Category Archives: All about me

Miserable Melanie

My crazy aunt and homoscidal cousin are back here living with us again.  My happiness lasted for about a day and a half….

Damn hard day today was.

I had to go into work early for a client I never massaged before.  He was a man with a Groupon – he bought his massage from an online deal site and if I had one of my therapists massage him, it would’ve only cost me $3.

I pay my therapists $10 when they don’t have any clients, and $13 an hour for online deal clients (I know it sounds cheap, but we’re not massaging many deal clients anymore).

So, I went into work and saved myself $3.  I resented being there – I loathed it.  I was only there because of a technical malfunction.  He was a big black man with thick dreads and he kept his shorts on so I couldn’t massage anything above the knee (because his shorts were in the way), he didn’t want to put his head in the face cradle which made it hard for me to massage his neck and shoulders – and he wanted his abdomen massaged.  His thick dreads got in the way of massaging his neck.  Basically it sucked.  He was really nice though…

When the 60-minutes were up and I told him his massage was over, he looked up at me and said, “I thought I had 90 minutes?”

I’m the one who booked the appointment and there was no mention of it being 90-minutes.

Damn.  I massaged him all over again in a half-hour.  He liked it though, so that’s what’s important.

I worked a lot this week and kept reminding myself that starting next week, my new therapist will work Tuesdays and Wednesdays for me.  I’ll be free.  I always think I’ll be free, but no matter how many therapists I got working for me, I seem to always get booked.

I went home after massaging Mr. Dreadlocks and watched some TV and tried to relax without letting my crazy aunt and cousin eat at me little by little with running water and weird OCD grunts and my aunt saying “I love you, I’ll be right there” to her 45 year old son plugging up his ears and humming to himself – no he has no mental retardation.

“I can’t do this.  I can’t do this.”  I opened my laptop to look at apartments.

“20 more members.  I need 20 more members and I can afford one.”

I started going crazy.  Members.  All I could think about were members.  I need I need, I want I want.  I started spiraling into that dark place of hopelessness.  My whole world revolving around members.

“I need to pay my debt first.  I need more members to pay off my debt.”

“I’m stuck.  I’m stuck here.”

I closed my laptop and took a deep breath and thanked the lord I was going to Thailand.  I thanked the lord for giving me 128 members.  I thanked my new therapist who’ll be taking over Tuesdays and Wednesdays for me.  Thank you thank you thank you!

I went back to work for my last two clients.  One of whom being one of my favorite people to massage.  I made a full recovery out of the spiraling darkness.  How the hell do I do that?  My resilience never ceases to amaze me – seriously!

But then I got smacked in the gut hard with a dagger of a fist.

My new therapist:  “I have to tell you something and it’s not good news, but not horrible either.”

Me:  “Are you pregnant?”

Before she responded to that, I braced myself and remembered to remain calm.  Breathe, just breathe Mel.  Is asking an employee if they’re pregnant considered sexual harassment?  Probably.

New therapist:  “No, I got offered another job with benefits at a hospital and I need to cut my hours.  I can only work Tuesdays starting on the first.”

Me:  “Oh….”

New therapist:  “I feel bad because I asked for all those new hours.”

Is that why you feel bad?  You don’t feel bad because you’re only giving me a weeks notice and I’m going to freaking Thailand in two weeks?!

I didn’t say that, but I was screaming it in my head.  On the exterior, I was calm and understanding.

No no no no oh please god no no no no.

As soon as she left, I went on the schedule and blocked her shifts off before anyone else can book with her online.  Of course she had clients booked up until Dec 22, of course.  And of course she works Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday – why wouldn’t she?  Without her here, I’ll only have one therapist working weeknights for all of December while I’m in Thailand.  And we are BUSY.  We’re actually doing phenomenal here as far as clients and money goes – this month felt like a gift from god monetary wise.  But money means nothing if clients aren’t happy.

“I have to find someone ASAP ASAP!”

I went on zip recruiter to repost my job ad, but my initiation price expired and the price they wanted went up to $100 a month.  WTF zip recruiter?

I grabbed my old pile of job applicants and sifted through them instead.

“no, no, definitely not her, eh, nah, wait who’s this?  Oh yes!  Oh please oh please god….”

I found an application from a girl who applied here in April when we first opened.  I loved her and wanted to hire her but I held back because she didn’t seem confident enough.

I rolled my chair back over to the desktop and typed her up a pleading email.  Well, not horribly pleading, but pleading enough.  I sent it.

I waited 5 minutes.  I waited 10 minutes.  I was just staring at the computer screen.

“That’s all I can do.  I can’t do anything else about it tonight so I should just go home.”

But I didn’t go home, no.  I texted her instead.  She replied with:

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And once again, I made a full recovery back into feeling fantastic.  She’s willing to put in her two weeks at her other job tomorrow.  Words can’t explain how thankful I am.

The girl who cut her hours, honestly I didn’t think much of her anyway.  She’s one of those athletic types, you know what I mean?  Running, lifting, drinking kerotine or whatever it’s called.  I don’t get it.  I’m not saying she’s a bad person, just one of those types who have absolutely nothing in common with me.  It’s always the athletic type that I have the least in common with.  It’s weird because I really like karate and I run to my car in parking lots.

The person I have the most in common with?  My 22 year old puerto rican male therapist.  I adore him!  He ran track in high school, but he did it for fun because he thought he was the fasted kid ever.  We discuss video games and how much we don’t like dating.  And he has a true bona-fide love for people just like I do.  I can see it just by the way he treats people – he really cares.  He treats old people with genuine kindness.  Not to mention he’s a goldmine as far as clients re-booking with him goes.

Male therapist:  “We’re like the same person you and me, it’s scary.”

Me:  “Ha ha, I know!”

This new girl I’m hiring, I feel like she’ll be a narcissistic supply for me, you know what I mean?  One of those people who feeds ego’s.  All my other employee’s make me feel good about myself, sure, but then you meet someone who looks up to you and they hang on your every word more so than normal.  It’s not about love, but admiration and inferiority.

When something inspires you, it’s because you want to find that same hidden gift inside yourself.  It’s not real love, but a key.  Once that lock is opened, the love for the thing that once inspired you is gone and you’re left with nothing but love for yourself.  I know this is true, trust me.

