One Liners #1

~ There must be one ray of light to this day. I just need to stay alive long enough to care.

~ I carve my words into your skin so that you remember them:
And remember me.

~When you kiss a woman, are you kissing her
or her lipstick?


the Seer

I have seen the end of the world
I have peered into the void of malcontent and damnation
Stained my flesh in the inky depths of despair
Drowned by the side of indifference
Smothered my soul within the pool of libation
When a little child leads them,
Who leads the children astray?

Proximity merely expects anticipation
Measurement of distance from one to another
How close is your end?
To your beginning?
Naught but the angels know
Whether this imagined existence
Began, ended, rebirthed anew
Had a purpose to accomplish or a guideline to peruse.

Pondering Addiction

Addiction – compulsive substance use or consumption despite harmful consequences

So one day, puttering through life, a family member (or some other caring, influential person in your life) comes up and says “Hey, you’ve got a problem. You’re addicted.”

Then all the family members corners you and says things like:

– “You need help.”
– “You’re a [insert substance here] addict, and we want to help you get better.”
– “We love you, won’t you accept our help?”

And there I am, on the other side of the tv screen, munching late night snacks and shaking my head.

“Mmm, gurl, you really got a problem!” I pronounce around my second bowl of cereal that is rounding out my late night binge. “Wow, what a mess you are!”

I should have remembered the whole **”casting stones” concept [you know, don’t judge when you are guilty of similar “sins” or shortcomings. Tossing stones in a glass house, etc.].

The next day, it’s my family member coming up to me, saying, “Hey, you’ve got a problem. You’re addicted… to food!”

“What? No! I can stop at any time!” I say, clutching my half-gallon tub of ice-cream, which I was Not sharing by the way. “I’m just really hungry. I could stick to 3 healthy meals, no snacks, easy.”

And then, there are secret trips to the fridge at odd hours of the night. One sandwich, two sandwiches: three sandwiches, and a bowl of cereal. Five slices of cake. Half a pan of brownies.

ALL the ice cream.

Then come the hints.

“How much do you weigh?”

“Have you gained weight (again)?” -the again is implied.

“Stop judging me!” I retort. “Get off my case!”


One day, the light dawns.

“Oh sh*t! I am fat!”

When I open the fridge, my mind whispers, “you’re fat”. Walk down the street, “you whale”. Sit at the table, “another serving for the fat one”.

My alter ego, the “fat one”, sputters, “well, at least I don’t do drugs!! It’s just food, I can quit at any time. I’m just hungry.”

But the thought weighs down like a burden. Fat, the concept/reality, holds me back.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

“No.” Because I’m fat and don’t want other people to see me.

“Wanna go swimming?”

“No.” Because my swimsuits don’t fit anymore, and the “fat-suits” are embarrassing.

“Wanna go to the gym?”

“No.” Because I’m embarrassed to be the only “whale” when everyone looks so fit. Because I don’t know how to use the machinery. 

Because there is always an excuse.


“I hate you, you fat tub of lard!!” I yell at the mirror. I feel sick, I revolt myself.

And I’m hungry.

“I just wanna die,” I moan around another mouthful of food. “So disgusting!”

The weight becomes suffocating. I avoid the mirror and the scale like the plague. I avoid the truth and hide behind my misery and self-loathing.

When I feel unhappy, food makes me feel better. I feel better.

Then later, I realise what I’ve done and I feel worse.

Then I eat again.

The cycle continues.

Rock bottom

The shades are drawn. I lie in bed and watch television. Food containers are scattered around like confetti after a wedding. Windows haven’t been opened in months (possibly years) and I don’t move unless necessary.

Clothes… fat clothes. The mandatory attire.

The voices of critique contain growing concern. “You need to lose weight! Are you exercising?”

“F**k off!” I reply, stomping from the kitchen, clutching my containers of food. My single comfort. I eat in bed and wrap the blankets around myself, hiding my rolls, and jiggle, and extraneous flesh.

I just can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t seem to stop.

In secret moments, of increasing frequency, I ponder why I’m alive, and why I’m still existing. Because I. Hate. Myself.

