Think Happy Thoughts

• When the alarm goes off and I realize I have nowhere to be but in bed.
  


• Smelling the fresh breeze after a rain storm.
  


• Cantaloupe shavings.
  


• Drinking ice cold water after a long, hot day.
  


• Eating ice cream at night.


• Listening to a song I haven't heard in a while.


• Sprinkling powder in-between my toes.


• Lemon loaf cake and a latte.


• Hot coffee in a ceramic mug.


• 1950's diners.


• Chocolate milkshakes.
  


• Finishing an impossible project.


• Parking my car in a shady spot.
  


• A raise.


• A smile.


• A thank you.


• A compliment.
  


• A hug.


• A kiss.


• An "I love you."

Loud Bang, Bright Light

Dream 05/11 -12/2007

I stood in front of a panel of judges. I had no idea what I was on trial for nor what I did wrong. Only that I was in a square room with wooden flooring, sitting on a single stool with a table and five chairs lined up directly in front of me.

An older woman with gray hair and glasses spoke first. "Well, so we meet again," she said calmly.

I scratched my head and squirmed around in my chair, surprised that it spun around.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, ma'am. I've never seen you before," I answered.

She smiled, looking at her peers. An African-American man with a short beard and thick eyebrows returned her gesture and looked over to me.

"We know you wouldn't remember us, but we know your story quite well..." he trailed off.

A younger Asian woman with a slick ponytail finished his sentence by saying, "What he means is you've been here before...in your dreams, but this time it's for real."

"Ok...you've managed to confuse me even more. I'm sorry. Where am I? What is this place?" I asked, trying to remain calm.

"Middle-ground," they replied.

It appears that right before you die, your spirit leaves its physical form to visit a place where it can decide your fate in the after-life. There are a few options to choose from, however at the time of your decision all you know is one thing: what your last senses will experience on Earth.

(1) Loud bang, bright light (sound and sight) - a thunderous boom followed by a white glare

(2) With the sweet, comes the sour (taste) - two different flavors you have never tried before

(3) Hurt (touch) - physical pain

The experience slowly came back to haunt me. The image was hazy, but I can make out a few little details. I was lying on a hospital bed, wearing a blue patient gown. A series of beeping noises hovered over me and I swore I could make out sobbing but from whom, I couldn't tell. A woman in a white suit placed her hand on my forehead and closed my eyes. Suddenly, a massive boom echoed throughout the room. My ears grew numb and the silence was overbearing. I carefully opened my eyes to see what was around me, but a stream of white light seeped into my eyelids and drowned out all the color.

And now I'm in this room where a panel of judges sit before me.

(To be continued...)

Deja Vu

It happened in my head and before I knew it, there I was. Nightmares do come true.

It was windy. The sun crept up just enough to show itself over his rooftop as I carefully made my way up his curved driveway. The loose pavement rustled underneath the soles of my shoes. He opened his door and stepped out, scratching the back of his head as if saying, “uh-oh not again.”

I just stared at him, brushing strands of hair away from my face so that he won’t miss my eyes. He knew something was up. He put both hands in his pockets as we met half way.

“Hey,” he said.

“How could you do this to me?” I asked in disbelief, a cold shiver sent chills up my spine.

“So this is it then,” he said, completely avoiding my question.

“Guess so,” I uttered.

I turned away and walked back to my car knowing in my heart it would be the last time I felt real love for him. I woke up quietly sobbing.

A month or so passed.

I was at work. An unsettling feeling hovered over me like a gray cloud ready to burst. I paid no attention to it at first, but for some reason I couldn’t shake it off no matter how hard I tried. It was lunchtime. I put my leftover Alfredo pasta in the microwave and as it spun, I dialed his number. Busy.

A minute went by. The food was hot. I dialed again. Busy. I lost my appetite. No word from him last night. No call that morning…Now busy. Someone else had his attention. I couldn’t take it. Dial the heart-wrenching “323.” Then there in the middle of the break room, as my pasta dried, I knew.

“Hello,” he muttered.

He knew it was me even before he finally answered my call.

“You did it again,” I said.

He sighed. I broke down in tears, grabbed my stuff and left. As I drove, sad songs blasting from my car, the sun began to set.

I parked in front of his wooden fence, stepped out and began to walk up.

Déjà vu.

Insomnia

It is half past 5am. The sun is still asleep and after having my eyes closed for several hours, you would think I would be asleep too. A new year has begun and it's about time I start facing my fears. The candle flickered just enough to cast dancing shadows to keep me company. And as I tossed and turned, I realized peace will be far from me tonight.

I used to have reoccurring nightmares of being lost in the woods or falling off a tall building or my ultimate favorite, chased by a killer in the dark. All of which share one thing in common: I'm utterly and completely alone.

Sometimes I would wake up unsure if I'm truly awake. I'd dig my nails into the palm of my hands and as the pain shot through my skin, I'd still think twice if my eyes were really open. I'd check around me.

Check to see if my boyfriend had a pulse. Clench tightly to my comforter to see if I could feel the feathers between the stitches. Then, through careful consideration, I'd slowly get up and let my barefeet grace the carpet before making my way to the door. I knew that if anything were hard to fake, it's the cold air seeping through the cracks, making their way in-between my toes.

Cold air.

My toes start to wiggle.

Sigh of relief.

Dream A Nightmare

Dreams are moments where we can do or say anything without suffering any consequences. A horror movie taught me that. I was ten when I first tried to control it and here's what happened.

