Unusual dreams have been followed by a case of the Mondays
I've not been myself, lost in a world that is unfamiliarly memorable
Heart pound in my throat for the sake of throbbing alone, out of place

Awkwardness Waywardness Nervousness Loneliness Tiredness

Turned away in the speechless language of unanswered phone calls
Only returned when a heart is hurting or a heart is lonely, one way street

Worthlessness

Beaten breathless bloody and blue battle by battle blow by blow
Eat or slowly diminish destroying each organ hooked to machines

Brokenness

No fight is left inside this body
No light is left to be turned on
No hope left to flame the candle
No peace left to poke the coals

This body is dying
The soul is hiding
This mind is dimming
The heart is crying

What a splendid day! There's nothing better than watching 7 episodes of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman in a roll. If there was a Jepordy based solely on Dr. Quinn, I have no doubts that I would take the show by storm. And now my tribute to The woman of the hour.. or should I the woman of the past 6 hours of my life today alone:
Dr. Mike,
you're always right
no matter what the fight
you shine the light
for those who are uptight

Sully, the white Indian Man,
tomahawk always in his hand
fight, kiss, ride, all he can
how he cherishes the land

Micheala Quinn is Sully's Heart song
Love was between them all along

I wore a stinky smelly cast for 6 almost unbearable weeks on my right (dominate) hand. Today, while working at my little towny bar, I trusted 3 drunk-ish men (might I add that they were my favorite kind: perverted old men) with my life. I let them saw through my cast with a dull hand saw in hopes that they would be wary of slicing my tender veins. And that they were. Though they may have had a bit to drink, they took great care in their appointed/chosen mission and even took the drastic measure in making sure harm would reach them before my tender flesh if harm were to come. It took an hour and a half and each took turns with the flashlight (to brighten their dulled vision), the saw (with their fingers between the cast and my skin), and lastly, holding my hand (for the reassurance that I was being protectively cared for). Can I just add that they did this all for me even though if I had had patiences, the doctor would have removed it himself less than 48 hours later.... I love dirty old towny men.


PS My account shows that people read my blog... but who?? Do I know you?? And can I ask why you would read it?

My life is falling apart piece by piece and I no longer have the strength to try to stop it from destroying me. I was "raped" Christmas night. "ED" has come to visit since my Homer passed away. My Daddy felt the need to choose between me and my mom, but I do not fault him for choosing her only in not seeing that no choice had to be made. I have built my walls so sturdy and strong that I no longer feel the passion I use to feel working with children. Worst of all, I have lost my hope. My hope in there being some sort of meaning in the trials I am suffering.

I use to find meaning in everything and it was the meaning that helped me to heal. Well I have changed my mind. Meaning to trials are like crutches to the healthy. Trials with meanings aid us in an unhealthy fashion. Sure, there is the occasion trial with deep and healing meaning but not every trial has meaning and we cannot wait around for the first thing that comes along that seems as though it would give us an answer to why we suffered.

I suffer because I deserve it. I suffer because I choose to repeatedly make bad and unhealthy decisions. I suffer because I'm broken and I am tired of trying to place meaning where none belongs. I suffer because I choose to.

The day I realized I was in love it was as if I became whole for the first time.
Cement was poured onto my once cracked and broken foundation and it seemed to find its way into every crevice. I thought it was my secret, a love no one else could see or feel or smell or taste but me. Yet it stimulated my every sense. It brightened every color and floated carelessly in the air. It gave me butterflies in the pit of my stomach while causing my skin find sensuality in even the thought of the lightest caress. It was in the musky smell of a familiar memory and in the taste of a lost kiss.
I told no one of this secret love, not even the one my heart had claimed. Others saw it in my choices, my behavior, though mainly they recognized it in my lost eyes, lost in a moment, in a time, in a hopeful memory.
Today, I felt my heart break. I felt it drop from my chest to the floor, only to be trampled unknowingly by the man I kept this secret from. I did not choose to love him and he did not choose to hurt me. Though I am not blind. I know that if I would have chosen to share with him my secret, he would have kindly handed me back my heart.