This face complete with sparkling eyes and porcelain skin, these were not always mine. They were, they just weren't always so organized and put together. There was a time when this skin was completely freckled with acne and a slight unibrow. When my body fat distribution was off balance and my words were limited to, "Hi." and "Bye." At this point in my life, I was pretty miserable. For a slew of reasons, but how my peers and teachers treated me was not any help.
In college, this slowly changed. The acne mostly cleared (darn you, breakouts!), I regularly went to the gym (darn you, peanut butter!), and I learned how to look my best with the minimal amount of effort (darn you, eyebrows!) At this time, I noticed something changing. Outside of myself. It was in everyone else. I found men talking to me for absolutely no reason and asking for my number. I found women hating me and their husbands/boyfriends telling me it was jealousy. I could no longer hang out with my old buddies, they didn't trust themselves to behave around me. I was now the man-stealer, the housewrecker, the young blonde...
I hadn't changed, though. I still felt utter terror when talking to strangers and I felt ugly wearing short skirts or tight tops or bikinis. I had a few more tattoos and piercings, which made me come off as confident. I learned how to pull along a conversation without blushing or sweating too profusely. However, I was still the hippie weirdo with social anxiety and an unhealthy obsession with all things fluffy, feathered, and scaled.
I never adjusted to being treated better. After all, I didn't feel better about anything. I didn't want anyone to envy me, I didn't want to feel like I was becoming "one of THOSE people", either. I wasn't making more friends or feeling accepted, that's for sure. Now the guys got to admire me, the women got to gossip about me, and what did I get from the deal? I got harassed a lot. I got treated like a Barbie doll. It was assumed I was weak and stupid.
Only recently have I realized what I gained from this. I stopped putting all my focus on being one of those brats and I started lifting weights and I attended my college classes, putting my passion for psychology and music to use. I stood up for causes and sometimes people listened. People felt safe coming to me for help.
Should I be treated differently because my physical appearance has changed? No. Will I forever experience the world from a different perspective than those who never outgrew their rough patch in life? I hope not. I plan to always hold onto the worst pains of my past and what I felt and saw and experienced and never watch anyone else go through the same thing helplessly. I still have to fight to maintain my confidence and strength, and through that power, I will help others. Not to mention, others will continue to help me. I am still a lost fish trying to balance this new me and the me who couldn't be forgotten.
I just hate that the person I was before was the one who was bullied and teased and forgotten, while the new me sits around and reaps the benefits of puberty. I won't allow myself to become the person I've seen many of my peers turn into because I would hate to be that person.
Most of all, I have learned to let me people care about me. Even... LOVE me. I still have to practice and remember I am worthy of it, but I have made such strides and I have to love myself for that. Once I do that, I can begin my journey to forgiveness and eventually, esteem.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Psychoanalysis for Dummies?
One of the theories in psychoanalysis that intrigue me greatly is the one stating that we dislike traits in others that we fear in ourselves. Either this is because we lack that trait and in some way envy it, or we have that trait and "have been there" and are upset that we can't fix ourselves or the other.
Example 1: Jerboa is very introverted and HATES when Barfelina goes up to the teacher and requests the whole class get As. When Barfelina is successful, the class celebrates. Jerboa is happy about the A, but still mocks and feels resentment towards Barfelina for being a big mouth who always has to be the hero.
Why is Jerboa upset at Barfelina? According to this theory, unconsciously, Jerboa wishes she had the nerve to ask the teacher and wants to be the class hero. She is unaware of her envy and desire, but it comes off as hatred.
Example 2: Merggy watches as Limon gets picked on by some other kids. Merggy is sick of watching Limon take it and not say a word. Merggy thinks Limon is just a pushover and really needs to learn to defend himself. What Merggy forgets is that he too used to be picked on by the very same kids. He never said or did anything about it either.
So... why is Merggy so judgmental about Limon? The theory explains that Merggy is projecting his hurt and anger about himself; his own regrets. Upon seeing Limon do the same thing, he feels transference for these feelings and therefore, negativity towards Limon.