Turtles have shells. I am exposed in the light, so I shrink to the darkness. Counting down to an imminent end.

Food is my companion. Food is my tempter. Food is my cage.

Sink or swim

In moments of clarity, I ask for help. I want help.

Get these fleshy chains OFF OF ME!!

Start this diet, that diet, another diet. Starving so much I forget why I’m dieting to begin with. My desire to thin, transforms into a desire to consume plates of food and buffets of desserts.

I care. Then I don’t care.

Off the diet, the binge begins. Mindless, emotional consumption. And then I “awake” and I’m right back where I started.

“Why can’t I stop?” I cry, gasping over a distended belly filled with something, anything, everything in the fridge.

Hope and despair, a roller-coaster that doesn’t seem to end. It leaves me exhausted -and hungry.


“I’m thirsty,” I announce, around my third plate of food during my fifth meal of the day.

I pause.

I’m thirsty, not hungry.

“Then why am I eating?”

When was the last time I ate because I was hungry? Did I even need to eat all? Was it simply out of habit?

Why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t I question…any of it?

Like, why am I always eating? What is real hunger, not habitual binging? How/why/when did this happen?


I felt sad. So I ate. Eating made me sad, so I ate some more. Transitioning into mindless consumption.

Oh sh*t.

I’m an idiot.

I’m an addict.

Mind over matter

Rome isn’t built in a day, same goes with changing a habit developed and nurtured over a lifetime. It starts with a resolution, and support. It starts with looking in the mirror and saying “I love you” instead of the opposite.

It starts with planning and thoughtfulness.

Because when you love someone, you plan for their happiness. So I plan for mine.

I focus on breaking the habits. I might go to the fridge, but the fridge has fruits and veggies. I might make brownies, but they are made with whole wheat flour, and bran, and xylitol, and pure cacao powder. I might eat three pieces of brownies, but I also eat fruit, and smoothies, and home-made vegetable juices. I focus on drinking more water, taking vitamins, and feeding myself the nutrients and minerals I need to be healthy.

I workout with friends. I go walking, bike riding, and try to find activities where I can move around. I walk to the store sometimes, instead of taking the bus.

I try. I’m not perfect. But I’m not giving up.

I feel good. The mirror reflects the same figure, but I have a different attitude. The soreness in my muscles from working out are badges of success.

I can’t wait to see how it goes, how I look after working out for a month. A year.

I’m looking to join a gym. I’m focusing on me, taking care of me, without distractions or disillusion.

I’m learning to love myself.

I have my support. I have someone to talk to about tips to improve my self, and improve my habits. Form new, better habits. I have a plan, which I follow and have accountability. I have found something that works for me.

Failing and Rising

I am human. Imperfect.

I accept that I may not be faithful.

But success is getting up one more time than the number of times I have fallen.

Mathematically translated:

~ let x = # times fallen
~ let y = # times getting up

My formula for success: y = x + 1

[Yes, I am a nerd. And proud of it.]

Because that line still swims through my head: “Why do we fall down? So we can get back up.”

Thanks Batman.

But, as my sibling reminds me, failure isn’t “falling off the wagon”.

Failure is giving up, no longer trying.

So I’m not failing, I may stumble, but I’m still walking, going strong.

And I’m alive.

~ Life ~ hope ~

Enablers Cook for the Addiction

Cooking their veins with skinny topped
Spoonfuls of synergy;
They don’t mind sharing, just give them yours
And they’ll start the daily communion.
Serve the daily bread
Liquidated here to powder and heat
The fumes arise, water your eyes

Your lips are dry, chapped, neglected and
Ignored as your whispers and incantations
Rise like incense with the smoke and taint.
Your eyes twitch like an epileptic in a seizure,
A true believer to worship and adore.
Leave your money, your family;
Sacrifice your soul
For just one more…

They huddle around the single lighter’s flame,
They shove their salvation into the fire.
The tongues licking the bottom of their metallic spoons;
Their prayers ascending,
Their minds descending
Into animalistic intent and single-minded focus.

On cue.
One two.
You ingest the poison and powder your soul
Vomiting intent and diluted integrity
To consume all hopes in you
To inject the sorrow and despair into your veins
Cooking your brain, fry your sanity
For mere moments of delusion.

