, you still stopped believing in me without putting up too much of a fight. I thought I was pretty specific about these things. I’m going to test you. I’m going to make sure your faith can’t be shaken, make sure you really do believe through thick and thin. Make sure through fire and ice, hell and high water that you still believe in me no matter what. I tested you Joe, and you failed.

Joe: What was I supposed to do? Oh you robbed me Jesus, consider it a donation to the church? You took my most treasured possessions, but that’s ok because God tested me and I passed –

God: You can’t take it with you…

Joe: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

God: It means that those were just things. Here in this life, gone in the next. YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU – so why should it matter if it was stolen? Sure it’s disappointing, sure it’s upsetting. But to lose your faith over something so small as a few stolen possessions? You’re alive. Your wife is alive. Your home and family are intact. Be happy, be joyous, and praise me as you should. ‘Cause honey, it coulda been a whole lot fucking worse.

Joe: Those things are irreplaceable. And I did everything right. I did everything I was supposed to do according to your book. How could you do this to me after I’ve been so good? I never questioned, I never asked… I just followed what you said I should do –

God: Maybe you should have asked, should have questioned.

Joe: You want disobedient children?

God: I want you to think for yourself and decide to follow me. Ask questions, learn for yourself. That’s part of the journey, the goal. Blind faith isn’t true faith. And true faith can only be built through trial. Are you ready to try?

Where have all the heroes gone? or Chuck Norris need not apply

With the death of Walter Cronkite and watching recent news, I can’t help but ask this question – Where have all the heroes gone?
I know most wouldn’t necessarily call Uncle Walter a hero. He was the voice of television, familiar even to modern generations, those that never saw his live broadcasts, through historical footage of the moon landing and Kennedy’s assassination. But he was also brave enough to tell the truth and report with integrity throughout his career, something I consider a rare trait. I watch modern “journalists” and see only sensationalism and corporate interests influencing the so-called news. FoxNews has a decidedly conservative slant; MSNBC is extremely liberal. Newspaper media repeatedly issues retractions for published stories either unverified or untrue. It seems you can’t trust anything you read or see in mainstream media to be unbiased or fairly reported. And with media coverage of Cronkite’s death, the difference in styles and ethics between then and now seems painfully obvious.
In this current age of sensationalized media, it is hard to have any respect for people facing this kind of 24-hour coverage. Yes, sometimes it is actually news that this politician or that public figure is having an affair or might secretly be gay. Usually this only applies when the person in question is being hypocritical – ie. publicly denouncing someone for having an affair and then having an affair of their own. But the media seems to beat the poor horse to death with constant coverage. Surely there is more important news out there than whether or not Mark Sanford and his wife are attempting to reconcile and what motive may lie behind it. Do we really need to see 10 different angles of Michael Jackson’s sheet covered body being transported from helicopter to coroner’s van when people are dying for freedom in Iran or being fired for being homosexual? Does anyone REALLY care that Madonna is adopting another African child from a life of poverty when so many others are dying unseen every day?
I also wonder what all this negative media is doing to our children. I think I grew up in the generation when we first started having massive media coverage of mediocre news. I now expect most men to cheat on their wives, politicians to be corrupt, actors to be hedonists, athletes to use enhancing drugs, and every other negative stereotype out there that has been drilled into my head from years of watching the nightly news. I think I’m a cynic now, thanks in part to every hero I’ve ever had being raked through the mud at the slightest revelation of a flaw.
Ok perhaps, that’s being too cynical, even for me. But still, I’m tired of being driven mad with news that isn’t news. Celebrities are not gods, they don’t control our lives. If I cared what they were doing, I’d watch TMZ and read Perez Hilton, not expect them to take up the pages of TIME and half of the mainstream news broadcast.
I guess all that’s bothering me is the realization that we have very few, if any, public figures that can be considered heroes for young people to admire and imitate. I define a hero as someone who, regardless of the situation or consequences, does what they believe to be good and right, someone who inspires others to be the best they can be. They don’t have to be the perfect person, always making right decisions and never making mistakes. Nobody is perfect. Perhaps that is what makes true heroes so great and so rare these days. They can still shine as an example while being picked apart, imperfections and all. If this generation grows up without a hero or a role model, how will they know to do the right thing, consequences be damned? How will they know how to be good people?

