the acidic aftertaste of astringent and whiskey. the feel of it seeping, almost drowning in the back of her throat. suffocation and helplessness, dramatics and drunkeness from life, not the booze she couldn't quite taste. at what point do we wake up? and finally smell these roses. where is that cold, hard, slap in the face that is so very needed, at this time of surrender. come on, get up. stop this nonsense now. what is real and what is make believe, almost buying into the fictional madness, arms up in the air. sitting on the cold, hair infested floor. am i sick? or am i dead. why is he still here? does he really believe me? do i believe me - empty. quiet. nothing. just that sour false choking sensation of either really bad, or really good, whiskey. pinching at her nostrils, as if she took too large of a gulp that she could handle. this isn't worth it. nothing is. gambling is an asinine timekill for unintelligent assholes. gambling is for those who have already thrown in the towel, given it all up. she's not ready to give up. not anywhere close. but why are the demons poking out behind the hedges? they're peeking and prodding. in the disguise of a lumpy breast. they're restless, now. been asleep much far too long. they're ready to erupt and sit on that forbidden, dusty button of self destruct. just to push it. for the taste of it. she shoos the demons back. away. 29 years didn't teach her nothing. she knows to sit up and splash the water on her face. to tell them demons, BE GONE. he is mine. he is my all. my everything. and more. no lumps. no needles. no intimidating 'probably's' are going to stand in the way of this power.
trying to stay positive. how does jodi do this? eating brussel sprouts. shitty music from her eccletically (is that a word?) lame iTunes library. writing really bad musings and thoughts and poetic reflections. if ,that's even what that trash above is. wishing she didn't eat brussel sprouts. like, really, really wishing. wondering if my knee is going out. covering up the winespill on my grey ikea wobble couch. staring at my cats. trying in vain, to figure out how to work the instagram for android app on her so called smart phone. speaking in third person. playing mad spider solitaire. wishing he was home. so cuddles could commence. trying to cheer up by ignoring other things. the institution didn't call today. or friday. like they said they would. by tuesday, the one woman said. at the latest.
in that foggy bitter day of hell. invasive. almost like the feeling of rape. definitely not the sort of thing you'd wish upon a soul. while the external bruises have already started to heal and fade, the sick swelling of my inner feministic soul remains stirred into a fury of sadness and intrusion. it really isn't, ok.
great friends and support systems. brussel sprouts. kitty and human cuddles and sweat pants and love. and fear and sickness. and worry, but inner comfort. what does one turn to, when they don't have a god? even now, i still watch as a bystander. like a parade of sorts. of symbols and rituals. and say this, but not that. eat this, not that. don't you dare love a fag. but you will always be welcome, in this great abyss. or something like that. i have my being here with me. his name is vincent and he loves me whole. as do my family, friends and cats. there is some solace in this. but i still don't think a man on a cross will suck the lumps out of me and heal me for my good deeds. maybe i just don't deserve it. or maybe i do. thinking about big picture things such as life or death, of good and evil. of life and thereafter. is something i'm certainly not accustomed of doing. so even now, i come across as a blind, blabbering imbecile. but i'm ok with this.
this weekend it was supposed to storm. all day saturday, throughout sunday. all day, vincent and i locked ourselves up in our convenient little yuppy house. waiting eagerly, like children do for santa claus. excited for some big delivery. a big thunderstorm of thunderstorms. so we could stand, slackjawed, at the windows. laughing at the scared cats, eating ice cream and holding together close. we waited and we waited. and we ended up getting about 20 minutes total of some pitter patter rain noise. it was nice and all, but hardly anything i'd call a storm.
so if that was the calm - when do we expect the storm to hit? we had the hurricane, or at least i did. a whirlpool of emotions and overall highs and lows. physical, mental, emotional inner warfare. that poor excuse of rain barely washed away any of the residue, or crumpled pile of soggy charmin tissue.
the doctor said by tuesday. one week ago from tomorrow. one long week, unfolding like a disorienting dreamscape. tomorrow we can begin. move forward once again. stronger, unified and more real than ever.
no more whiskey dreams. acidic backwash of fear and ignorance.
one last deep breath - we're almost there.
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