fauxmaux

The room spun around as I levitated. The people on the television screen were in my room, talking to me, but I didn't know what they were saying and I felt bad. I was on a different planet. In a different time one. In my mind. I don't remember how it ended. Did I eat the apple before or after? It was the strangest "high" I'd ever been on. I must have sweat 2 liters in those five-ten-fifteen (??) minutes and then it was over. I was alone. The show on tv was over. I ate a salad. I wanted my levitation powers back. No drug has ever given me such mad hallucinations. Wham. Pain returned. The pain leaves when my mind goes. Nice. More insulin please. *Kidding* sorta.

How did she get herself in this place? Where was the sign that read, "Wet Cement"? What was she thinking? Why wasn't she looking? Doesn't matter. Now she had cement shoes and she was stuck. She leaned on one hip and then another, trying to look casual, as if she had planned on getting herself a new pair of cement shoes. "Didn't you know they were all the rage?" she silently sneered with a stare. Her stare scattered any gawkers; but she knew there were the peekers, the ones who didn't want you to know that they were looking, but were always there, hiding behind bushes and trees, sometimes in plain sight behind aviator sunglasses. She could sense the presence of the peekers but she could never see them. She just knew. You may ask why anyone should care about people who spend their time spying on people. Most people are unaware of their existence because peekers hide themselves so well. But not everyone is an exhibitionist. Exhibitionists and peekers have a sort of symbiotic relationship. They need one another. They complain about one another. Some peekers peek too much. Some exhibitionists show off too much. Nevertheless, every one, peeker and show-er, knows they can't have one without the other. Getting stuck in cement was not part of the show she had planned for the day. She liked to open the curtains while dressing or dance in the park and pretend no one is looking. She planned public shows. This was not planned. She felt like the peekers were laughing at her - getting a glimpse of an unscripted, unrehearsed, unplanned exhibition. The more she hesitated, the more her chances of getting herself unstuck from the cement was diminishing. Diminishing, like her recent money-management portfolio. She may have to get a job, Lord help us all! Though she had no idea what she could do for money. She was too old to embark on a career as a hooker. That's a joke. She liked to make up jokes when she was scared. And she was scared. The cement was starting to dry; she had made no attempt to ask for help and people were starting to wander past her like she were part of the scenery. Her legs were starting to weaken. Strange how you can walk all day but stand in one position for five minute and your legs begin to stiffen and hurt. She tried to think of a funnier joke. Nothing was funny right now. She thought about lying down in the cement but the thought of getting her face stuck in the cement stopped that idea. Good thing for her vanity! As she slowly adjusted to the other hip, she caught the eye of a child who was pointing and staring. "Wicked child. I want to see you get stuck in the cement one day and see how you feel!" she thought, but all she could do was wanly smile. The child thought she was putting on a show and like a good exhibitionist, she tried to make the best of it. All she could manage now was a "sad" clown face. She way past "shock, surprise and wild-eyed silly" faces. She thought she would give her hips a break by crouching down, but it only made her hip pain worse and she knew if she didn't get up very very soon, she'd topple over and she imagined someone cutting pieces of cement out of her face and hair. Standing up straight into the position that already made her numb was no mean feat. She wobbled. She wavered. She nearly put her hand in the cement for balance. Her brain was not filled with cement. Just her shoes. Just her shoes. She examined her fate and could see everything in the blink of an eye, less than a blink. Time has no meaning when a person sees her destiny. She saw how this was a manifestation of her life. Here she was, stuck in Columbus Circle; a curiosity to some, a triumph for her enemies and no help on the way. She could call for help but she knew she'd be ignored. She'd been standing there as the cement dried over her feet far too long. Any time she'd ever called out for help, she was told she sounded insane. She learned that lesson long ago. There was no construction dude in a shining helmet to rescue her. They deserted the scene hours ago. The construction guys were either at another job or already at a bar. She could call some one on her cell phone, but who? She knew no one who lived in the area, except some old enemy who was probably in the shadows right now laughing at her with the peekers. She didn't have her phone number anyway. If she did call someone, what would she say? "Hi, I'm stuck in cement. I can't move. Can you help me?" She could call emergency services. Maybe they'd send the fire department. "Ooh!" She dialed 911 before she had a chance to talk herself out of it. They told her they were sending someone over. "But I want the Fire Department...." And there they were. Five sexy fire men staring at her legs. It seemed like no time. She weakly smiled. She apologized over and over again. She would not stop babbling - making silly excuses and imagined scenarios of how she she got stuck - as the firemen cut into the cement and freed her feet from the pavement. They used water, yes regular water! - to extricate her feet from her new cement shoes. They insisted she go to the hospital to get checked out. "For what? For cement infection?" she laughed. No one laughed with her. She understood. This was crazy talk. She told them she just needed to get across the street and buy a new pair of shoes, so she could get home. They were about to toss the cement shoes, but she grabbed the fire guy's arms and begged to keep them. Sounding crazy again, she said she wanted to keep them for.... "They will become a sculpture," she said, "You can't make this kind of thing up." They reluctantly agreed to crazy talk. Trying to work the crazy angel, she hugged her cement shoes to her tits, hoping the firemen would notice. Sadly, they were too busy loading up their van. Her predicament didn't even merit a truck. "I think," she thought, "that they noticed my legs. That's good enough. Fair enough." She sighed. As she swung her hips in the direction of the shoes store across the street, she released four fingers from one hand that was clutching her new cement shoes, wiggled her fingers and said, "Thank you, gentlemen!" "No problem, lady. You take care now. No more stepping into wet cement." "You got it! Bye!" And she swung her hips again, knowing at least the peekers had a good view of how well she moved. She was grateful for the peekers. At least someone was impressed. She remembered the days when a regular guy or any guy at all; construction or fire or suit... would continue staring at her until she was out of sight. She was not that girl anymore. It was ridiculous to even call herself a girl. She was old and an embarrassment to herself. She saw that now. She was stuck in her "cute girl" vision of herself. She couldn't move on to the next chapter of her life. She had no idea what she would find in that chapter. She really didn't want to know. She had her cement shoes now, representing her sad, pathetic, lonely, old stuck-i-tude. Stuck and afraid. With no one to call. She slipped past the shoe store, hoping no one would see that she had no money for new shoes. She hid around the corner and put on the cement shoes. She could hardly move her feet. Again. She slid down the wall and held her cement shoes in her hands. And cried. She was stuck. A little water could lubricate her feet and free her again. But that was a choice now. Did she want to be free to do "nothing that she could think of or imagine or even dream?" Or stay in her cement shoes? She realized she'd been wearing non-physical cement shoes for a long time now. She could now, at last, really see them. They were real. They were not hiding in shadows, like peekers. Her cement shoes were on her feet. No denying the existence of her cement shoes now. She had given up long ago. She embraced her cement shoes, clung to them, and let the tears flow.