Why is the motto:
Fight over smack,
Share a needle?
Such irony.

Cooking their veins with sugar topped, artery-clogged
Spoonfuls of resentment;
They don’t mind taking, just give them yours
And they’ll start the daily consumption.
Serve the daily bread and butter
Baked here to confection and fat-frosted
Scents that waft and dry your eyes

Your lips are dry, chapped, neglected and
Ignored as your whispers and incantations
Rise like incense with the fryer steam and smoke.
Your hands shake like a diabetic in a candy store,
A true believer to worship and adore.
Leaving your dignity, and your happiness;
Sacrifice your soul
For just one more…

They huddle around the overladen buffet table,
They shove their hands into the platters.
Their tongues licking the bottom of their metallic spoons;
Slobbering over grasping fingers even as
Their guilt arises,
Their disgust bubbles forth
Into depressed intent and dissipated resolution.

On cue.
One two.
You ingest the confection and smother your soul
In butter, sugar, pastries and gradual death,
Vomiting intent and diluted integrity
To consume all hopes in you;
To swallow the sorrow and despair into yourself,
Drown your body’s voice, and destroy your health
For mere moments of escapism.

Why is the motto:
Fight over snacks,
Share a scale?
Such irony.

Demon in Disguise

I’ve caught myself an angel,

No more to fly away;

Grounded to the solid earth,

No more to soar on high.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

I ripped off her glossy wings;

Now she is one of us

Earth bound beings.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

Isn’t she divine?

She is beautiful and graceful,

An exotic bird on arm.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

That refuses to leave my side;

She pines if I leave her long,

Tightly grasps my sleeve.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

For me she trades the sky;

The outer realms of space and flight,

Heaven, cosmos, and universe.

I’ve caught myself an angel, Mother,

I cannot give her up;

It is very hard to tell, mother,

Who is a slave to whom.

An angel has caught myself,

She’ll never let me go;

No matter how far I run,

In chains, she drags me back.

An angel has caught myself,

Now I’m trapped in this snare;

How could I have ever known,

That one’s possessions can also possess?

An angel has caught myself,

She stole my budding wings;

I couldn’t leave her if I tried,

She’ll go and hunt me down.

An angel has gotten a hold of me,

Now we breed discontent;

I am tied to her, she is tied to me,

One great happy family.

An angel has gotten a hold of me,

Resentful she has been;

I am punished for my sins,

She taunts me to atone.

An angel has got a hold of me, mother,

She will not let me go;

It was good while it lasted, mother,

But now we live in hell.

The Perfect Model

Gazing through the wall of glass,
As the viewers stare and pass;
The perfect model of serenity,
Hiding the inner heart’s tragedy.
The perfect little angel,
Isn’t she sublime?
The passersby ignore the jail
That locks her in her mind.

The invisible chains that bind
The restrictions on her life,
The person that she is is trapped inside;
Inner turmoil, ragging strife.

Unbetrayed by the grinning face,
The pasted smiles and double lies;
The jokes that hide that hidden place,
That inner closet where the soul cries.

Inside her mind she’s screaming,
Her silent heart is bleeding;
At midnight she’s weeping,
A battle of wills competing.

Although the glossy lips are sealed,
The iron bars can’t hold her soul within;
Soon her concealed secrets will be revealed,
Now others can fault her secret sins.

Wherever she turns there’s a wall,
A detour to a dead end stage;
She’s a slave to others’ beck and call,
A jilted bird in a gilded cage.

Banging on the unyielding walls,
Leaning against the glass;
Waiting for the grim reaper’s call,
Blood dripping off the lance.

She left behind a final plea,
“My heart none can ever disgrace;
The world will always hate me,
Who cares about saving face?”

Identity #1.1: Beauty… Eyes… What’s a Nude Palette?

Within the past few weeks, I’ve been investing serious thought into definitions of “gender”. I define gender as the persona displayed on the outside, to reflect one’s inner identification with characteristics that a society or culture may attribute to a specific sex (specifically male or female).