FLY

I stand motionless. Stuck out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by high, sharp boulders. Creepy sounds and red eyes darted from every direction. I panic, slowly backing up against the rocks. Its surface feels smooth against my skin. I pinch myself. Nothing. No pain. "Shit, I must be dreaming and I can’t wake myself up," I muttered underneath my breath. I shake my head in disbelief. Then the sounds grew louder. The eyes came closer revealing their monstrous form. I shut my eyes and open them again. Still stuck. I fall backwards refusing to face it. I start to cry. Its hot breath penetrates the back of my neck. I scream and hear silence. My mouth is frozen. Then, almost as if I’ve done it before, I stretch my arms out, flap it up and down as fast as I could and begin to float. Higher and higher. And then I was safe.

ONE LOUD BANG

"Just shoot 'em in the head...one time...that's it," these words spoken by a stearn male voice echoed in my head as I stood there holding the gun. It felt cold against my hands. Sweat dripped down the sides of my face. I wiped it away with my shoulder. The target turned to face me. Startled, I try to steady my aim. I don't know which one of us looked more afraid. He was young with light, brown eyes and pale skin. His hands trembled in the air. "Please...," he stuttered. "Shut up, just shut up," I shouted, suprised at my own volume. My fingers began to swell. The metal numbed my skin. He got up slowly. "Stay still or I'll shoot," I said, calmly placing my index finger against the trigger. "You've never done this before," he muttered. "What," I asked. He moved in closer, the look of fear leaving him with every step he takes. "You've never done this before," he said clearly with a sly grin as if he was now holding the weapon at me. I didn't move then suddenly a loud bang woke up my nerves. He fell forwards.

POOR "PINATA"

His face, full of excitement, ran into the room to grab some attention. People poured out through the sliding, back door to get a glimpse. I stayed behind the protective glass. A green, clunky, run-down piece of junk jeep dangling from a rope balanced over a large staircase as he and his boys, beer can in hand, tried their best to kick it over without knocking it down. Sand and dust drizzled over the railing. The smell of burnt rubber against the concrete steps permeated the cool night air. Cheers from the crowd pumped up their egos as the rope continued to strangle the poor tree branch.

Scout

Let me share with you just what kind of tricks my mind plays on my heart. Once again, it happens most often when I sleep...

A pile of laundry sits next to the newly refinished bathtub complete with gold fixtures. Large, thick glass windows surround the beige, marble floors. With a touch of a single button, the lights dim while soothing music spills out of the hidden speakers in each corner of the room. Warm water slowly pours into the tub as I sink both feet in, pushing the bubbles with my toes. I pull the laundry closer to me and began folding a pair of khaki shorts as he enters the room.

I smile, but his face remains expressionless. "Hey," he said.

"Baby, jump in the water is just warming up," I say with enthusiasm.

"I'm not staying long," he says coldly, looking out the window.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," I said.

He looks at me, unamused with my excitement.

"No," he said bluntly.

I got up so quickly I almost slipped, grabbed a towel off the hanging rack and threw it on the ground.

While frantically patting my feet dry, I yell, "Why don't you ever just give in for once and do what I wanna do for a change?"

His eyes began to shrink. His lips slowly tightening up. I knew then his temper was about to flare up, but I couldn't control myself.

"Who the hell put a stick up your ass anyway?” I mumbled.

He ran over to me and kicked the clean clothes into the tub.

With a sly grin he said calmly, “Guess, they’re dirty again.”

I squat down, pulling the soaked shirts and pants out, tossing them over to his neatly placed khaki shorts.

“These are your clothes. You could wash them again your damn self,” I retorted.

He grabbed my arm and yanked me up to his level.

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered through his grinding teeth.

I stared blankly into his beady, little eyes.

“I just did,” I said with no hesitation.

His tight grip briefly stopped my blood flow, leaving red marks on my arm as he finally let go. He stormed out of the house and into the front yard stretching his arms out from side to side as if surrendering him out of this torn relationship.

That’s when she walked over.

Even-tanned, brunette with itty-bitty white shorts and a baby black tee. I stayed behind the pillar.

“Hey,” she said flirtatiously.

“Hey,” he said back with a smile I haven’t seen in over six months.

He put his arms down and walked over to her.

“I’m trying to find my cat,” she said brushing her hair away from her perfect complexion.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with genuine concern.

“What’s its name?” he asked.

“It’s a He and it’s ‘Scout,’ mine’s ‘L’…"she trailed off. (I couldn’t make it out.)

“Nice to meet you. Now let’s scout for ‘Scout,’” he giggled.

That’s how he has always been. So sweet to strangers, pretty ones at that. And there I stood behind the pillar watching how a ‘nobody’ ignited a side of him I used to see.

Aging Youth

I woke up in tears from this dream sadly realizing that it is becoming more of a reality.

The entire family is sitting in her living room. The very first place we truly called "home" in the United States. Serious faces, no laughter. Not like our usual get-togethers anymore. She sits calmly in a chair in the corner, small and frail, wrapped in a pink bathrobe. Almost in a daze, she looks up at the white ceiling and dozes off.

I just watch her, recalling the days in which she would boast about how strong she was and how powerful her memory continued to be. A religious woman who followed tradition as if it were the only way and now she sits, unable to move without assistance as her thoughts leave her one by one. I wonder why it is that the two things she prided herself on the most were being taken away from her like a spoiled brat torn from their favorite toy.

