Because to write about my life would be oh-so dull, here’s a 14-30 for you.
The words/phrases, chosen at random from Apples to Apples, a silly family game I recommend:
My future does not include handguns; I am too prone to depression, and a gun offers an instant gratification that most other methods do not. My past does not include gang members or graffiti – unless you count the time I smeared “Slut!” on the passenger side of Darrin’s Porsche, red lipstick bold against the black paint. My present includes family values, although not the sort you hear discussed on talk radio or daytime TV with talk show hosts sporting bad hair transplants. To hear them talk, my little welfare family is somehow linked to terrorists attacks – broken condoms, sure, but weapons of mass destruction? The Republicans must not realize what goes on between the choir boys and their girlfriends; it’s a wonder the priest gets any break from confession at all. My real weakness is chocolate, Swiss chocolate. I break a chunk off the bar, rest it on my tongue, imagine the chill of the Alps juxtaposed with the warm sweetness dissolving in my mouth. Don’t tell the children, but I hide chocolate on top of the refridgerator, where they cannot yet reach. And so Jimi plays through the radio, as if he never died, the asphyxiation on his own vomit not even a footnote.
“And so castles made of sand slips into the sea, eventually…”
I think of sand warm between my toes – that is something to live for – as the blood erupts between my fingers, neck pulsing to my heartbeat. I shake my head. The image falls like snow from branches, in bits. Individual snowflakes do not scare me, their relationship to avalanches aside. I inhale. I exhale. The cold assures me, I am alive.