And once you’ve opened the gift inside yourself, you want to keep it by never returning the power back to its source, so you push the original owner of the key down into inferiority.  Gaining power is what happens.  Stupid ego…

This is why celebrity gossip can crush a career.  Why oceans of people can tear a person down who once stood so high.  If celebrities, politicians, or any type of leader can make a mistake, that means they’re no better than the rest of us.  All their greatness gets transferred over to the people judging them.   It’s inspiring to know that great people are no better than the rest, so we keep the offenders far below our stilettos until we get inspired by a new target that is far more superior than anyone who has ever lived in our lifetime!  And then of course, ruthlessly crush them when they fail.

Martyr’s…I guess it’s part of our evolutionary process.

Truthfully, ego-feeders annoy me because of this.  But they have no idea what’s going on, so they can’t help it.

Whenever I’m admired I always I have the thought in my head, “find your own, don’t take mine.”  Because that’s what it feels like.  It feels like taking someone else’s gold nuggets without bothering to find your own.

I end up sounding rude, impatient, or being in a generally bad mood.

It’s a good thing I don’t have many admirers.  It’s a shitty thing to be admired.

 

 

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Another Adventure Into My Head

Ugh, I had another panic attack.

The build (the trace beginnings of the attack) happened when I was depositing money at the ATM – the second day in a row, over $200.

“This is fantastic!  This whole business venture just might work.”

I went home and stared at my accounting chart.  Last week I was negative $359, and this week I’m positive $143.  All my clients today, both new and existing, sounded interested in the membership program, and a new client rebooked for a couples massage next month.  My employee’s are happy and hard working, my goal of reaching 60 members is daunting, but not unfathomable.

My employee has her first full paying client tomorrow – a returning client who specifically requested her.  That puts $58 dollars in my pocket, but only $17 in hers.  My morals are ping-ponging back and forth with wondering how fair this is.

“That’s highway robbery!” Versus, “I paid her $520 these past two weeks for having no clients.  Putting $58 in my pocket doesn’t come close to closing that gap.”

“What if she gets four full priced clients a week?  She’s going to start closing that gap and you’re going to profit off her.”

Versus,

“But isn’t that the whole point of having employee’s?  This is what we agreed on.  She agreed to this.”

Basically what my panic was all about, was my fear of success.  Not just my fear of success, but vilifying my means of obtaining it.  Is it right?  Is it moral?  If it’s so easy, something must be wrong with it.

I can literally feel a physical blockage.  One that doesn’t believe, one that doubts its realism.  With 60 memberships, I can stop taking new clients and only massage members.  60 memberships and my business will be stable enough to run on its own.  60 memberships and I can open a new location….etc.

Not to mention all those full paying clients – the one’s that I don’t personally have to massage.

Snowball effect.  The hardest roll is the first one.  The first 60 members…The first return clients….

If I had 60 members, I would be positive $843 this week in pure unadulterated spending money.  But it’s not that easy, is it?  Nothing can be that easy, right?  If it’s so easy, why isn’t’ everyone doing it?

Another reason for my panic is due to imbibing tea, coffee, and my nicotine e cig.  It’s 2 AM and I can’t sleep.  My panic attack peaked around midnight, I drank a ton of water (I learned from experience that dehydration plays a huge role), and now I can’t stop going to the bathroom.

During my panic, I speculated that it might have something to do with having a PH imbalance.  If our bodies are more acidic than alkaline, would that activate an emotional or mental imbalance as well?

I immediately bought PH strips on Amazon so I can test my urine and bought a book about alkaline diets.

What are you doing Mel, you’re crazy….

Shhhh, shhhhh…..I’m fine.

Then I decided I wanted to be a naturopathic physician and so I Googled how I can become one.

Eight years….med degree…..internships…. expensive schooling….not enough time in life, there’s never enough time.

I went back to thinking about my business.  Wanting to put together an iMovie skit with me and my two employee’s acting to the theme of Charlie’s Angels.  Whipping out our massage bottles like guns, talking on the phone to “Charlie”, all three of us posing at the end in that iconic, memorable stance.

“It’ll be perfect for YouTube, my website, Pinterest, Yelp, FaceBook!  It’ll get us more likes and more notice!”

So many idea’s….stop idea’s….just…. stop…..

“I can do massage bombs!  Ask clients to like me on Facebook and once a month I’ll send a Massage Bomb to one lucky liker for half-off their next massage!”

Brilliant.  Brilliant.

I ran to the bathroom for the 15th time while trying not to disturb my brother and his girlfriend asleep on the fold out couch.  I envisioned what that conversation would be like.

My brother – “What’s wrong with you?  Why are you going to the bathroom so much?”

Me – “I had a panic attack so I drank a lot of water.”

Zugzwang.  The only viable move is no move.

Nothing seems viable.  Nothing seems real – all is too fantastic – too grandiose.  Too perfect.  Shall I not make a move?  Or should I go on ahead?  Continue down this unknown path?

There is indeed a fear of success.  It demonizes you, demoralizes you, shreds your conscience into oblivion.  The only thing that makes sense, the only way to earn it, to deserve it, is to work hard – extremely hard!  That’s the only way I can eliminate the fear.  That black void, the plague, the plaque that corrodes my selfless fibers.

Work hard until I resurface once again at the beginning.  It’ll just be one big cycle, a loop of never-ending hard work and struggle all because I don’t believe it can be that easy.  If it’s so easy, why isn’t everybody doing it?

 

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What to do if you’re tired all the time

Stage N3 sleep; EEG highlighted by red box. Th...

Stage N3 sleep; EEG highlighted by red box. Thirty seconds of deep sleep, here with greater than 50% delta waves. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I want answers.  I want to find answers.  I just don’t know the questions.  If I knew the questions, I can fixate the hell out of them and find some kind of understanding, a recognition of truth.

But I’m bone dry.  My curiosity has shriveled up like it jumped into some ice-cold waters.  Thoroughly depleted, cold, and shrinking.

The thing is, all I want to do is sleep.  Sleep is all that I want.

I feel like I can sleep for years without missing anything.  Just lay here in the quiet and exhale.  To finally exhale and lay down my burdens – lock them up in the tool shed in my backyard.

I’m tired of being human.  I’m tired of being owned.

Why is it that every time I embark on a call to adventure, I never feel rested enough?

“No, no I need more sleep, more time.”  I say.