Her five daughters pay no attention to her. Her youngest son leads the discussion of what is to become of her as if it were some kind of business meeting. Almost all of them were ready to let her go. Having to discuss when and where they could arrange “watching” her. As adults, they act like children. Whining that a moment with their mother would interfere with their schedules and yet they find it surprising that she would not want to be anywhere else besides with her eldest son.

He leaves the circle and does what he does best, takes care of things that need to be taken care of: making sure she is still breathing. Her body helplessly plops down into his arms. He catches her in shock that this time no air entered her lungs. The others slowly stood up, hands covering their mouths. Fake tears start to form on their faces.

Then she starts to shrink. Her skin carefully smoothing out the wrinkles of age, her gray hair sheds revealing her regained youth. Nobody reacts. In a matter of minutes, there in the corner chair, on top of the pink bathrobe, lies a baby.

The daughters rejoice. Each one wants to take turns holding this beautiful, innocent child as if it were their own. The youngest son puts down his notepad and walks over.

Real life somehow found its way into these dead souls.

When at her worst, she is abandoned with the son she deemed as the “black sheep," the only one she remembers while the rest are just strangers in a strange place she used to call “home.”
They discarded her as an old woman as if in fear that this will become their fate with time, yet they embraced her youth as if the slightest touch could turn back the clock.

Her eldest son chose to face the facts as he quietly leaves the room, mourning the loss of their mother.

Age is inevitable.

I Am...

I am everything you thought I wasn't. I turn on/off like a light switch and have mood swings as fast as the weather changes in L.A. Pedicures are my stress relief, but I get them once in a blue moon. So, yes I'm still stressed. I love green vegetables, but hate peas and anything pea-like. Carrots are coming along thanks to my bestfriend, but very slowly so that's why I now wear glasses, which are unfortunatley tilted to the left and always being misplaced. I break out into hives when I drink, but I have a better time if I'm too buzzed to know I'm really bored. I read only non-fiction because if I wanted to picture something in my head, I'd go watch a movie instead. I hate all movies until they give me reason to love them, buy them, absorb them. I quote stuff because I can't say it any better and make-up words like "kaloo" "boohead" just to make it stick better than your average pet name. I miss my pet Cinnamon very much that it makes it harder everyday to look outside my bedroom window, which used to be Mama's room for the last 26 years...I wish Mama peace of mind since her family is falling apart like her memory. And the strength for us to find a way to get back together again. I love just being with my family because through it all they always find a way to make me laugh. My sisters know me better than I know myself. My mom can say all the wrong things at the right moments but can calm me down like water to a lit match. My dad takes care of things like that was his only purpose in life and it feels good to come home with dinner on the table and a dying candle's scent permeating the room. My LOML and I have come to a dramatic turn of events, yet he knows in his heart that I'm the one. And that alone is reason enough to get up, start over, do something, talk to a friend, write a blog, hug a loved one, text a joke, appreciate, live, love, and go to bed.

Birthday Blogs

2007

Dear June,

So we meet again. The years keep rolling by and yet no matter how many times it arrives, your second day still never fails me. Even though I've been rained on, put down, left out, and forced to grow up I always save one day out of the year devoted entirely to me.

A day when I refuse to work. A day without meeting deadlines, paying bills, dealing with traffic, waiting for anything, eating right (whatever that means), going to the gym (lol!), crying, cleaning, and of course my ultimate favorite analyzing drama. This is my day. A day filled with laughter, Betty Boop trinkets, Tori music, chocolate blueberry truffles, passion fruit iced tea, vanilla lattes, soft pillows, cloudy weather, dark blues, happy faces, hugs&kisses and lotsa shoes! Topped off with an extra special dose of relaxation and great conversation. It's doing whatever the hell I feel like it because I can.

Happy Birthday to me is a fresh start. A time to look forward to; that even for a moment I'm a kid again and everything is something to explore! It's not about what I get, but about the people who are willing to show they care. It's wonderful seeing my sisters going crazy, thinking outside of the box just to plan the day's events: spa treatments, caffeine buzz, and beautiful memories. It's about Ate being the first to greet me every year. It's about Bea having to deal with waking me up in the morning and getting me dressed to feel beautiful. It's about mommy dancing around and daddy's homecookin'. It's about a family dinner for one night simply to spoil the hell out of me! It's about Pamela wrapping pretty little somethings up so that I don't want to rip the paper when I open them. It's about my LOML calling a little passed midnight even with so many things on his plate just to tell me, "Goose, I love you."

It's about those special few who took the time to leave a comment, send a text, call, write, and just remember to show up and say, "Hi."

Thank you for giving me something to smile about.

Love you,

ME

2006

Second of June. I have the urge to be dramatic. Maybe its the music or the fact that the sun's making its way up to welcome such a wonderful day. Whatever the reason, I of course can't sleep and listening compilations provoke me even more to write about what's on my mind. When do I let my head rest?

I'm alone and in front of you, blog. Staring at the glare of this computer screen through the blur of my blind eyes (I'm not wearing my glasses). My left shoulder's throbbing. Both my wrists are sore from the pressure of all this tapping on the keyboard. Been dizzy since yesterday. Feel like a lollipop. Somehow I'll get to the point.

I can't help but think a lot about everyone I've ever met in my entire life. Where are they? What are they doing? Do they think of me? How can they mean so much to me then, only to care less now? It saddens me a little, but frustrates me tremendously. What the hell is the point of consuming myself with the idea that all that I did went to waste? That the people that were a part of who I was, no longer define me as the person I am today? I could stress on this forever. This would explain the dizziness.

