Lie #1

Lie: I’ll call you.

Truth: Oh, he’ll call you alright…just not on the telephone that you wait impatiently by, in the same outfit you wore to that wonderful date, where chemicals flew, chatter was spewed, and endorphins were flying. He’ll call up his best buddies or just one, b/c if the ass is capable of leaving you hanging; he’s probably only capable of keeping one relationship at a time. Bygones. Back to that “call”. So not that the one cocktail or beer that he imbibed was even enough, he’ll pick up a six pack, and his buddy, and they’ll go cruising or settle themselves on the worn out couch in the basement where Guitar Hero and play station wait to be fingered. That’s right; play station, is being caressed, prodded, and gripped, not you, but then again, who wants to be “prodded” nowadays? Sounds so, “alien” and I’m not even going to touch that subject. So, he’ll call you a prude, a dud, a waste of the thirty-five bucks that he forked out, hoping to get forked himself. He’ll be calling you and you’re ears are ringing but that phone, that sits on your end table, will not, and I repeat, will not ring. So where did it go wrong? Did you have something stuck in-between your pearly whites? Was it the not so revealing outfit you wore, b/c you like to keep them guessing? I say NAY! Even if you did have something stuck in-between your teeth, I’m sure that didn’t detour you away from the string of cheese from the mozzarella sticks that lingered on his “manly scruff” or like we in the “know” like to call, peach fuzz. So what was it? What exactly did you do to be called a prude, a bitch, or that word, that all women HATE to be called…you know, it starts with a huge, palm to the face, slapping, "C"? That's right, i went there.

I’ll tell you what you did. You realized that you weren’t going to just give it up to the first dud(e) that’s come along in a long time and even though you were probably itching to be itched, it wasn’t going to happen. Not in that parking lot and well, your place was a mess. So ladies, what I’m trying to say is this: You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. He assumed and we all know the old adage so I won’t even take the time to type it down. He figured he looked amazing in his muscle tee and he chewed on some gum and when he went for that kiss and you returned it, the deal was sealed. However, as he opened the car door for you, oh how quaint, you asked to be driven home. The slam of the door and the jut of his jaw should have been warning enough, but no. He dropped you home, even walked you to the door, and whispered, “I’ll call you.” But as we all know, from watching Hitch, (please don’t sue me!) that if you didn’t dangle your keys, stalling, he should have gotten the hint in the first place. Did you meet him a quarter of the way? Please! He wasn’t invited in, because you’re not that girl. You like to wait, maybe three dates, maybe fourteen, but if he’s worth it, than he’ll wait. He won’t sit on his lazy ass and play video games, no wait, they’ll do that until they lose their eyesight and sensation in their fingers, but he’ll know he’s found someone worth taking home to mom.

So get off you butts, ladies, disconnect the phone, take a shower, after all you have been stuck in that same outfit for days, and go out and mingle. Grab a few of your girl friends and go have some drinks. Let it out. You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. He let you slip through his fingers because you wouldn’t put out. His loss and some hooker’s gain. Amen, sista, amen.

Metaphors and Band-Aids

i've been thinking...i know, you're saying to yourself, oh lord, who's she angry with now? but to surprise you, i'm not angry; i'm happy. there are thousands of levels of happy and i may not be at the top, but i'm surfacing, hanging on with both hands, while my feet are swinging back and forth looking for that ledge so i can catapult myself to the next level. now, with that revelation out there, i had another thought the other day. don't laugh...my mind races with thoughts every hour, just not all of them are plausible.

i read something someone wrote about regrets the other day and it got me thinking about the things i regret. i'm not putting any out there for everyone to read about, b/c that will wind up being one of my regrets. i'm just going to say that i regret being hotheaded and jumping to conclusions. i don't regret giving my all. i regret not being the most patient person in the world. but you all know, i don't have patience to last the day. i regret there isn't a life sized eraser...a mind wipe...a large, bright, pink eraser that you can whip out and erase your mistakes, like we could back in grammar school. at this point, my life would be a large piece of paper, with lines, doodles, and errors, erased, with eraser dust coating my desk.

but just like there isn't one of these, there isn't a life sized Band-Aid to mend broken hearts, skinned egos, and minor scrapes and burns. imagine if there was? people would be walking around with these obscene Band-Aids, over their chests, their foreheads, their lips, their hands...whatever they used to offend, whatever was bloodied by another's words or actions. now imagine how it feels when you pull the normal Band-Aid off your injured appendage? no matter how quickly and "pain free" your mom tells you she is going to remove it, it is never quick, it is never painless. she can do it slowly, but still every second that seems an eternity, you feel the tug and pain as a hair is being ripped out along with the adhesive. i'm just saying, no matter how large or minor the injury, no matter how unbelievably large or small the Band-Aid, recovery hurts.

but you live. you may scar, but you live. you get the chance to do it all over again. you get to make the same decisions if you aren't strong enough, or you take the path that is overcome with weeds, shadows, and doom. the outcome remains the same. you're alive with numerous chances. society doesn't play the same game as baseball; you don't receive three strikes and you're out. you get to pick up that bat and swing away...until you hit a ground ruled double, or a grand slam, to get yourself and everyone that matters to you, back home...

to start all over again. and sometimes, just sometimes, it is "déjà vu all over again." but it doesn't have to be. you've grown, you've experienced, you've suffered, you've survived. you may strike out once in awhile, but just like baseball, there are always more innings, more games...more chances.

Want

want: by definition, to feel a need or a desire for; wish for...in it's verb form...as in "always wanting something new".

want: by definition, something wanted or needed; necessity...in it's noun form...as in "his wants are few".

we are always wanting, needing, desiring, something different, something new, something steady, something stable, something borrowed, something blue...we want world peace but are too lazy or afraid to stand up for the unfortunate or less privileged...we want a million bucks but are too lazy to work for it...we want answers but are too afraid of asking the questions...we desire understanding but we lack cooperation...we find the little things necessary but the bigger things become obsolete, shadows of a thought...we want to be happy, but refuse to let go of the sadness, the regret, the pain...we want to soar above the trees but we're too afraid to walk across the streets...we want the children to be the future, but we beat them, belittle them, stunt their growth, both mentally and spiritually...we want the colors of the world to melt together like they used to, but we're too stubborn to educate ourselves, we're more inclined to pass on our prejudices than we are to pass on good genes...we want, want, want, but we fail to give, accept, and share willingly, without fear, doubt, and skepticism. i want a lot of things, both achievable and fantastical, but i can only achieve the impossible by letting go of the mundane. and we fall into the category of coulda, shoulda, woulda, but will we, shall we, can we? that, my friends, my enemies, my never before mets, is entirely up to you.