Don't Ask. Just Do It.

If I hear one more time, "why are you still single?", I may stab the poor soul with my pen. I will find a pen and kill the messenger. Dramatics roar too loud sometimes to starve. I want meaning. I want crazy, vibrator in route, passionate intimacy. All the time. I want an actual connection, mentally and physically. I won't settle. 

Trouble is, it's all good until you get too close. I feel it coming and my running shoes are laced up before my mind realizes what my hands have done. I've been a gypsy wanderer for so long I don't know how to be in the meaning. This is a problem. I'm aware. Long couches clothed in silence emptying savings wouldn't find themselves home without this quality. The crowd doesn't help. So how do you fix it. The connection has to be so powerful, the fix is worth it. A lightening bolt once spawn a prodigy. Validation.

Hurts like hell when the rarity happens and you discover freedom's grasp has crippled the possibility of love falling. We spend our entire lives trying to find something we can't define. Being something, someone, somebody we think someone, somewhere, somehow will love.

Whatever that is.

Complicated. It's always complicated. If only we all said what we meant the exact moment we felt it. Letting go and holding on would be a complications foe.

Love must be a verb some book, some other perplexed analytical type, not even grandmothers can define. Love is what you make. I tend to lean towards the side believing we'd all be a little happier if we made it daily. Well, for those conservative types.

Only you should ask the questions when they start to keep you up at night. Seek answers at your pace. It takes some of us practice to live both fast and slow, capturing the whole picture, the moments that lead to answers and definitions.  

Love and life is simply what you make. The goal is to discover our meaning to answer the voices in our heads. To learn what we want and challenge our fears to seek it. To create meaning in the things that simply make us happy. Wherever, however, with what we have, and hopefully with those whom show us our meaning of love.

Maybe that's where we all go wrong. Maybe that's why all the questions linger, cast out to others because its not easy. We're all living under the impression that love should just happen, just be. We shouldn't have to work at it, seek it, give it a chance. If it was easy to answer, we wouldn't ask the questions hoping, just maybe, someone will say something we wanted to hear.

So what do you do other than keep pretending you believe the independence is worth it for all the outsiders to idolize. The display worthy surety they wrap you in giving them the proof needed to live in a world where having your cake and eating it too exists. If I've learned anything at all, it's cake is bad for you. It looks pretty and tastes good, but if you let it disgust and analyze bite, by bite, the truth remains. Cake makes you fat and nobody likes to be fat.

We all learn something from everyone. Even if it's not what to do.

Silly Boxes

Generation what. What do us 80's babies call ourselves these days? As a wanderlust addict, it's hard to stay in the box, between the lines, on the road, grounded focused on the they-isms. Pardon the french, but who the hell are they. Note, h-e-double hockey stick is far from the french within. D'accord.

Hold on to the edges, shock is about to rattle those strategically cut corners, blur those lines and split that road. It feels good to be home on a Saturday night. Alone. On a balcony with wide open grateful eyes and no boxes. Less stuff breads more happiness.

Calmly chaotic crazy fantasies dance from my head to my finger tips. The believer in, and on me doesn't accept what they say. We spend our whole lives trying to find something we can't define listening to them pretending.

I've heard them say, "When you know, you know. You'll be certain of it.". Well, the certainty boxes should be rather roomy these days. All this certainty roaming around dragging enough cardboard to jail The Big House justifies ideologies running wildly in the south of France felt by finger tips.

Some will only understand you when you fit in their box, keep pushing them away until they listen or stay there.

Be you, waiting for someone to meet you half way. Those on your half crowd the walls guarding the voices screaming replies without ever understanding the words you communicate in the way you can. Don't do it. Hold your line, drawn in your favorite color, crafted by the images floating around the world characterized by the perceptions that matter. Yours.

The perceptions of others should not reflect the perception of you. You know you. All the communication, or lack there of, still doesn't grant the outsider the power to choose what box you sit in. Be the box sending invitations to construct just enough room for those who make your soul happy.