I have come to terms with the fact that nothing is permanent in life. Things change for us to grow. People come and go. And those that really matter, those who have no choice (my family) well, thats the only solid thing I've got.

TORI MIX

(lyrical pieces from Tori Amos' songs)

I remember, yes in my peach party dress. No one dared. No one cared to tell me where the pretty girls are. Those demigods with their nine-inch nails and little fascist panties tucked inside the heart of every nice girl. These precious things. Let them bleed. Let them wash away...

All the world is all I am. The black of the blackest ocean and the tear in your hand. All the world is danglin'...dangling'...danglin' for me darlin.' You don't know the power that you have with that tear in your hand.

Make me laugh. Say you know what you want. You said we were the real thing. So I show you some more and I learn what black magic can do. Make me laugh. Say you know you can turn me into the real thing. So I show you some more and I learn.

And I hate elevator music. The way we fight. The way I'm left here silent. Oh these little earthquakes. Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces.

You say the word. You know I will find you. Or if you need some timeI don't mind. I don't hold onto the tail of your kite. I'm not like the girls that you've known, but I believe I'm worth coming home to. Kiss away night. This girl only sleeps with butterflies. So go on and fly then boy. Balloons look good from on the ground. I fear with pins and needles around we may fall then stumble.

Cause sometimes I said sometimes I hear my voice and it's been here. Silent All These...Years go by will I still be waiting for somebody else to understand? Years go by if I'm stripped of my beauty and the orange clouds raining in head. Years go by will I choke on my tears til finally there is nothing left. One more casualty you know we're too easy, easy, easy. Well, I love the way we communicate. Your eyes focus on my funny lip shape. Let's hear what you think of me now, but baby don't look up. The sky is falling.

And i put the hood right back where you could taste heaven perfectly...

the haunting past

Why do I always look into the past to figure out what the hell is going on at this moment in time? Simple. It made me who I am today. Someone once told me, how am I suppose to move on if I keep turning around to face the opposite direction? I'm just now starting to realize the common sense of this question. I know I've recently tried to let go by opening a closed chapter. To let go of anger, pain, resentment, sadness, all of which has made me doubt that good things can happen to good people. And it feels like I've healed that part of my life. This was never about anyone else, but me. I hate to an endless degree, but love like no other. I live by extremes emotionally. And when that's broken, it can never be what it once was. I know the diffence between my "past" and my "present." Then, I moved in constant circles. Even with someone, I was still alone. Now, I'm moving forwards. I'm tired of being dizzy. This was never a competition, but a choice I had made even before there was anyone willing to stick by me to choose from. I said what I had to say. Took out my aggression on the one who deserved to hear it. And am no longer angry. I don't do things half-ass. So take it as you will. I will always be true to myself.

Baseball

Bulging bubbles of pavement burst underneath her feet as she makes her way across the playground. The sun came down hard that summer afternoon at the corner Elementary school. The wired fence slowly bends over to show its defeat to the unbeatable heat. The uneven earth tilted the batting area to one side. There is no pitcher's mound just a chalked-written "X" to mark the spot. Bases are flat, worn-out mats seeming to become one with the melting concrete beneath it.

One bat. One ball. No grassy knoll. The game is Baseball. The year: 1990.

A bunch of 10-year old kids sit on the splintered, wooden bench chained against the batting cage, anxiously awaiting their turn to hit a home run. The young girl, wearing stone-washed jeans, a light blue shirt with a faded heart on the upper right corner walks beyond the crowd, hovering near the monkey bars dreading on being called up next.

A watcher, not a player, she prefers to dangle upside-down, the ends of her dark brown hair almost touching the sand, observing others play a sport she so desperately wishes she could understand well enough to play herself.

"Pitcher throws ball to batter. Batter hits ball with bat. The ball flies high. Bat is gently tossed to the ground. Batter runs to first base, to second base, to third base, to home. Score! (That is of course if no one manages to catch the ball in time to tag the batter out)," she thinks quietly.

Yet though she knows the mechanics of the game she never makes it passed “Strike 3!”

Sometimes the young girl would daydream of hitting the ball so far out that not even the boys who play this game religiously can run fast enough to catch it. Sweat beading down their faces trying to grab onto the force that pushes it farther and farther away from their grasp. The crowd cheers as she grazes pass each base, excited and out of breath, but as she almost touches home base...the teacher, rotund with an ash-brown, mushroom-shaped haircut and red lipstick on her coffee-stained teeth cackles for the next batter, snapping the poor girl back to reality.

A skinny, short kid with a dusty baseball cap, dark jeans, and a black t-shirt, struts up to the plate. He is one of the best players in the school and he knows it. His fingers grip the aluminum bat so tightly that his bone-white knuckles show through his charcoaled-colored skin. He tips his cap, bends his knees, squinting his eyes to gain better focus. The ball curves towards him. One swing and it is long gone! The kids all stood up, jaw-dropped in amazement as the ball disappears into the sky. The young girl flips off of the bars and dusts the sand off her knees, watching in envy as her dream slowly becomes his reality.

The teacher quickly kills the excitement, lecturing as if what had just taken place is a specific lesson plan rather than a fun-filled game of sports with unpredictable circumstance. She picks the bat off the floor and starts to explain how important it is not to let it fly out of control. The young girl slowly backs away and by doing so, gets called up next.

The kids know she can’t play well and begin nagging to have someone else go instead. The young girl agrees, insisting on sitting this one out. She has a bad feeling in her heart that she would do just the opposite of what is to be expected of her. She would strike out. . .again.

