another day in the dumps.

Charles' day was going along just like any other.
He woke up, walked his dog, had a protein shake, showered, got dressed, kissed his wife goodbye and left for work.Nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn't until after he gave his hello's and how-are-you's to fellow co-workers, got to his oak wood desk, sat down and opened his first e-mail that Charles started to feel strange. His stomach gurgled in a painful kind of way. He wasn't hungry, so he figured it was unimportant and ignored it.
Then, the pain came again and his stomach turned in an awful kind of way. It was like a fist grabbed the inside of him and twisted a handful of guts and muscle.  The sharp instant pain was new to Charles, so he inhaled a surprised breath then groaned.. Charles put his hand to his stomach as if it would calm the agony growing in his belly.
The phone rang, but the constant wailing rings were nothing compared to the constant painful churns of his stomach. It was when Charles fell out of his chair in an attempt to call for help that he thought he might die. Pain like this couldn't be for the living, he thought. Charles' nose started to bleed and he gave a little cry, trying to yell for help. However, Charles had a very nice office with very nice doors that he special ordered so that when his very nice looking mistress came to bring him lunch, they could have sex in peace, without notice.
Charles cried again, the pain intensifying even more. The blood from his nose had stopped flowing, but dried on his face, crusting itself onto the pores of his skin.
Now, if you could imagine just for a moment what it would feel like to get stabbed in the stomach by a thousand needles, then having to live in the climax of that pain without any relief or break from it, you might be able to imagine what was happening to Charles.
He feebly curled into the fetal position, praying for the first time in his life.
Dear God, please help me! I can't stand this-Ahhhh! Oh--Oh--oh!!  I'll spend more time at home! I'll give my wife the children she wants! Just please-oww--pl--uhhh-PLEASE! Make this stop. I won't cheat! I'll go to chur--   Then silence.

The stillness before a painful climactic end. Charles' eyes bulged and his mouth dropped.

Just as he was going to pledge his life to Jesus and monogamy, a thunderous sound coming from his ass filled the room. Confused by the noise and gradual relief, Charles moaned the entire time. No more pain? Some moments later when the sound ended, Charles breathed in heavy, short gasps looking towards the lower half of his body.
Charles had painfully shit himself.

On the subject of Love

When I was younger, I was much like any other young girl. I watched all the princess movies with all their happy endings. I watched all the quirky romantic movies and television shows where everything was over done and stomach butterflies were a must where love was concerned.
All these fictional stories telling me what fictional characters do in fictional situations, ultimately leading to a lovely fictional ending. It's no wonder I had no idea what I was doing in High School. I had unknowingly let fake stories define what love was for me. I didn't have a fucking clue. With no real examples of love, what's a girl supposed to do? So, I found faith in Cinderella and Molly Ringwald. I let every character that John Cusak played to become a mold of what my lover boy should be like (with a few bad boy twists, of course.)

As you can imagine, any relationship, or possible relationship, failed. I was never surprised, though. That alone should have clued me into what kind of bullshit I was accepting as replacement for love. See, I always thought love was where you feel like the world can break at any moment if the relationship didn't work. I was fooled into believing that love was this blazing fire with fire-proof butterflies gnawing at your stomach 24/7. I thought it was okay for me to get hurt by the guy, because love was struggle. If it was complicated, it meant we could bond through making it work. Basically, my subconscious understanding was, love=overkill.


I know that sounds bad. Now.


So, you can imagine how surprised I was when I really did fall in love. It wasn't with the bad boy with a sensitive side, it wasn't some guy I met two days ago at a coffee shop, and it wasn't the most-popular-high-school-jock.
It was with Michael Anthony Whisman. My best friend. I've known him nearly six years now. I've seen him at his worst and at his best and love him through every part.
We told each other everything before we even became each others everything. We knew about the past girlfriends and boyfriends, and still accepted each other. I couldn't believe how easy it was to fall in love with him.
It wasn't some overkill where I couldn't sleep at night because I didn't know where the relationship would be the next day. We both knew we would be together.