As some of you may know, I quit the ciggies last Monday. In order that I may retain my "freedom" (in the eyes of the law), I didn't venture out but indulged in my homicidal fantasies in the privacy of my garrett. I'm back to my normal suicidal/guilt-ridden self. I miss my old friends who like many false friends cost me a shit-load of money and then tried to kill me. Alright, homicidal instinct still hanging about my imagination.I did dream of doing a headstand last night. I promised to reward myself with accupuncture.

She never made it to the party. She had a lot of things on her mind. People were playing games in her head. They were stuck in her memory. In the dark depths of regret. She didn't regret meeting them or loving them. The broken heart was not unusual - just unexpected. She wasn't looking. She wasn't seeing. She made herself willingly blind to the clues, to the hints, to the obvious. She thought she was just being mature and humble. Truth was, she was naive. Again. Now she was angry. At herself. For being taken for a fool. For apologizing too much, begging for forgiveness. "Accept me back." "Love me again." This, of course, was nonsense. All the cards lined up on the table wrote out a perfect song of disrespect and dishonor. They played their hand. They got their revenge. It was all in the cards. Recently, someone chastised her for not being open to love. She saw that her inner mind knew more than she was willing to see with her open mind. She didn't want to see. Could things be different if she allowed herself to be loved? Doubt it. She was protecting herself. She's a giver, not a taker. No matter. No matter how much love she gave, it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. Her love was spurned. Once again. No reason to go to the party. No reason to pretend she was ok. She was not ok. She was spurned by the very people she hoped would bring her into the light. And then an old friend called. She knew she had to move on. She knew that true friends were there just waiting to be loved. She's a lover, not a fighter. No reason to go the party. She had already traveled that road and she was kicked off the path. Kicked and bruised. The hurt still burned, which is not a healthy feeling. So she stayed home. Some day she will open herself to Love. Just not this day. Not these people. Not yet.

