Nociception

Slurred speech, the dullness of a butter knife
Softens the cut, deadens the wound
The outpouring, the loss of blood
Coagulation is a temporary state.
Slice into me once again;
The rebirth of my nociception sharpens you.
Drop the rusting silver, pick up the coarse twine.
You’re in it for the kill now,
Dyspnea and I’m blue,
I hang on your every burning word
And die in the noose.

Resuscitated by fury

I hate the fact that I am being trained at work by people who are 10 years younger than me. I hate it that one of my good friends just died from alcohol (and plausibly drug) abuse. I hate petulant, immature people. I hate it when people don't understand that I don't have to have booze to have a good time. I hate it that I had to reduced my course load at school, thus pushing my graduation back to fall 2008. I hate being neglected. I hate it that I neglected you. I hate hating. I hate. I hate. I hate.

Is it wrong...

...That I don't understand why Hugo Chavez is supposed to be so "evil"? Maybe I'm just tired.

My body temperature: 33 1/3

Leonid Rudenko is my latest obsession. Listening to "Summerfish" makes me wonder why I don't delve into the art of DJ-ing. If I'm being honest with myself, there's one thing in this world upon which I wish I could live: music. It motivates me, preoccupies me, takes up most of the limited gray matter in my head, and...I don't know. It just affects me like nothing else does--not even reading or writing.

I want to make people feel like Rudenko (and BT and Chris Cox and Dirty South and Gabriel & Dresden and all the other electronica greats) makes me feel. I want to slave over turntables and computers while the crowd gets worked into a euphoric frenzy. I want headphones to be a part of my office supply list. I want to create music that makes people want to drive fast, fuck, get high, smile...Music is where my contentedness lies.

A few local schools offer some introductory digital music classes...It's hard for me to turn my back on a whole different side to myself that I haven't even yet met. I don't want to die wondering if I would've ever been able to create at least one damn good piece of dance music.

I need to stop kidding myself. There's a musician trapped inside this writer's body, and she's waiting to spin you a tune.

I've waited. Now where are those good things?

My dentist recently moved to a new location. I hold the distinction of being his first crown patient in the new office.

As I lay in a brand new chair, the dentist scraped at my gums while he spoke:

"Do you like all the windows? I made sure every room has a window. For a long time, that was the one thing I wanted the most--an office in which every room has a window. And now I have it. So, you see, you can have anything you want if you think about it long enough."

Indeed. I've been thinking about his words for several days now. That's why, with tears in my eyes, I just sent my resume to the advertising agency I've been wanting to be a part of for many years. An unsolicited resume, accompanied by a pithy, witty introduction, now sits in the agency's inbox. I put everything I have as a writer into 77 words--everything I am, everything I hope for, everything in my complex brain. My future rests on my ability to sell myself with these 77 words.

I've thought about it long enough...Will my wish come true?

Back pack

I'm making a concerted effort to improve my posture, which involves a lot of sitting up straight and walking with head my up. I'd probably be two full inches taller if I could get my back in to shape.

So what's new with me? Well, I'm quitting my job on June 11. What will come after that? Possibly contract work, at the same place, for almost twice the pay I'm currently receiving. Yay for me!

I am saddened, though, by the fact that I didn't get to go to Scarborough Faire this year. I spent to much damn time working. So my chain mail and other renfest gear will continue to gather ye olde dust bunnies. It's probably for the best, since ye olde caboose is getting a little flabby.

I tell you what, whenever I get a spare moment, I am going to have some wine, go to 300 Dallas, watch movies I've seen 50 times, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the idea. Who knew time could be such a hot commodity?

Yoga. I want to take yoga classes sooo badly, but all of the studios around here charge exorbitant rates. The health clubs have yoga classes, but one has to either pay extra for such classes or be able to attend a class on, say, Wednesdays at 11 a.m. How the hell am I ever going to get healthy again?

Root canals, back pain, and stress aside, I'm doing okay. I'm just here, existing...

Who's that lady?

So I got hit on by a 23-year-old guy the other day while I was downtown. And he wasn't too hard on the eyes, either. I laughed, asked him how old he thought I was, and kept walking--with my head held high. My confidence has been somewhat restored. It's as though I don't look like the ogre I make myself out to be. Of course, J always gets defensive because he says his compliments should be enough for me to maintain my self-esteem. But sometimes I tend to feel that spouses are biased--like mothers are.

It does feel empowering to get a compliment from a complete stranger, especially one who's almost 10 years younger than me.