Of course, sometimes we just don't like people and things they do... but in any case, it's always wise to reevaluate where your anger or dislike comes from before accepting your opinion of others. Why is it that humans have such natural urges to remove our own self-judgment and call-outs by placing them on others? It certainly is more pleasant to dislike another rather than to start blaming yourself for your own actions, but how does this innate trait benefit us? It seems counterproductive as far as resolving issues.
I think it's certainly a defense mechanism, as well as an escape. Every person gets to point where you begin to think, "There is NO way I have this many problems...", in order to defend your honour and sanity, there needs to be some way of pawning off the poor traits. There is a desire to find another poor victim and place some of your own vices on them. Which is good for perspective and for working out issues from a distance, but if one never comes to realize they are your own, then they remain an issue and people like Barfelina and Merggy are bound to be your sworn enemy for life.
This topic reminds me of a friend I used to have. He would tell me that it was stupid that I tried to fix things in the world. He never tried to and believed that I thought I was better than him for this. Despite me only mentioning my interest in activism once, he said I would brag about it and act like I was a saint. First of all, I think I have the right here to say that I am no saint. As a matter of fact, I know there's a super cozy spot down under waiting for me (and I don't mean Australia- although, I hope they have a spot for me too!) I am a human being who sees it as my right and my expectation of myself to do what I can to improve the world's situation... along with a billion other people.
Anywho, it finally occurred to me that this young gent was upset at himself for being too lazy (his words) to contribute to any causes. I realized this once he told me his fear was the inability to help someone. This confused me, being that it sounded as if he had no interest in helping anyone. Which was his right and I held no judgment for his actions or lack thereof. It just seemed to be a bit of a contradiction that he mocked me for helping people, and yet, was afraid of not helping people. Was his inaction due to his fear of not doing enough? Not doing everything? Being in a position where things were too severe for him to help? I understood this and I wish I could have shown him that he can do so much, but his denial was so great that I don't believe I could have convinced him to get involved no matter how I tried.
This is precisely a reminder of why we must be aware of ourselves and our psychology and why we do the things we do. Not just because we're nosey and want to feel like we "get" people, but because in order to better ourselves, which I personally believe is an important goal, we have to know ourselves. The question is, how can I beat these obstacles of the mind and allow myself to be the person I want to be and do the things I need to do?
Example 1: Jerboa is very introverted and HATES when Barfelina goes up to the teacher and requests the whole class get As. When Barfelina is successful, the class celebrates. Jerboa is happy about the A, but still mocks and feels resentment towards Barfelina for being a big mouth who always has to be the hero.
Why is Jerboa upset at Barfelina? According to this theory, unconsciously, Jerboa wishes she had the nerve to ask the teacher and wants to be the class hero. She is unaware of her envy and desire, but it comes off as hatred.
Example 2: Merggy watches as Limon gets picked on by some other kids. Merggy is sick of watching Limon take it and not say a word. Merggy thinks Limon is just a pushover and really needs to learn to defend himself. What Merggy forgets is that he too used to be picked on by the very same kids. He never said or did anything about it either.
So... why is Merggy so judgmental about Limon? The theory explains that Merggy is projecting his hurt and anger about himself; his own regrets. Upon seeing Limon do the same thing, he feels transference for these feelings and therefore, negativity towards Limon.
Of course, sometimes we just don't like people and things they do... but in any case, it's always wise to reevaluate where your anger or dislike comes from before accepting your opinion of others. Why is it that humans have such natural urges to remove our own self-judgment and call-outs by placing them on others? It certainly is more pleasant to dislike another rather than to start blaming yourself for your own actions, but how does this innate trait benefit us? It seems counterproductive as far as resolving issues.
I think it's certainly a defense mechanism, as well as an escape. Every person gets to point where you begin to think, "There is NO way I have this many problems...", in order to defend your honour and sanity, there needs to be some way of pawning off the poor traits. There is a desire to find another poor victim and place some of your own vices on them. Which is good for perspective and for working out issues from a distance, but if one never comes to realize they are your own, then they remain an issue and people like Barfelina and Merggy are bound to be your sworn enemy for life.
This topic reminds me of a friend I used to have. He would tell me that it was stupid that I tried to fix things in the world. He never tried to and believed that I thought I was better than him for this. Despite me only mentioning my interest in activism once, he said I would brag about it and act like I was a saint. First of all, I think I have the right here to say that I am no saint. As a matter of fact, I know there's a super cozy spot down under waiting for me (and I don't mean Australia- although, I hope they have a spot for me too!) I am a human being who sees it as my right and my expectation of myself to do what I can to improve the world's situation... along with a billion other people.