Continue reading Identity #1.1: Beauty… Eyes… What’s a Nude Palette?

Candor: Not every day is the same

Some days are a great time to be alive. The sun shines, the birds sing, and I float on wings that sparkle. I feel great. No, I feel freaking awesome: like I imagine Bruce Wayne does, when the sun comes up, and he removes his mask, and the bruises are badges proving that he vanquished evil, accomplished something that changed one life -or many.

I feel as though I could go to Vegas, and every number I play would win, every stock I choose would spike, every lottery ticket I own will reveal the magic number. On these amazing days, nothing can faze me, my favorite tracks will randomly play despite the usually unreliable shuffle feature on my player, the bus driver will smile and nod back when I say “Good morning” and work will feel like a joy. Smile stretching across my face like the colorful flutter of scarves in the sun, I will strut out the front door, through the elevator, and into my cubicle like I am walking the stage toward an audience even Eminem would be jealous of.

Everything I touch turns to gold, my art is beautiful and I find the perfect notes to my songs on the first try. Every word spills like honey onto my computer screen, deliciously exhumed. No shade on my day, nothing can erase the beauty I see, no evil word can destroy my glow, and frankly, no idiot I encounter can slur my mood.


And some moments, it kicks up a notch. Invincibility. Everything I do or say becomes perfect. Is perfect. Laying on the frosting on cake with care and precision, and my hands are steady as a surgeon. Floating versus walking, confident and cool, like the epitome that immediately sways the world. The rush, the rush!! Pure and sweet, untainted by artificial chemicals, or mind altering outside influences, no this must be even better than such immersions.

This is what sipping the elixir of joy must taste like.

These are the good days, the great days.

The days everyone comes to expect of me, because they occur so frequently. Life is good to me -not perfect, but good. These are the better days.

But there are those days.

Days of rare and spontaneous darkness. Dark in epic proportions, that within my tiny existence, snuffs the light, that usually blazes, and shrinks that inferno to a pin-prick before winking it out. Effort seems meaningless, every step becomes a drag. Liking swimming with weights in the ocean at night, but I am not swimming. Swimming would imply effort.

I am not swimming, I’m sinking, drowning, uncaring, still.


It’s almost like rebirth, except in regression for instead of being born, I’m squishing back into a womb, and I hold myself within spindly arms and withered limbs. With a sinkhole in my chest, as I drain out, like sand in an hour glass, but the grains slip away into nothing. Vibrancy dies, color expires, a funeral pal on the day which may not rain or overcast, but might as well have been.

Imagination and musings, like bare cold fingers of leafless trees, clawing at the sky, or the musty dirt of the sepulcher. Scratching at layers suddenly too tight, at wrappings that stifle and suffocate, twisting in a grave of expectations and a coffin of rigidity. Can the tree that falls be heard?

Sometimes the day descends into a figurative night. Labels, like tape over lips, steal my voice, and the screams in my throat remain unheard. Similar to the aftershock of a nuclear blast, the silent stillness, the slight ring in the ears, when even yelling becomes the flapping of lips, and desperate expressions a horrid pantomime.

Then the violence absent in the days, visit my dreams…

Some days are good, many are great, few are dark. All that I wish, is that at the end, the tally of good outweighs bad. Not on average, but on sheer median: that the count or values for dark remain the min, and light remains maximized.

Because the shadows never lasts and the dark fades. With a tip of the scales, the dawn reminds me, once again, that the pendulum sways, and that the contrast allows me to be even more appreciative of the little details, like the brave bloom of a flower in the frigid dune of snow.

The darkness never lasts.

I believe in the dawn.

Thanks to "they" who encourage me to hit "publish" and light candles on my path.

Why I can’t stand Rom-Coms

Possible spoilers regarding B&B (Beauty and the Beast) tv show on CW. 
Dunno, the term "spoilers" have a broad range definition these days, might as well give you a heads up. 
Aaaand, this should be fine under "free usage" for "review purposes" (hey, "youtube" burned me well, so I cover my bases).

Actually, I should title this, “Why I despise strongly dislike Rom-Coms” aka Romantic Comedies.

Continue reading Why I can’t stand Rom-Coms