And instead of sleeping, I push sleep aside and fixate on questions.

Not this time, no.  This time I’m laying down my burdens for real.  I’m actually going to go to sleep.  Like a baby.

My advice to anyone who’s tired all the time, my advice is to not deny yourself sleep.  Don’t be ashamed of napping.  Embrace napping and going to bed early – you are growing inside just like babies grow.  And you won’t be like this forever, but the longer you put off sleep, the more you’ll get sucked into your burdens.  The more you’ll bitch about them.  The more you’ll narrow your world and slip into either depression or ecstasy – both can happen when you fixate.

Sleep is a letting go, a great exhale.

I exhale constantly everyday, whenever I get a moment to lay down (my burdens), I exhale.  I never realized I did this until someone pointed it out to me because they taken offense to it – like I was exasperated or something.

Was I exasperated?  I don’t know, maybe.  Most likely yes.  I was.  I usually am anyway.  From not allowing myself sleep.

But you have to rest the right way.  With no shame.  Guilty napping doesn’t count – it cancels itself out.

This is why I promote isolation at times like these.  Being completely and unmistakably alone.  When you are alone, you’re not being pulled.

The best naps I’ve had in my life were at work in-between clients.  I lay on my massage table, turn the lights low, candle’s lit, table warmer on, and I melt.  I relish it.  Words can’t describe how much I love it.

I’ve never felt this way in my life.  I’ve never had an isolated napping place.  It is truly my happy place.

I isolate myself with the door being locked, no one looking for me, no one getting in.  I’m safe.  Unburdened.  It’s out-of-this-world kind of awesome.

I suggest that everyone finds a place like this.  It’s necessary for growth and expansion.

Okay, I’m done.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll find questions to answer, but for now I’m going to bed early.  I have much to do in the coming days.

I need to find a larger office and hire people.

I’m taking you with me on my step-by-step rags to riches journey.  Money is not what’s important here, but playing the game and instilling faith in myself is.  This is my new call to adventure.  After that, buying a motorcycle and going cross-country.  If I can do it all this summer coming up, I’ll pee myself.

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L-A-Z-Y spells Melanie

I am hideously lazy.  Embarrassingly lazy.  I’m so lazy in fact, that it pains me to tell you what I do on my days off.  I don’t want to do it, no.  I don’t want to tell you.  No I won’t, I won’t do it.

Okay, here’s the truth.  My most awful truth imaginable….

When I have errands to run, or if I want to get out and exercise, I can’t do it on one of my days off from work.  Why?  Because if I have no reason to leave the house, I won’t.  I’m perfectly sustainable here – meaning, I find more than enough to do here at my house.  I don’t need to leave it.  Not ever.

Today I was going to go to the DMV to drop off my old plates, then fill out a vanity plate application, deposit money at the bank.  It’s also nice enough to go for a stroll, or visit Henry, the guy I keep putting off – or other friends I keep putting off (it’s in my nature and no one should take it personally).

But you know what I’m doing instead?  Downloading Borderlands for the PS3 because my friends 15-year-old son and I share the same taste in video games and he told me that I should check it out.

In the meantime while it’s downloading, I’m watching a bootleg copy of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty on a very illegal streaming website.  I won’t tell you the name of this illegal website because I don’t condone stealing.  I hate that this website exists actually.

I can only run errands, go for a hike, or visit friends if I’m already out of the house.  I have no qualms about doing any of those things if I’m already out.

And the only reason why I want to build a spa in my hometown is because of my laziness of not wanting to work.  If I can build a turn-key business that needs very little day-to-day guidance on my part – I’ll be living that much closer to my ultimate goal of lounging, video gaming, blogging, reading, napping, painting, learning, traveling, experiencing…etc.

And having it be in my hometown means less commute, hence less time, less work.  Time is work.

Okay gotta go, Borderlands is done downloading.

I’m going to build a turn-key business, you’ll see.  If I can do it, anyone can – trust me.

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A little sour milk with your chocolate

Once out of every six months or so, I experience a stranger lying in bed with me.

This “stranger” isn’t some random guy that I picked up at the bar.  He’s a very real, very solid figment of my imagination.

It happened again last week.  I was sleeping on my stomach when I felt someone laying on top of me caressing my mid-section.  This time around however, it felt more like a dream than it did real.  Usually these dreams feel extremely real.  Picture yourself lying awake in bed with your eyes closed, and you feel a stranger laying next to you touching you (I mean physically touching you as in real-life) who shouldn’t be there – who literally is not there at all.

But this time felt more dream-like.  I can’t explain how or why, it just did.  Perhaps I wasn’t as lucid as the other times?  I don’t know.

It wasn’t sexual and it didn’t make me horny.  I had a lucid dream last night where I grabbed the nearest man I could find so I can have my way with him – I know what those dreams feel like, and this wasn’t one of them.

It was pure love, pure tenderness, without any want or need.  I felt undeniably loved on a scale that I never felt with anyone in real life.  Only in my dreams…

And because it felt more like a dream, I was able to relax and enjoy it.

“This is what it feels like,” I thought to myself, “to be loved.”

I sunk in and soaked up as much of it as I could.  I didn’t want to wake from it.  And just as I have experienced in past dreams, love is inspiration and feeling like you can achieve anything.

A few days later, I went to Newport for a mini-vacation with a few friends.  It turned out with me being the 7th wheel.  All couples, and then there was me – always and forever, the odd one out.  The ugly duck.

I’m not the type of person who care’s about this kind of stuff.  I can hang in both worlds, single and couples alike, it don’t matter none to me.  Although, while I find myself sitting alone, it’s the pity party from others that I don’t care for.  If I don’t feel sorry for myself, why should they?  I happen to like sitting alone.  Writers are weird like that.

Anyway, I do however, suffer from a condition.

Before the trip, I was struggling with low-energy.  I felt like I just didn’t have the energy (or money) for a weekend trip.  I couldn’t get excited about it.

And the more I couldn’t get excited about it, the less energy I had for it.

I couldn’t get stimulated, you know what I mean?  There was no challenge.  Nothing to write home about.

It’s just that, I don’t know….What is it?  What’s my problem?  If the stranger in my bed accompanied me to Newport, I’d want to go – I’d be excited to go.  You know what I mean?

There’s no love for Mel.

No, that’s not true…..my friends all love me.  Well, most of them do anyway.

