The Verbal Droooolings of a Marked Psychopathic Deviate

the death angel appeared in the form of carbon monoxide

after watching 'murderball' and ingesting a baby pool's worth of valerian soaked green tea, i drifted to dream around midnight thirty. upon transcending the boundaries of my waking reality, i found myself having a conversation with lindsay lohan's baby sister over a bottle of wine. we were hanging out and laughing and after she finished her second glass i asked her, 'don't you think you're a little young for that?' she looked at me through white rimmed jackie-o sunglasses and blankly replied, 'what do you mean?' then she bent over the table that separated us and snorted a line of coke.

BLEEEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECH.

a shrill and stabbing squawk echoed in my ear.

BLEEEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECH.

there it was again.

BLEEEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECH.

i sat up.

'whaaa...'

BLEEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECH.

'shaaari.....wha.....shaaari...'

i stumbled to my feet. through the darkness, i made my way toward the sound.

BLEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEECH.

as i wrestled into consciousness i made the connection to the cacophony. it was the carbon monoxide alert system shari's dad installed the moment he learned we were living in an old house with gas furnaces.

BLEEEEEEEEP. SCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECH.

a green light was flashing next to raised plastic lettering that read 'MOVE TO FRESH AIR'. holy shit, i thought, i am dying. and the culporate is a fuming fireplace seeping wretched invisible poison.

not sure what to do, i lunged toward the windows, gasping for fresh air. they were painted shut. i pulled the string over my head and sent my ceiling fan into raging circles of fury. i opened the front door to my room and began fanning furiously. open to close. open to close. open to close. open to close.

delphi was still sleeping on her bed in front of the fireplace and had not gestured a movement. i was afraid to touch her. afraid of her fate.

'delphi. delphi-girl.'

she stood up and collapsed into the classic downward dog stretch.

i picked her up and we went and sat down on the living room couch.

muffled thoughts began to swim through my mind. did i really just escape death? if that alarm wasn't there would i have never woken up? does lindsay lohan's sister really snort coke and drink wine in the clubs even though she's only 13?

after a while, i'm not sure how long, i scratched my head and decided to go back to bed. i stared at the ceiling and wondered if i fell back to dream if that's where i'd stay, living an eterninty swirling through a lucid sequence of flashing moments and colored memories.

am i ready to escape this ego, this pesonality, this body, this life? who would show up at my funeral? would they say nice things about me? would they say i was funny and charming and deliriously good looking? would they cremate my remains and spread me over an ocean or would they lock me in a box and bury me in the ground? and if they did bury me in the ground would i atleast get to be trapped in a pink and diamond casket that plays 'fur elise' when you open the lid? would they play a song as i am being lowered into the soil? would they know i secretly want it to be the p.diddy version of 'every breath you take' ala the notorious b.i.g. tribute? would shari get on the mic and rap...'it's kinda hard wit you not around/know you're in heaven smilin' down/watchin us while we pray for you/everyday we pray for you'...and cayce and leah and lisa and angela and maura and risa and jenifer could all chime in the background, singing in their matching black cocktail dresses...'every breath you take/every move you make/every single day/every night i pray/i'll be missing you'...?

but then i realized i'm not ready to die. not now, not ever.

i'm too fucking cool. i'm too fucking fabulous. i'm too fucking scared. and it was then that i knew what i had to do: i retrieved the carbon monoxide alert system and laid it over my heart. i crossed my hands over it to secure its position and reluctantly fell back to sleep, hoping to god that morning would wake me.

it didn't. rather the afternoon did. it was 2pm. and i lived.

and here i am. alive. breathing. thankful. grateful. sitting on the couch with a massive carbon monoxide hangover headache. and i don't know if i'm being dramatic. cause i think i might be.

so i called shari's dad to thank him, to tell him what happened. and he told me that if i would have slept through the alarm or if it wouldn't have been there, i'd be good as gone. dead. finito. a goner. and that wigs me out.

so i decided that since i had a near-death experience, i should have some epiphanic revolution in regards to the secret of living...and my big secret is i don't know. i don't. and i don't think anybody does. and if someone says they know, they're liars. they're just guessing. trust me. cause i was gonna feed y'all a bunch of bull shit about how i'm different and how i suddenly see colors brighter but i don't. in fact, i don't know much at all.

shit, the only thing i do know is that i need a goddamn central heat and air system. so if any of you have that laying around, shoot me an email, will ya?

nostalgia, texas

i have officially made my move to denton. and honey, i aint in dallas anymore.

i didn't think it would be that different, but now i realize i was telling myself this to pad the change. to insulate my anxieties. and it's not that i do or don't like it--i can't conjure a claim for a good couple of months. it's just that i feel like i'm in oklahoma again. the pace is so tortuga...so caracoles.

ray came to see and we walked around, walked through campus, walked the town square. this took twenty minutes. the downtown square reminds me so much of my hometown--an ancient drugstore even sits on the northeast corner and i bet they sell nylons for a quarter. there's a soda shop--yes! a soda shop!--that makes homeade ice cream (no complaints there). and then there's a hamburger joint that makes 'em real: grilled onions, pickles, bleeding meat. i asked the waitress if they do a veggie version and she said, 'yeah. i could leave the patty off and just give you the fixins.' and there were plenty of elderly gents walking into ruby's diner. they tipped thier hats and winked real polite like and asked me if i had an older sister. and it made me feel pretty and cozy and sweet.

