Letting go of the ghost.

Everyone in our past can be a saint or a sinner, depending on how we tell the story.

I can say he called me a whore and told me to leave. And that would be part of the truth. What I'm not telling you is; he said that after he found out I had slept with his brother. 

In the retelling of our own histories, we can be whoever we want to be. 

And today I feel like being the bad guy. I'll take all the blame. It was my fault. Everything. 

When I was in the 2nd grade we moved, I had to change schools. At my new school I was having trouble making friends. Unbeknown to me, my mom would drive by during lunch and look for me on the school yard (the schoolyard was fully viewable from the street). She noticed that I was sitting by myself.

She asked everyday if I had made any new friends. I said no. One morning I said I didn't want to go to school. I started to cry. My sister had a similar problem when she was younger. My father had told her that not everyone had friends, so she should approach other kids that were by themselves. She did, and by her 6th grade year she had a bunch of misfits for friends. The leftovers.

I was crying and he told me the same sage advice. 

I told him, "I don't want to be there friends either! They're gross!"

He said, "Well then you won't have any friends."

I said, "I don't want friends if I have to have those friends." and cried even more.

I wish I could say that my attitude has changed, that I've grown and learned. But that would be a lie. 

A few years ago I was in a long-term relationship. We were hanging out all the time, we were best friends. We even talked about getting married. One night we were at a bookstore, I'm flipping through a book and he's in the magazine section. In my head I saw this complete life, the wedding, the kids, the 9-5 job, the house, the garage, the summer vacations and the family dinners. The retirement fund, the family photos, the anniversaries, game nights, birthdays- I saw everything that was possible if I stayed with him, and I didn't want any of it. 

We broke up shortly afterwards. 

Eclipse

There is a house in my dreams. I visit it often. It is by the sea. Sometimes the house is scary and broken, other times the house smells like bread and there are baby clothes hanging on the line outside. Sometimes I sit and watch the sunrise or sunset. Sometimes I am alone and other times I am with someone. Sometimes I am scared, sometimes I am wounded. Once, I was pregnant. I think of this house and wonder if it ever existed, but I'm sure it has, in some way or another. My thoughts, dreams, hopes, are fragments of stories I've read, people I've met, places I've gone to. I am the unremarkable collage of a lifetime of observations. 

Indulgent

It's raining again. I'm drinking again. Everything in its inappropriate time. I have the nauseating feeling of missing someone. Not really missing any particular person, just missing. The closest feeling I can compare it to would be when you are driving away from home and you feel like you forgot something. You don't know what it is or if you forgot anything at all. But the feeling persists, it gnaws and makes you second guess yourself. You're on your way someplace, you can't go home, and you don't.

That's how I feel. There isn't anyway to fix this.

I was reading Neruda the other day and remembered what it sounded like when my boyfriends had read it to me.

Today, before it rained, I was smoking my cigarette outside. I didn't have any shoes or socks on. I took a drag of my cigarette, outstretched my arms and closed my eyes. I exhaled. My feet were cold on the sidewalk. There was no one around to tell me to put socks on. There is no one around to tell me to go to bed.

I don't feel sad. Maybe a little. I don't regret whatever decisions I've made that have brought me to this point.

It was years ago when I felt fearless, chaotic and powerful. I took a few years to be scattered, reckless and afraid. I'm ok now. I am whoever I am without regrets, asking for no one's permission or approval and comparing myself to no one. I don't seek forgiveness or redemption. I guess this is what it feels like to get up after you've fallen down.

I was fearless because I had never gotten hurt.
I was chaotic because I thought control meant controlled by
I was powerful because I refused to believe I could be anything other than that.

I was scattered because I was scared and didn't want to face it.
I was reckless because I wanted to feel something other than fear.
I was afraid because I had been hurt and I didn't know I could be anything other than that.

And now?

I'm recovering.

Almost Broken

When you smash your finger with a hammer you will at once feel an all encompassing pain. When you try to make a fist your finger will tremble and you won’t be able to make it stop trembling. You’ll tell yourself it’s fine. You’ll move it to make sure you can still move it and then the pain will be expected. Tolerable.

Hours later, after you’ve been careful not to move it. Your finger will begin to swell. And after it swells it will begin to change colors. You will see the swelling and the blood gathering to the point of impact underneath the pink skin of your fingertip.

And after awhile you’ll adapt. You’ll type with nine fingers instead of ten. And you’ll put ice to stop it from swelling more.

Because accidents happen. Sometimes to us, sometimes by us.

I once saw a kitten. I picked the kitten up. I nuzzled the kittens tummy. I named it. I claimed it. And then I couldn’t breath.

I’m allergic to cats.

Some things are just toxic to us. Some things we can’t co-habitat with.

Why am I telling you all this?

For no reason. Because I’m practicing typing with a finger I thought was broken. Because when I initially hit it, I thought for sure, beyond a doubt, the finger was broken. But I was wrong.

I’m wrong about a lot of things.

Invisible Strings

I held that little girl in my arms, and told her a story about unicorns and candy canes.

She looked up at me and said she was scared. She asked what it was like to lose my virginity.

I looked into her gray eyes and said, "Holding hands, it's better."

We cried together and I told her to focus on breathing. 

"You're ok. We're ok." 

repeating. repeated.

I didn't know if she was dying or I was. 

I believed my project to be a life in revolt against convention, conditioning, normalcy. 

Impulsive unapologetic behavior. 

The girl who fell in the middle of a crowded room. 

