The skeletons in my closet are actually quite visible if you’re around me a lot. My flaw is identifying other people’s flaws in my head and then sometimes repeating them out loud in front of the person. Oops.
(Sometimes I don’t.)
I’m perfectly aware I have flaws and could identify them to you at a drop of a hat, but then I’d overdo it and annoy you and that’s another flaw.
(But my dark secrets are well-hidden and never leave the closet.)
A secret is only a secret if no one even knows you have one.
When you start itching, you’re either allergic to your thoughts or commitment. I have accepted my nun existence and my cat can catch moles now so I won’t need a sugar daddy anyway.
(My ADD mind spits out things I can’t predict.)
I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time and can’t imagine life with anyone else.
(Somehow the secret slips out.)
Every Halloween I don’t need a costume. I just show up as myself and that’s scary enough.
Broken nails and red lines
Stray balls and unintentional cleavage
Cold feet that cause stomachaches
Vision that doesn’t completely focus
Words that come out wrong for no reason
Pop music and unkempt hair
How many times have I told you your worth is not measured by how flawless your skin looks or how symmetrical your face is? Yet a myriad of thoughts and questions run through your mind every time someone is looking at you while speaking. Perhaps the same thoughts and questions are a nuisance to the person facing you. Perhaps not.
Chances are they are questioning themselves on their appearance. If they are, you have nothing to worry about. If they are not, more power to them. But who are we kidding? Of course they are worried about your perception of them. So why do you still feel self-conscious? Do I need to slap your face every time you think like this? Is that it? Do you need aversion therapy?
Pull yourself together! Or maybe I need to bring out a cat o’ nine tails. That’ll learn you.
One week later…
How many times do I have to tell you to stop worrying about what you look like?
But you know I do because inside this terrarium everything’s shallow.
I have to watch what I say. I have to watch what I eat. I have to watch how I act.
I’m getting tired of watching, but my insecurities and fears won’t let me stop.
Today I watched a man on stage play his guitar for possibly the last time in his life. He’s about to get hand surgery and no one knows if he’ll still be able to play the guitar after the procedure. Then I thought about my hands. What would I do if I could never write again?
I think that man was very brave going on stage—no words, just strummed strings. It’s like that gun pointed at your head demanding a response. Will he ever play again? Then I wondered how many women his hand had played the way he played his guitar. I tried silently reprimanding my thoughts for even coming up with this idea, but they wouldn’t listen because that’s just me.
Maybe the only woman his hand ever played with was his wife.
Maybe it reminded me of Holden Caulfield (you are my best friend if you know what part of the book I’m talking about).
Afterwards, I went to feed Belly (that’s my car in case you don’t know) and gave her a quick wash with my hand. It was warm and comfortable under the sun, a nice respite from the October cold and I never appreciated a functioning hand more than this.
It’s been a minute since I last made a YouTube video, but I didn’t want to leave out my third and last BTR review from my first set. I’m not sure if I’m going to make this into a tradition of some sort and keep making BTR videos or I’m just going to review books as I read them. We shall see. But as usual, I stuck to my crazy writer talking self and just let my raw ramble loose.
Last night as I drove home in the rain, I thought of Conceited Crusade. I had to tell somebody and the only somebodies I could think of was everybody, so naturally I had to post.
After watching The Other Woman again today, I wanted one of two things: either to get married so I could get cheated on so I could become friends with my husband’s mistresses or to build a house with an all glass window room (I know, this is not the best description ever) where I would put a table right where the sun would blast me every morning as I drank my coffee. All of this just so I know what it’s like and then it’s on to the next experience I could potentially write about. Don’t judge me.
Oops! He did it again. Books are just flying out his fingers these days.
It started raining as soon as the plane landed. Sophia was glad for the rain because now she could hide her loss behind feeling gloomy because of it. Allie wouldn’t be back for another 24 hours so that bought Sophia some time before she’d have to face her roommate.
It seemed to take centuries for her to make it back home. When the driver finally dropped her off, Sophia was glad her hoodie hid her face. She didn’t even want to risk the doorman figuring out what had happened to her. After all, the walls could talk and next thing you know, Mamá is on the teléfono all up in her grill going on and on about how she just knew she would lose the account and why couldn’t she have listened to tu madre in the first place? Sophia rolled her eyes just thinking about it. Mamá would always hover, even if Sophia did everything exactly her way. She seemed to forget that her umbilical cord had been cut 25 years ago.
She kept her hoodie on when she made it back to her room. She wanted to pretend the rain was going to take care of all her problems for a sec. Just for a sec. She sat down on her bed and leaned up against the wall and just listened to the droplets of water, imagining each one going, “there, there” and sending tingles up and down her spine.
She closed her eyes and imagined redoing her day. But that didn’t work. So she thought of the beach and decided tomorrow she’d go surfing. Then stopped herself as soon as she remembered it’s not a good idea to go right after it rained. Well then. Maybe she should anyway and then not have to face Allie. It just took one day to get infected, didn’t it?