Anywho, it finally occurred to me that this young gent was upset at himself for being too lazy (his words) to contribute to any causes. I realized this once he told me his fear was the inability to help someone. This confused me, being that it sounded as if he had no interest in helping anyone. Which was his right and I held no judgment for his actions or lack thereof. It just seemed to be a bit of a contradiction that he mocked me for helping people, and yet, was afraid of not helping people. Was his inaction due to his fear of not doing enough? Not doing everything? Being in a position where things were too severe for him to help? I understood this and I wish I could have shown him that he can do so much, but his denial was so great that I don't believe I could have convinced him to get involved no matter how I tried.
This is precisely a reminder of why we must be aware of ourselves and our psychology and why we do the things we do. Not just because we're nosey and want to feel like we "get" people, but because in order to better ourselves, which I personally believe is an important goal, we have to know ourselves. The question is, how can I beat these obstacles of the mind and allow myself to be the person I want to be and do the things I need to do?
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Look me in the eye,
Look me in the eye and tell me we aren't the same. That we aren't all the same. Your eyes are brown or hazel or grey or turn colours in the Fall or on cloudy days. Your eyelashes are darker or your skin is lighter. You're blind and colour blind and cross-eyed and near-sighted. But aren't we the same? We hear barking and think, "Dog!", and hate waking up on Monday morning, and think the smell of fresh baked cookies is Heavenly, and get songs stuck in our heads.
I've never walked in your shoes or been to your family dinner, but I know how hard it is some days. How difficult happiness is. How wonderful and extraordinary it can be. I know what hurts, and what pleases, and how hot sand can be. Can you look at me or any other individual and not feel connected to them? Not feel a natural bond and need to protect them and feel compassion? Empathy. Sympathy. Guilt. Responsibility. The bubble I thrive inside, my personal thoughts and experiences, they're not so different from yours. I too felt pressure. I know how scary it is to exist on your own. Once your protective figures throw you into the world and expect independence... as well as obedience. How hard you clung to your idols and role models and that individual who made you feel safe from the world. How it felt when that person abandoned you. Rejected you. Betrayed you. Never really cared.
That day it all came true, it could have been me. When he or she proposed and you felt as if your lungs would never recover, you lost all breath. I knew that ecstasy. I felt it when I heard the news. Or was it in the obituaries? Perhaps murder. Even suicide. I drew that last breath alongside you and my throat bled as we screamed. Just as the first breath of Earth's air in a newborn and how you looked into this alien's eyes. My heart sunk and reawakened each uncertain moment. That hand that held yours as you endured your trials. You swore and your god was there. I was overhead watching you embrace your translucent hallucination of hope. That night I dreamed a wish for you, something that will remain forever mine.
Those days we shared without ever knowing. When we blushed in horror at the bra shop, popped our first zit that left a scar next to the one you got from scratching your chicken pox, peeling your tattoo, having a breast removed, reduced, added, sized. The C-section you swore you'd never do over until 18 months later when you created life and watched a life fade in the same room.
Here is the lesson, here is the moral. Here we stop the judgments we have been fed and trained and forced. It's the restart, rebirth and if no one else, I will be the one to give it to you. Look Us in the eye and see yourself. Whatever you want to be.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
What I hate more...
What do I hate more than women who make me feel ugly? Women who make my mom feel ugly.
When my mother asks me, "Does she look the same age as me?" or tells me, "I need to lose weight." "I want to look like ____." I feel bad. I feel bad for myself, I feel bad for her, and I feel bad for society. We are living in a world where a woman can enter college at 16, graduate medical school, graduate law school, have 3 children who grow up to be successful, and yet still look another woman and still think, "I'm not as good as her." There is something sick in the air. Something putrid.
Yet, this is what life has given us and what we accept. Even the most charmingly dorky, compassionate, and intelligent women of the world feel overpowered by their desire to fit the mold of "attractive", of "skinny enough", of "fashionable". They may not even care deep down, but to feel feminine and empowered, this is what it takes.