All the princes, John Cusaks and bad boys vanished completely from my illusion of love and were replaced by the most real thing I've ever known and felt. Michael replaced them all.

I learned that butterflies are just another form a nervousness. I learned that intimacy is much more than what we see and read in stories. I learned that a want for overkill comes from being bored. I learned how stupid I was, ha ha. More importantly, I learned how happy I could be.

Love isn't easy, but with the right person, love comes easily.

Old shit

Atlas, renewed.
With the worlds hands around my neck, I cry out, "Break me."
If you want to break me, you're fighting a losing battle.
Welcome chaos so you can drift in the waves of adrenaline the mind creates in response to panic.
The tectonic plates of my moral standing collide and reverberate a feeling of release I can only compare to a divine salvation.
With the worlds knuckles on my cheek, a bloody mouth spits out, "More."
Welcome fear and failure for the right to say you've been there and found reason to trudge on.
Pick up those feet, swing those arms, expand those lungs with air, your mind with knowledge, and your heart with understanding.
Even if you're crawling, do so with the conviction that you're alive.
With the worlds knife at my back, I pledge my life to no one and laugh in the face of hopelessness, "I'm still here."
Spread your feet, stand your ground.
Throw back those shoulders that are so used to carrying the weight of the world.
Lean your head back and take in what the world has to offer...
          For all it's done to you
          For all the things it's yet to do
          For all the years you've yet to live
          For all the years cut short
You still smile and laugh.
Because when you raise your palm to see the creases of your able hands, you see the world. 





Untitled

            Who am I?
Think of me as everything in this world that has lost meaning. All the things that used to be so precious and pure in their value, now empty with forgotten purposes. Think of me as the after effects of misplaced hope.
         I'm not your Average Joe, but I'm not the second coming of Jesus.
         I'm your lost ideals. I'm what you used to be.      
         I'm everything that was beautiful, now decayed.      
         I'm the Mona Lisa ripped apart.
         I'm the Eiffel Tower burned to dust.
         I stand for more than myself.
         I'm living proof of a lost theory. A dream that used to be real.
         I'm your lost and found of creativity.
         I am not the destruction, I'm what's left over.
         I'm that little moment when you realize that what you had is gone.
         I'm indispensable, but unwelcome when noticed.
         I'm the first step towards progress.
You've always known me, but like a child who's in denial, convinced yourself otherwise.

Speak!
The funny thing about words is that they never stop.
Even when you aren't talking, there are letters forming themselves into these intricate little patterns that we call words.
Words made to describe the constant relaying of information, emotion, imagination and fantasy that your brain can't stop conjuring up.
So many words bouncing themselves along the walls of your mind, bumping, crashing, intertwining, you have to speak to let them out. maybe if you say this, confess a little of that, they'll calm down and you can find peace of mind.
Except, when you let one go, another comes to take it's place. Sometimes even two, three or four will replace that thought. A word for a word, your mind never stops.

A lot of the time you don't even know where these words are going or why your mind even threw them together in the first place.
Why should you say that?
Why should you ask this?
When you convince yourself that you shouldn't, that's when you've ruined yourself.
Rather than let these words release you from their hold, those words rebound around one another creating a fantasy situation of if   they had been spoken. If  they had been planted into another persons mind to find freedom and reassurance of its importance.
But you know it's just a fantasy. A dream. A sad little imagination looking for solace from a person too afraid to find out where their words could have led them.
You didn't speak up; you let yourself down.
You try to disguise a lack of confidence and self esteem as self control.
You speak the words aloud: "Self control. It was self control." But the words dancing inside your mind are calling you weak and cowardly.
 Words will always find their place whether you speak them or not.
It just eases the tension when you give the words a purpose and meaning for their existence.
At the end of the day, when stripped of everything, all you really have is your word.
Whether or not you stuck by that word determines what kind of person you are.

So, what do you have to say?