Taste words before spitting them out.

Taste words before spitting them out.

It is a love story. 

It’s a work story. It’s a story of pain, of bitter resentment. Love isn’t a hole for fallers. It’s a decision. Tick, tick…every second. It is grime and crying babies and unbrushed teeth. 

Put your head down, put your blinders on, and plow. Love isn’t a life of naps. 

If you can’t do that, if you won’t do it…if you are too proud for low horses. If you can’t get on the horse…and back on…back on. If you can’t be the workhorse…

If you want to watch a love story, if you want to invent one in your head, if you want a lusty affair, if you’re looking for a plateau, you’re wrapped up in the wrong life. That’s not love. 

Never trust a snapshot. A lie worth a thousand words. Trust an empty closet rod. Trust an eviction notice. Trust a full trunk.

Careful who you talk to. Don’t say it outloud. Not yet. 

Every choice you made. Every choice you didn’t make. All adds up to now. You chose this. 

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hamster wheel

hamster wheel

If you see a mom…

Early on a Sunday morning…

In an empty parking lot…

Leaning on a steering wheel…

Face down on her folded arms…

Shoulders shaking…

It’s nothing important.

Just don’t…

Honestly, you wouldn’t even…

It’s the hole the squirrels chewed into the soffit,

And this isn’t her first time,

And it’s all the condensation cup circles,

And don’t text,

And it’s the sliding minivan door that’s off-kilter,

And don’t attempt to understand,

And it’s the beeping smoke alarm,

And she doesn’t want to do this,

And it’s the pile of unread books,

And don’t make that face,

And it’s that mountain of Wal-mart donation bags full of clothes.

I know I am, but if I know it,

Then I’m not.

If this is my sanctuary, 

Then let it be that, please. 

I don’t have a walled garden of flowers. 

This is what I have, where I have. 

Don’t you think I know crazy when I feel it pulsing?

If you give a mouse a cookie…

I think I might have. 

You know how it will be. 

If you don’t get it,

Do you think I care?

If you don’t…

Look away. 

Stay away. 

Vinegar

Vinegar

I don’t make love easy. 

I don’t know, maybe my stubborn battles stem from subconscious value for self, value for ideals, desperate need to kill boredom. 

If you can’t come at me like a starving beast, then just roll over and snore. Because I want all. 

And then the revolts.

I can cross my arms. My mouth can play the devil’s advocate to my own heart. I don’t have to agree to anything. I don’t have to eat. I don’t have to get out of bed. 

I don’t need a calendar. My blood burns, feels every phase of the moon. I know when it’s full. 

And I’m not old yet.

___________

One time I tried to knock him over, who remembers why? And I’m no Yorkie, lap chick. I’m a St. Bernard lady beast. I’m a lioness. 

I slammed into him. Like he was one of those things the football players run at. Like that. 

He didn’t budge. He laughed, which infuriated me.

What do you want with me? I don’t know a damn thing about guns or cars or politics. 

Why me? I am loud music and Tetris-y games and poured out feelings. I’ve seen girls who like guns and cars and politics. Why not them?

But okay, no I get it. I know guys who are just like me, full of feels and…

You won’t ever have to babysit me at a party. But just know…if you try to make me mad or jealous, if you treat me bad in front of everyone, I can be a breeze out the window. 

__________

If life can’t be this way–lush green grass, all white walls, clean dark hardwoods, no dust anywhere, then…I’ll have none of it. 

If we can’t be on the same team, if we can’t make plans and goals, if I can’t be your cattle prod…if you can’t be mine, then what’s the point? What are we doing here?

Juice is sweet and sugary. Babies love juice. They can drink so much. But then it ferments. Wine is good. It’s fun. Good for laughs. Wine becomes vinegar. And that’s the best. Sour and powerful and useful. Potent. 

If you don’t love vinegar, go get juice then. Go have wine. 

I am vinegar. But not old. 

I will never be old. 

I was born to be a kid. 

I was born to be a kid. 

I suck at being adult. I want to say yes to everything everyone wants, and I say yes to way more than I should. Adults say no. And they save and they plan and they have stocks and shit. Not me. 

I hate paying bills. I paid them last month. And the month before. I don’t want to pay them anymore. Someone else do it. 

I hate cleaning my house. If you like me, if we are friends, then you are going to have to accept that I’m going to stop cleaning. Let’s just see who can hack it as my friend through that. 

Maybe after a few years you can all get together and get me on Hoarders. I will start collecting cats now. 

I hate driving a dented minivan that is falling apart in every way. I hate having patience to take a full minute to close the “automatic” power doors that are all off kilter and screwed up from living on a hill. 

I hate living in an old house at the bottom of a hill. I hate rain that slides down the driveway toward my garage. I hate the 854 trees that crap all their needles and leaves and pollen and seedy things ALL over everything. 

I hate leaky pipes and wet sheetrock and peeling paint and stacks of paper and dust and moldy tile and dark spots on the light carpet. What the hell are those dark spots?

I hate going to the grocery store. I went yesterday and two days ago and last week and all the damn time. Stop eating the food. Stop using every kind of every soap. Soap for the hair, soap for the hands, soap for the floor, soap for the clothes. 

I hate driving to 600 places every day for all 600 kids. I hate driving on hills and narrow roads and around 500 twisty curves. I hate trying to remember everywhere I have to go. Every $5 for this and $10 for that. 

I hate eating right. I want to have cake and ice cream and soda for supper. And I want to look and feel amazing when I eat that. I want that to make me stay thin and energetic like it did when I was a kid. 

I hate brushing my hair. I hate putting makeup on. I hate clothes. I hate washing them, putting them in all their little receptacle homes, going through them to get rid of some. I really hate the stupid clothes that won’t fit. If I tuck my fat into you, accept it and keep it inside…stop spitting it back out. 

I hate finding time to read my Bible daily for 15 minutes. Which is probably why I’m almost a month behind. Which is probably why my attitude is so horrible in this moment. 

This is my 3rd year to read all the way through the Bible (takes only 12-15 minutes), but you know what? I’m not going to lie…a lot of it, I’m like WTH?? This is some BS. So much violence and whoring around. Sorry, but am I supposed to pretend all that’s not in there?

If you drink, if you do drugs, if you cheat, if you eat too much or cry too much, if you wanted an escape. I don’t hate you. And I get it. I know why. You know? Maybe some people hate you. They hate me too. But I get it. 

It won’t work. Not for me. Not for you. It’s not the answer. And we both know it. But I get it, okay? Life is hard. Being an adult sucks. 

Okay, I’m good now. I love everything again.