Maybe it’s just that there’s no inspiration for Mel?  Maybe Mel is tired of drinking?  And that’s what this trip was all about; drinking.  I have to drink to replace true inspiration – true love.  I have to drink to escape not feeling connected or understood by others.  I hear cocaine works for that too…

The less connection I have with people, the more I want to drink.  I was just kidding about the cocaine part, trust me (I’m way too cheap).

I’m tired of drinking.  I’m tired of feeling like the only way I’ll have fun is if I’m drunk, or getting drunk, or have a beer in my hand at least.  And it sucks that I’m tired of it.  Other than writing, beer is the only thing that fills me with that special inspiring love that the stranger in my bed provides.

A freaking stranger in my bed that doesn’t even exist!

I hear my mother upstairs yelling about a pair of underwear she can’t find.

Mom – “Where are they?  Who took them?”

She thinks everyone takes her stuff.

Minutes later I hear my dad shouting for me outside my bedroom door.

Dad – “Mel, you in there?  Can I come in?”

Me – “Yeah.”

Dad – “Neh?”

Me – “Yeah.”

Dad – “Yeah?”

Me – “Yeah.”

He comes in and places an ice scraper on my desk.

Dad – “Here’s your ice scraper.”

Me – “What are you doing with my ice scraper?”

Dad – “It was in my car.”

Me – “Oh, okay.  Hey can you tell mom that my underwear is missing too?”

Dad – “Okay.”

As he leaves my room, he shouts up the stairs to my mother, “hey Mel’s underwear is missing too!”

I went upstairs to find something to eat and I say to my mom, “all my underwear is missing.  They’re all gone from my drawers.  I have no drawers in my drawers.”

Mom – “Yours is missing too?  Check the dryer, or the laundry pile in my bedroom.”

She was completely serious.  My dad however, saw the humor.

Dad – “Maybe Fran (my brother), is wearing them by mistake.”

Me – “Yeah, he takes everything.  MOM!  I want to make chocolate milk!”

I scream this like the kitchen is on fire.

Mom – “You’re going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

Me – “Why?  There’s milk here.”

Mom – “I don’t know how old it is.  Don’t drink it!”

I give it a sniff, look at the date…

Me – “It seems fine to me.”

I fish for a glass in the cupboard as I hear my mom frantically getting up off her recliner shouting warnings at me.

Mom – “Don’t drink it it’s bad!  I don’t know when I bought it.  You’re going to get sick!”

She flew into the kitchen and grabbed the milk out of my hands before I poured it into my cup.  I’m not joking or embellishing any of this, but she was looking at the expiration and making up dates that weren’t there.

Mom – “See, right there it says DO NOT SELL AFTER FEBRUARY FOURTH.  Don’t drink it.”

Me – “It doesn’t say that, are you serious?  It’s only January 27 and the expiration doesn’t say February fourth, it says January 30.”

She takes the carton of milk into the living room to fetch her reading glasses, sloshing its contents as she hobbled on her knee replacement.

She was moving really fast.  She doesn’t even need a cane anymore.

Mom – “Okay, it says January 30, but it still smells bad.”

Me – “Really?  It smelled okay to me.”

Mom – “Than taste it if you don’t believe me.”

She hands me the milk.

Me – “No way I’m not tasting it, you taste it.”

Mom – “My stomach’s already messed up, I’m not tasting it.”

My dad shouts at us from the living room – “I had some yesterday and it tasted fine.”

We ignore him.

Me – “If no one’s going to taste it, I’m pouring it down the sink.”

My mom watched as I tilted the contents of the milk into the sink.  She hates wasting food – even expired food.

Mom – “No wait, don’t waste it.  I’ll take a sip.”

Me – “I don’t want you getting sick.”

Mom – “No, let me taste it.  Stop pouring it out.”

She gets a glass and pours out a sip.  She tastes it.

Mom – “Well, it seems okay….”

Me – “Really?  Here, let me taste.”

I grab her cup and take a sip.

Me – “It’s expired.  It’s definitely expired.”

It was disgusting.  How can she not taste how disgusting it was?  After making all that fuss?!

And that’s what I did in the last 20 minutes of my life before coming down here to write about it.

I wasn’t going to write about it, but I’m pretty much laying everything out on the table tonight what with my stranger in the bed and all.

My life is filled with these episodes.

And in the meantime, my crazy aunt who my father claims as a dependent on his tax forms (along with her 40-year-old son), is ALWAYS lurking behind me.  No matter where I am, she’s there wanting to be where I am.  I’m making eggs in the morning?  Yep, she’s there wanting to use the burner.  I’m making some tea?  She wants to wash dishes so I can’t reach the keurig.

And she talks incessantly.  Whereas I reply in an even monotoned to everything she says “okay, sure, yes, thanks, okay, that’s good.”

And on and on she goes.

This isn’t funny.  This is sad.   I clearly have problems.  Clearly!

“The entire world population can’t be insane, so it has to be me.  It has to.”  According to The Road Less Traveled, I’m a text book neurotic.

And the shitty thing is, until I can find someone who understands me – someone who understands all the shit I write about – I won’t have an anchor.  I won’t have anything that holds me in place and says to me no, you’re not crazy, you’re not alone, and yes, you’re loved.

Okay, I’m going to end this post before I start having an irrational conversation with my rational brain.

“Please don’t involve me in this.”

I’m not!  I just said I’m ending this post.

“Okay good.”

Good.

“You know you’re not the only one with these thoughts, right?  You sound like a damn baby when you complain like this.  Everyone wants to feel loved, not just you.”

Okay got it.  Goodnight.

“Seriously, you have to stop transfixing.  And besides, do you actually feel this way?  Or are you just bored and feel like writing?  Is not feeling loved or having a connection a serious problem for you?”

Yes, I think it is.  I mean, I’m not doing it because I’m bored.  I really think it’s an issue.

“Well, the more attention you bring to this “issue”, the more power you will give to it.”

Yes, I know….

“You’re not special Melanie.  No matter how much you want to believe you are, you’re not.  You’re not any more special or different than anyone else.  That’s the true basis for your “issue”.  You’re grappling with humility.”

I’m too tired to have you write out an explanation to that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it.  This post is already too long as it is.

“Okay, get some sleep.  Maybe we can write about it tomorrow.  And what the hell was your last post about?”