No number of feminist butch women can outnumber those who make women feel useless and terrible on a daily basis. Talk big all you want, women still go about their lives waxing, and tanning, and comparing, and feeling a genuine sense of worthlessness. Of course, they then cover up these feelings by calling out others on their lack of "ooh la la!", and so the cycle continues.
When I look at my mom, I see her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, her normal sized nose, her mom-on-the-run outfit, and that inspires me. Everything about her is evidence of a successful woman. She may not be perfect at parenting and may not have the neatest work desk and may not always have the answer, but she is the woman every girl should dream to be. She may not dress like Elizabeth Taylor, look like Audrey Hepburn, dance like Benonyoncee (Okay, I don't know how to spell her name. Is that even a name??), or sing like Mariah Carey, but she is so much better. SO MUCH BETTER. Not just as a mom, either. As a human, as a supermodel, as a teacher, as a role model...
Alas, no matter how many times I say this, no matter how many times you read this, every single one of us will continue beating ourselves up for not being born to the right parents, not saying the right thing, and not looking like every other freakin' plastic, miserable, stupid pop star wannabe.
I am not writing this to make my mom feel good and continue paying my bills. I'm not even writing this to convince anyone or point fingers. I just thought it had to be put out there and said and maybe someone will take a moment to consider what I've written. Maybe something will change in one person.
When my mother asks me, "Does she look the same age as me?" or tells me, "I need to lose weight." "I want to look like ____." I feel bad. I feel bad for myself, I feel bad for her, and I feel bad for society. We are living in a world where a woman can enter college at 16, graduate medical school, graduate law school, have 3 children who grow up to be successful, and yet still look another woman and still think, "I'm not as good as her." There is something sick in the air. Something putrid.
Yet, this is what life has given us and what we accept. Even the most charmingly dorky, compassionate, and intelligent women of the world feel overpowered by their desire to fit the mold of "attractive", of "skinny enough", of "fashionable". They may not even care deep down, but to feel feminine and empowered, this is what it takes.
No number of feminist butch women can outnumber those who make women feel useless and terrible on a daily basis. Talk big all you want, women still go about their lives waxing, and tanning, and comparing, and feeling a genuine sense of worthlessness. Of course, they then cover up these feelings by calling out others on their lack of "ooh la la!", and so the cycle continues.
When I look at my mom, I see her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, her normal sized nose, her mom-on-the-run outfit, and that inspires me. Everything about her is evidence of a successful woman. She may not be perfect at parenting and may not have the neatest work desk and may not always have the answer, but she is the woman every girl should dream to be. She may not dress like Elizabeth Taylor, look like Audrey Hepburn, dance like Benonyoncee (Okay, I don't know how to spell her name. Is that even a name??), or sing like Mariah Carey, but she is so much better. SO MUCH BETTER. Not just as a mom, either. As a human, as a supermodel, as a teacher, as a role model...
Alas, no matter how many times I say this, no matter how many times you read this, every single one of us will continue beating ourselves up for not being born to the right parents, not saying the right thing, and not looking like every other freakin' plastic, miserable, stupid pop star wannabe.
I am not writing this to make my mom feel good and continue paying my bills. I'm not even writing this to convince anyone or point fingers. I just thought it had to be put out there and said and maybe someone will take a moment to consider what I've written. Maybe something will change in one person.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Back to Life through Sound
It is sad to me that my hero will never know what he has done for me. I wish he knew. I wish when he reached the end of his time, in some part of his mind, there was a tiny memory of the moment he discovered he saved me. I wish I could tell him how his life and artistry woke me up and rekindled my passion for existence.
It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.
I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised. The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.
He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.
I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.
I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.
He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.
It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.
I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised. The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.
He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.
I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.
I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.
He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
I'm in the Closet.
Let me tell ya’ll a story ‘bout survival and finding hope where hope no longer lives. Gather ‘round, chitlins. Some of ya’ll might not believe this story, some of ya’ll might be afeared. Ain’t no use in either, honeychild, life is a wild ride. Every day is something new to face.
When did it all start? Ah, yes….
I done emailed my landlady on this here computer machine, and I told her, I done said I plan to move into school dorms at the end of the month. Yeah, yeah, sure, I had I told her I would be living here until January, but cross my heart and hope to die, she said to let her know by the 25th of the month if I had gone and had a change of mind. Which I did, baby. I sure did.