Maybe I should put in an ad on Craigslist: Hero Wanted! Please no tights or capes (they cause aerodynamic difficulties). No white horse or shining armor needed. Riding off into the sunset a plus, but not required. Chuck Norris need not apply.

Diary of a Former Fat Girl - Growing Up and Out

I have no pictures from when I was at my biggest. I shunned cameras and hid whenever I saw them. I’m sure there are some floating around – I was in a few plays that year and worked at Lonestar Comics where they seemed to love to flaunt that a chick was shift supervisor for a short period of time. I was the keyholder, are you the gatekeeper?

I don’t want pictures of me from then; I think they’d only make me cry that I let myself get that way, let myself go that much. I’ve always struggled with my weight. I started eating for comfort at a very young age when life’s emerging traumas proved too much for my fragile little mind. I hid inside during the summers, stayed up all night and slept all day, obsessed with Nintendo and fantasy-land sci-fi books as my only means of escape from the nightmare going on around me. No, I wasn’t in a war-torn country or being forced to work in a sweatshop. I was just lost in the suburban jungle, tangled in social lianas and slowly choking on the stagnant suburban air. We were stereotypical on the outside – father owned his own company, mother ran his office until getting pregnant with the last half of 2.5 kids.
I’m going to burn in a hell I don’t believe in for just referring to my autistic brother as “half a kid”.
We didn’t have the picket fence, every house looked the same on our street. Manicured lawns, Saturdays spent landscaping, swimming pool in the backyard and brick-built mailbox on the front lawn. Picture perfect family life but this isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting. My parents fought, all parents do, but its still traumatic for a kid to witness. My sister hated me, egged on by my maternal grandmother to tease and taunt and punch and shove and basically make my life a living hell. And I was strange. Like leopard print biking shorts with striped t-shirts and knee high athletic socks strange. Sideways Chrissy Snow ponytail half falling down, gap-toothed grin, dimples hidden as I looked at my feet to stop the crimson blushing strange. I liked science fiction and reading and would rather have gone to the museum than to the birthday party. I wanted to be everything from an actress to an astronaut and didn’t feel like I’d ever fit in with those neighborhood kids playing in the vacant lot with the giant hollow tree that eventually got leveled for a two-story mcmansion with a crystal chandelier.
I didn’t play with Barbie dolls, I wanted to build lego castles and storm them (humperdink!). I wasn’t the typical girl. And I was fully aware of that fact – hello cookie dough and chocolate bars to make that empty hole in my stomach go away. My own lack of willpower and about ten years later and I’m not huge, but not small – maybe slightly wider than average in a country filled with little houses.
I was in high school trying to start losing the weight so my mom would stop saying “you’d be so pretty if you lost about 30 lbs” and my sister’s friends would stop following me from the bus stop calling me “chunky” and “tub o’ lard” and telling me I’d never be pretty enough to get a boyfriend. I went on my first diet in high school when my mom went on a health food kick. And I lost some weight. Not enough, probably because I kept sneaking cokes and candy bars from the vending machines after gym where I sat on my ass in the bleachers most of the time. I hated working out in front of others for fear of how my body and my new-grown overlarge breasts jiggled. I couldn’t concentrate on crunches while waiting for that familiar whisper of “god, why does she even try – those ten crunches won’t make that stomach go away”
So I gave up for a while and resigned myself to a life of being lonely and fat and ugly. I’m used to the lonely. I am a rock, I am an island – Simon and Garfunkel. Wise men, broke up, very sad.