The teacher ignores the young girl’s plea and as if enjoying the power she has over them, argues that everyone has to play to get credit for the activity. Afterall, kids should want to participate in such an “easy” game.

The young girl imagines the teacher up at bat as the kids throw lots of baseballs her way.

Suddenly, the young girl finds herself at the worst case scenario: Bat in hand, kids booing. As the teacher calls for the pitcher to throw a fast ball, the young girl is caught off guard and nearly tumbles over.

“Strike 1,” the teacher screeches as the kids point fingers and laugh.

“You suck,” they holler as the young girl prepares for another failed attempt.

"I'll make this one a slow ball just to show you guys how bad she really is," teases the pitcher as he simply tosses the ball.

The young girl just keeps swinging miserably wishing someone would get in her way and give her the pure luxury of hitting them instead.

“Strike 2,” the teacher belches again, slapping her knee, causing an uproar of laughter from the surrounding classes.

The young girl starts to turn beet red. A hot tear rolls down her cheeks. She wipes them away leaving a smeared dirt mark on her face. This is her last attempt to at least hit the son of a bitch. She gets into the stance she observed just moments earlier and blocks out the bickering, the insults, the heartache. She clenches her small hands around this iron giant of a bat, bends her knees, squints her eyes, and waits for the inevitable.

Bat meets ball.

She hit it! Her eyes spring open and for a second she loses herself and forgets what to do. An eerie silence consumes the crowd. And then she hears, "Run!" She makes it to first, second...wait...something is not right. What happened to all the cheering? Why does she feel like she is the only one playing the game?

She stops somewhere in-between second and third base. Everyone is looking at someone else. There. Sitting on the splintered, wooden bench is a girl wearing a blue jogging suit, holding her mouth closed. Blood seeping through the gaps.

The young girl suddenly comes to and realizes she does not know what the hell she did with the bat! She recalls it in slow-motion to help her piece the puzzle together. "Oh my...," she whispers in disbelief when she sees the bloody bat near the other girl's feet. What appears to be little, white stones are scattered everywhere.

One girl screams. Another rushes to the nurse's office. The teacher grabs the young girl by the arm and drags her face to face with the startled girl. The other kids form a circle around them. The teacher demands the girl removes her hand from her mouth. The girl refuses at first, but in fear does as she is told. A mixture of blood and saliva pours out of the gaping hole.

These are not stones. These are her teeth.

The nurse comes running out with a towel and escorts the girl back into the school.

The teacher bends down, picks a bloody tooth up off the pavement and looks at the young girl with disappointing eyes.

"You did this," she said sternly.

THE TOOTH

The young girl stood motionless, staring blankly into the teacher’s cruel, beady eyes. She could see the jagged red lines zigzagging across the eyeballs as if it’s cutting right into her reflection. The teacher, tooth in hand, hovers over the young girl’s small stature as if preparing to swallow her whole.

“Wish it were your tooth…” mumbled the young girl.

“What did you say,” the teacher replied, cupping her hand over her ear.

The young girl wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, “This wasn’t my idea! I didn’t want to play because something bad might happen! This isn’t my fault, you stupid monster! Can you hear me now you fat cow?!”

And yet, even with her mouth open, nothing managed to escape it. She just bowed her head in shame, knowing that what she did is terrible but never intentional.

The teacher tosses the tooth back onto the pavement, creating an unnerving clatter against the rest of the broken pieces huddled at her feet. She dismisses the rest of her students to return back to the classroom and orders the poor girl to sit at the splintered, wooden bench…alone.

The sun blares down on the young girl, but she hardly feels its hot breath against her sweaty back.

Weight of the World

Another fight over nothing really. Another temper tantrum. Another nagging session. Another piece of bullshit. I am tired. Worn out. Stressed. I feel as though the only release I can give myself comes in tears and leaves me drained. I stare at my puffy red eyes in the mirror, feel the heat of my swollen cheeks, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink in an attempt to control my breathing through my mouth since my nose becomes useless. I stand there in front of me wondering how in the hell did I get in this shit again and yet all I can remember is the past; the times before in which I stood the way I am standing, cried the way I am crying, trying to catch my breath. Lost in the moment of everything gone wrong. No need for tissues. Just rinse with water every few minutes.

I was told something that night. Something I knew before, but never let sit: “You carry with you the weight of the world.”

Meaning everything is a big, fucking deal. Everything is. Everyone’s problem becomes my own. They are mine. To me, it is all a domino effect. And as we know, shit rolls downhill. I feel I have to do something, anything to carry the load off their shoulders. I know I do this to help them realize how much I can do and have done for them. To give what I expect back. So that they will not turn their backs on me. So they won’t walk away.

Then again, this I did for people who are no longer in my life.

People come and go. I’ve said this countless times. Memories linger. Staining my mind with endless possibilities of it happening all over again. A boyfriend cheats = all men are dogs. A best friend stabs you in the back = all girls are bitches. A close friend wants more then you can give = friends are temporary. Life sucks = Life SUCKS. Nothing is guaranteed. No matter what, shit happens. And like my Ate says, “In the end, we die anyways.”

Just stop

Sometimes I literally want to pull myself out of my own body, stare at what the hell I'm trippin' about and slap me back into reality. Seriously. Have you ever noticed what you are doing while you're doing it and want to say to yourself, "Hey, just stop!" I do, but then again since I already dug myself into a hole I can't get out of I just wallow in it for awhile and wonder how I got myself in this mess in the first place.