I'm sorry. Do I know you?

Oh yeah. He looked different the last time.

My God, what happened to that guy's head?

If I never post... I do post. Sometimes.

Do we have anything to hide?

Is that your real name?

I used Hussein as a middle name. The other day I couldn't remember the President of Us's name. Seriously! I thought, "It's like Baruch, the dude I dated, the ex-Hasid. It means "Blessing," like the hippie Jew name but it's not. What do the newspapers call our President? Oh. That's right. The media tiptoes around the guy, causing further fear and unrest. I just wrote a piece about terrorism. Just from what I'd heard on the street. I don't actually read the biased news." I voted for O. Weird brain lapse.

How's that for a post?

I really should see that show. Dammit. Where's the page go?

God. This is so boring.

Obligatory medical complaint? Could do. Explains the brain lapse.

What a waste of time.

I thought I opted out of that application.

Are we happy my lovelies?

Twitter is cooler.

End post.

Should we not allow her in the group anymore?

[Silence]

Somebody make a decision.

You're the somebody. It's your thing. You make the decision.

Done.

I love the rain. I love that we are celebrating the God of Thunder on Sunday. I love that I can love again. Love is a great motivator.

ProMaux for "Where Aliens Roam"


Playing dress-up in a burlesque star's closet!


Did YOU play this week? I did!

( Scene, Baby Steps )
[Kiss! B/O]

It was quite freeing to finally breathe out a sigh of relief yesterday. It feels good to have peace back in my life. The cats, I think, miss him. So cute, my little bunnies. They love attention!

I finally told my mother about my guest. She immediately chastised me. I promise, Mom, for the 55th time, I will not help any more "stray humans" [her words]. Interesting analogy though, since Finnegan behaves like a feral animal!

I contacted a myelin disorder foundation and asked for help with my secret plan for the Stiff Man Syndrome. They sent me a rude reply. I was like, just give me your business plan already. Help a sister out! Whatever. This will take some time - my secret plan for an SMS Foundation. I thought it up this month while suffering from "writer's block or annoying person in my air space." I was on the illness boards a lot. In fact, this month has been health month. I have kept my blood sugars under pretty tight control (for me) and I plan on trying out the PUMP! Yes I can! Mom is thrilled as is my Aunt Dorothy, I am sure. She told me to do it at Uncle jack's funeral and I usually / always take med advice from my Aunt Dorothy. I boo-hoo'e her this last time, thinking pumps were for kids... ...but I realize that the pump is not about convenience. It's about tight sugar control. Some even have sensors. I am not thrilled at the prospect of a device stuck to my body, but I have learned a lot in keeping a good sugar diary and that is I am as brittle as all get out. And I like my feet and toes:)

I will be missing the Kelly Reunion tomorrow but the awesome news is yet another child is going IVY League. Bloody geniuses, my cousins are birthing. Sara is beautiful, like her mother, so I, like most everyone else, had the false assumption that she was not a genius. (Even though her mother is smart as a whip.) The moral is: Don't judge a book by it's slender blond cover! Go Sara Kelly! Hooray! Evidently, the young woman is not a braggert. I wish I could go, but once again, there's the big MAUX NO CAR ISSUE! And Bella won't be there. No reason to put up with her father if she's not around.

I also should revise my post about Amma. I freaked out b/c Finnegan won't let go of hand and made me get up twice and we lost our seats and in every fashion, totally not listening to me and getting on my very last nerve. That's why I got upset. The truth may hurt but I must remember that I need calm people around me.

Mother, of course, can't help but ask why I have no sane friends. I promised her I will do my best not to make any new additions unless they are the jovial crazy variety. My friends are all artists! None of us is completely sane!

I have found a great feeling of joy in a transformation that has occurred with a connection to a friend. We had such a wonderful convo today. I feel like the change has come.

What a crazy month. While people around me were going in and out of psyche wards and the last illusions I had as to the true character of certain family members were being smashed to pieces, I had to be the One With Courage once again. It has truly been a fascinating month. I am free at last. Thank God Almighty, Free at Last...

