bone cruncher, sickening snap – may I have another?

It is not healthy to count the rejections. It’s not healthy to let an ear infection move under the surface and swell occasionally for a year. There are many things that are not healthy.

I’m not always an idiot, but when I screw up I screw up good. Self-love, bitch. You need some self-love, bitch.

I know I should have turned around and picked us up fast food for lunch, but I’m on the edge of town already pointed in the direction of home. I bring in 4 bags full of purchases from Walmart. (And may I say that their “Green Light” campaign to honor veterans offers no monetary benefit to said veterans but is an excellent way for them as a corporation to come across as respectful and compassionate toward the underprivileged while supporting the military-industrial complex and capitalizing on Stupid America’s eagerness to wear a color in support of every special interest group that exists. But hey, where else can I buy a telephone and pillows around here?)

That should be good enough, but it’s never good enough. My grandmother begins himming and hawing about how she was about to make herself a tuna fish sandwich. And I erupt.

“So make a fucking sandwich! I am not responsible for everything you consume! You are talking about it because you are wanting me to wait on you! I don’t need to hear about every friggin thing you put in your mouth! It’s constant! It’s all of the time!”

I don’t add, “I hate your Generic-Over-Televised-Over-Sensationalized-Desensitized-Tragic and Vapid America! I hate how much I have to be exposed to it because of you and your incessant television!” You don’t say these things when you are a guest in someone’s home. You don’t expect an 82-year-old woman to change.

“What is wrong with you?” she exclaims. “I didn’t know if you would be back. I didn’t know if you were eating downtown!” Etc., etc.

For just a moment I feel in the wrong, but the indignation reseizes.

Flash forward to later that evening. I am dressed as a hairy-freakish horned monster known as Pan. I am standing out in the woods with a bunch of college kids, hired as a scare-actor. As the sun leaves and the darkness moves to the ground, my glasses start to fog up which is a problem because my job relies on timing. I have to be able to see the customers. I have to be able to see the prey I’m chasing for their horrific benefit. I loose a lens out of my glasses into a pile of leaves on the ground after struggling with rubber foot-long fingers, a mask fitting oddly over glasses, breath and exertions equating blindness, and about an hour of darkness. It is really too much and I give.

Escorted and deposited in the office, I await clearance to leave. Finally, I am in the dressing room. The president come and asks me in a very understanding tone what is going one. Silly me. I am tricked into really discussing what is wrong. I confess that I am pissed that I am being paid almost half of what the college students around me are making. She proceeds to tell me to clock out. Then, she begins to proclaim loudly to everyone backstage that I am upset about how much I am being paid.

Honestly… Talk about a shit storm. I just want to be the hell out of there. I just want to leave. This isn’t the dramatic outburst of the diva or spoiled child.

This from Yael Yardeni, “According to kabbalistic tradition, Scorpio comes in three forms: the snake (spiritually in very poor condition!), the scorpion (so-so), and the eagle (the highest level). The scorpion is more evolved than the snake, but it is blind! It acts based on survival instincts and is plagued with insecurities and fears. More often than not, it enters a state of crisis with the potential to destroy everything that has been built. Definitely not what we would like to connect with! ” – See more at:

The leader, the creator, she tells me she is disappointed. Heh… Apparently, she knows my type. This should be a good guilt-inducing tactic. But she doesn’t know me or how I am a once noble knight but now soggy in the wet leaves, crusty, half-wiped off blood, pierced with lances, used and bitter.

My response is, “I am disappointed, too. What is new?”

It is the first year of their endeavor – this mythical land. It is a building year – a year of working out the kinks. I support it fully in theory. Yet, today, I didn’t see it coming… it wasn’t my intention, but I have entered the state of crisis and I am destroying.

Just be real, I tell myself. It all hurts too much. When I made my annual Grandaddy Power Period 40 wishes using the book “New Moon Astrology” by Jan Spiller she always recommends to make one particular wish. I always make it.

“I want to easily cut through any fears or negativity that may arise in the month following my Power Period, and emerge with flying colors.”

So this year is a doozy. Aside from blowing up at a boss, aside from the seeming inability to navigate several relationships, would you believe me if I told you I’ve been walking around with an egg getting ready to hatch inside my brain? And today… I did not expect it, but I could not complete a shift. I don’t know if these people understand this pinpoint between my eyes, how my eyes feel weak and diseased. And I dream of taking my head apart piece meal, like a potato head with real densities, textures and fluids. And maybe we’ll exchange some features like some sideshow genetic experiment that has surpassed the patience of humanity or God.

In a trance, I careen my car around the spaghetti corners that have dropped saner women than me into the lake on dark October evenings. The words come back to me. “What is wrong with you?”

What is wrong with me? How many times have I destroyed myself?

So much for the beautiful flowing trine between Venus and Jupiter today. I seem to remember some more monumental, less transient happening of the sky. Shit’s going down with Neptune and Uranus. Disillusionment and unpredictability.

The only thing that has been merciful this evening is this steaming water showering over my shoulders and I realize my head is being tightened in a vice. I wonder if I’ve had a tension headache all along. And soon, that tension settles into my shoulders. It does not improve with muscle rub, or yoga, or sleep or many day’s time.

My grandmother can be my best ally. She doesn’t ask me about the job I walked off. She says, “Something happens to your brain when you have an ear infection.” She is the wisest imbecile I know. I love her and can barely tolerate her at the same time.

Anger surges, then it dissipates. No matter. Sometimes the pressure is too much to contain and I erupt like a bottle rocket. Outside of myself, I can hear my clipped and seething rant and I don’t like the person I hear. Irritability. Frustration. Ego. There would be no problem if I didn’t expect people to treat me like I am important.

Just come to terms with peasant wretch. My shoulders are already rounding. I haven’t cut my hair in years – dead, wild, unmanageable, unstylish, unflattering. Skirting the hedges. Sallow in the sweat of plain loser.

I am only centuries past the accusation of witchcraft. If they stripped me in search of a third nipple, they would find it.
I fear for my future.

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