Well, she wunnit havin’ it. Nuh uh. Let me tell you somethin’… that Israel girl tells me moving out is unacceptable and she right up demands I pay rent. Matter of fact, since I went and said I wanted to leave, she demanded I pay that very same day. Honey, I do not have that sort of money just lying around!
It was then I realize, if she catches me home, who knows what awful things she’d do to me! God have mercy on my soul. This little Jew decided then, there ain’t no way I’m getting into a big something something because of all this drama. So I went and I shut the lights and turned off the fan. Let me tell you, you ain’t never smelt the smell of fear like I smelled that fateful night. I never packed my things so fast. I wunnit used to running away. I don’t believe in fear, but that night the Devil was on my trail. I swear it as far as I can throw it.
Every time I tried to make my escape, my door would loudly bang, I couldn’t make a run for it just yet. The time was not right. Besides, them 60 lbs of luggage were a backbreaker going down 3 flights of stairs. I knew I’d have to stay the night and fight another fight for survival.
That night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every voice, I felt myself quivering from big toe to the hair on my head. I was a nervous wreck and I knew I was in trouble if I made a noise. I did what I had to do to survive, feasting on dead roaches and relieving myself in a corner. I ain’t never gonna be the same. Didn’t get me a wink of sleep.
That’s why I planned on the computer machine to get away when my captors were at work. My hero would come by in his car today while
they’z at work. I still heard the white man in the kitchen at 10 AM, though. Clinking dishes and silverware. Just clinking carelessly, awaiting to hear just a single cough or blink from me. For now, I just wait, not knowing what my future holds; or if I’ll even have a future.
Part II:
The day came and it was time for the escape. Mama A was on Skype all jumpy just as I was. We was anxiously awaitin’ my fate. I was at my computer when I heard that dreaded noise. A thud on the door. Now, I heard many thuds in my day, but this one held the wrath of Satan. Boy, I tell you. I up and grabbed my computer and dashed right into the closet. That there closet was as small as, well, a closet. Tiny as the dickens, but I fit my entire body in, except my toes stuck out a little. She walked away from the door. I felt relief, but weren’t taking no chances by leaving the closet, so I held in most of my breaths, took the pain, and dealt with my arms losing blood. Where was that dang hero of mine with his car? He weren’t nowhere to be heard from! So, not a woman for letting no man and no woman hold me back, I came out of the closet. I listened real close-like to the door. When it went silent, I made my flee. I grabbed my guitar, my backpack, my 60 lb luggage, my 20 lb luggage, and I jolted down the three flights of stairs. I swore any second they’d stop me and Krav Manga me in the face, but ain’t you know it, I got free. I whistled for a cab and it came near, all I said was, “Take me to the University, boy, take me home.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” So, I clarified and asked him how much it would cost. Best 50 shekels ever spent, I tell you. Who would have thought freedom would come in the shape of a burly Israeli man and his little white taxi? Sure, I left behind my razor, but what I didn’t leave behind was my dignity! ‘Cept when she knocked the second time and I peed myself a little. I kept most of it, though.
Now here I am in the dorm room. Alone. Air conditioner on.
Just back from the mall with a beer. Life ain’t never been sweeter. Lordy, let me tell you, life is good.
When did it all start? Ah, yes….
I done emailed my landlady on this here computer machine, and I told her, I done said I plan to move into school dorms at the end of the month. Yeah, yeah, sure, I had I told her I would be living here until January, but cross my heart and hope to die, she said to let her know by the 25th of the month if I had gone and had a change of mind. Which I did, baby. I sure did.
Well, she wunnit havin’ it. Nuh uh. Let me tell you somethin’… that Israel girl tells me moving out is unacceptable and she right up demands I pay rent. Matter of fact, since I went and said I wanted to leave, she demanded I pay that very same day. Honey, I do not have that sort of money just lying around!
It was then I realize, if she catches me home, who knows what awful things she’d do to me! God have mercy on my soul. This little Jew decided then, there ain’t no way I’m getting into a big something something because of all this drama. So I went and I shut the lights and turned off the fan. Let me tell you, you ain’t never smelt the smell of fear like I smelled that fateful night. I never packed my things so fast. I wunnit used to running away. I don’t believe in fear, but that night the Devil was on my trail. I swear it as far as I can throw it.