I lost a little weight the year I started college at 16. Being away from family stressors, new environment, having to walk all over campus all contributed to dropping the freshman 25 instead of gaining the freshman 15. Then I moved back home to go to the local university. And I started growing bigger. My constant size 16 clothes I’d had since high school started getting tighter. After about 5 years of ups and downs and wins and losses I eventually topped out at a tight size 22 (so a 24?) and about 250 lbs. that’s the biggest I ever was and the biggest I’ll ever let myself get.
I started working on losing the weight seriously this time. Lost down to a tight size 18 in about a year, and then stalled and couldn’t lose more. My mom read about this new detox diet – the anti-estrogenic diet. I fit the symptoms of estrogen overload – acne, stubborn lower belly fat, extreme mood swings, etc, etc, etc. So I bought the book and tried it. And lost 20 lbs in 2 weeks. Then continued losing throughout the next few months. There was, however, a drawback. If I didn’t eat the prescribed “meals” at certain times I experienced a sort of diabetic/hypoglycemic shock. This happened during rehearsals for The Tempest and I nearly passed out backstage. Not fun. I stopped the diet shortly after that night and went to being a (flexible) vegetarian.
I had lost about 50 lbs from January 08 – January 09 with no exercise other than normal daily activities and a hellish schedule my last spring semester of school. But it wasn’t enough. I was a size 16 and I still hated how I jiggled when I walked or how my waist bunched over my beltline when I sat down. So I went the whole 9 yards – full restrictive vegan, home cooked meals only, calorie restriction and no processed foods. I lost ~40 lbs between January and May. And then stalled again, for various reasons. I went off my diet when we moved, I’m having problems finding motivation to start it up again.
I still hate the way I look. I know I’m a thousand times better than I was. I know I’m in a healthy range now and I’m not hideously ugly or obese. But I want to lose more. Something in me wants to be a single-digit size range. Not skeletor thin, but maybe like a size 8. Still have curves, but toned curves. And with all the recent shit in my life, I’ve found the motivation to start again, to put down the chocolate and pick up the weights instead. I’m working on toning this time and not just losing inches. Breaking out the old pilates and yoga with the hopes that maybe I’ll stop having breast-related back pain (the one part of me that really hasn’t gone down proportionally)
Through all my diets and struggles and battles with myself I got left with lovely reminders – I’m pretty much covered in stretch marks. Breasts, stomach, hips, thighs, butt, back, even arms where I gained and lost bicep muscle. Yet another reason I still wear full jeans and baggy tshirts in Texas summers. I lost 92 lbs and got a lifelong souvenir for all my effort. I know they’ll fade in time, with vitamin E and cocoa butter. But they’ll always be there even faded. I’ll always notice them even if no one else does. Rub my fingers along the faint rough edges and wish I hadn’t ruined my body so young. I might have to change my stance on cosmetic surgery and get them taken care of once I’m where I want to be. We’ll see. Though probably not, I’m one of those live with the consequences types.
So yeah. Here I am. Almost 26 years old, 162 lbs as of my daily weighing yesterday. 41-31-41 perfect hourglass measurements, just a slightly bigger payscale. And like I said, not completely happy where I am, but working on it. I didn’t get that way overnight, I’m not gonna wake up tomorrow perfectly svelte and toned. If I can stop listening to dark chocolate’s siren’s song I should be able to get where I want to get eventually. This would all go much better if they didn't make food in commercials look so tempting. But I don't want or need easy solutions. Anything in life is worth the struggle, if it comes easily it isn’t worth the paper its printed on. Or some other old-fashioned saying like that.

Diary of a Former Fat Girl - My 92 lb. Invisibility Cloak

If I turn my head just the right way, just the right angle and just the right tilt of my eyes, I almost see it. Sitting in my corner, propped up against the wall. It followed me from the other house where I thought I left it locked tight in my closet, where I thought it couldn’t escape and taunt me anymore. If I turn my head a little more, it disappears again, invisible to the searching eye that never really knows if what it sees is real.