and then it hit me: dear god! i'm in enid! this place looks just like it, it feels just like it, and i can't iron out my feelings to figure out if i even care. i mean, if you peel back my cosmopolitan layers--the make-up application for the grocery store visit, the $160 pair of fresh-out-of-LA jeans, the rushing cell phone walk and talk while i wait for my dog to poop, the name dropping at hip and trendy clubs to avoid paying cover--i'm just a simple girl from middle america.

have i mentioned one of my first childhood memories? it includes me standing on the ledge of our front porch wearing nothing but a pair of panties around the age of 4. i'm beating a stick on the side of the house that might be taller than me and singing a jesus tune i learned in church the previous week. i'm slurping a sippy cup of cherry flavored kool-aid and saying hello to the mailman who is walking up the porch steps to drop off some bills marked FINAL NOTICE. and i feel deliriously happy.

so is this the real me? the simple jude from yesteryear's past?

maybe i'll do it, go for it all the way. i'll trade in my starbuck's to-go mug for a sippy cup of kool-aid and call it coming full circle. cause i can throw a stone and hit oklahoma city.

all this time i thought i was too good for this shit. too good for cops named bobby and decent coversations with neighbors and fellow citizens. who knows, maybe i'll even bust out a casserole recipe and welcome the next new person who hits ole hickory street. in the meantime, i'm gonna do a little research on needlepoint--this way i'll have something to discuss with the old timers at ruby's. they make damn good egg sandwiches and a girl like me deserves a hook-up, i don't care where i'm at. just the acknowlegement will do.

two thousand nikki sixx

supposedly pursuing a counseling degree should unravel a softer, more humbler me. a me that is lighter and happier and fluffier around the edges. a me that gives hugs and nods when engaged in conversation with shoulders squared, facing you, you who shares what you would never thought you would or could or should. a me who shines upon you my sparkling eyes, my windowed peepers that are clean and free of dusty muck. a me that is genuine. truthful. worked out. and healthy.

unfortunately, i'm rebellious. i'm a dangerous spirit who shouts away any emerging form of authority. and this whole counseling thing is making me a motley crue of a lady. i have never--EVER!--been the darkest girl in the room. just ask my sisters. if anything i have been a damn good faker most my life, yelling at my mother as she pulled up to our junior high school in our ratty-rusty station wagon about how fucked up she was and how fucked up we were and then the moment i opened the door to join my friends at the front steps of the entry i'd smile and bat my lashes and pretend that all was fine and perfect.

i was popular goddamnit.

but here's a secret i never thought i'd share: being popular is hard work! it requires alot of concealing and masking and faking and dieting and dressing and socializing and primping and gossiping. and this is work i refuse to take part in anymore. (well, minus the gossiping...that's always a good time.) i have spent enough fucking time in my life pleasing others and now i'd like to think the only person i need to please anymore is me.

i think this is why i have had a hard time keeping up with my blog. ever since mid-terms last semester i have resented logging onto typepad, spilling my guts for you, the adoring public, to read and sponge up and laugh a little and maybe even learn about how i experience the world. and i know, i know, i asked for this. i did. but suddenly i was recieving attention from all four of you about how good my writing is, how funny i can be, how i should keep it up, keep writing.

and me, little ole me, what did i do? i withdrew. scared to death i might disappoint my narrow, miniscule audience. afraid i couldn't please you.

but i've been thinking and it really has nothing to do with the audience and everything to do with me.

you see, apparently, i've been growing. i'ma changing and shedding and feeling and learning more about who this bundle of energetic nerves is inside my skin. and you know what i realized? i'm frazzled and i'm frayed and i had no idea i cared about my percieved image as much as i do.

and i know the three coats of mascara i put on every morning should've manifested as some sort of clue, but this never occured to me, i swear it's true.

could i blame it on my alcoholic father? of course. could i blame it on being the middle child? why not. but i guess i'm gonna go ahead and take that fucker of a high road and do the noble thing: take responsbility.

damn. i hate that! doesn't that me liable? adult like? and, dare i say it, accountable?

and being all these things has made me a little meaner, a little more selfish. i have been canceling plans left and right with people because i'm simply tired of being social. lately i prefer to be alone so i can read and watch movies and pet my dog and listen to music. but i think this might rude. is it?

cause in my classes at school i'm the outcast. i really am. i'm the one who makes mean jokes about being vulnerable and the one who squirms in her seat everytime i have to share my feelings. i'm the one who after dying her dark brown freaked everyone out because when someone asked me why i did it, i said, 'its better than cutting myself.'

and i was kidding! i really was, but no one got it. no one thought it was funny. in fact, everyone just looked at me, all dead in the face, like maybe i should double book myself an appointment in the counseling clinic that week.

but i walked away, smiling, knowing i shocked the preacher's wife and the 19 yr. old master's student and the do-gooder cop and the elementary school teacher who still lives with her parents and totes a virginity ring on her left hand ring finger.

and this is when i realized i wasn't pleasing them, i was just being me and i didn't give a rat's ass if i was popular with them or not. and i think this was the first time in my life that i really didn't care. and it became contageous, because i began to analyze every single action i was taking and how many of them were contingent on pleasing others. i realized that a few of my friendships were about me being someone else to please the other person, so that they would like me and find me charming. but i don't need the validation anymore.

i don't even want it.

i'd rather have you, my narrow and discrete audience, my small balanced world of polarity. filled with people who know my darkness and who embrace it and who aren't afraid of it and who laugh at it and don't judge me or worry about me cause i'm doin' alright. i'm just fine and i like the lurky murky puddles of dysfunction that pave the sidewalks of my life. cause that's all i got and i don't give a flying shit why it unfolded this way. it just did.