I don’t know, I just felt like writing.

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To wash or not to wash. That is the question.

Me – “How long do you think I can get away with wearing these pajamas without washing them?”

I was referring to my footie pajamas.

Dad – “They’re going to get stinky.”

Me – “I wear clothes underneath them.  It’s like a big jacket and we don’t wash jackets.”

I can rationalize anything.

Today I’m wearing the same outfit I wore for the past three days.

I don’t understand what the big deal is.  If something still smells clean, why wash it?  Americans are all a bunch of self-righteous judgmental obsessive compulsives.

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Au Revoir Farewell Auf Wiedersehen Good Bye Esmeralda

It’s just a car, it has no feelings.  It’s just a car, it has no feelings.

Esmeralda, my 95 Ford Escort, was given to me for free by an elderly woman who absolutely adored me.

She barely drove it, and when she did, she managed to ding in a few whiskey dents that added character and charm.  It was love at first sight.

As a reminder to never under-appreciate her gift, I kept the keychain that came with the car.  A small keychain that shown a picture of a bank in Rhode Island (she was from Rhode Island).

“For as long as I have this car, I will have this keychain.  Thank you Lorraine.”

I’m insanely superstitious.  Well, it’s not exactly superstition I have.  I don’t exactly know what I have to be honest.  But I get these sensations, you see.  Almost like premonitions.  I’m not bullshitting you here, or trying to make myself sound special – I swear!  But I get these….I don’t know, premonitions.  They come out of nowhere.

For example; many years ago two of my best closest friends bought me a bonsai tree for my birthday.  As soon as I seen it, I got a premonition that when that plant dies, so will our friendship.

I didn’t want to believe it, thought it was ridiculous, and as my way of showing how ridiculous it was, I purposely neglected the plant.  I left it in the care of the spa I worked at.  Out of site, out of mind.

Years go by and the plant stayed perfectly alive and healthy.  And I swear to you (again, total no-bullshit here), to the very day it died, guess what?  So did the friendships.  To the very day!

“What the fuck.  No fucking way. No no no.”  I said this as I held the discarded plant in my hands.  It died before I knew it was dying.  It died while I wasn’t there.  Someone seen it had died, removed it from the massage room, and left it near or in the sink in the back room where we do laundry.

Why didn’t they just throw it away?  And why, after weeks and months of not working there, did I agree to take a client on that particular day?  A day when my dead plant was there?

As soon as Lorraine handed me the keys to Esmeralda, I felt in my guts that the car will last as long as the keychain.

A few weeks ago the keychain broke off.

“No big deal, I’ll fix it.”

Then I lost the keychain entirely.  I searched everywhere.  A few days later, a deer ran into the side of ol’ Essie.  A week or two after that, my alternator stopped working and I nearly stopped dead in my tracks on a bridge on a major highway.

“No no no, please don’t stop now.  Please?”

By the grace of god, or the spirit of the car, the alternator kicked on and I made it safely home.

Then I get a major sinus infection that wouldn’t go away, I didn’t want it to go away.  I was too depressed to want it to go away.  I was depressed over my stupid plant dying (even though it was years ago), depressed for losing the keychain, depressed for having to give massages all day everyday – everything.  I was depressed about everything.  I was being hit from all sides – no matter how outlandish or insane those sides were, they hit me hard.

I replaced the battery and drove Esmeralda to work, not knowing it was the alternator.  Long story long, I ended up having to tow her (not her, it.  IT, Melanie).

It happened when my dad was following behind me to drop Esmeralda off at his friends garage.

When the tow truck driver tilted the front end to get her up on the truck, all the gas that I just put in her, fell out.  It fell from her guts in nauseating splashes.

Me – “Oh noooo.”

I said with a pouty face.

Dad – “How did you ever drive like that?  How long did you have that leak?”

Me – “Um…not long.”

It’s been three years.

I couldn’t get rid of the car.  It meant too much to me to even fathom getting rid of it.  It was given to me by a woman who is now dead.  It was given to me at a time in my life when I felt utterly hopeless.

The car ride home with my dad was the worst.

Dad – “You need to buy yourself a new car.  It’s not worth fixing.”

Me – “What if someone says that about me?”

I heard myself and scowled.  A car is not a person.  It’s a thing.  It has no feelings.

Over and over my dad would repeat himself, “It’s time to bite the bullet and find a new one.”

Me – “No way.  It’s a waste of money.  And this is the first time she gave me trouble.”

And on and on it went for the entire ride home.  I got angry at him and I never get angry.

My dad was annoying me, so his flaws were more pronounced.  Like, “why does it sound like he’s talking with a numb tongue?  Do old people not feel their tongues anymore?  Oh no, my dad is getting old.  He sounds old.  I love him so much.  I love my car so much.”

Today after coming home from work, dad gave me the sad sad news.

Alternator is broke

Brake lines are rusted

Shocks are shot

Needs new gas tank

New gas pump

on and on he went.

Me – “I’ll fix it.  I’ll do what needs to be done.  It’s cheaper to fix it than to buy another clunker.”

I was in denial.  Just as I was in denial while watching Esmeralda getting towed.  The tow truck’s flashing lights reminded me of a dance club, so I played Lady Gaga’s Just Dance on my iPhone and started dancing.

Dad – “Why are you happy?  Your car is being towed.”

Me – “I’ll fix it no problem.  Just dance.  Doopy doodie just dance.  Dance, da da da da, dance.”

I abide by logic and reason, and right now it’s starting to feel more logical to get a new car.  I just can’t believe it happened after losing the keychain.  I didn’t fix it in time.  Just like I didn’t fix the plant in time.

“That’s the opposite of logic and reason.”

But my premonitions always come true.  You know that.

“Yeah, that is weird.  I can’t deny it.  But it’s not logical.”

So what is?

“Common sense.”

Nothing makes sense to me anymore.

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I ate road kill….

I’m not a picky eater.  I eat slimy oysters (yum!), pickled pigs feet, turtle soup, beaver chili, and this one time in South Korea when I ate an entire side dish of chicken assholes.

I will eat salt and vinegar pork rinds if they were offered to me.

The things I don’t like are as follows:

1) Raw sea urchin

2) Liquorish

3) Scattered acorns found in the parking lot at work because they are really bitter and best left for squirrels.

