cadypie
Bright blue icing. Blue Lake 5. Blue stained tongue. Blue-stained lips. Blue like 25 cent push up icies. Blue bits in birthday cake Milkshake. Blue pumps with starch white dress and brown belt. Belly made of cake under the belt. Blue cake lips.
I ordered the pesto stix with a marinara side and could barely see pesto through the mozzarella cheese. Alice ate her slice of pizza and commented on the artwork. “It’s like it has all the attributes of shitty art—airbrush, fluorescence, Daytona scum, but it’s not. When you look closer, there’s something legitimate, like that stenciled leg behind the rainbow—that’s pretty good”. I wondered how the artist would take this critique. We gazed up from our greasy bread and looked around the restaurant, suddenly weary of these being the busgirl’s paintings.
There is always personal blame. It obliterates the whole notion of fair.
My friend Ashton gave me big bloopy Mickey Mouse themed Christmas lights for my 16th birthday. Ashton worse mismatched socks, one bright orange, another white with red stripes. Everyone commented on her cuteness. My then best friend Ashton was cute and remarkable in countless ways, so I don't know why she had to do that sock thing. The Mickey Mouse Christmas lights, I mean, gasp, Disney?, was just a little too uncool for uncool-cool. Fifteen years later, this weekend, my mom salvaged them from a dusty box and strung them atop the bathroom mirror of my two-year old niece's room at grandma's.
homelessness is the idea white girls have when they go on bus tours in third world countries and give nostalgic sidewards glances to clouded power lines. homelessness is about can I have a cigarette, and do you want to have some of this. Male and female gritty throats in outlying counties.
The realization that you are the only one in the world who can make yourself happy is really hard to accept. I don't want to take responsibility for feeling secluded because it takes so much work to un-seclude myself. I don't just want company; I get plenty of that. Engaging shamelessly is engaging creatively, and that takes work. Laziness is a relative thing. Only you can be the judge of if what you are doing is enough, and the truth will nag at you if you lie to yourself.
The temperature outside is perfect, light warm humidity without mosquitoes, but the airstream inside is popping goosebumps on my pale smooth arms, desiccating remnants of baby skin. My Italian family says that air conditioning creates backaches. I remember a cold winter in Bologna, a pea coat over a black jacket, over a sweater, a shirt, then thermal, scarf, boots, mittens clutching deep in my pockets, walking home at night with my shoulders high and being miserably sore the next day.
It's easy to leave a woman in labor. I like the corner-room rockers that allow for a quiet presence. I can better tell when it is truly time to birth, and with much less need for touching her body when I am in the room. I am not a knitter, but I am interested in a quiet hobby of focused micro hand movements.
We met at Stubbies. The "folk art" on the walls was bad. SHelves with fake plants, and a wall of t-shirts. WHat was good was the beer selection; that's why we were there. You had to have a drink after a bike ride.
I like the silver-haired stories. Seventeen years old, and my preferred company are the perimenopausal and beyond. I'm croning early. I hope it helps me do the wise detachment thing.
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