Lost Where I Belong

It seems that I found this album that the perfect time. I'd heard snippets of Andreya Triana's voice against the backdrop of other artists, but'd never realized her worth as a soloist. Her voice gives me the feeling of sitting in a dimly lit, smoke-filled lounge pawing at the one I want. Her lyrics are anything but shallow and, from what I understand, completely self written.

Aside from being stunningly beautiful, she is a singer-songwritter that you can appreciate anytime, anywhere.

And now, back to sadness. Merry Christmas.

Sweet Baby

Oh, shit. I've caught the baby bug.

I spent a weekend with the cuuuuutest fucking two-year-old ever. Ever.

Complete with tummy rubbing and Barney watching and diaper changing and tantrum mitigating, I'm hooked. I want to be a mom. I'm a natural. Candace love the kids.

I knew when I figured that her juice had too high a sugar content that I was made for this. My mom, also a natural at nurturing, obviously passed this sweet gene on to me. I was born for motherhood. I could make the next president. Maybe not. I'm too liberal and artsy for that shit. Still. I could make a pretty well-to-do motherfucking human.

I'm vulgar and lost and self defecating, but goddamnit, I can love. And what else does a little future need besides love?

Fat Girl Scorn

Oh, no. I've discovered Rockstar. What a glorious caffeine-sugar medley.

Unfortunately, this isn't getting my creative juices flowing. My heart, however, is fluttering.

*beat*beat*beat*

Did I mention the coffee I had just before?

Nothin's faster than a pewm.

Unfinished Business

So, I started a short story on the toilet one evening. Boy, were my legs dead. Where do we go from here?
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Disconcerted and exhausted, I find myself, without the necessity of thought, driving to where I exchange my children for the freedom to work for peanuts. I arrive like clockwork, noticing the unhealthy strain of my truck’s motor, long in need of servicing. My head ached with the idea of what repairs might cost a woman these days.

 I shouldn’t enjoy the luxury of daycare for my children but, by the grace of a still inexplicable omnipresent force, my younger sister—lucky enough to marry wealthy—has helped ease the burden of two young children and one fixed income. How well they obey her. The thought pummeled through my self loathing aside. A small twitch of envy paced through my eyelid.

“Mommy!” the youngest shouts, ignoring the nagging of her older cousin crashing Hot Wheels into her tea party. The pair, overzealous and filthy, sprints towards me with star struck haste, my sister in tow.

“Thanks, Chris.” This is my only compensation for my little sister’s gratitude. This method of payment was once awarded at the expense of my dignity. In recent days though, the defeat caused by the reality of lunch money, growth spurts and subsequent shopping trips has etched itself permanently into my heart. I take what she offers without second thought or the interruption of pride.

“Don’t mention it; I love these little tikes,” she coos, stroking the smallest and, without fail, the dirtiest, with a loving caress before wrangling both girls into the back seat with gentle taps on their backsides.  

“Mamma, I’s hungee,” whines Natasha, fumbling with her seatbelt.

“I’m hungry!” I bark into the back seat. Her four year old grammar annoys me to no end, particularly after a double shift. “And get your fucking hands off the clean towels!” Don’t they know how hard I work for this?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.”

“Bright and early,” she smiles, ignoring my scolding, bidding the girls adieu with her index finger.

Jezebels Drink Cosmos

I’m not the kind of girl who puts her napkin in her lap. Hell, half the time, they stay wrapped around the fucking silverware.  

I don’t moisturize before bed. My nails are weak and the lengths I’d have to go to strengthen them, as with most things, aren’t really worth the effort at day’s end. My hair is a few different colors and without a proper cut, but it’s still more awesome than yours.

I have freckles, stretch marks, and scars—both tangible and intangible.

I really do curse like a sailor.

I love books. Usually those about drugs or sex or, preferably, both. There’s something about a lost, strung out soul that captivates me.

I smoke cigarettes. I’m trying to stop, but will construct a special occasion to have one in the name of revelry.

Pain is beauty.

I think about my parents every day.

I don’t have many friends. Those that I do have are near and dear and can read me like no one else can. I have never aspired to be the most popular, just the most beautiful.

I want nothing more than to be right. I will always make you believe that I am.

I don’t find high fashion as important as a pair of cheap jeans that fit my ass just right.

Jezebels drink cosmos.

I heart cosmos. They make me feel sexy.

Bugs scare me. Heavy shit doesn’t.

I love to be the hero, the one who thinks of everything.

I work hard. HARD.

I love flying through clouds.

I like music you won’t hear on the radio.

I love all things fuzzy and cute. Especially when they purr.

I’ll drive; I am the master of my destiny. Plus, I’m a better at it than you.

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I just found this after having started it a year ago. I sound like the same person. This scares me.

Onward and upward.