It all started when I first became an official "girlfriend." The real deal. Holding hands, writing love letters, pet names, the whole shabang. I was 14 for fuck's sake. Naive, infatuated, unaware that shit happens...in other words an optimist. The worst kind. The ones that actually believe nothing and no one can touch them if they're "in love." What did I know? I was your typical adolescent teenager dating someone older than me, someone just as crazy about me as I am of them and for some reason it felt good to be cheesy and overconsumed with each other. That is until I lost myself in the process.

All I knew how to be was this "girlfriend." Whatever he wanted to do was cool as long as it was with him. It didn't even occur to me how strange it started to become when his own mother would accompany us on dates and want to hold his hand too as we walked in the mall. She would buy me these hideous dresses and say, "It's about time to get out of those baggy pants and be a lady." (Come to think of it, I liked those baggy pants. They were comfortable and in style back then to be wearing stuff twice my size. And who said I was ready to be a "lady" anyway.) But there I was. Wearing dresses that itched with curlers in my hair.

We did have our good times. Afterall I was his FIRST everything too. But then I realized as the years passed (a whole 7 years to be exact) we were turning into the couple from Hell. The ones who pretty much had a fight scheduled every 15 minutes. When we'd hang out because it's what couples do. And as we sat across from each other at a restaurant the only thing we'd say was, "Pass the bread."

A routine. A planned relationship with unfortunately nothing in common. This is when we ventured out with other people doing other things. Finding interests of our own that just didn't include each other. It came to a point where when his family and I attended one of his award shows, I was surprised at just how many clubs he had joined. I just nodded my head as if I knew it all along. I suddenly thought to myself, "Holy shit I don't even know the person I am with anymore."

We tried to get back to the old days of when the only thing worth doing was being with each other. When doing nothing was exciting because we'd be in the same room. But that got old quick. I'd often find myself sitting up in his bed with my arms crossed while he slept next to me thinking, "Why am I here?" He got so comfortable around me that even a shower would be too much for him to do. Brushing his hair would be a plus. There was this one year where he would spend hours on end in front of a computer, where if you listen real close you could hear the static cling of his pants pulling away from the fabric of his computer chair.

He had his good points. A genius really. I could ask him anything, just throw a random question at him and he knew the answer almost instantly. This was before the Internet became so easily accessible and popular to use. It didn't matter what topic it covered or how long ago it took place. He was a library of information and I enjoyed picking at his brain just to see if he would fuck up. Never did. He could tear a computer apart and put it back together like child's play. And do this because it was fun. An amusing character who if you knew him couldn't possibly hurt a fly.

Then again...this is why it became even more difficult to argue with him. People would automatically assume it was always my fault because well...I could hurt a fly. Especially if it was buzzing in my face. (I'm not insect-friendly by any means.) And he slowly began to transform into one. The ones just constantly crawling all over me. Seeing how far they could go before I snapped. It became a game, "Try to snap, I dare you" game. And he became my fly.

It drove me insane. Why did I put up with it for so long? The same reason why he did and why anyone would. It's a routine. A plan. A comfort zone in which you don't want to pull yourself away from and do all over again with someone else. The whole first encounter, getting to know each other, discovering the dark side, the good, the bad, the oh shit...The whole, "What was the point in all this if it were just going to end?" Until you regret it and start to regret each other for having it last as long as it did.

There's this thing called, "Happiness" when it comes to love. A desire to want to be with another person to share your intimate thoughts and ideas about anything. A spark of interest in what they think and have to say in return. This connection, a buzz, moments that really make life feel worth living. And yes it's corny, an emotional high that you just can't get enough of, but so what? The euphoria is what people, whether they want to admit it or not, actually want. It's what I want. It's what he and I lacked in the end.

I am well aware that nothing lasts forever and that after a while, two people will eventually know each other pretty well that things become predictable. However, it is not "love" that moves in phases. It's the people. And once we start to forget why we are even in this relationship to begin with and what actually makes us click, we should ask ourselves, "What's the point?" And if the answer is "Routine. Plan. Comfort zone. Convenience" rather than "Happiness. Love. Desire. Connection," then we have moved on. Maybe even unconsciously. So pull yourself out of your own body and just stop.

Simple Pleasures

I forgot myself again. It's my day off and yes, I got up early this morning with a serious desire to be productive, but what for really? I mean, I work enough so why not sleep in an extra hour or so? What's the sudden rush to do something if it means getting out of these warm comforters? So I lay there, deep in thought about "thinking too much" if that makes any sense and fell back asleep because well, I could.

Later that day my older sister rang me awake for our weekly lunch date: sweet passion fruit iced tea and then some. We met this interesting waitress (curly hair, pale skin, and black-rimmed glasses) who seemed to act more like a long-lost friend than a server with her sly, sense of humor and easy-going attitude. A bright blue Band-Aid covered a newly burnt part of her right hand in-between her thumb and index finger.

"Aw, you poor thing...what happened," I asked.

We hit it off immediately. Then there was this bus boy that made one of our most favorite restaurants extra special this afternoon. He kept making it a point to come by and say, "Hi." We paid no attention at first. I mean, afterall it's only common courtesy. But after the third "Hi" we began to blush. Hmmm...

He came by again later to say more.

"You ladies working after this," he asked with a smile.

"Nah, we're off. Why," we both said pretty much at the same time.

"What do you drink," he followed turning his smile into a grin.

