SexiMomma's blog: "words of wisdom"

Ready to die and not knowing it, or not even knowing how. Such an unfortunate predictament, don't you think? Suicide is illegal. Weird. Why? Because poeple think they are that important. Poeple. Articulate monkey's talking to deaf Gods. Praying. Pretending anyone's listening. There's no reason at all for anyone to live. We're all useless in one way or the other. Replacable. Mice in traps. Selling each others happiness for profit. Why encourage poeple not to die? Why tell strangers you care if they live? Because mortality is too much to bear. Because God took his phone off the hook and satan's voicemail is full again. I've always been dying i guess. Coloring in the carcasses of demons. Grey rainbows of skin deciding how sad it was. Being her. The liers looking for the turn off switch. To change burnt light bulbs. To convince rumplestilskins the child is already dead. so the question is are you tired arguing with the gods or is this such a bad bedtime story?

If we were only this. Just a maze of veins. To be solved. A chalkboard of skin. To write upon. And be erased without consequence. Then i could understand. Why the hurt grows so big only to shrink back down into nothing. We are true or false questions. The vague geometry of loneliness tutoring the soft angles in the heart. We are god. Responsible for the happiness of everyone around us. We are the Satan's who take the blame for all their misfortunes. If we were only what we wanted to be I'd be nothing. But we're still. Always have been what they want from us. Discarded apple cores envious of the pie in the oven. Pillows with names I can't recall. Hairs on the sheets that still wreak of all the men who made me glad to be a whore. Each life is its own crippled avalanche. Each life has a pedestal. A place for the things it can't have. Some are stable. While others need to fall.

It's difficult to recall, but I originally started this blog to discuss with myself just one thing. Addiction. The isolation it glamorizes. The threat of recovery. Or at least self-preservation. How it impacts my efforts to destroy myself. Exaggeration? Not really. I thought I knew what I wanted. To suffer. and then recover. To become intimate with addiction. So intimate in fact that it wouldn't want me anymore. But the truth is, the uglier I get the closer we become. The fact is, I written every word the skeleton has shed. And still it's not naked. Not even close. In fact, I've lied the entire time. About experiences. About moments that only happened because I created the fiction. What's real is nothing to write about. Nothing that can do any words justice. What's real is I've overcome nothing. And still ask the same questions I pretended to answer a long time ago. Truth is like a zipper. You pull it down. Open the teeth. See what's behind the fabric. And you close it knowing you will get bitten. I used to think all I needed was to be wounded. Then I could heal. I tried writing. All my life I've been writing. When I should've been saying. Goodbye. I wish I had a better reason. But right now, weakness will suffice.

It's sad because if I wrote something beautiful an hour before no one will ever know. They'll wind up here. Dressed in the wind like orphans at the ocean's edge. Never knowing all that came before the force of the anchor in high tide. The boat cauterized to its moorings. Doomed to miss the hurricane. To watch the storm from a distance. It's love because I say it is. Very much hating to use that word in anything I expect will be read. It is so because there are songs I can no longer tolerate alone. It is so because the world has forgotten, but I still dream it. And wake up with the hook in my throat. The hurricane in my skin. Deaf to the future. Mute to the past. All I could do was draw them. As hopeless as any artist must be. Naming every stroke. Imaginigng the lightning could hear. Would listen to its own roar. Wondering how I ever loved anyone. Or if I ever would again. The sky pretending to fall. To convince us we were getting closer.

You could try the lamb. Knock. See if she's there. You could call the wolf. Leave a message. See if he calls back. I wait to come undone. But life. It's such a slow surgery. I do everything to make it happen faster. But the truth is you can't kill yourself like this. Don't believe the public service messages. I can drag the robe across the stage. The actor still inside it. But it leaves no trail. No sweat. As that spotlight carves its shape into the performance. I was only spending my time learning what I could love. If it possessed the grace to return the favor. I was only trying on capes. That promised to make us into super heroes. Realizing none of them could. It was more pencil than it was ink. Finally finding the words. I was more drunk than sober. The first time we fell in love. But the fairy tale is still real.