My 92 lb. invisibility cloak is staring at me while I type this. If it had vocal chords I swear it would be laughing at me, but it doesn’t talk, or laugh, or even snicker as I walk by in my spanky new skinny jeans. It just sits there, waiting to be noticed, waiting for me to try it on again, for me to slip up and revert to old ways and old comforts. My 92 lb. invisibility cloak is both my safety blanket and my prison chain.

This is the diary of a former fat girl.

Growing up I was told, often and with great enthusiasm, that I was ugly and fat and no one would ever want to date me. I was told, often and with great vigor, by family and friends and people I trusted that if I’d only lose about 50 lbs or so some guy might like me enough for my stellar personality to look past my body and into my soul. I was told, and I listened. You get told something often enough you eventually start to believe them. I was told, and I don’t really believe anymore. But that initial lesson learned at my grandmother’s hypocritical feet formed the basic lining of my invisibility cloak.

I don’t know why, but guys I’m attracted to have never really found me attractive back. I end up being their friend, matchmaking with my other female friends. I’m the tagalong girl at the bar that is easily approachable to ask for my best friend’s, the perfect dreamgirl’s, phone number. I’m the homely friend that clues you in on girl things and gives you girl advice. I’m the cool girl that knows about guy stuff, can sit around drinking and eating pizza and watching action movies and not wincing when someone’s guts get splattered all over the screen. I like horror and scifi. I read comics and play(ed) video games. I am the guy in chick’s clothing, although I mostly tend to dress like a guy unless I want to feel pretty.

I don’t often feel pretty.

In fact, most times I only feel pretty invisible. I’m the girl that will talk and have people walk away midsentence because they thought I was finished or forgot I was saying anything. The girl that gets bumped into unapologetically or sat on in the cafeteria cause someone “just didn’t see me there”. I’m the girl that lurks in the shadows waiting to bite your ne—wait, no that’s a vampire. I’m not one of those… yet. *insert evil smirk here*

At least I used to be that pretty invisible girl. I’ve lost ~92 lbs since I was at my heaviest and I’m suddenly not so invisible anymore. I don’t know if its my newfound confidence in my body (well, little confidence. I’m still pretty awkward about it) or if it actually is my new body, but suddenly I’m getting pounced on like catnip any time I leave the house. Whether spiffed out in makeup and form-fitting jeans or trashed out in painted clothes and bare face, it seems I can’t step outside without someone trying something. A guy from high school asked me out (I actually gave that one a chance cause he was nifty). People at grocery stores and home depot very non-stealthily check me out and then swagger over to try to impress me with their mating call and unkempt plumage. Unfortunately the majority of them use the “you’re haaawwwwttt. I like your boooooobs. You should date me cause I’m haaawwwt toooo” variety of pickup lines. And that is a complete turnoff to me. I don’t want to be asked out cause you think I’m hot. This doesn’t work for me when I’ve spent my entire life trembling in the corner in my invisibility cloak because I wasn’t hot, I was downright frigid. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being hit on by people or being told I’m pretty once we’ve established a non-physical connection. It’s the way they were doing it that left me squeamish and feeling violated. At the very least couldn’t they have said something about my t-shirt being funny and I must have a good sense of humor, wanna exchange numbers or something? Or made a joke about needing a good tool and try to make me laugh?

I am jack’s complete lack of human understanding.

