"When I get this feeling it's hard for me..."

It sucks that I'm sad and that you don't have to deal with it. All you have to do is sign off.

If I really said what I thought, you couldn't take it.

You're so snarky, but you're fragile and I would hurt you.

And I care about that.

And that makes me want to hurt you more.

There is no such thing as a stupid question.

"What happens when it snows?" I ask.

Pennsylvania bred - Southern by the grace of God answers,

"Depending on the balance of surface temperature and latent heat of the ground, the snow may stick or it may melt on contact. This is the technical answer.

The more practical answer is: people will lose their collective minds. Bread and milk will be completely gone from grocery store shelves, Kmart will sell out of snow chains (even though they will simply stay in the box as they sit in the car trunk until grandchildren find them years from now and ask Poppy what these are), and everyone driving in front of me will cautiously proceed at 7 mph—until I change lanes. Then they’ll gun it, spin out of control, and regain traction once they spin into my lane.

This….is what happens if it snows."

*you can follow Penn boy at http://richhefty.wordpress.com/

I Want To Rock Your Gypsy Soul.

With no intention of starting a conversation, I walked away. I felt uncomfortable like a bad note in the middle of a violin solo. Chills and a familiar ache pricked me. No. It was worse. I felt like I was bleeding. Wounded by an elbow to the lip in a mosh pit. A mosh pit in slow motion ramming and diving to a familiar tune..

.."Johnny rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard. 'Cause hells broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals the cards and if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold. But if you lose, the devil gets your soul...."

I sat down waiting for the ringing in my ears to stop. Clarity was improving slowly, but inside regret still rocked unsettled.

I don't know what I should have said. I barely make it out the door every morning confident the earings I'm wearing do not require a necklace.

If I'm being totally honest, which I'm not, I don't know love. I know what love is and how to spot it, but I don't know it personally. So when asked anything about it - other than how to make it stay, which consequently will get you regurgitated Tom Robbins - I know nothing.

In my own terms I have been in love. Once. Maybe twice. But really once. I could probably be in love again if the timing and circumstances were different. They aren't though.

Your future or mine.

Open your eyes when one of these reminds you of you. Greatness. Courage. Art. Love. Lust. You blinked at lust. OK, which one is more likely to catch the kissing disease? I might tell you to look the other way while I use the bottom of your glass as an orange juice kaleidoscope. It's not hard to look past the pulp and see the universe laid out like Tarot origami. I can read the pulpy shapes and see your future. I'll say, "It's in the cards." You won't believe me, but you'll nod and lay a quarter down.

"Philosophers have argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but materialists have known all along that it depends on whether they are jitterbugging or dancing cheek to cheek."
— Tom Robbins (Jitterbug Perfume)

The End of Struggle

This is the west side. Our side. Not your sunny side up white collar pancakes and dreams. We are the puppy mill. The last stop. Harder veins, tagged trains, jacked brains. You don't fit in.

We don't see the litter. And I didn't crawl out from under this rock yesterday. Add it to the pile. Burn it to the ground. Stomp your feet. Drag. Waste. You won't fit in or stand in line at the clinic.

We are the generations. This is the west side. Our side. Not your hayride white collar lattes and creams. Push back. Stomp. Fit in. Try looking the other way or looking me in the eye.

This is the bad side. Our side. Not your All You Need Is Love two disc set. Take your sad eyes and see my struggle isn't against flesh and blood but against principalities, against powers, against darkness.

Clutter for sale!

Today I will straighten my room. It is getting quite cluttered and the disarray makes me twitch. All day I tidy counters, wash and put away dishes, and clean up behind people. I can’t stand a messy work area. It makes me crazy. Literally the walls begin pushing the clutter closer to my already tweaking brain stem. The only reason my room breeds neglect is because I am too tired to be neurotic. My brain shuts down long enough to help me feel my way to bed. I don’t - no, won’t look around. My bed is tidy. Even if it is not made, the sheets and bed spread are pulled tight and pillows aligned. The clutter won’t disrupt my sleep. It will, however, cause a total mental meltdown when I get to work and look for a space big enough to SET A PURSE.