Don’t worry, I’m still here for now

Captain Morgan

Captain Morgan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My dad loves to drink Captain Morgan. He loves it so much that he named his boat after it and now he wants me to paint the Captain Morgan logo on each side of his boat.

Me – “How about just his head? I can make a cut-out stencil of his head and I’ll only use two colors. It’ll look sharp.”

Dad – “No, do the whole thing. His whole body. And make him holding a fishing rod instead of a sword.”

Me – “Okay, I’ll try.”

But I didn’t try.

Every time I go to Rhode Island with the intention of painting the captain on his boat, I always end up staggering on the beach at midnight chugging Dads bottle of Cap, waving it around at nothing. Slurring a song to the stars and kicking at waves lapping my feet before collapsing on the sand.

I’m a procrastinator. A highly adept procrastinator among my other fine traits.

Like I said in my last post, my life resets after a night of heavy drinking. All plans buckle. I nap away the day guiltlessly.

This week kicked my arse. Weddings, motorcycle’s, booze, people wanting me to touch their naked bodies….

I got home at four in the morning last night. The night before that I got home at 10am after a strange night hanging out with a wedding party. Things have been strange, blurry in the moonlight. Weird luminous strands of hope springing up in nonsensical surroundings. Like watching a flower growing out of concrete. I keep my eye on that flower before it disappears.

I woke up today at 9am to massage a client. I only slept for two hours. My body was ravaged, stunk of beer and cigarettes. My stomach was gurgling and waves of nausea abounded. I also got my period this morning which most girls know makes for a rocky start to any day.

I massaged my client for 90 minutes and somehow managed to excel at it.

Client – “Wow, that was amazing. Absolutely amazing. Thank you so much.”

She had no idea I was getting cold sweats each time I felt I was going to hurl.

My job is so weird. I arrived early for work, turned on the spa music, checked the massage room’s ambiance and smoothed out fresh linens on my massage table. Then I stood back for a moment. I stood back starring dumbfounded at the massage table.

‘In a short while a complete stranger will be laying here with their clothes off wanting me to touch them.’

I’ve been massaging people for years now, and that realization never acclimatized, never desensitized. I have no qualms about it, I just think its strange. But also kind of beautiful in that flower growing out of concrete sort of way.

After working for a whopping 90 minutes, I turned off the lights, locked up and went outside squinting into the sun. I drove home in my little dented escort and went back to sleep. And now here I am, up at 11pm and I still feel like crap.

I party way too much. Everywhere in my life, everywhere I go, at every turn there is beer, hard liquor, pot and cocaine. And every night there is someone wanting to hang out. Every night someone wanting to buy me beer and shots.

I’ve never done cocaine, and I stray away from hard alcohol (besides having Captain on the beach), but the rate I’m going, those things are not far into the future. I have to be careful.

My life is pretty much in a free fall these days, so I decided to fall from the sky in a couple of weeks. Saying you’re jumping out of a plane gives the illusionary feeling of choice, like you’re in control of a free fall. Once you get to a certain height, that’s called falling.

I still haven’t seen Terry, the guy from Jersey Joe’s who foretold he’s never going to see me again. Judging from that prediction alone, I’m a tad worried. Especially since his prediction came out of nowhere and I usually see him a few times a month. Yes, a tad worried indeed. I’d especially be worried if the parachute inspection tag had a name like Billy Bob or Bubba on the label. Spelled wrong and upside down. Never a good sign.

Maybe by falling from great heights will bring me enlightenment or some shit like that. And I shouldn’t worry about dying. Dying is not the worst thing that can happen to me.

I fall asleep faster when I’m a little cold. In the summer I usually slip off my pajama pants and sleep underneath a sheet, letting the central air chill me. I like it because my blanket is close by my feet in reaching distance. Knowing it’s there, is a little extra feeling of security. I wake up shivering in the middle of the night and reach for it then easily fall back into my dream. And waking up while it’s still dark out, knowing that I don’t have to be up anytime soon is an added bonus. It lifts my mood and I cling on to the things that make me happy, so I keep that blanket off until I need it.

It’s a little like an analogy of how I treat people. When I start feeling cold, I reach for them. But now I lost a big chunk of that blanket and I still shiver, uncomforted and cold when I fall back to sleep no matter how many new blankets I have over me. I don’t know how long I have to feel that way before it goes away. Soon I hope. Maybe after I tumble to the ground at 200 MPH will I then be okay with the chill.

It’s midnight already. I should do my spell check, re-read this malarkey and make some sleepytime tea. I’ll try to watch something funny on Netflix. Something other than the Twilight zone. The last episode I watched was called “Eye of the Beholder.” It was about a terribly ugly woman who’s been rejected from society. In the twilight world where she lives, it’s the law to either surgically alter your face or live in a community with other undesirables.

During the episode, her face was all bandaged up – no holes for her eyes or nose. She poetically professed her dying need to fit in and be accepted, to be loved. The Twilight Zone may be hokey, but it can be beautifully written at times if you really listen.

There’s no feasible reason why I should relate to this character, but I do. She said she felt protected by the darkness of the bandages. They kept her safe from the world. Dark seclusion to hide her from judging eyes – I can totally relate but I don’t know how or why. I just taken a Xanex and now I’m too mellow to even think about it, or if I even want to go down that road with you. My blog has become too intense and now I regret ever telling people about it.

Anyway, at the end of the episode, the bandages came off and what stood before the faceless doctors was a beautiful young woman.

Doctor – “It didn’t work. The surgery didn’t work. We have to detain you now to be taken in with the rest of the undesirables.”

The doctors and hospital staff came out from the shadows, they all had pig faces. The woman stood up in terror and started running away from them. She ran passed a big tv where a pig-faced man was making a speech about undesirables having to be evacuated from the world because they are detestable and unholy.

The woman ran into a very handsome man (head of the undesirable community) and told her she will be loved and accepted there with her own kind. She smiled and took his hand. The pig people watched them leave – they were sad and crying for her. They loved who she was on the inside, but couldn’t get passed her grotesque exterior.

I feel like that bandaged up freak woman. But if people can somehow look past this mess of a person I’ve become, they will see someone beautiful and genuine inside. I still care deeply for others, I’m always there for them, but sometimes people don’t see it. They are blinded by the other things. My lack of motivation, my drinking, my working six hours a week and living with my parents. 32, never amounted to much, my friends are disgusted by me. I’m that freak woman. When I do find people to be there for me, I want to cry. Like I’m too thankful and undeserving. I’m so broken. I have to fix myself. No, I WILL fix myself.

My ex-friends were all together at a picnic today. Me being not invited, an undesirable. It was a hard day to get through alone, but I’m still here. And I’m falling out of a goddamned plane on the 24th of this month. I can only get better from here. As long as I have an answer for the “what for?” question. Why should I feel better when being at ground zero has its own comforts? What’s the point? I don’t want anyone, I want to be alone. There’s no way down from here. That’s why I need to make that leap, or in this case, be pushed out of a plane.

It’s 12:30. I better make some tea and end my night by watching a comedy.

Thanks readers, you’re the real hero’s here. Nahmean?

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