I’m not OK with Gay!

Identity on CrackIf I were to die tomorrow, found by an unknown and the parents were called in for questioning, if Mother Theresa and Father Floyd needed to identify the body; they would not know want to look for!
Up at the Cinema on the heights I currently sit, awaiting the fantasy film of the week. I am invisible, I am alone and I am no one to anyone around me.
What worries me is this;
My mother picks out my clothes. She won’t let me wear men’s jeans. We have matching shoes. She makes my appointments for spray tanning during the winter months because as she puts it,
Ambien, you just look so pasty and unhealthy!”
Theresa does not allow me to wear hats for hats remind her of gay people. She gives me my chore list in the morning and I receive no ‘Atta girl’ until the list is done.
When I volunteer somewhere to make this world a better place, Theresa has already told me that I am not allowed to touch the paperwork.
My mother dictates where I go, who I see and my sexual identity.
My father. Well he just balances my checkbook?
For all outward appearances in the tiny theater awaiting Bella my heroine, no one would know I was a college graduate. My life is planned; therefore, I need not worry.
Yet, worry I do. I know it is unusual for anyone to tell another adult who they can and cannot love. It is just that I don’t think I care that much.
I live for the Bella’s of this world, the Pocahontas’s, the Twilight’s last gleaming and eternal love affair.
Do I have a need to ride off into the sunset with a woman? No!
Women and I don’t mix because my mother tells me so. They are too controlling, too wanting of my attention and too much a female and not accepted by the moral majority.
But, Mother, the sex is good with women!
When I sit alone in the dusty theater watching an actress on the big screen, I hold my breath and think, I could do that! I could nail her!
Are women attractive to me? Certainly not! Older women, younger women, women friends should never be allowed to enter the forbidden zone, sex devientcy!
So, I make the most of it with toys and the occasional, masturbating in the back of the movie theater. I am quiet in my rhymic responses to myself. I arch and ache at the ‘once upon a time’ scenario.
I’ve been told by many that I don’t stand a chance with a ‘real’ relationship. A ‘real’ relationship would require giving of one’s self and understanding that identity is part of the process.
As the Twilight begins to open, I wonder about my mother and me. Our sordid relationship. She is just out of reach, just one Clonapin short of stealing my identity.

Passing Out and Coming To

Graffiti Soul

I left the attic today.  In sort of a Trazodone blackout, stumbling down the three flights of stairs, shuffling over to the perfectly placed breakfast nook, glancing at a note from Adopt-A-Mother, doing all the wrong things, I managed to squeeze my white girl with a black girl’s ass into the hand-me-down Chevy Malibu.

What did the note written to a second grader but meant for me say?

Ambien, don’t forget to get an appointment with the doctor.  I found your hair in the hairbrush, again!” signed,

Your Mother-


Theresa believes I am going bald.  She also believes that I have a skin problem.  Many cavities to which I see the dentist weekly.  A trick knee and a trashed soul.

Passing out and Coming to
Passing out and Coming to

Christ!  No wonder I can’t wipe my ass without assistance.  Always thinking ahead of the curve Trazodone had been Annie‘s little helper and my morning coffee along with left over birthday.

I’ve driven depressed before.  Matter of fact, it is the only way I know how to drive.  Soiled gym pants, sneakers with holes in them, bunched up boxers with cameras on them, beyond form fitting bra and a sweatshirt from high school.  Or, should I say, the boarding school for missing links.

I speed through the dirty streets of my hometown.  Avoiding what I know I must do.

Delaying the, I have to quit my job today.  I’m sorry!  I know its short notice but my mother thinks it would be best.

Somebody help me please.  Our relationship, Mother Theresa and I, is a strange and eerily physical without the touch sort of affair.

At a stop sign, I cry.  At the yield sign, I ponder my direction.  At the drugstore, I hope that suicidal thoughts don’t creep in.  Back in the car, paper bag of pills and thrills in hand, I believe I am litter.  Trash!  Disposable and threatened by anyone who dare tell me that I am not a viable person?

As I douse myself in sedatives, Rite-Aid glaring at me from its neon sign.  I think of those I’ve lost.  My pick-up lines, my favorite owned by Ambien Grace romantic sayings.

“I don’t want you talking or chatting with Zoey.  I’m afraid you’ll leave me for her.”

“I’m just confused.  I don’t know what I feel.”

“And all of this makes me want to do more. Honestly right now my mind is asking me where’s my knife”

“I’m sorry I ruined everything for you.  I was afraid to make such a big commitment.”

“I probably won’t pass the piss test in AmeriCorps anyway, I always fail multiple choice questions!”

I litter the roadway with my attempt at ignorance.  My blind eye,  my blind faith in prescription drugs, self-medicated sex life and booze for broken bi-sexuals has left me alone and lonely.

The car is in drive, the road ahead blurred with bad intentions.  I’ve just texted Zoey and complained about how poorly people treat me.  So on and so forth.  She is no longer on my list of possible sexual companions for I have littered her life too.

Crying wolf seems to work for me.  There is an unfortunate soul out there everyday wanting to believe in the chemically down trodden.  I found someone who believes for me.  At least, for now.

Soon it will be over.  The lying to the government, the employment that paid for the sex toys but went undiscovered by the IRS.  It will all be smoke up someone else ass in a matter of months for I am a CORP…whatever the fuck that means!