That being said, I devised a plan to conquer my biggest addiction with the help of liquorish – the black tar that excretes out of the backsides of demonic babies.  I’m going to fill my electronic cigarette with liquorish flavoring.  I bought some and it’s even more rancid than I had hoped.

Oh, and I ate road kill a few days ago.  That’s another thing to add to my list of shit I eat.

A deer ran into the side of old Esmeralda, my car, and dinged her up pretty bad.  It happened on a dark country road around 9 PM and I didn’t have the chance to swerve out of the way – he ran directly into me.

I pulled over to see what was left of the poor little guy.  I was afraid to touch him.  I never knew that about me – being too afraid to touch a dead animal.  I guess you never know anything for certain until it’s staring up at you with lifeless eyes.

Me – “I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.  Are you okay?  Oh no oh no.”

He laid there with the wind ruffling his hair, making it look like he was alive.

I worked up the courage to lay one of my mittened hands atop his belly that was still warm.  My eyes teared up.

dead deer

I didn’t know what to do, so I called my Dad.  I called him just in case the deer was alive, and if he wasn’t, my rugged redneck family would be sure to make the best out of this incident.

While I waited for my Dad, a car full of lively middle-aged women stopped in the middle of the road to shout at me, “are you okay?”

Me – “Oh yeah, I’m fine but the deer isn’t.  I called my Dad and he’s coming to look at the damage.”

Them – “You shouldn’t stand outside alone on this road.  It’s dark and dangerous.  You should call the cops so one of them can wait with you.”

Me – “Oh no, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

It got me thinking how much people love drama.  It gives them the chance to act brave so they can prove how caring they are.  This is especially true in instances when nothing is expected of them.  When something is expected from them, they flee.

I’m highly cynical.

After the women left, a few minutes later a cop pulls up behind me.  I had beer in my car and I may have had empties.  But I wasn’t all too concerned about it, the guy was really nice.

Me – “Is it okay if my family takes the deer home?  They’re hunters and into that sort of thing.”

Cop – “That’s fine.  I don’t care what you do with it.”

My Dad and brother parked the truck, got out and heaved the deer into the back of it like a regular everyday chore.  My brother thanked the officer for waiting with me.

Me – “You weren’t afraid to touch it?”  I asked my brother.

Brother – “No, did you see me?  I picked that thing right up and hucked it in the back.  Hmm mmm tender viddles.”

My Dad’s side of the family became enthused after hearing that I killed my first deer.  They were proud that I inadvertently killed a deer with my car.  And in some weird way, I was happy and proud too.

When you come from a family like mine, you’ll eventually learn why people are fanatics when it comes to hunting.  They treat the sport like a competition with who can shoot the first deer of the season.  And it makes them feel like real men when they bring food home.  It’s strangely rewarding I must admit.  I never understood it until now, and I don’t expect you to understand either.

My Dad – “At least one of us caught a deer this year.”

The next day my Dad butchered the carcass and threw its remains in my neighbors backyard.

My neighbor no longer lives there, the property is vacant.  So that makes it okay right?  To throw dead things in an unoccupied backyard?

I came home a few nights ago semi-tipsy, and my brother was upstairs in the kitchen with his girlfriend diligently working on a cooking project together.  The house felt alive and warm.

Me – “What’s going on?”

Brother – “We’re cooking up some deer liver, want some?”

Me – “Okay, sure.”

I sat at the table.

My brother not only served me liver, but heart too.  I ate the heart and liver from my road kill.

heart and liver sauté

And I liked it.

I’m sitting in work waiting for my next client.  I have three more massages to give until I can put on my pajama’s and hide away from the world.

She’s late.  She’s 10 minutes late.

I woke up at 7 AM today from a bad dream about vampires.  I fell asleep listening to Monster Hunter International.  It’s about a guy who hunts down monsters and I’m guessing one of the monsters was a vampire.  I spent at least an hour being chased by John Lithgow and his ragtag gang of vampires.

john lithgow

They were planning to enslave the town I lived in so they can feed on us like cattle.

This dream taken place in the south and for some reason, ethnic people were exempt from being enslaved.  When I found this out, I painted my face dark brown, adorned myself in colorful African attire, and started banging a drum.  I don’t know why my subconscious thought I could get away with this.  Let alone why I think ethnic people beat drums.

But the vampires caught on to me and I fled.  I had to pretend I was dead at one point, which is very hard to do when you’re asleep and breathing heavily.

“Why can’t I control my breathing?”  I thought to myself.  “I can’t stop myself from breathing hard!”

A vampire came up to me and closely examined my face while I played dead.  He leaned in close and laughed to his friends, “I can’t tell when humans are alive or dead.  They all look the same to me.”

Needless to say, I’m tired.  I’m tired and my nose is chapped from blowing it.

My client is here filling out paperwork.  I love typing and looking busy while they do their thing.  If I wasn’t typing, I’d be sitting here staring at her until she was done.

This is a stupid rambling post.

This morning my brothers dog, Cassius (a big meat-head boxer), left us a present in our driveway.  It was none other than the deer leg my Dad dumped in my neighbors yard.

severed deer leg

The same dog that kisses my face and wriggles his big stocky body all over my bed sheets.

Second client done.  She had on a really cute pair of cowboy boots.  Now I want a pair.

Third client done.

Next client will arrive in 12 minutes.  8 minutes…3 minutes….

It’s now the next day.  I just got done napping on my massage table while listening to Monster Hunter International.  My hair’s all messed up.

My last client is done.  I’m done.  It’s Thursday, Billy O’s pub night, but I have a shit ton of clients lined up tomorrow and Saturday.  Sadly, I can’t go out.

I forgot if I mentioned this or not, but I don’t want to work anymore.  I never wanted to work actually.

My goal for this year is to buy a spa in Cheshire.  One that I used to work at.  It’s poorly run, nobody has a set schedule, the owner is never there, but it still manages to break even every month.

I know exactly what needs to be done with the place in order for it to flourish.  I don’t know how I know, or why I know, only that I know exactly what needs to be done.

If my plan is successful, I’ll be one step closer to living life without working.  I’ll be able to pursue my real interests such as going on more ayahuasca retreats so I can write a book about them, going to school for medicine which has always been an interest of mine, buying a Honda Grom and becoming a small motorbike enthusiast, and of course, moving out of my parents house by finagling a way to live at a place rent free (minus parents).