I would like to dedicate this post to Finnegan b/c reading the hilarious lies hidden beneath the fluttery words of his blythely defamatory lj post, I realized, DOOSH! I never really knew this guy. Everything he writes is a lie! He's a good writer;) Clever. He skillfully plays out his plot. My only critique is that he is missing a through-line or a genuinely new idea, a bloody !theme! to his writing. And that is because his soul is a mess.

Well, my mind is a mess right now, even with the wonderful decompression. Honestly, I wished many times this month that someone would just pack me up and put me in a psyche ward (or an isolated farm). Everyone else seems to think it's ok to play tricks with your mind with their drugs and petty-thoughts. Yes. Just petty-thoughts. I don't care how sober you claim to be, Tommy! (and we can only take them at their word). It's your petty, delusional, obsessive, self-aggrandizing and ultimately self-destructive thoughts that are your worst addiction. There they are.. these people... swimming in the shadowy part of the Lake of Life, waiting for their prey. Once they become demented by their minds and their chemicals, these carnivores are never the same. They are beastly animals.

Wow. Whoa. Woo. That felt good. Oh and my tits are flying in the breeze in the safe and solitary confines of my little home, the casa de Maux, with the jingling wind chimes and the two wonderful cats and the smell of home and cooked food and me, Maux. The sun just moved away, so I actually closed the curtains for modesty.

I will probably forget to close the curtains soon enough. I'll be sitting on a towel instead of pajama pants but I am still decompressing. I suppose I am only an exhibitionist because I could care less if someone sees me naked. I don't actively encourage the peekers. If you don't like me naked, then don't look!

In June the drama began. My friend, running away from ghosts, decided to live at my house because I had opened my doors to other visitors (aka, Finnegan), was expecting MORE! visitors and it all happened so fast. I was inundated and I freaked. We simply could not live together in Maux Casa. He was out in a day. My mind began exploding the second it became real. Like, "this is gonna happen, for realz." OMG. ...and what about the promise I had made.... to Finnegan!... ...the guilt, the fear, the "god, i'm sorry"'s all around. A total mind meltdown on the 1st of June.

And that was just the start. But it's good to reflect on how I managed that situation in comparison with today. I am still devastated by having a mental meltdown with a dear friend. I realize now that "going with God's will" means you should fucking listen every once in a while. I knew it all along... bad idea.... bad idea! Ka-boom and I renege on a friend. I made quick work of it but it is still painful to think about. So, I'll stop. Because at least I know I love someone.

...so there I was taking back a verbal promise made to a known and trusted true friend in deference to the twisted words and manipulative bullshit coming my way from a man named Finnegan. On June 12th, my nightmare begins.

Christmas lights. Lovely eyewear to bed.

Night Terrors.

Total sleep disturbance. I try to stay on a schedule in life.

Right. no schedule. no work done. nothing. imprisoned in my own house.

Talking in his sleep.

The fucking headphones on constantly creating a fucking sick, twisted version of the noises in Finnegan's own head. Yes. He hears noises. I don't. I don't like tinny noise either. TYVM.

He came here with a cold, complained about the floor and I had to give him vitamins and make him food and the list goes on. And on. I was basically his mommy for the month.

I never noticed his insanity the last time he stayed here (for free, TYVM) with his boyfriend (TYVM!), Bartje. I saw him freak out quite a few times but I thought they were lovers' quarrels. Bartje was there to care for him and I often ignored them when I thought they were fighting, especially since they'd be talking in Dutch. ha! This time, I was the babysittter. Poor Bartje. What a darling man, that Bartje from Amsterdam. So unlike the crazed bullshit artist, Finnegan, the Crap Racist Poet from New York who can't find his way to Times Square. Ok. He is slightly brain damaged. Whatever. I never signed up for this.

I got his fucking SS card from his "foster-mother"/cousin, Cynthia, in Brooklyn. (She did warn me.)

I took him to Social Security. Twice.

I took him to the shrink. Twice.

I fucking held his hand like his was a 10 year-old boy.

He has the average maturity level of a ten year-old. He's sneaky and greedy and "give-it-to-me, now!", like a ten year old. Then again, even a ten year old can sleep with the lights off. There's no monsters under the bed, sweetie.