Instead I get leering eyes and ogling guys that think calling me pretty will make me swoon. It won’t. All it does is leave me confused as to the sudden influx of attention until I realize I must’ve left my invisibility cloak safely in my corner at home, collecting dust from months of neglect. No wonder I’ve been so cold lately.
The me I am is 25 years in the making. I don’t really want to change how I think or how I process things, I’d end up losing a part of myself if I suddenly start believing I’m “hot.” So maybe I just need to wear a fake ring on my finger and let them ogle all they wish, as uncomfortable as it makes me. I’m not used to being seen. Even on stage, they were looking at the character, not ME. And you aren’t going to know enough about me after 5 seconds of staring at my breasts to know if we’re compatible. Sorry honey, these tits don’t make the woman and there’s more on my head than whichever bathroom bottle job I’m currently sporting. I am an enigma, even to myself. I’m a jack of all trades, master of none, with loads of ambition and no real clue how to focus it into laser-beam clarity. I don’t usually date because I don’t like hiding parts of myself until the guy is comfortable enough with me to know me better. I usually don’t show all of who I am from the outset because it scares people away. And the few times I haven’t held back, gotten past my shyness and let loose with all my vulgar dry humor and bitterly sarcastic outlook, they run away screaming. A girl can only take so much.

I’m a pretty damn terrifying person when you get to know me, which you don’t. So what makes you think 5 seconds of watching my hips shake as I walk by is any indication that we might hit it off outside the bedroom?

Things were so much easier when I was invisible. At least then I could tell who really was interested and who just wanted a piece of my formerly fat ass. But now that I’ve been halved, it isn’t so easy to tell ulterior motives. And that cloak is beckoning and taunting and snickering from my corner, begging me to don it one last time. Just go to the kitchen and pack my cheeks with fig newtons and mint chocolate chip ice cream and a snickers bar or three. Squirrel it up and bury that spoon down my throat. Even though I cant really stand the supersweet taste anymore, a little sacrifice to make my life a little closer to what I had thought was normal.

But I don’t have the willpower to make myself fat again. Or the energy to make myself miserable cause I’ve suddenly turned visible. That cloak ain’t getting worn anytime in my life again. I should donate it to a worthy cause (oprah and roseanne, where are you?). I should come up with a witty retort to half-assed pickup attempts, like “I have an iq requirement for dating” or “if you had a bigger dick I might consider it.” But those are trite and cliché and all those things I never want to be.
I just want to be free to be me, without reminders of the ghost of fat girls past, without feeling disgusting and dirty anytime a guy checks out my suddenly tapered waist. I want to keep my healthier body and still be invisible. It was comfy and warm in my cloak, if only a little hard to breathe from all the excess weight pressing down. It was my safety blanket, my prison chains, and my butterfly cocoon. But I guess as a former fat girl, I should learn to live with the consequences of my inactions and back away from the ice cream aisle. The mint chocolate chip can wait for another meltdown I suppose.

i'll get off my soapbox if you clean up your act

I know i shouldn't let this bother me, but it does.

I recently got into a "debate" with a friend of a friend over Islam. Now the original discussion on the friend's page was about some new bill being passed (i forget which one) and the hidden dangers that were written into it - ie. things that could be used in the future for something OTHER than what they were intended. The person in question brought up that Obama is a secret muslim and only has an ear for muslim interests... yadayadayada muslims are terrorists.

i am not muslim.

i'm an atheist that was raised southern baptist, realized that wasn't right for me and then explored/searched vastly different religions trying to find the right one. a lot of my dad's family lives in the middle east and many ARE muslim though. unlike this man, i've actually read the Koran (and have a copy of it sitting in my bookshelf next to the atheist's bible, what the bible didn't say, and my wicca books). he was spouting fox news propaganda about how "all muslims are terrorists" or "their religion is so backwards and outdated they can't live in modern western society"

all i can say to that is BULLSHIT.