My sister shrugged her shoulders and combed back her luscious brown hair behind her ears. "Pina Colada, I guess," she answered.

He looked over to me. "Um...I don't drink," I said honestly.

He nodded his head and was off. My sister poked me,"You could've said you drank something."

I thought to myself what for? I really don't drink.

A little while later he came back sure enough with her Pina Colada. She smiled with delight. How sweet?! (She must've thought that out loud because it was written all over her face.)

"Do any of you like cake," he asked.

"Uh..." we said, looking at each other in disbelief. He followed by saying, "I feel bad because here I got you a drink (looking at my sister) and well there's nothing for her (he turned my way)."

"It's cool really," I began to answer.

"She likes that raspberry thingy..." my sister interrupted.

We couldn't believe it. We've been coming to this place since '97 and it's the first time ever that we were getting extra spoiled.

The simple pleasures in life: Gourmet food, cold drinks, great company and awesome customer service.

Intuition

It hits me. Always with the same energy. This sudden, gut-wrenching pain that warns me something bad is about to happen. Maybe my instincts are wearing off. Whatever the reason, it lets me know that I’ve been lied to. No matter how I try to brush it off like it’s no big deal, I know without a doubt that I’ve been deceived. The worst part is that I don’t let it go. I carry it with me like all the stress in my life. I feel like hiding underneath the covers forgetting the day as the sun comes and goes.

The lil' Van that could

Have you ever had a moment in time that you wanted to remember? There is no real significance to it, but there it is. I was in my dad’s van. The van: brown and beige with gold trim lining, velvet curtains and carpeted floors, and a mini TV right at the center where everyone would hit their head at least once as they entered. We went on several road trips in that old Mitsubishi yet it’s the trips back home that I think about the most. Everyone would fall asleep. It felt so safe, so secure, so soothing with my dad behind the wheel. No sharp turns or high speeds, just by-the-book careful driving for hours. The soft, rumble of its engine, the gentle breeze cooling the window as I press the palm of my hand against the glass. Flat desert planes for miles, mountains, and the ever-changing, colorful sky to keep me company.

My little black book

The following are a few entries I had written in a black velvet journal with a spiral, red dragon stitched on its cover. They speak on lost love or moments of despair because I found myself stuck in an endless cycle of bullshit. A lot has to deal with me growing up, getting in and out of a bad situation, and with every word I finally came to my senses. I never thought of sharing it until now:

"Cry"

The cold wind swept through the broken window

and lifted the curtains up

like ghostly figures glowing in the dark.
The thin branches of the old oak tree clattered against the wood frame.

The dying leaves wet from the rain showers flew in and soaked their lives into my carpet floor.

I sat there, in tears, and did the same.

I wrote this on Jan. 14, 1997 as part of a creative writing exercise. The teacher would give us one sentence, "The cold wind swept through the..." and we were supposed to expand on it. She thought I could've added a little more, but to me for what I was feeling at the time this was just right.

"Please Look at Me"

I walk...by you slowly.

Hoping you will see me.

Holding my breath with every tiny step.

I walk...straight ahead.

With my arms crossed.

Trying my best to enhance my features

(and hide my many flaws).

Maybe then you'll notice me.

But...

I walk...away.

When I see that your eyes are following someone else.

My mind constantly uttering the words:

"Please look at me."

I was inspired to write this while literally walking by this boy I had a crush on. He didn't even know me, but I would purposely walk by him just to see if even through the slightest curiousity he would glance at my direction and say, "Hi." He never did.

"A Place to Put Yours"

I space out...daydreaming about something else.

Something better.

Anything but this.

I realize that when I wake you will still be at it.

And I will wish for more sleep.

We do not talk anymore.

No 'sweet nothings' are whispered in my ear.

We do not hold anymore.

Your embrace remains cold and insecure.

We do not create love...

This is not love.

I space out just to keep my sanity;

to pretend to feel.

Something...anything at all.

Until now.

I realize that I am simply

just a place to put yours.

This is what it is. I was actually thinking these very words during...well...

"Painful Love"

I stay with you for reasons.

It's not just because of love.

Yes, I love you for reasons.

But it's not just out of love.

I feel like I can do whatever I wanna do with you.

Be silly, act like a baby.

Burst into tears or laugh out loud.

I feel comfortable to be around you.

To eat, sleep, and bitch because I want to.

These are my reasons.

My everyday, ordinary reasons

of why I can't leave...

Even when your words can shatter me.

And your force can abuse me.

And your mind can forget me.

And your heart can control me.

We were together for reasons.

And I took your pain ONLY because of my desire to have love.

I was crying when I wrote this. I cut a heart out of tissue paper and put a bandaid over it and placed it next to this entry in my journal.

"END"

I needed someone who needed me.

I thought you were the one.

I tried to keep you like you kept me.

Whenever I needed you,

I'd just take you out of my little hiding place and tell you all of my secrets.

I wanted someone who wanted me.

I thought that someone was you.

I tried to reveal what I felt,

but you'd just runaway and hide.

I wished for someone who wished for me.

You made a wish for something else.

I tried to make you change your mind.

But...I'd just wait.

I longed for someone who longed for me.

I thought for one moment it seemed it was you.

But you fell too short and still hid.

I hoped for someone who hoped for me just as much.

I opened my eyes too soon to see you.

But you just closed yours so you can't see anything anymore.

So now your blind and alone.

The next time you realize that I am here...I won't be.

And if you miss me, when your eyes can finally see...

Just close them again.

Nice and tight.

