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Saturday, June 18, 2005 

I Used to Carry a Notepad in My Purse

Hold up.

Wait a minute.

I want to feel the beat of my paragraphs in a sentence. I want to… raise the bar, bend words with metaphors and similes, create black nights under blue skies. I want to invite you into my head, welcome you to my bed, but it’s dark here. No light, and baby we might just fight. So never mind, you are so unwelcomed.

Where are you going?

I didn’t unlock this door. It is shut tight and I have hidden the key so I guess you’ll just have to grin and bear it right along with me.

Are you grinning?

I got lost on the way to Webster. I was dreaming of complex sentence structures, form and flow when I was distracted by the funny. The funny is my life, my day-time mask, but I don’t go home to it at night. It is way too cold for shit like that.

“That wasn’t funny, that shit made you cry”

Ok. I admit it. You were right. But the price for seriousness was way too high. My rent was due and the lights were off. I had to pay with something and a tiny piece of my heart was the cost.

“You should care less” hey, all I could do was nod. I was too busy choking on “maybe you should care more”.

You shock me with your careless inhumanity. The way you punch your friends and leave them there to bleed. That was so fucked…. I know. I know. I should lighten up.

But, I’m your friend too, would you also punch me?

That shit makes me want to abandon you down back roads with twists and turns. Sometimes our friendship is so fucking cold it makes me want to open up the big book, flip to “f”, but you’ve pasted over it with the term “convenience”.

There is wind but no rustling of paper. I used to write on abandoned receipt slips but now I am changed, adapted to this thing called technology. Somehow this made my thoughts less private and introduced you to me.

“Hi, I’m fine. How are you?”

Okay. I lied. I am not fine. I miss my journal, my artistic freedom. I used to write nonsense just to measure syllables, drive trucks through cavernous hearts just to bury a metaphor into the ground. Grind it. Obliterate it. I used to drown in the visuals that were embodied by words written on a page. This was the only place I could be this version of me.

And I lost her. I traded her in, unwittingly, for a laptop with wireless access and superior graphics. No one told me this trophy wife would cut my hair, clip my wings, sneak kryptonite in and destroy me.

I’m trying to raise the bar and failing miserably. Are you grading this? Red pencil in hand? Don’t worry. I’m not the only one failing.

She called me up and confessed her father said he wished she was never born.

His sister was raped by his friend.

Your husband said he doesn’t love you any more.

I know. I know. I should care less.

I want to paint dark rivers with words, song notes with letters; I want to tell you about the girl playing piano and let you touch her hair. Can you see her? She’s right there.

Writers block has me pinned to the floor. Elbows on my wrists, shins across my thigh, he places all 240 pounds down upon my delicate skin, the skin that everyone comments is so unbelievably soft, and says, “I bench 300, try to move”, if he leans a little closer we might just kiss.

Wet cheeks to arrogance; I am planning my revenge.