I don’t really know where I am going to go with this post tonight. I might go kind of beatnik or brain diarrhea. I have a true feeling of disconnect and claustrophobic all at once, a weird nervous vibe that I can’t shake.
I feel very small. Small as in little. Little of heart, little of experience, little of faith, little of life. I feel like I am 3 years old locked in a living room with no windows or doors. I don’t typically revert back to my childhood when I feel the need for comfort or warmth. But sometimes, the feeling I got when my mom kissed me goodnight while she thought I was sleeping still sustains me. She did that my whole life, not just as a small child. Most of my childhood I was actually quite adult, both for survival and because it was my personality I suppose. That’s not what this is about. Billions of people all around the planet got handed a shitty deck of cards but somehow they are all still drunk in Vegas winning and losing chips, smiling, crying, laughing, and loving. When you feel small though, you need to remember when you could be a child. I was a child at my aunt’s house. Or with my grandpa. Or in the quiet of the night when my mom kissed me goodnight. Even now when I fall asleep with my glasses on, my husband will take them off for me, and I feel the same way. Somehow I feel relevant, visible even. “Hey, there is my wonderful little daughter. Let me give her a kiss” or “My wife fell asleep with her cokebottles again. Let me take them off” or “Hey, that lady is on fire! Stop drop and roll baby! Stop drop and roll for your liiiife!”.
I feel a bit mean. I was accused of doing something at work that I did not do. The accusation was made anonymously and was without merit. But after thinking about it, it might be sort of true in the abstract. I find great humor in people’s faults, negativities, quirks and overall losery ways. While there is nobility and great honor, there is nothing funny about a warm, caring, kind, generous and perfect human being. And here’s to you Jesus Horatio for making sure no one like that exists. But take that same woman and honestly note that she looks like she would be sticky to the touch and smell like shame and KY jelly?? That is a belly laugh right there. However, in the scheme of things, karmically, spiritually, and honestly, it’s mean. And I don’t know if I want to be a mean girl. Just the fact that I don’t know if I want to be one, instead of not wanting to be one, is a bit chilly for me. And someone somewhere out there in Corporate Cubical Cell Block 9 feels just enough spite for me to put it out there that they know that sometimes, I can be just a little bit mean. Evil lurks. They can feel it. Tomorrow I am taking a day off to spend some time with my Mr. and to clean my wreck ass of a house. I will practice tomorrow saying one less bad thing about someone. I am responsible for all of those mosques and I keep forgetting. Please reference Lulu’s entry entitled Somewhere a Mosque for further information on the Save the Mosque Foundation, please.
I won’t defend myself either, because I know that I am a good friend. I genuinely love the people I love. It took me years to foster some of those friendships. Others just seemed to pick up where they left off, with a new appreciation for the adult version of those crazy beings they were back in the day. Thank you Jesus Horatio for Facebook! Structure and foundation was not a strong suit in my family growing up. Building my own structure, at least on purpose, has been slow going and a real challenge. These few people who I have in my little book of life now, I treasure. I would never be mean to them.
My biggest risk in writing with the brain diarrhea is that I chose to share this site with my father. No other family member knows about it. I did it because I wanted there to be something special between the two of us, because it’s obvious I get my talent for expression through words from him. I have also lived my entire life feeling like there was nothing quite special between us. We don’t really have roots just yet, but they are growing now and I am confident and more assured now that they will keep growing. I know he is reading this so I am shamefully expressing myself quite blatantly, and it’s kind of After School Special in tone. I may not need the typical brand of father and daughter stuff to happen, and sometimes, I may not want it. But I find it rather cool, or “kewl” as he likes to spell it, that I know that I can trust him when he reads that I am being mean or feeling small. I think we got this. Don’t you?
To end my stream of consciousness ramblings about random things, I will finish off by stating that yes, that skank probably really smells like KY jelly. But she is someone’s daughter. And hell, the KY Jelly might not drip far from the KY Jelly tree, but still. Yes, I think there are a great deal of people out there who are fuckfaces. But it’s safe to say, someone thinks I am a fuckface too. Like that old Dr. Pepper commercial, right? I’m a fuckface, he’s a fuckface, she’s a fuckface, they’re a fuckface, wouldn’t you like to be a fuckface too?