Every time I tried to make my escape, my door would loudly bang, I couldn’t make a run for it just yet. The time was not right. Besides, them 60 lbs of luggage were a backbreaker going down 3 flights of stairs. I knew I’d have to stay the night and fight another fight for survival.
That night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every voice, I felt myself quivering from big toe to the hair on my head. I was a nervous wreck and I knew I was in trouble if I made a noise. I did what I had to do to survive, feasting on dead roaches and relieving myself in a corner. I ain’t never gonna be the same. Didn’t get me a wink of sleep.
That’s why I planned on the computer machine to get away when my captors were at work. My hero would come by in his car today while
they’z at work. I still heard the white man in the kitchen at 10 AM, though. Clinking dishes and silverware. Just clinking carelessly, awaiting to hear just a single cough or blink from me. For now, I just wait, not knowing what my future holds; or if I’ll even have a future.
Part II:
The day came and it was time for the escape. Mama A was on Skype all jumpy just as I was. We was anxiously awaitin’ my fate. I was at my computer when I heard that dreaded noise. A thud on the door. Now, I heard many thuds in my day, but this one held the wrath of Satan. Boy, I tell you. I up and grabbed my computer and dashed right into the closet. That there closet was as small as, well, a closet. Tiny as the dickens, but I fit my entire body in, except my toes stuck out a little. She walked away from the door. I felt relief, but weren’t taking no chances by leaving the closet, so I held in most of my breaths, took the pain, and dealt with my arms losing blood. Where was that dang hero of mine with his car? He weren’t nowhere to be heard from! So, not a woman for letting no man and no woman hold me back, I came out of the closet. I listened real close-like to the door. When it went silent, I made my flee. I grabbed my guitar, my backpack, my 60 lb luggage, my 20 lb luggage, and I jolted down the three flights of stairs. I swore any second they’d stop me and Krav Manga me in the face, but ain’t you know it, I got free. I whistled for a cab and it came near, all I said was, “Take me to the University, boy, take me home.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” So, I clarified and asked him how much it would cost. Best 50 shekels ever spent, I tell you. Who would have thought freedom would come in the shape of a burly Israeli man and his little white taxi? Sure, I left behind my razor, but what I didn’t leave behind was my dignity! ‘Cept when she knocked the second time and I peed myself a little. I kept most of it, though.
Now here I am in the dorm room. Alone. Air conditioner on.
Just back from the mall with a beer. Life ain’t never been sweeter. Lordy, let me tell you, life is good.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Why you Should make him a Sandwich *This will offend you*
This is a list I dreamt about. Upon sharing it with a fellow scholar of advanced intellect and sophistication, he suggested that I post the list, along with images from the 50s and thereabouts that I felt fitting. I am easily influenced, so why not?
Reason #5:
Cardio! It may seem minor, but even just those 10 extra minutes off the couch will do your body some real good. We all know how hubby likes a slim wife, after all.
Reason #4:
Power! He may like to feel like he's in control, but she who decides what goes into his meal controls what matters. Show him who's boss!
Reason #3:
While you're at it, make yourself a sandwich too! Or even better, make yourself a salad. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
Reason #2:
Know your way around. You know how in war there's a home base advantage? Same goes for the kitchen. Every woman should know her kitchen like the back of her man's hand.
The final reason to make him a sandwich?
Reason #1:
Because he asked you once and he shouldn't have to ask you again!
Reason #5:
Cardio! It may seem minor, but even just those 10 extra minutes off the couch will do your body some real good. We all know how hubby likes a slim wife, after all.
Reason #4:
Power! He may like to feel like he's in control, but she who decides what goes into his meal controls what matters. Show him who's boss!
Reason #3:
While you're at it, make yourself a sandwich too! Or even better, make yourself a salad. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
Reason #2:Know your way around. You know how in war there's a home base advantage? Same goes for the kitchen. Every woman should know her kitchen like the back of her man's hand.
The final reason to make him a sandwich?
Reason #1:
Because he asked you once and he shouldn't have to ask you again!
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