from within.

Its December. The holidays are rushing in, like the tides, and im not ready. Sure, ive bought the gifts, and braved the crowds and all that. But I am by no means ready for the onslaught of emotions that stampede my heart and soul at this time of year.
As a child the holidays were a blissful and perfect time. My grandparents made sure of it. They were my whole life. They still are. This time of year is so hard without them. Theres no chanukah dinner with my grandma peeling and cutting and frying ten pounds of potatoes. Theres nothing. Theres the hole in my heart and the intense searing pain that doesnt seem to dull with time. My heart feels like its ripped in half. It hurts so much. It is 1000 times worse then the physical pain i feel. And to be home, and watch my mother feel the same thing, plus more, it kills me. It is too much for me to handle and im at the edge of this precipice and i dont know which way to go.

a retelling of events.

It was a Sunday. A regular, holy for some, lazy for me, Sunday. I woke up at 11am. I had a haircut appointment at one. I left the house around 12, a typical Southern Florida 4,000 degree afternoon. I pulled out of my safe gated community, and into chaos. I stopped at an intersection, behind a red car. The light turned green, and I waited a full minute before my impatience got the best of me and I honked the horn. Not obnoxious, just one little beep. Still, the red car remained. No big deal. A lazy Sunday is no time to get stressed, so I decided to just pull into the next lane, to the right, and go around this red car. I don't regret much in my life, but I do regret this decision. At this point the red car decided to, finally, drive off. Apparently, me going on my way angered the driver of the red car. Funny, red is such an angry color. This is when the trouble began. The red car cut me off. I switched lanes. The red car cut me off again. Again I switched lanes. The red car is now right next to me, and I am in a merge lane. The red car began to veer over into my lane, and with no where else to go, I speed up, to get out of the merge lane, but the red car will have none of it. The red car continues to veer over, until my options are, slam into the red car, slam into a tree, or slam on the brakes. The screech of the brakes shoots through my body like nails on a chalkboard. My heart pounds out of my chest and onto the floor of my car. Completely out of my element with fear for my life, I dial 911, for the first time in my life. I begin to drive again, the red car in front of me, middle fingers out the windows, eagerly trying to lure me next to it. The dispatcher is on the line, I explain that I was run off the road and, since the red car driver is directly in front of me, trying to play games, I can clearly see and recite the license plate number. Things go from bad to worse. I am stopped at a light behind the red car. Still on the phone with the dispatcher, the door to the red car opens. I expect some big angry tool, with too much gel in his hair, and steroids in his blood. Instead, a tiny blonde woman in a pastel velour jumpsuit hurls out of the red car. She storms over to me, as I give a play by play to the dispatcher. Tiny pastel blonde begins to punch my drivers side window with her baby fists. She sees me on the phone and realizes I may be speaking with the police. She spins around, and stomps away. She pauses. She turns, and drop kicks the hood of car, races back to hers, and floors it through the red light to get away. At this point I am crying, and the dispatcher guides me to a nearby gas station where an officer takes my snotty, tear stained statement. I try to calm down, feeling as though hours have passed. I look at the clock and somehow still have time to make it to my appointment on time. Not wanting to waste my day, I go. While waiting for my stylist, the police call. Tiny pastel blonde has shown up at the police station and is actually tiny crazy homeless person. She was reported a runaway earlier that morning after threatening to kill herself and someone else, and stealing that red car. The officer asks if I would like to press charges. I put my law and order fantasies aside and say no. I get my hair cut, and tell this story 1,452 more times that day.

I am the mayor of writer's block city.

So i have this book called "The Pocket Muse", and it is intended to, obviously, inspire and spark writing. I bought this book over a year ago with the intentions of becoming some prolific, unstoppable, professional writer. I read the book cover to cover, every tip, prompt, quote and idea. I wrote nothing. I have this fear that my writing will sound stupid. When i start a passage, i usually delete after 5 lines. I dont like what i have to say necessairly. It always seems so forced, and without passion. I need a push. When i took creative writing in high school I was incredible, but only because my grades depended on it. Now its just me and i seem to have no problem letting myself down. But hopefully not for much longer. The goal here is to take an idea from that book and write about it. Daily. No excuses, no exceptions. Starting tomorrow, of course.

I am only yours

#6

13600 nw 2nd st
sunrise fl 33325

The people who run this place will know who you are. See them to see me.

foreigner

I have decided that it is in my best interest to relearn french. I took french in highschool, and i fell in love with it. I was awarded student of the year in french and everything. But i had no one to speak it with, so i didnt keep up after highschool. Now i feel like it is the one thing missing from my life. Its such a romantic language. Living in south florida, spanish would probably be more useful, but when have i ever been practical? I mean, more than french id love to learn latin. A dead language. In any case, i feel like learning to speak french is the key to everything in my life. As soon as i can speak it fluently i will be transformed. I will have a fancy job in a big city. I will dress in only the finest designer clothes. I will carry a $5000 purse. Made of some rare animal skin, because really im too busy speaking french to care about animals. I will only drink champagne. OR ill be this cool downtown chick. Ill dress like mary kate and/or ashley open circa their college days. Ill smoke clove cigarettes and write film reviews for some underground newspaper. What will actually happen is i will pay $77 to learn french and stay exactly the same, only better able to assist the french canadians at my mall job.