In blatent ignorance, considering the warnings given to me by his "foster-mother", he shorted me on funds once again. And had a plan which included no intention of paying me back. He is a snake.

You may ask or I may ask myself, "Since he didn't pay me (or seriously shorted me) last January, why would I let the guy near my studio again?" Good question. I put up both he AND his boyfriend, Bartje, in January and received no real compensation. He would owe me thirty dollars and then go on some shopping adventure, come back with a gift and then say that I paid for it! And, yes. I only asked for fucking 30 dollars a week for two boarders in January. I had just been through a tumultuous experience with one supposedly-paying visitor and wanted little to do with more filthy money. I had saved some money anyway and just needed a month to recuperate from modeling. Those two were such a distraction that I still didn't notice how physically ill I had become. (I just saw a picture of me from January. I look like a balloon.) Bartje and Finnegan are both great company. Together. Bartje is a real man. A fine honest man. Finnegan hid behind him last January.

I wouldn't wish anyone the horrible fate of being Finnegan's babysitter. I am bloody exhausted. Even the cats are wiped out.

I very slowly got to know WTF I was dealing with. Umm. Why can't he sleep in the dark or go out in public, his fear that everyone is staring at him when he dresses like a character from a horror film? What is the "fancy dress" all about? Mystery wrapped in a whole novel of bullshit is what it is. It's called playing the Helpless Game. And Finnegan is a master. Suffice it to say that I soon realized I was NOT going to New Mexico as planned. Even if my mother had not reneged on her promise of a plane ticket, there was no way I could leave this man alone in my house. And the terror mounted. As soon as I was able to voice my opinion of his mental illness and tabulate it with all the supposed symptoms, nothing seemed to add up. Hearing noises does not explain why he can't give me the money he promised me; some of the the money, fer Christ's sake, that I helped him get! Unlike January, I had extracted a monetary pledge and he refused it to me. He's a piggish snake.

He may hear noises, but the frail little boy act that he plays is simply that. An act. The play is now over.

I had to throw him out in the exact same manner as I did the kids last summer. I suppose I was a cowboy in my past life and my sidearm is my mouth. I held my ground. "Leave now!" I shouted only once or twice but to such a pitch that my voice is now hoarse. And he left. And I feel fine. I did not lose my mind like I did with my dear friend or my brother. I was not confused. My rage was as clear as daylight. I did not remotely "lose it." I see now that I can get angry and not have my mind muddled. Rage as a weapon of choice, a fearless choice. And there's the silver lining.

To round off the cowboy act, I refused him his shit this morning after reading his obscene (but funny!) post about me. I also checked his bank balance for grins. I told him more than once that I refused to be his banker, but curiosity struck me this morning and I checked. Indeed, his account was near empty. Hum. What could he have done with the money that he too ashamed to tell me about? He was completely silent yesterday. I asked him over and over again. No answer. It's hard to judge a lie when nothing is being said and he knows that I have an inner lie-detector - built in. I just wanted the fucking truth about the money, even if he spent on drugs. OMG. I just realized that Ketamine can't cost that much and he rarely went out, so the money was sitting in his pocket the whole time. Wow. He's good!

After his new boy-slave buzzed my apartment this morning, I came downstairs to meet him and his new boy-slave (very nice and sweet as they all are!). I told Finn to get out of the apartment building. My super was there. I didn't need a scene. And to go get my money. Finnegan called the sheriff. I was gonna wait there but then he started screaming obscenities. I winked at my super (no scene!) - so I retreated to my apartment. I later found out that he had stayed two days over the 30 limit and he had a legal right to his stuff anyway. I told you he was clever!

The lawman don't bother me, though. I went up to my little studio, thought about the wagon-circle that was going on and decided to put his bags in the hallway. I went back downstairs and told Finn's new boy-slave to collect them. Finnegan had been asked to leave the building by my super, so he was outside. A minute later, the coppers arrived. One cop and I had a good laugh when he was gonna tell Finnegan that his boyfriend was already collecting his stuff. I shushed the cop, saying, "Shhh... Don't say anything yet. Let him fucking stew for a little while longer." The cop laughed. I blushed for saying the F-Word to a cop. And Finnegan continued to stew. Boy! Was he confused when he came inside and saw his new boy-slave dutifully dragging his bags out of the elevator?!? You should have seen the look on his face. Shame.

