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Its like finding out Santa is just a crock of shit

June 15, 2008

My shoes were pretty but gave me wicked blisters. That price I paid for beauty when I knew them before…the not eating, the vomit, the excessive exercise paled in comparison to how much the one of 4 blisters on my feet pain me this morning. A little skin rubbed off and exposing a weepy sore spot mirrors the spot on my heart where too many boys rubbed it the wrong way. I get the double entredre there, seriously I do and I guess I mean that also but its more that weak place that takes up root in your heart when you start to fall in love for the first time. Or times. Or think that its love. That facsimile of love that you feel so intensely when you are a teenager and while I am well aware of what a John Huston cliche that is– I can’t help but notice it more acutely when I am around them.

What I guess is strange is to be faced with who I thought I was more than 20 years ago. I am not sure if I was even aware of the idea that I was actually someone. An actual person versus this collection of limbs and hair and shoes and cute skirts and eye liner and hairspray and earrings. Assembled like a new toy for christmas with all the hope and expectation of this thing that you have always wanted only realizing that if you played a little to rough with it, it would break and you would see the cheap made in China label and you can tell yourself that it doesn’t really matter because you never really wanted that anyway. But you still carry all those broken parts around and as you get older and older you try to fit them back together and figure out how to make it work again.

It still works, your body, your mind but you are aware of choices you make and you really are in your life-feeling every little bit of the rumble and snap of those parts fit back together like in some episode of McGuyver. I am all bubble gum and paper clips and pieces of string. More homemade than a store bought toy wrapped and gorgeous under a glistening tree. I rattle when shaken now and I can not find, for the life me, that fucking receipt.

There isn’t any magic, nothing just appears. You make it all happen and as your life comes zooming up to stop at your feet like a drag racer skidding to the curb you realize you are not just watching the race, but you are in it. You are driving the car.

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4 Comments leave one →
  1. June 16, 2008 3:27 am

    you shake, you rattle and you roll on. Yes, I’m still around and still reading you with as much interest as the first times. just don’t have much time to stop and say hi.

  2. June 16, 2008 1:55 pm

    Yeah but its so much more fun to be the driver when you understand and appreciate the machine. All those shakes and rattles are what make you a classic.

  3. gino permalink
    June 16, 2008 11:04 pm

    “But you still carry all those broken parts around and as you get older and older you try to fit them back together and figure out how to make it work again.”

    Out of curiosity, why does it have to “work again”?

    Why can’t it work anew?

  4. fishnchips1000 permalink
    June 17, 2008 2:41 pm

    It’s so good to see you bloging/writing again.

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