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Archive for the ‘Death’ Category

You should know that everything and nothing has happened since I spilled my jumping beans about retarded werewolves five months ago.

I fell in and out of like with a few people on my accidental quest for a new teammate in life.  The good news is that I’m pretty sure that only One Third of that bunch is still harboring adverse feelings toward me.  I regret leaving a grubby little snail trail of feelings behind me.  Don’t think I haven’t slid around on them myself.

You could trace them all the way back to Six Flags Over Texas circa 1995.  That was the time my internet boyfriend from AOL Teen Chat: The Half Pipe was going to meet me, Daisy1356, in the flesh for the first time.  I can’t believe there was actually a time in which we had to rely solely on strangers’ descriptions of themselves, and man were they idealistic.  I’m pretty sure mine was wholly inaccurate, too.  And by “pretty sure” I mean I was at least four years older with a tan just a smidge lighter than Idi Amin’s.  Anyway, Adrian was unsurprisingly nothing close to what he’d described.  Instead of respectfully explaining myself face to face, I tucked tail, ran the opposite direction toward all things Mommy and Daddy, and changed my screen name upon returning home.

That was a very long path to something I wanted to address:  the fact that explaining undesirable feelings in person doesn’t seem to have a more positive effect.  But I’m an adult and I can’t go on letting just everyone assume I’ve been disemboweled in a freakish amusement park accident (or can I) never to be seen or heard from again.

However painful and embarrassing, I want to remember the moment in which the aforementioned One Third said, “Normally I’d say that’s a beautiful sky, but right now it just looks like a shitty watercolor” while gazing upward. That was obviously immediately after I spewed some unpleasant feelings aloud.  There is no smooth way to tell someone that you’re not the right fit for them, but that was definitely the smoothest way anyone has ever called me an asshole.

A couple days later I met with the manager of a local Italian market where I was hoping to score some weekend catering work (this was all part of my grand scheme to gather extra funds for traveling and so far it’s granted me one ticket to Chicago come September where I’ll visit with an extraordinary friend and wangle my very first tattoo).

I was instantly distracted by a handsome vision behind the deli counter.  He was back lit bright, nestled between cheeses, and stood tall beneath a dangling halo of authentic Italian meats that swung slightly in the recycled air.

I was hired on the spot and it took a dreadfully (probably karmically deserved) long time for Meat Halo to even notice me, let alone ask me out.

After one of our first dates to a Thai restaurant he left his pineapple fried rice with extra cashews in my fridge.  Realizing this the following day, he sweetly offered the remnants to me.  I accepted the offer and sent them directly to what I’d originally thought to be a quaint home, the inside of my growling tummy.

Oops.

I hadn’t eaten a cashew in a couple decades.  In fact, the last time I’d eaten cashews was quite memorable for everyone involved.  My parents had taken me to some boring wedding where I’d taken the liberty of emptying an entire bowl of these complimentary, oily, tropical treats into my seven year old gob.  I brought that reception back to life by tossing them right back up on the pool deck about a half hour later.  At least I was able to shout, “I THINK I’M GONNA…” beforehand.

A similar feeling washed over me this time, Hulk-like in its particular shade of green coupled with abnormally high body temperatures.  Just imagine that instead of raging super human strength, Bruce produced raging super human puke and there you have me.  I snuggled my water conserving toilet all night long.  Go green!  Awesome, I did.

I visited a local allergist after this episode, apparently through a super secret worm hole to the year 1987.  Could it be that I’d died and gone to mauve heaven?  The examination table was newborn baby bulb syringe blue and while the nurse dutifully demonstrated how to use an epipen I noticed the top supply drawer had a label on it that read:  FACIAL TISSUE.  Frightening!  Phew.  The drama I’d longed for in her performance was found there instead.

On my way out, clutching epinephrine prescription and pamphlet advertising medic alert bracelets with MOOD CHANGING BEADS, I noticed a lunatic, framed photo above the hand washing station.  It captured a mystery person from the waist down, top portion of their body covered by the full branches of a tree they stood behind.  As I stepped closer to inspect what I’d originally thought to be a foggy spot on the glass caused by moisture damage, I realized that the tree in this photograph was on FIRE and the foggy spot was actually a cloud of smoke billowing forth.