You deleted my reply to your post, Finnegan! Coward. I already got words of condolences from strangers, you king of self-righteous bigotry!

[Freud dismissed the very idea of “normality” as “an ideal fiction” and famously remarked that he hoped to transform “hysterical misery into common unhappiness.”] - http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200906/happiness/2

I checked out my nice long fingernails on Saturday [before one got destroyed by stage make-up that night.] They were the perfect length and the mysterious thing is there were no ridges. When my fingernails become marked by a lateral indent, it shows me that some incident happened on a certain day - some sort of trauma. They are like rings in a tree. My fingernails show me the past. And they were long and unmarked on Saturday. Remember thinking, "My life has been pretty much trauma-free of late! yay!"

Well, yesterday's trauma is over now. So I'm examining my fingernails. There are matching indents on my pointer fingers today. They are the most "sensitive". I wonder if I just didn't notice them on Saturday. I'll keep an eye out.

Every drunk has done "drunk dialing." Normal people drunk-dial their ex's or whomever is enabling them at the time. I do something I call "angry dialing" and the victim is usually a family member; to be precise, my mother or father. I anger-dialed my mother yesterday. And she bites back. My father, as well, acts like a human when some vicious creature is hissing at him. I was behaving like the freaked animal fighting with my kitties yesterday. Ha! These cats are teaching me so much about my animal nature. Being a sober human, I remembered yesterday's anger-call to Mom and called her today to make amends. (Excuse the AA-speak) Apology accepted. Lesson: If you are angry or crying, call Mom later. Mommy can not fix your boo-boos. You are not seven years old. Work through your anger and your tears and if you want to discuss what precipitated them with your mother, call her when you are calm. Perhaps, mother doesn't need to hear your temporary crap. Try calling her with good stuff. (Like what? hun?) That's a toughie for me, b/c my folks don't like to hear "good news" about my art. Until I call to say someone is giving me a million bucks for my art, everything arts-related will continue to inexplicably tick them off. I stick to health "good news." My ill health may be a blessing (once again) b/c I have something to discuss with mom and dad. hun.

I should try to figure out what other kinds of "good news" I can share. There's a mission. Any ideas? Love life, social life? Aaaah. I can't think of anything.........

Fun Fact: When I am crying, uncontrollably, like a child - just letting it out - I sometimes will say out loud, "Mom-mee!" ...like a child! It's very interesting. I get a boo-boo on the playground (called LIFE) and I call out to an invisible "Mommy" so she can hear me cry and make it all better.

I don't think my funny "mommy" blubbering is a "bad" thing. It's interesting. I am connecting with my inner child. Children are brilliant. I also think a good cry now and again is cleansing. Nothing changes outside of me. I still got the boo-boo and the big kid still pushed me or whatever my "complaint" may be... but a good cry can clean me on the inside. Maybe. The right brain just told me that it's selfish. Maybe that's why adults try not to cry in public. There's nothing to be fixed. The past is gone and the big kid forgot s/he bumped on the swing set. Your body is just releasing tension. Mommy can't help. You know it's gonna get better. It's over. It doesn't really "hurt". Unfortunately, many adults obsess that it's going to get worse. Which is decidedly selfish. And thus my gripe with puberty and the changes that turn all humans into blazing idiots after childhood. Obsessing about what-may-be is something post-adolescents do. It makes no sense. No one can predict the future or change the past to "make it better." Listen to what your mommy said on the playground when you were seven, "Don't worry. It'll get better." Note to self: She was using the future tense. And the future is now. You know that. You are no longer a child, which may be unfortunate but it is fact. I am an adult.

Thanks mommy. I feel better today.

"[I do know] That God quotes from 'Lord of the Rings'” - Faux Maux from "My Dear John Letter"

"Are You There God? It's me, Maureen. I'm on this site using my real name." - ibid. 1st line.

Listen God. If you exist, then you can hear me. I got a lot of questions and I don't know where to start. I understand that no one is perfect. I understand that completely. So why do people get angry and hold grudges? I never said I was perfect.* I never said I was pretty either, so those people can mock me all they want!** I'm angry God. I'm wondering if the new meds just brought me up too high too fast, because that's where the anger lives, above the soul in a place some people call Hell. And they say it's down below but I think it far far above us and it hits us like lightning or covers us in a noxious cloud. Everyone goes ka-plooey and the cynicism and vengeance begin.