So, I'll live by the tickings of my desires, not some clock they keep telling me I should hear. Running fast as hell, stopping to intensify the small things, having soul sex, pushing heavy objects, releasing weight, loosing hesitations to gut wrenches, defying logic, arguing with fate, knowing my definition of a happy place is no longer the ideal version they taught us all to cling to like a dirty rag trying to make the glass glisten.

Hell, Toys' R' Us kids don't grow up and they play with clocks instead of watching them.

Thoughtless Caress

If you felt it, it was real.

The feeling may be cloudy chaos wrapped in a quickness blown away or lite up with a blinding ray, but the feeling happened. It's an addictive taste even the immune can't toast.

What do you do for a fix other than keep searching for the dealers replica. No matter how hard, far or willed, replica's will always show their tell. Unless the feeling strikes, learn to enjoy your own company. The education is priceless in a world of pretends.

What do they say, "Nothing worth having is easy." blah, blah, blah. Believe it.

The easy scapegoats take up space. To shun them is just not the cool thing to do. Be totally uncool. The thing that caught you blows them away. The space left behind lies waiting to feel ok with the void.

Be an outsider looking in, party of one. 

I'm in it. Living it. History repeating itself won't fit in this mold. Who knew one quarter life crisis topped with a big ol epiphany Marciano cherry could force a completed, done, checked off the bucket list crazed audience to halt during intermission. It's not at all about the ending, the magic happens in the getting there. The end, is literally death and who's going to write for your cleared mind then....

When you find someone to sit quietly with, you miss their touch when they go wash away the intimacy even the morning light can't change, don't keep it all in for just your heart to feel. Feel it. Let them feel it too, even if it happens in an instant. Those instants are what make life worth living.

It's easier to be lost than found. When something gets you, catches you, leaves you rather thoughtless utterly stuck in the moment, it's easier to escape back into your mind, the chaotic mess filled with the overwhelming distractions circling every inch. It's easier to be consumed by careless caress.

Endangered Species

It took me 30 years to love myself. 30 years to learn it's ok to be a size 0, have natalie arms, repeat 2 a days until I drop, sit alone in my boxers wearing my choice t of the day my inner romantic clepto seized possibly decades ago.

It took me 30 years to be ok with being loved. Every road traveled, every person I met made me who I am. Most locked me up and laid the bricks, but the ones who bring a smile to my freckled dimples gave me wings.

We can close our eyes to the things we don't want to see but we can't close our hearts to the things we don't want to feel.

I'm hard to love. It took me 30 years to be ok with that. Nothing worth having comes easy.

Like who you like. Love who you love. Like what you like and love the shit out of whatever it is that moves your soul. Don't give in. Stop pretending to smile, wrapping yourself up in their sheets. In the end the sadness in your eyes can be seen by those who care and the reflection looking back at you doesn't empathize for happiness sakes.

Make lists. On a post-it, in your diary, in your head, on a napkin, scribbled across the bathroom mirror. Write it down, breathe it out, live it. These list-worthy things aren't things at all. They're you. They're what makes you come alive. Don't die before you're dead. The easiest way to  do it is to give up on the you you're covering up.


One minute Bigge tells me to ride, the next George tells me to check yes or no, the next Aretha tells me natural beauty is ok and all that jazz changes my foot steps. Even Tupac knows I get around. Love the changes.

No one else is to blame for not loving you, but the voices in your head, the thoughts you let in. Easier to listen to others and quote their words, "No one can love you if you don't love yourself."

Done. Do it. Your kind of awesome is an endangered species.

Love the way you love.  We all love in our beautiful chaotic way. The ones who love us back, love us for the crazy way we love. Don't change how you love because it doesn't fit in the pretty little box wrapped by the voices of those who wish they loved unapologetically. So be crazy in love, in like, in life. With you and who ever you want to fit in a song. Live the only way you know how, happily.