At the time it didn’t make a lick of sense, but I realize that the joke was on me and this mystery man is what one might warmly refer to as a Tree Nut.

 

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I’ve put off writing here because I’m finding it entirely preposterous to put into words the experiences I’ve had here in Austin so far.  It would sound something like, “I feel like my head is a stationary buoy with a thin wire cable running through all of my insides down to my toes and if I don’t keep my feet on the ground my legs will be sucked inside of me and sprout directly from both ears.”

This post-it on my desk has several notes referencing gut-busting moments I’ve had at the YMCA, but it’s been so long since I’ve written them that I have no idea what I meant by “stuck to rear”.

A lot of people are worried about the last unflattering photo they’ve had ending up in the obits.  I’m worried about someone finding these awkward notes to self.

Although I do think it’s important for all members of my family to know that I fell in love for exactly one hour and a half with a black man named Devorak at the gym.  It was a cross between the fact that his name sounds like it might belong to a one-eyed, scary, orange monster with overactive salivary glands and warts with teeth, or because I wanted to take a nap on his graying, rain cloud-like afro rather than exercise.  If he googles himself he’ll know that our future together flashed right before my eyes and ended with him being reasonably upset with me for owning a Harriet Tubman action figure.  Needless to say, I didn’t retain a shred of information about their fitness equipment.

In fact, I didn’t even use the equipment for about a month after my “orientation”.  The thought of it weirdly overwhelmed me.  One afternoon I felt motivated and attempted to tackle one with a slightly welcoming, candy apple red seat.  I wrapped my legs around it and stared at the instructional diagram for entirely too long.  Ikea furniture instructions long.  And I’m almost certain that a descendent of Robert Wadlow had used it seconds before me because I couldn’t reach a damn thing.  Instead of asking for a bit of guidance from the obvious gym veteran across from me, I blushed and practically ran to the locker room (CARDIO).

Who was I kidding because if you’ve ever been to the YMCA you too know that the locker room is definitely not a safe place to take refuge.  It is a place where I’ve witnessed several instances of what I can only refer to as unnecessary bare-assedness.  I’m talking completely nude women bent over drying their hair.  Volume, people, it’s important.  I’ll tell you what else is important, me not knowing what my vagina is going to look like in thirty years.

On another note, I’ve also fallen in love with Austin’s moonlight towers which leaves me feeling a bit like the lady who married the Golden Gate Bridge.

Everything I’ve read about them sounds suspiciously romantic, so maybe I’m not the only one.  The department that handles their ongoing maintenance is called the Illumination Division for chrissakes.  Please let me have a job there.

“The towers were also guaranteed by the designers to be bright enough that a person could read his or her pocket watch within 3,000 feet of a tower on the “darkest of nights.”  Sigh.

I see 2 of the 17 remaining in the city regularly, but one clearly doesn’t know about the other.

In the 30’s farmers thought the artificial moonlight would cause severe overgrowth of gardens and lawns and that home owners would have to battle their yards with an axe.  At first I had a good chuckle and thought to myself, “how bonkers is that?!”

I then retracted that thought immediately when the slight fear of accidental lunar fertility, or worse retarded werewolves crossed my mind.

Now I can’t decide which is a new all time low – the fact that I just linked to http://www.menstruation.com, or that I just typed and italicized retarded werewolves (twice).

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Famileaving.

Life has been on a peculiar pause here in Dallas while I recover from a depleted savings account and in one week I’ll finally be in Austin.  I’ve spent all of my time with family who’ve helped ease that stubborn cork out of my fermenting bottle of emotions.  Whether they’re all aware of that, who knows, but there’s something about my mom and dad’s respective kitchens that impregnate me with a litter of tear babies.  I’ve (conveniently) lost count of exactly how many I’ve given birth to over the past few months.

One of those evenings we were all gathered around the island at my dad’s, elbows resting while discussing what we’d like to order from the take-out menu and apparently the “I’m going to die alone!?” I was craving wasn’t in season.