The one who took shot after shot raging against something she couldn't name.

Destruction was active deconstruction. Because we can't know who we are unless we know who we're not. well, yeah, what a load of shit. 

Destruction isn't a beautiful metaphor for anything, it's just destruction. 

A broken arm isn't abstract. A busted lip isn't a war wound. Waking up on the floor, in the rain, under trees, in bushes, under beds, beside pools, in bathtubs,in the middle of an abandoned field, these aren't adventures. 

It isn't fun anymore.

I was holding the girl and we were walking along an unfamiliar road. She felt heavy in my arms. She wrapped her arms around my neck and told me she was cold. I told her we'd get somewhere soon.

I had no idea where we were going. 

I woke up a few minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I got out of bed and took a hot shower. Got dressed, combed my hair, drove to work. All day I thought about how I had disappointed the little girl who never existed.

Mujer

I was looking for Bolivian women.
A simple web search.
I read a few articles about Bolivian women regarding social standing and fertility. I didn’t find what I was looking for.

I wanted to see myself in the thumbnail images. I wanted to see my eyes peer out from underneath a veil of dark brown hair. All I found were pictures of a few cholitas and random advertisements.

So since I couldn’t find the picture of a Bolivian woman holding her infant baby girl, I searched for the next best thing.

Search: Bolivian pussy, twat, cunt.

Now I knew what I wanted. I wanted to see a Bolivian pussy other than my own.

I wanted to see if my pussy was a nationality trait, if it was like the the “Roman nose” or “Icelandic jaw”.

I didn’t care if I saw a pink dildo pushed in it, or a fist gliding in and out of it. I didn’t care if her mouth was twisting in ecstasy or gobbling a cock to its balls. I wanted to see her eyes, her hands, her lips, her lips. 

I wanted to say, “Mama” or “sister”, I wanted to say, “other”.

No luck, nada.  

Along my journey, amidst lots of clicking, I found her, and now my life will never be the same.

Cindy, sweet Cindy.

Our meeting seemingly an accident, felt something more like destiny.

She was on a couch kissing her “boyfriend” and they really did look like boyfriend and girlfriend, I was impressed.

And then they started fucking. Cindy, beautiful body and face, body writhing and mouth parted. Cindy with an affinity for dark purple eye shadow, kept her eyes closed most of the time. Except when she looked directly at the camera as he came in her mouth. Her eyes fixed on the camera, cum dripping from her lips, half giggling, “I like cumm…”

Cindy, getting an index finger shoved up her ass and loving it, me too Cindy, me too!

We have so much in common.

Lots of positions and pumping and the guy pulls out and spits on her pussy.

He spits and continues to rabbit fuck Cindy. 

After the video I search for Sweet Cindy.

Born in Ventura,CA in 1987.

Her debut year 2007, a total of 17 official movies to her credit.


Cindy you’re a star.

Lots of pictures. Cindy is everyone: a sexy Latina, a virgin-barely-eighteen, a cum-loving slut,a Lesbian…the list continues. 

Always, always she remains - Sweet Cindy.

The only imperfection is when she speaks.
The tooth-to-gum ratio is a little off.

“Don’t show em’ your teeth, keep your lips smoothed over em’.” I say, but she doesn’t hear me.

In some pictures, the close-ups, you can see she isn’t 18, there is blotchy skin and crows feet. And in close-up twat shots you can see her ass is a little hairy and her pussy looks mangled. 

“Airbrush Cindy, control your career.” I say, but she doesn’t hear me.

She has that same gummy smile in every photograph.

That slight smirk in the still picture with a cock shoved up to the balls inside her pussy.

That goofy grin when she is pounding her asshole with a purpler vibrator.

“What’s so funny Cindy?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer me.

Poor Cindy, her facebook pictures trying to appeal to anyone, just anyone. 

Some pictures where she looks 14, other pictures where she is obviously 14. 

The only glimpse of Cindy, one of her blogs, a quote from Mother Teresa.

The quote ending with the comforting idea that in the end, ultimate judgment is from God. 

I hope God thinks you’re sweet Cindy.

Further searching gives contradictory information, sometimes Cindy has just turned 18, sometimes she is 21 and other times she is 23. 

I found her lonely profile on Model Mayhem.

She misspelled “Penthouse” as “Penhouse”, atleast I think it was a typo.
Her “about me” section, a single sentence long.

This sexual chameleon will never grace the runways of Milan, she will never be in a Gucci ad, print, internet or otherwise.

Maybe if she had been prettier, Mother Teresa could have been Cindy.

Everything in increments. 

Cindy, when you close your eyes as you’re getting your pussy pounded do you think of Coco Chanel?

When he pulls your cotton panties off, do you pretend it’s satin?

When your nipples are sucked and glistening from saliva, are you thinking about expensive ivory lace bras?


I’m sorry I didn’t buy your videos Cindy. The $7.75 3 day pass, or the $29.99 monthly subscription.

You’re beautiful Cindy, but only when you’re free.

These Days

I woke up by myself again. I had a nightmare but I can't remember the details. Only the lingering feeling of fear.


Made myself some tea, my throat was sore and I needed someone to hold me.
Curled up on the sofa, the only noise in the room was my breathing and the echo of traffic passing by outside.


Last night I had a conversation with someone I could love.


"Sometimes I think I know what you want, then you say something and I have no idea what you want."


"I'm sorry."


Because even if you don't mean it, he still likes to hear it.