I like the viens in my obliques, the rough edges of my toe tips, the scar in my eyelash, all the thoughts I can't communicate with words. I'm still learning how to let someone else love me, but loving yourself feels pretty damn good. Love on.

Shit's Loss

A heroin recently convinced a crowded room it's ok to loose your shit. She had me under this spell from the moment our paths crossed. It only took me decades to actually be ok with shit hitting the fan. My shit hitting the fan.

Not because I hated my job, I lost my job, I broke up with my boyfriend, I caught my husband in bed with a man, I heard a voice tell me I had terminal cancer, a voice tell me I had cancer period, I witnessed a horrible accident or a bunny getting hit by a bus, I saw a loved one's face disappear from sights ability...No.

I lost my shit because I let myself feel. Feel all emotion. Breathe in the nausea. Cry Justin a river. Embraced the happy horrific sadness. This a step for us sunshine chasing, pro happy choice card carrying smilers.

Sympathetic voices express the need for running company. Miss Independent's soles are happiest away from the chaos.  They promise sweaty returns even the hottest shower can't erase. When the feeling of the shit hitting the fan overcomes, happy thoughts can still remain.
 
So, lose your shit.  What's the point of any of it if you can't let vulnerability take over.

The shit's weighing you done anyway.

4am

Some nights go by with limited interruptions. Dreamers dream wrapped in the colored scenes rememered by those lucky enough to dig consciously.

Some nights break perceived bliss opening wonder flood gates. 4am knows all our secrets. The t-shirt us romantics habitually reach for echoing thoughts we hold on to. Thoughts embraced of those who hold on surrounded by letting go pushers .

In the daylight, letting go is applauded. Those who clap on que lack the star lite truths. How can you turn off the happy chants sufficating your fear. Fear is a liars enemy, one to be kept close. Scrutinze the fear. Feel it. Understand it. Give it the 4am analysis. Learn where it lives and give it wings.

You see it all at 4am. The ease, the sheets, the coffee cups, the shades, the comfort...the dreamers future. Some of us can't help but provoke fear. It's horrific presence stings waiting to be treated with a touch only our skin knows. We don't sit in the crowd waiting for the light to tell us to clap until it hurts.

Isn't it terrifying to wake to the realness of some of those nightmarish dreams. Isn't it easier to block the dreams with the comfortable applause. When they clap for you they're so far away they can't see the voices in your eyes. See them even if you have to look in the mirror. Applause breeds happiness only when the 4am voices can clap for you too.

The reflective dreams speak softly. Listen. Your two hands hold thoughts capable of unveiling darkness. Don't let the crowd's numbers smother your fear. They can't learn from it. Dr. Phil, Oprah...hell even Dr. Drew sees 4am every now and again.

If only their scripted wise words spewed with the warm rays could feel the cotton clothed in memories seeking wings or water.

Turn on the fan or turn on the hose. Just don't give up on your dreams because the morning crowd fills the softness left behind at 4am.

Mr. & Miss Time

Time has a funny way of playing tricks on our minds. We depend on it. We give in to the notion he will wash away emotion, pave a grand path, reflect inner desires, heal battle scars and teach the unthinkable. Time promises. Don't trust him. Time can only satisfy his desires if we give him the hand to spin the tiny revolving red lines within.

I use to pride myself with lack of trust proclamations. Guarding voices in my head, protecting the screams in my eyes, blocking others seeking the mystery. 

It sounds so light to give in. It sounds so blissful to attach. It sounds so peaceful to be surrounded.

Time stimulates contradicting thoughts. Time writes pros and cons. Time grounds butterflies. Time grants perceptive wishes. Time applauds the independents so comfortable on their own.


When you cross paths with someone who gets your timeliness, sees your screams, mocks the mystery, say goodbye.

Say goodbye to time's protective pull. The only way to trust is to expose the walls time helped build. Intuition dies with times hold.

Don't give it time. Give the keys to the cage.

Time can only teach those who dare to turn the hourglass, the courageous, the fearless dreamers with strength for emotional dependence.

What do you desire more, his time or yours...