the religion itself is actually beautiful. as is the christianity and judaism and hindi and tao and zen and every other religion out there (except perhaps satanism). the purpose of religion is to bring people peace in this chaotic world, give them something to fall back on in dark times and strength to DO THE RIGHT THING when the course of action is unknown. it is basically a morality system with a built-in rewards structure - you do good, you get eternal life/72 virgins/happy gummy bear funland with the spaghetti monster feeding you its noodly appendages. you do evil, no cookie for you/burning fire pool/stabbed in the ass with pitchforks forever.
the problem with religion is when a person or group becomes in control of that religion and it becomes more than just a belief system but an ingrained way of life. a pope/osama/leader of a communist country setting themselves up as a deity can (and usually do) bend what the religion itself says, the basic ideas, and twist them into messages of hate. and no i didn't just compare the pope to osama bin laden or little kim. i lumped them into the same group based on behaviors i've seen (past popes included in the pope reference - shall we say crusades anyone?)
these groups use religion to propagate hatred and intolerance of others. crusades - lets go invade the holy land and conquer it and take it back from these heathens that control it because we're the only right religion even though these other guys have been here FAAAAARRR longer. muslim extremists - lets blow up buildings and kill the infidels because we're the only right religion and they're infecting us with their western ideals and ruining our control over the poor illiterate poppy farmers. fred phelps clan - god hates soldiers/fags and will kill them all because we're the only right religion (Even though there are only about 20 of us and we're all related by inbreeding). far right pro-life extremists - killing children is wrong so we're going to kill the providers and blow up clinics and clinic workers to ensure the life of the child (life is only sacred in the womb?)
i know i seem to be making a lot of generalizations here, i don't have time/energy/space to write the multifaceted views floating in my head right now. it just bothers me that this person is sending me msgs now (after i've asked him to stop msging me and infecting me with his hatred) saying how ignorant and stupid i am and at the same time spouting that ISLAM WILL TAKE US OVER AND CUT OFF THE HANDS OF ALL WESTERN INFIDELS WITH OUR NEW MUSLIM PRESIDENT. seriously? you REALLY believe that?

and on a side note, i know people can't tell from my facebook page, but a little thing that pisses me off is assuming i'm an idiot because i have drunken pictures i take of myself in different makeup styles and geeky links and generally airhead-sounding status updates sometimes. but assuming that my daddy paid for my life is kinda ridiculous all the same.

JUST in case anyone were wondering - i started college at almost 16 years old through an early admissions program. i'm ADD and couldn't decide on a major so switched from computer science to physics to theatre. i have a BS in physics and a BFA in theatre, both of which i graduated magna cum laude; and am about 3 classes shy of getting a math degree and 4 from getting a russian degree (as if i wanted either). and i paid for the entire damn thing myself/with loans that i'm now repaying. and i worked 40-60 hours a week WHILE going to school, going to rehearsals, making costumes, teaching astro labs, designing shows, doing karaoke every week, spending my 20th birthday doing an take-home quantum mechanics test due the next day, and generally getting less than 4 hrs sleep a night for almost 10 years.
i do not mooch off my parents like many people of my generation. i hate having to live at home while saving money to move, but i wouldn't be able to save enough if i got my own place without a roommate right now. i don't rely or even like daddy to buy me things (which is good, cause he usually doesn't). i hate birthday and christmas presents from friends and family because i don't feel like i actually EARNED them. i don't even like dates buying me things or opening doors for me. yeah, i'm strange. but i'm also strong, smart, capable, creative, and motivated (sometimes). just because i have large breasts and pretty eyes, don't assume i'm a daddy's girl bimbo with no worries destined to be a trophy wife. stop calling me "my dear" unless i really am your dear. don't treat me like a petulant child and condescend with every correspondence.

oh, and read a fucking book OTHER than o'reilly's latest biography sometime...

Diary of a social network junkie

i am the screaming voice of the changing times, my nightmares and dreams flooding your inbox. what used to be mix tapes and hacked broadcasts have become digital poetry; face to face conversations carried out over tweets and status updates; bathroom stall graffiti written on facebook walls. living in a virtual reality where anything and every thought is acceptable and endlessly profound, where imagination is limited to 140 characters and tweet speak is the patois of a new generation. pepsi ain't got nothin on this bitch... just inject the caffeine straight into my veins - heroin for the social network junkie. add a few more hours on my bedtime til i get that one last sleeping thought typed out and dream of all the little red numbers popping upto tell me someone thought enough to comment, that my words affected you and yours or touched your soul or stirred your heart, that i made you think until your brain imploded, that i made you cry or laugh or (fake) lol.