I forgot what it feels like to unleash that mammoth of sorrow in front of family members as opposed to strangers in public (because that’s where it inevitably seeps out).  They hug the absolute shit out of you and order you a hefty, soothing styrofoam box full of piping hot monosodium glutamate.  Not once has anyone here made me feel like a total dolt for letting it all hang out.

My dad placed a box of complimentary tissue in the middle of the living room the night we all watched My Sister’s Keeper because I may or may not have residual cancer scare whimpers buried way down deep behind my toenail beds.

My Mormon family didn’t even flinch the night I almost said “fuck” during a heated game of Catch Phrase.  I swiftly changed it to “fuh-art” , but I have a feeling they’d have let it slide because my grandpa (a Priesthood Holder) moments later said “damn” and we all laughed so hard we cried.

My little brother even gave me the permission to share a snippet of our conversation the other night in which he admitted to making love to his giant teddy bear when we were kids.

My older sister called me to apologize for always putting me in the middle of her ongoing battle with our biological mother.  I will call her later this week to atone for not fully appreciating the many nights she let me curl up on her bedroom floor after a nightmare where she and Joe Elliott would sing me back to slumber.

My ex-step mother welcomed me into her home and onto the unlimited family yoga account.  Her boob popped out the other day while she demonstrated a sun salutation and I’ve almost executed bakasana/crow pose properly because she makes me feel less afraid to land on my face.

My current step-mother truly completes my dad and has never once made me feel like an asshole for being a stereotypically terrible teenager.  We’re talking wasted high school football players smashing her sculptures after one too many glasses of Jim Beam and Kool-Aid terrible teenager.  Selling your Badmotorfinger c.d. for ecstasy terrible teenager.

In one week I’ll actually know what it feels like to be homesick because this time I’m not running away.  I’ve chosen to build a new life for myself a few hours away because honestly, any more than that and I’d be making Claire Danes Chin Crinkle Cry Face in every job interview.

Wish me luck, will ya?

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Last night was our second horror filmmaking class with Tony Elwood and I literally can’t say enough stupendous things about the guy because it would come off as slightly creepy. 

I mean I would be just mortified if he or someone he knew Googled his name and found me rambling on and on about how if he was a ghost and I was a psychic medium I’d swallow him like Oda Mae Brown did to Sam Wheat just to have half an ounce of that charisma and drive for one damn second. 

And that’s obviously not what I’d be saying, that’s just an example

He had us (4 students total) each direct a seven scene short using my pal, Linnea, as our leading lady and scream queen. 

When I heard this news I became so overwhelmed with nervous excitement that the deep breath I took to calm the nerves swooshed every last morsel of digesting food to “no man’s land” (we’ll call it) and I had to exit the classroom swiftly to “take care of business”. 

My main squeeze is often confronted with the sudden urge to pee before he goes on stage and I guess some people toss their lunch.  I… well, you get the picture.  And for your sake I hope it’s a verbal one.

Anyway, because the class is only three hours long we had to think fast and set up each shot on our feet.  In other words, I was completely out of my element.  In other words, I wasn’t behind a computer.  Read the word, “com-put-er” in a robot voice. 

The first couple shots I set up were completely safe (i.e.: boring) because I was buried very deep inside my Russian nesting doll brain all the way back to the tiniest one. 

By the time we shot my 5th, 6th, and 7th scene I was kicking a trash can down a hall with all my might and appointing our classmate, Kenshuk(sp), an Indian businessman type of guy to creepily and sensually grope banisters and murder my friend. 

He was so awesome and such a good sport.  I mean it was his first day of class and I was already asking him, “Would you feel more comfortable stabbing or strangling?”  He responded earnestly, “I can do either.” 

The good news:

1.  It ended with a close up of him saying, “Nothing could be finer than North Scare-o-lina” into the camera.

2.  I didn’t soil myself.

3.  We’re editing the footage soon, so I’ll put it on the tube and maybe you’ll soil yourself instead. 

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Sometimes I can’t help but feel like life would just be a teensy weensy bit easier if I had a bit more confidence.

Okay, I’m lying, I feel like it would be a lot easier.