These are my goals – my true, real goals.  Up until now they were too far away to see, but now that I’m inching closer towards believing in myself, all of this sounds doable.

When I move out of my parents house, that’s when I’ll pursue a boyfriend.  I’ll be happy with myself, free of all addictions, free enough to own myself and my life.  I won’t need anybody, but will want them.

Needing anyone is a turnoff, but wanting them is inspiring.  Just about everyone I know has it the other way around.  When you want someone, it’s done through compassion – compassion of not wanting or expecting anything in return (transcendental love).  Nobody seems to understand this.  And because nobody gets it, I will continue being turned off by the people who seek validation and superficial love.  They are needy people.  The people who are defined by what others see in them.

Once these people get their fill, they leave you.

I’ll keep my need of compassion and honesty (they are one in the same).  If I no longer need compassion or honesty, I’ll be missing the point of life.  I’m a seeker and a needer of honesty and compassion.  If I give up on needing them, I give up on humanity.  I give up on love.

Anyway, It’s getting late.  I should head home.  Besides, I’m sure most of you don’t want to read about my goals – this blog is mainly for me don’t forget.

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Please look away while I slog the blog

My mom just got back from the nursing home after having her knee replaced.  While she was gone, I made myself revolting concoctions such as grits smothered in gravy.

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Or tomato soup with a handful of pretzels thrown in.

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I wouldn’t say it’s revolting.  Revolting is a strong word.  To me it’s delectably scrumptious.

I have to get used to this foray of deliciousness for when I move out of my parents house.  When I move out, I’ll post pic’s of ramen noodles with an egg dropped in, or spam with a slathering of mayo on a cracker.  My tummy is already making crazed YUM sounds.

I’m in work waiting for my next client.  I have three 90 minute sessions back to back.  It feels like a prison sentence.

I shouldn’t be feeling like this!

I thought it would be different owning my own business – and it IS different and better in so many ways, but I don’t want to be here.  I am not a massage therapist, although everyone loves me and they all think I’m great at it (I made over a grand this week!).  But this isn’t me.  If this were me, every day would feel like an adventurous challenge – a way of developing my true limitless potential.

But instead, I have to give three 90 minute massage while I’m half-asleep.

I need a plan.  Planning has to do with looking at my future.

“Well, duh.”

“Shush, quiet you!”

Planning my future is not what escapists such as myself, like to do.

First 90 minute client done.

My Escapist Self wants to buy a motorcycle and my Planning Self wants to move out of my parents house and go to college.  My heart wants both things, but which is smarter?  Aha, now that’s the question.

Damn.  I’m not a planner.  Looking at the future feels like looking down a long hard road devoid of fun, you know what I mean?  I’m a pleasure seeker and not a nut gatherer.  Especially when my dreams feel unobtainable.  My cheeks can’t fit all the nuts I want.

“Ha ha, can’t munch on all those tasty nuts huh?”

“Keep quiet you!”

I’m finally sticking up for myself in my inner dialog.  I’m not crazy anymore!  Haha, you’re the nut!  No you are!

My brother got in a fight with his girlfriend so now he’s living back home sleeping on the couch with his big boxer dog, Cassius.  Our basement is destroyed with his stuff.  It’s never been more cluttered or more messy.  His clothes are lying everywhere in the bathroom, along with his array of top-notch beauty products.

My brother is a big masculine man with tattoo’s and a shaved head, but he has more beauty products than I do.  I have soap and shampoo, while he has moisturizers, eye creams, face wash.  And on some nights, he brings his new girlfriend over for a slumber party.  She’s is in her 40′s, clearly a milf, and they both enjoy sleeping on the couch together while Cassius, the slobber geyser, jumps all over them in their peaceful slumber.

I hate to say it but when I’m 40, I hope to never find myself sharing a couch with a big man and his meat-head dog living in his parents demolished basement.  I can safely say that I never possessed the patience for that kind of stuff.

Call me a princess, but I always preferred the sanctity of my own bed.

Or maybe I just never loved anyone that much…..Yep, that sounds about right.

But being the social sort that I am, I enjoy him and his girlfriend living with me in my dark cave dwelling.  It’s like having a live-in drinking buddy who makes killer Bloody Mary’s.

Anyway, my brother isn’t a planner either.  All his life, he depended on other people.  This is what happens when you depend on other people.  You’re left with nothing in the end.  It’s the same thing as depending on others to fill your void – the void of not believing or loving yourself.  If you can’t fill the void yourself, you’ll be left with nothing in the end.

People turn to God, booze, drugs, or cling to relationships.  They do this to escape the loneliness (which I shall write about in my next post).

Where are you second 90 minute client?

My top TOP priority at the moment is paying off my debt.  I have around $4,700 in the bank, and I owe $4,500.  Okay, scratch that.  I only owe $3,200 (I just paid my bill online whilst we speaketh).

Damn, this guy isn’t showing up.  He’s 11 minutes late.

Second client done.

It’s now the next day.  And once again, I’m here at work.

Boop bee boop.

So tired….

I have stuff I want to write but I’ll save it for a different post.

I just want to add real quick that this whole job of future planning crap reminds me of walking the Camino.

I walked and walked, trying to figure out why I was walking until I realized, “my purpose is the walk itself.  I’m here to see if I can accomplish the long walk.”

After having that insight, my head straightened and my gait metamorphosed into a focused and determined stride.  I walked with a purpose after figuring out the most obvious answer to why I was there.

Purpose….

An obtainable goal….

These two things are intertwined.  The minute I find my ultimate purpose (escape), I will put all my effort into my business.  If my business can lift me up to an obtainable goal, my eyes will become clear.  I’ll find my dignity.

I have a looming suspicion that if I settle on how things are now, I will lose my fire, lose myself, and worse of all – become even more stupider than I already am.

Peace out trouts!  

I’m going to dig in my toes for grout.  

Humming a melody of sweet sorrowful pride,

while I dig in my toenails to see what’s hidden inside.  

*

*

Ohh-kay…I have no idea where that came from.  But yes, I do take pride in taking care of my own feet.

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War Games

I’m sick today.  I’m sick and my brain refuses to wake up.  I have Buddy the Elf’s maple syrup lodged between my ears.  I will pour my syrup brain into my blog before pouring it all over my spaghetti dinner.