So four beers into the night (at 2:23am)and that good for me, i am normally on 10 or 11. I'm debating whether I should rush chill another. No more cold ones left, the freezer is looking very much like my savior. I spent the better part of today at blogexplosion. Voted for a lot of blogs and won a lot of credits. Put one of my other blogs up to the challenge twice. It's not arrogance when I say I know i write well, It's been affirmed over and over from various sources. Sometimes it truly is crap, but no one is perfect. All in all, I don't seek to write what people will enjoy, so much as just what feels right. And I always presumed the words I choose. The topics I frequent were more offputting than they were brilliant. That's probably true. Those blogexplosion voters just do it on a whim. I know I've only retained memory of one blog out of the counltess I've visited in the voting process. But I'm an alcoholic. What's your excuse. Sad thing is, there are not enough beers in the world. let alone my fridge, to make the concept of every tom, jane and jeremiah blogging any less sickening. Especially those blogs on religion. God won't be there when you're drunk. God won't be there when you're sober. The only time god will be there is when you're so desperate that even an alcholoic has more hope.

The problem is I need alcohol to write. I can't not write. It's all I have left to be. Beside an alcoholic. I guess it's all related. The need to write. The need to drink. Both issues spurred by some other problem. But I don't know what the problem is. I've thought about it a lot tonight and the passed few nights and I've finally come to a conclusion. There's something very wrong with me and it was wrong long before there was alcohol to blame it on. It's that wrong that is the reason alcohol ever got involved. No one ever stays in my life. They always end up leaving or I push them away. Logic tells me chances are I'm the one with problem and not all those other people. Only trouble is, I don't know what's wrong with me. Well, I do. I know I can't cultivate meaningful relationships. Not lasting ones anyway. And I know I've had this problem since I was a child. And no, I didn't drink when I was a child. So I know the problem, I just don't know why I have it. Where it came from or why it never left. I guess that's why I'm so fond of alcohol. Because for a little while (a long while by my standards) it facilitated my building of relationships with other humans. But even alcohol has not sovereign over this curse. Eventually the spell it cast wore off and I turned back into a toad again. In the fairy tales it's always the prince who's the toad and the woman's kiss that breaks the spell. In real life it could be anyone whose outsides don't match their ins. Whose words always comes out wrong. And the only kiss that can lift that curse is that of death. I've spent most of my life living to die. Now I'm dying to live. But everyday I see less and less difference between the two.

Is being an alcoholic a totally bad thing? I think not. I can manage. Maybe some prozac would be a more efficient cure. That's likely. But I don't want it. What if Silvia Plath had been medicated? No Bell Jar then. Or Lord Byron. Emily Dickenson and the others. I'd rather be miserable and be able to write. I know I'll never be amongst them. The great writers. The great poets. At least not until I've killed myself. Perhaps then. But still doubtful. But something about antidepressants just doesn't ring true. Maybe. Maybe, just maybe, if you're a depressed sort of person that's what you ought to be. I mean, if everyone was happy, happiness would lose all its cache. Truth be told, I'm not really depressed. Just don't think life is so special. It's just life afterall. Anyone can make it. It happens all the time. Big deal. So what? Next topic. If life was so wonderful for most people alcohol wouldn't never been invented. You can keep your cures. I don't need them. And when i do want one I've plenty of my own.

I always thought if you show the world you tender spots they'd either devour you or else just feel pity. But it seems that's not always the case. This blog has been written and is being written as a road map through all the achille's heels in my persona. Yet it brings no predators. No missionaries. Only people just like myself. Stronger than they are weak. Weaker than they are strong. Not lost, but unable to commit to a destination. Everyone has their vices. It's just some people's are more flagrant. I never wanted to be weak. Nor to be strong. I just wanted to prove I wasn't the only person who couldn't be sure of what they are. I worried the words would be too ripe. Too dark. Old fruit fallen off the vines. Sticky on the fingers, but sour in the mouth. Just thought for a change I'd speak instead of listen and see what might be heard. And to my surprise people listened. People just like me. Just like everyone. Who want to be weak. And want to be strong. But still haven't figured out how to be both.

You have to start precisely at the midway point between beer number two and three. But that place is mutable depending on where the day has left you. You have to regulate the flow of inspiration based upon the distance between your fingers and your heart. Make yourself the devil and you're bound to be hated. Everything is political. Even family. Make yourself an angel and they'll only wait for you to rescue them. Everything is about redemption. Even sex. I was an addict from the day I was born. There was always the emptiness. And I've used up so many ways to kill its drum. Each one at the onset softening the thunder. Only to eventually make it so much louder. You have to be ready to create when it hurts enough. And know when to let it go once the numbness lets you stop. Maybe it's four. Maybe it's six. There's no way to know until you're done.