And dream.

This is the very LAST entry. I fought with him that morning and he just left me there in his house. I didn't know how to drive at the time and I had too much pride and not enough common sense to find another way home. So...as I was waiting there in his living room I wrote this on a piece of scratch paper and left it on top of his mantle. When he came back, I brushed him off and had his brother take me home instead.

A New Orleans Moment

I hate flying. I know it sounds childish, but it feels surreal to me that such a heavy machine is floating in air. Nothing above or below it is holding it up and every now and then it would shake and we’re supposed to remain calm? Think happy thoughts: “Away from work, away from work, away from work.”

We squeezed our way down the narrow aisles to the very back row and sat next to someone we would later refer to as ‘Jasper’. Dressed in a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and topped with a black leather vest, he had shaggy brown hair and a rugged face. “Take me home!” he hollered as the captain prepared us for take off.

It was hot and moist when we first stepped off of the plane. Hand in hand, my boyfriend glanced over his shoulder at me to say, “Finally, a vacation.”

The smell of history, the taste of the Old South, a place I had never been to before is staring me right in the face and welcoming me to explore. He was calmly excited as we walked through the airport to the baggage claim area. As we got our bags, I made my quick phone calls home to tell them we arrived safely still in shock that I got away for the first time in a long while. As we were about to exit the airport, an elderly African-American man with a black, driver’s cap came up to us asking us if we needed a ride. There were no cabs around and he had an air-conditioned Suburban. No hesitation there. Little did we know that this man would be our tour guide. He knew the ins and outs of this city and began giving us a history lesson as we drove alongside the highway. The streets dipped slightly and in both directions a Cemetery stood. I held my breath as we crossed.

The hotel looked nothing like the pictures: small, squished building in the heart of the city with a heavy glass door and brass handle. It smelled like a new car, a refreshing change from the heat. The lobby had a Victorian motif, a vintage sofa with olive green cushioning, large mirrors with gold trimming and marble floors. A refurbished, decorative gate hung against the back wall. We hopped onto the elevator and made our way up to our room. A comfortable and quaint setting tucked away in the corner. A shear, white sheet was neatly pinned as the backdrop against the bed frame and the television set conveniently hid within a tall, wooden dresser. A wall of windows was draped with thick, green curtains. A writer’s desk with a glass top overlooked the city. Across the way, graffiti marked the perfect word for our adventure, “ESCAPE.”
A sour stench of fresh garbage thrown onto the backs of rusted trucks, a mixture of overcooked seafood lingered in the air. Sewage water spilled beneath 17th century Spanish-style homes where the front displayed the back, large shutters against a stained wall. Horse manure lined the cobble-stoned paths of the French Quarter as the carriage made its way around this battered city. The dampness of New Orleans displayed an overcast of misfortune, but it was here, under a new sky, in the midst of strangers, that I found my heaven.

Alone and Disoriented.

She sits. Alone and disoriented. Unable to move her frail body. Trapped in a steady wheelchair, watching the world pass her by. She remembers very little. Faces of loved ones long gone. Faces she sees, but can no longer recognize.

Why are they so sad? Some in tears, looking down at their feet. Why are they so angry at each other? Others yelling at the top of their lungs, stretching their vocal chords to a range she has never heard before. She knows how they are feeling, but cannot find a reason for their pain.

Seven children. Two boys and five girls. Raised by one woman, proud to call herself a true mother. Never perfect, but present in their lives by her own willful strength and determination. She taught them how to cook, clean, and care for themselves. She enforced strict rules and regulations that they all must abide by to maintain proper order in the household. To avoid any bickering, she gave each child their own things by labeling items with their names. Everything. From bathing products to underwear, branded with their initials. Missing the fact that although this teaches independence, it fails to show the importance of teamwork and the willingness to share.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning the reason comes to her. It pierces her heart and pulls her downward causing her to hunch over. She stares at her scrawny legs and pencil-thin arms helpless in her physical condition to fight back the memories lashing out at her. She closes her eyes as moments of their childhood play in her head. She did not allow them to work out their differences. They never had to achieve great communication skills to get their points across. They never had to learn how to deal with the drama in their family because she was always there to protect them. Her solution had always been her.

Now she was too weak to even stand up; too weak to tell them all to shut-up.

With their calendars and notepads, itineraries and checklists, each highlighted square indicating who will be at her dying side. She can't help, but think back to her struggles and how extremely easy it would've been if she could create an agenda where six other mothers could her care for a single child.

She shakes her head at the thought of this. What happened? Why is her weakness causing those around her to weaken? Why, as her mind falls to pieces, are they losing their piece of mind? She blames herself. Even though her eldest son tries so desperately to defend her. "Remember what she used to say?" he asked. "Kapag binato mo na bato, ibato ng tinapay (if someone throws rocks at you, you throw back bread). But it fell on deaf ears. Fire fought with fire. And in this case, everyone burned.

She watched as one-by-one, her children fled. Running away from the rubble that once felt like "home," a disasterous mess that used to be called a family. Wondering why it is so complicated for them to come to an understanding with one another. She knew she raised them well, but their stubborn independence has caused them to act selfish. Rather than brainstorming together to resolve something so simple, they created numerous other challenges to make things worse.

"You disrespected me!" one daughter screams.

"It's my house!" the other stormed back.

"You're not listening!" the youngest retorted.

Round and round they go, stuck in a whirl of anger. Unable to break free and like their mother in a wheelchair, they are stuck.

Alone and disoriented.