Let’s begin this sticky brigade of gluey words, shall we?

First, let’s address my current state of mind.  I’ll address it and analyze the crap out of it by utilizing savory digestible analogies.  Analogies covered with maple syrup that is.

I am sickeningly lazy.  And when I’m run down (like I am today), my loafing skills become deeply enhanced.  I want to plan my next big leap in life, but every enticing road I look down feels exhausting.

Every road, every choice, and every possible outcome looks exhausting and unfathomable.  It’s like my post, Perspective: Embarrassment vs Fortunate, never happened.  I am too weak, too lazy, and too dumb to accomplish anything.  I am stuck.  I’m not good enough, nor am I brilliant enough, for anything.

I can see this shift so clearly.  I can see why people settle into their fears and illusions.  They are comforting.  Accepting that you’re incapable of doing what others can, gives you peace (or depression and resentment when dealing with your peers, but I already wrote about that not too long ago).  When you know you can’t do something, you lose your desire to accomplish it.  You lose your desire, and praise the people who can do what you (and others) can’t.

The fire goes out in you, but you shine it on somebody else – someone who offers you hope and amenity against the gnawing fear of incompleteness (lack of faith).  The burden gets lifted and placed on stronger shoulders.  Shoulders that you appoint more value to than your own (but peers should be of equal value, that’s where resentment comes from).

Ah, what a relief.

You appoint yourself a representative.  Someone who is capable of achieving your goals and can clearly state what’s in your heart.

“If they can do it, that’s enough for me.  I accept myself and my life as it is.”

I write a lot about letting go, but you should never let go of your dreams – you let go of your fears, but never your dreams.  Even if that dream hurts you, your light inside will never grow cold.

In my current state of physical and mental health, I desire nothing but rest.  Nobody’s praising me these days.

Ayahuasca told me that everything in this world is a game.  Everything!

Ego games to be more precise.  They are ego, self-fulfilling games bereft of compassion by means of using our ego, reptilian laced monkey brains to survive and win.

(Walking the Camino was an ego game.  Although, nobody would ever admit to it.)

And wherever there is judgement and inequality, there will be war.

Where there is no compassion, there is no honesty.  Without honesty, there is no understanding.  And without understanding, there is blind judgement and “justice”.

When you stop believing in yourself, compassion for yourself is gone.  It’s like holding up the white flag to your fears.  And since you lack compassion for yourself, you judge yourself based on your ineptitude.

You feel the need to shine your light onto someone else (to ease the burden), but you end up judging them too.  You judge them for the same reasons why you judge yourself.  Their ineptitude only emphasizes your own.  You want to beat it out of them with “tough love” because no one (not even yourself) gave you the compassion (understanding) you needed in the time you were calling for it.

Hurting others is a way to stop the hurt that’s inside you.

When you believe you’re not good enough (or doubt arises), you stop playing your game and instead, you play someone else’s.  Whoever you give your praise to, you fight their fight.  You become a pawn in their battle.  They see your white flag waving in the stench of despair and will gladly hold you close to their bosom.

This is why people gossip.  To find pledges of allegiance to those willing to fight on their side.  The more pledges, the more powerful.

Even if you’re an escapist like I am, you’re still playing at being a pawn.  Unless you’re living on your own island, you will always be a pawn in the grand scheme of things.  Interdependence of everything, remember?

Ayahuasca told me that ego is an illusion and that all the world is an illusion, inbred with ego.  She told me that everything is a game, but it can be immensely fun and rewarding to play in these games.  If that is, you get off your lazy ass and play instead of having someone else move your pieces around for you.

I want to start a new game.  A new goal.  And like with any game, it’s self-fulfilling.

In my particular game, it’s a war against my laziness and inability to commit to anything.  I have to act as my own cold compassionate mirror (as we all do), in order to keep the fire lit inside me.  So I don’t lose clarity of what’s important – faith in myself, and compassion for everyone (including myself).

You can lose yourself in a game.  Being aware of your intensions keeps you locked in understanding (compassion) mode.

No one but myself can lift my passive (lazy) burden.  If I wanted to accept my laziness, I’ll have to accept depending on other people.  I’ll shine my light on them. Becoming their pawn, their property.  Letting them tell me what to do, what to believe, and what to fight for.  And if I don’t like it, I’ll only have myself to blame.

The game against my idleness is the game bestowed upon me by the universe.  It’s my true game.  It’s why I’m here.  It’s the game I’m supposed to be playing, but I continually escape from it.

I escape by settling into my little business, one that offers me everything I need.  I have 14 clients this week, 9 of which I’ve seen before.  Yes I can live on this, but this road lacks challenges.  This road doesn’t expand myself by letting me witness my true potential.   Taking a motorcycle trip, writing a blog, a book, seeing the world and such, all those are escapes.  Escaping from the real work I still need to do.  The real work I have to commit myself to doing.

The Camino was an ego game, sure, but the purpose of the game was to instill faith in myself that I can actually do it.  Games are meant to instill faith in ourselves and we can’t escape the suffering that’s needed to broaden and strengthen us.

This is why life is suffering, so we can find faith.

I want to move out of my parents house, but I don’t want to work the extra hours to cover the cost.  So what do I do since I don’t wish to fight this fight?  I live at my parents house, putting the burden on them (although they love this particular burden).

Life would be so much easier if I settled down with someone.  But it’s not my time.  I know it’s not my time because I haven’t found the one.  Read my “Why I Don’t Date” trilogy and you’ll understand.

I am not complete yet.  I have to work on myself first.  I have to play this stupid game that the universe keeps shoving in my face, and maybe, just maybe when I’m old and grey, when there’s a little more compassion in the world, I’ll settle down.

If I settled down now, I’ll either be completely miserable, or divorced in a few years.  I’ll have years of regret wishing I didn’t escape my one particular battle.  Marrying someone now, would be just another way to escape and forget.

“Choose your game wisely.”  Ayahuasca said.

“You DO have to choose.”  Is what I say.  Choose it before it chooses you.  Choose it before whoever you are inside is eaten away.

When you don’t play the game, 

limbo is your bane.

Being a pawn on somebody else’s board,

Leaves your true potential 

unexplored.

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And don’t do speed.  That was a bad idea in my last post.

 

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Filed under All about me, Odes, philosophy, random thoughts, Self help