My ex-step-mom keeps warning me to love what I have now before it’s too late and everything dries out I can’t find a belt big enough to fit around my boobs because how in the world did they end up down there?

That sounds great, but hey… I don’t think I mentioned that in phase one of my orthodontic treatment they haven’t yet adhered brackets to the upper, leftmost front teeth.

There’s just a wire there holding them back from being the best teeth they could ever be.

When I smile big (that’s just what I do) they are naked, blank, eggshell white, and extremely lonely. I got through the first few months joking that I “just couldn’t afford those two”, but by month 4 I was pleading my case in that big, scary chair.

“Okay, I get it! That was absolutely hysterical! Now can I please I have brackets on those teeth?”

“I’m sorry, April, that’s not part of the plan.”

“Oh, it isn’t? Well, how about a new plan?”

Only he can’t hear me out on the last part where I suggest glued bits of tin foil and compassion because he’s more interested in murdering my entire mouth.

I get a full set of brackets on March 31st and then I’ll complain about the slightly darker than flesh tone birthmark/mole on my left temple.

Comically, it’s in the shape of Australia and has doubled in size since last year.

When it begins hugging Antarctica we’ll have a huge problem on our face.

And unlike my orthodontist I don’t think it’s out for blood.

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Above and underwear.

My mom used to tell me that the reason why you should shave your legs and underarms daily was because you never know when you’re going to die and you should always be prepared. 

I took this to the extreme and even shaved my arms with my sister’s electric razor.  If didn’t have any hair left on my legs because I didn’t have any skin left, either.  I shaved it all off and bled everywhere.  

Do you think any doctor is going to want to stare down your seventies porn bush while they’re determining a cause of death?  How distracting.

“Time of death:  o-eight hundred.  Cause of death:  suffocation by way of pubic hair overgrowth.”

I used to make her prove to me she was my real mother by telling me something only she would know.  I always imagined her unzipping her face to reveal something scary like a rotting block of Swiss cheese with worms and guts oozing out of every hole and one day and I’d be the one to say, “told you so”.  

Even though I thought she was a monster inside I was terrified of losing her.  I even made her bury her necklace beneath her blouse when we’d ride on the escalator at the mall.  I’d imagine her tripping, falling, and being sucked into the teeth at the end.  Blood red mixing with orange julius and me, an orphan.  

I guess that spawned my fear of unlikely decapitation and to this day I can’t keep my car’s sunroof open long because of it.  I’ll imagine crashing, rolling, body rising up to the neck through the top as it lands and *thbbt*. 

She even named me after a character who committed suicide on the soap opera, All My Children.

I think about this on days like today when I can’t stop looking in the mirror to make sure my face is screwed on right.  Into the bathroom stall where I suddenly realize I’m wearing my underwear inside out and haven’t shaved my legs in months (again).

And yet I’d still have to describe my mood to you at this very moment as bursting with fruit flavor.

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Few things terrify me more than singing aloud for an audience.  I attempted karaoke once a few years ago and ended up wetting my pants on stage.  Surprising as it may seem, it wasn’t because I was nervous! 

I peed because we were singing “Roxanne” by the Police and I never realized how many times he sings, “PUT ON THE RED LIGHT!”  The screen scrolled upward with no sign of this line ending and for some reason seeing it over and over cracked me up so hard I lost all control of the nether regions of importance.  I was wearing a dark wash jean (pun intended), so I don’t think anyone noticed. 

At least I don’t think anyone noticed when I whispered, “I just peed” into a friend’s ear.  This ear belonged to a friend who also happened to be on stage standing in front of a microphone.

Maybe the audience thought it was part of the song. 

“I loved ya since I knew ya

I wouldn’t talk down to ya”

Essentially, he means he wouldn’t talk to someone while they’re down on the toilet because that would be rude.

Hey, I never knew Mick Jagger sang the line “You make a dead man cum” in the song, “Start Me Up”.

I thought he sang, “You make a dead man FUN” which makes perfect sense because the dead are typically not very fun.  

Unless, of course, you’re the ghost of one of those stunt motorcyclists from Sea World who ride around and around and upside down in the giant sphere…thingy.

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