Even the felines. Tommy went to say good-bye to his new girlfriend and she hissed at him. And I'm crying. I'm too high. I've never had an anxiety attack before and I'm having one now. And I already have problems with my heart, so this is retarded. Crazy meds all suck, God. I think I should be my normal imperfect self, just like everyone else I know. Imperfect. When I meet a perfect person, I'll become an atheist again. AS IF! (quote - "Clueless") Thanks for listening and hearing me cry.

*I should re-write "Adam and Eve". Good idea. Peace Be Upon You, my God.

** YOU know I'm not vain. I picked something insignificant, for the trolls, ya know. I am not bothered by the comments. It's the "idea" that someone would call a deformed person ugly! That's so wrong. Maybe morality is bullshit, tho. Maybe morality is a fucking fantasy; a game that no one truly plays. All are pretenders, liars, cheaters and thieves in the game. Hissing at one another for no reason, like the cats.

I can't believe I was in the MIDDLE of a cat fight. Insane day. I miss the humans I love. The ones to whom I must say good-bye. I know they are insane but I love them.

OK. I almost called the shrink, but I think she'd commit me. Or I think I'd ask! ha!

( the scene that I wrote the other day, MY DEAR JOHN LETTER )

And Tommy says good-bye. You can't see the sadness on his face - Flickr darkened the vid.


THIS IS A HOUSE OF LOVE

I am taking a medication that was recently profiled in the New Yorker as a neuro-enhancer.

I don't know if my neuros are enhanced. I'm old. I got what I got.

It's got a "direct" mode of action like the rest of my meds, eg. insulin.

It is wildly expensive. The drug company holds the patent. No legal generics. "Hi Canada!"

To make sure I wouldn't have a bad reaction to it, I tried it one day and got a massive headache the next day. The second time, same headache. Once I began taking it everyday, no headache.

I got a buzz for the first 5 days on the medication. Now I've adjusted.

This is approved by the FDA for narcolepsy and shift-work sleep disorders. So, no. YOU can not get a script. Unless you have a neurologist.

My insurance company approved the off-label script because I can't take "normal" anti-depressants. I seem to have consistent reactions to "regular" seizure/mood meds; particularly inflammation. Other meds are off-limits because of my high blood sugars.

It's helpful rather than detrimental to my other meds (what a concept!)

This is the most amazing anti-depression pill I've ever taken. Is this how happy people feel? Wow. Neat. And no, I'm not napping every bloody afternoon. I fall asleep at a normal hour, get 8 hours. I am so normal, it's killing me.

*I do not recommend Provigil for recreational use. The headache felt like a nano-gun popping nano-bullets in my head. In the beginning, it just made me dizzy. I don't think my work improved (I write). I didn't even clean while I was adjusting. I was happy, sure, but confused. I don't see how confusion can help you with your homework. Besides, you can't afford it. 1-800-canadiandruglords.

My new niece!

Here's her astro.com report. Duh. Right on it! ( She's a Gemini! )

And for my mother, today's wonderful and wild catechism (or readings)for the day and the commentary from the dailygospel.org from... Saint Augustine! ( The Catholic Day of Sadie's birth )

The Future is Change
A
No kids.
B
We only just met.
A
I’m just saying. No kids.
B
Um… OK. Anything else?
A
I want a big party. Nothing traditional.
B
You mean, like a wedding.
A
Unofficial. A party.
B
Alright.
A
What?
B
Nothing…. Cup of tea?
A
Let’s go dancing tonight. Gotta practice!
B
We can make it a performance piece.
A
A “Wedding” show.
B
I just wrote some cool music.
A
I just built a body double, made of rubber!
B
And Chris can make the puppet.
A
He’s a great MC.
B
Dress the puppet as a priest.
A
Or a rabbi.
B
I’ve never been to Vegas.
A
I have.
B
I don’t want to go to City Hall.
A
Never been there. Never want to go.
B
Vegas?
A
City Hall, no. Vegas, yes. I have family there.
B
We’re going to Vegas.
A
Umm… OK. Anything else?