venom

It's nearly impossible to look beyond words.

I hear you saying "Stupid. Ignorant. Uneducated". Are you labeling me or behind the phrases crouching quietly? Are thinking solely about yourself in actuality, and questioning if you're: "Scared. Frightened. Unsure"?

Wouldn't we all benefit from a little kindness?

I answer phones. I stand behind a camera. Okay? I'll admit it. I'm never really face to face with the other person I'm dealing with. It's like talking to someone from the other side of a wall, there's a certain amount of comfort that comes from it, but along with that comes a false sense of bravery. You can't actually hurt me, you can't actually touch me, what's the harm?

In essence, it seems we've all put up some sort of invisible wall to the people around us. Maybe we're hurting, maybe we're going through a divorce, maybe our child is dying, our car broke down, we are completely out of money. Maybe we're just lost. Maybe we're all of the above and also we're having a really bad hair day. Who's to say? But because of our secret self obsession with ourselves, we tend to completely disregard our fellow man.

I know I'm guilty of it.

I spit out words with the force of a bullet on bad days. I completely overlook how it may affect others. I get the same in return, and we keep firing off shots until we're at a Mexican Standoff. Not a one of us is willing to budge, and look beyond the hurtful phrases, or uncaring gestures and see the deeper side of the conversation.

It's hard to discect. It's hard to seperate. It's hard to believe that because you're having a bad day, you'd want to pull me down below your level, even, and then stomp all over my face until I'm rendered paralyzed from the neck down. Emotionally and physically.

It's hard for me to take a step back and realize that your verbal assault is likely stemming from the fact that you just lost your job, your pet, your grandmother, your will to live, etc, etc, etc. It's hard for me to have any sympathy for you because of the way you would treat a complete stranger. It's easy for you to do this because maybe you don't have to look me in the eye.

But I'll get over it. And tomorrow, when I'm having that day, where my life seems to be falling apart, and before I bite the head off of a stranger (and then laugh at their gaping, open neck wound)...maybe I'll stop. In the nick of damn time.

the amazing race

Yeah, well, I'll never be Carrie Bradshaw (she's a popular TV icon, right?). Good. I wasn't sure.


I just have to write. I've mentioned before that I don't care if anyone ever reads this. Occasionally, I willfully subject my roommate to my ramblings, and she listens as intently as possible, sips her wine quickly, and nods her head at the appropriate times. She usually hugs me afterward.


I am not an author, professedly. I doubt that after Kafka wrote "Metamorphosis" that anyone patted him on the back and told him it would all get better. Shakespeare certainly didn't have a secret confidante that hung out with him on the couch and re-analyzed his work over Franzia and rice crackers. And Carrie Bradshaw, aka Sarah Jessica Parker, has a mountain of amazing hair, so she could pretty much proclaim anything to be true and/or fascinating and the entire world, fictional and not, would soak up every word as authentic.


I don't particularly care.


If you have ever read anything by me, you know I ramble. Internally, and literally. I have so many thoughts, and figures and words running through my brain at the speed of light. Writing gives me a chance to slow down and backspace, and once in a while, erase a thought completely. It's the best form of medicine for an inundated soul.


On that note. Here we go again.


I just want to make it very clear; and I do mean crystal, transparent and uncomplicated. I am baffled as to why it is not already apparent.


I dislike, very strongly, aka HATE, the fact that I'm second best in your life, and quite possibly am dropping to 3rd or 4th runner up in this race. I wear the right shoes, and stretch the proper muscles daily. I've even invested in a timer to keep my pace steady.


I seem to be consistently falling behind.


I've come to look at this all from an outsider's perspective. From their standpoint, I am the runner whose legs are propelling the fastest with absolutely no gain. They too, are perplexed. I have experimented with flapping my arms at the same time as my feet move, but I still gain no ground. Instead, my motions resemble some sort of violent tap dance. It's really more pitiful than it is entertaining.


And you're always two laps ahead.


I've never been much of an mental athlete, and certainly not a woman who likes to play games. I know that in life, there are so-called rules to follow, certain etiquette to abide by, but I honestly do not play along. Not for very long, anyway.


I don't get how I'm supposed to catch up, if you don't let me. I can never gain ground if you are constantly galloping in the lead. I don't want to win, I just want to run beside you.


Slow down.


Maybe you like having the upper hand, maybe you've never been the one in control, and maybe you're unwilling to sacrifice the speed you're flying at for the sake of an opportunity. Maybe you'll keep running and glancing behind you, merry about the chase; just to see me run out of breath and finally give up. And while you're looking back at me that's when you'll stop. Because all this time you were running directly into a brick wall without watching your step. Maybe I was just trying to save you.


It could be you're running because you're petrified. You don't know where you're going but your unrelenting task is just to get The Hell Out Of Dodge.


Who knows. No really, who does, because frankly I'm all out of creative ways to say: STOP. BREATHE. LISTEN.  You're leaving me in your dust trail, buddy.


I'm tossing this issue to the wind, like ash from my cigarette.