cold hard words, the only voice for someone so hampered by their own damn shyness. i can hardly speak in real life for fear of how you look - your eyes as i mouth the words, force sound between barely parted lips, studying me as i try to make these senseless thoughts logical or simply get my point out and across the court to you. its your ball now. please don't take it and go home. that isn't how this game is played. i'm no expert (trust me) but i'm pretty sure some witty banter is involved.

i'm just not that witty in person when i see your face and can read your reaction or hear the disappointment in your voice. impersonal text is so much easier, lets me go on thinking that i'm everything you expected me to be and so much more. lets me get these thoughts over and out to you where they belong instead of floating, mired in my pregnant mind, waiting til i can get home and put pen to paper, fingers to keys, til i can form the sentences and phrases that edged my lips all night, til i can finally tell you what i wanted you to hear because you're nowhere near my sight.

Freedom Tonight

i hear the distant drums pound, feel like moving, twisting, turning. Want to turn off all the lights and dance naked in the twilight to music echoing in my ears, to the song only I seem to hear. the rhythm rocks and rolls as my arms swing and my hips sway and my head drops and rolls and the sweat drips from my flesh like water from an ice cold beer on a texas summer sunday.

i quickly climb onto my bed so i'm tall enough to reach, to push aside the curtain, to look through the window from my world out to reality and see the fireworks exploding in the night sky. brightly colored flames up high light my smiling face; i'm shrinking body and soul. i'm me again, without a care or tear or frown or pout or dream or sense of dread pounding in my chest.

i'm eight years old. pulling my hair in pigtails and sliding on frilly white socks inside pastel pink plastic maryjanes. i'll shake my feet off the edge of the bed to watch the lace swim in the air, leap from the pile of stuffed animals and dolls to land near the closet door. tear into the wardrobe, wading through the pile of half folded clothes and hanging costumes. i want to find that perfect "fully-out skirt" to twirl and spin and giggle in as it rises and falls in the wind. i'll turn three times as fast as i can and push the skirt down quick at the hem so it bubbles up around my waist. jump up and down in slow motion, my braids and skirt floating in time, and i'm on the moon bouncing and never noticing houston has a problem.

she calls and i run before she sees me. past the playdoh tea party and the disfigured, dismembered barbie dolls. i sneak through the suburban jungle of plastic plants and tchotchkes and out the front door, laughing like a banshee in the surround sound cricket song.

its not my bedtime yet, i haven't had my bath and i still want to play. after all that's what summer's for isn't it?

i'll skip in the moonlight and break into a full run down the dark driveway. scuff the pretty plastic shoes as they scrape against hard asphalt, bruise my knees on the pavement as i inevitably fall face first over some imaginary branch or rock. i'll run to the park at midnight. take off my shoes and socks and walk barefoot through the soft grass, wiggling my toes in the dirt and hoping no spiders crawl up my tiny legs. i want to hang upside down on the monkeybars and pump hard to swing as high as my short legs will take me ... only to jump when i reach the peak and do a triple somersault in the air before rolling on the ground and dirtying my froufy little dress.

i'll wipe the blood from my arm down the side of the stained skirt, never noticing I look like i'd been chased by wild dogs and left for dead on a desert highway. never caring that someone might be watching or judging or wanting something from me that i couldn't possibly have to offer.

my inner child wants out. wants to play mean tricks on halloween and run screaming through walmart at 2 am. wants to stay out all night and in bed all day. wants to laugh, to sing, to cry, to yell, to just feel simple joy again.

i'll blast the music through the headphones so i don't wake up the neighbors. spin in circles and fall to my knees, bare skin on bare carpet. shaking, shivering, trembling in time to the tempo in my heart. the bass beats within me and i choke back the lyrics, the melody, rising in my silent throat. if i sing, they'll come investigate and i won't ever hear this song again.and i've got to get through this symphony streaming in my head before i slowly go insane.


too late? ... yeah, i know.