the well runneth dry.

I just finished the last glass of wine, and there’s none left. What to do? There’s always nicotine.

Understand the things I say, don’t turn away from me,
‘Cause I’ve spent half my life out there, you wouldn’t disagree.
Do you see me? Do you see? Do you like me?
Do you like me standing there? Do you notice?
Do you know? Do you see me? Do you see me?
Does anyone care?

Unhappiness where’s when I was young,
And we didn’t give a damn,
‘Cause we were raised,
To see life as fun and take it if we can.
My mother, my mother,
She hold me, she hold me, when I was out there.
My father, my father,
He liked me, oh, he liked me. Does anyone care?

Understand what I’ve become, it wasn’t my desing.
And people ev’rywhere think, something better than I am.
But I miss you, I miss, ’cause I liked it,
‘Cause I liked it, when I was out there. Do you know this?
Do you know you did not find me. You did not find.
Does anyone care?

Unhappiness where’s when I was young,
And we didn’t give a damn,
‘Cause we were raised,
To see life as fun and take it if we can.
My mother, my mother,
She hold me, she hold me, when I was out there.
My father, my father,
He liked me, oh, he liked me.

Does anyone care?

yellow skies

“Hi, Kerry. What a lovely yellow sky today. No clouds. Just yellow.”

I look up. Blue. All I can see is blue. “No,” I reply, “the sky is clearly blue. There is no such thing as a yellow sky…well, maybe at dusk or dawn the sky can take on a yellow hue. But it is midday, and the sun is shining, and the sky is very much blue.”

“Ha! What are you saying? The sky is yellow. It has always been yellow. It will always be yellow.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “The sky has always been blue, not yellow…”

“Blue??? How could you possibly say such a thing? There must be something wrong with you. You need medication! You need an intervention! There must be some way I can help you. I feel bad for you. How can you not see that the sky is most definitely yellow?”

Just a little metaphor illustrating how it feels to live in a predominately Judeo-Christian society. It’s as if I’m constantly being told the sky is yellow, but every time I glance upward I see only blue.

Aaaaand Dolores. Because everything is better with Dolores.

the hoarder within

I don’t like clutter. Actually, I hate it. I’m using the word hate here.

A few months ago, when I began shacking up with my boyfriend, I compulsively de-cluttered 8 years worth of pure bull$#it from his home. Closets, drawers, cupboards, shelves! I left no stone unturned. And what I found was not only bizarre, it was downright stupid. I mean, the man had no less than 8 electric razors and 6 electric toothbrushes shoved on random shelves in his linen closet. Now, perhaps this would be less strange if it wasn’t for the fact that HE DOESN’T USE ELECTRIC RAZORS OR TOOTHBRUSHES. Ever. He prefers his hygiene manual, old skool style. Which is fine. But then why, pray-tell?

It was explained to me that they were all gifts from his mother and though he had no intentions of actually utilizing any of the aforementioned gadgets, his guilt nevertheless prevented him from parting with even one of them. Guilt compounded by fear that she may one day inquire as to their whereabouts of these items. Clearly there is a lifetime of psychological mind-fuckery at work here that I am neither willing, nor able, to get to the bottom of. Therapy sessions aside, this provides some modicum of insight into the motivations behind the likes of those on Hoarders, who have reached a point where they are literally swimming in their own refuse.

Anyway, I myself would gleefully chuck such useless space hogs into the nearest rubbish bin with n’ary a blink o’ the proverbial eye. It makes me almost unreasonably happy to feel light, free and uncluttered. That said, I have to admit to a dirty little secret: I compulsively purchase used books at secondhand shops.

There, I said it. Feeling better already.

When I get a craving and more importantly, a paycheck, I begin to anticipate my next trip to the hospice resale shop like a pill-popper on his way to CVS. As I approach my destination my heart begins to race, and the butterflies swarm into my stomach, flapping and swirling and getting me all dizzy-like. I ignore the 80′s era curio cabinet, the racks of mothball scented leisure suits, and the shelves of clocks and radios that haven’t worked properly in 5 years. Instead, I beeline to the back of the store toward that familiar and unmistakable scent of old, forgotten tomes.

I repeat this at least once per week, usually leaving the store with 1 or 2 books, and proudly filing them alphabetically on my bookshelf. And, despite my aversion to junk, I feel that each book I procure is important and worthy, and should be treated with utmost respect, not unlike the way hoarders feel about their own piles of decaying filth.

What I’m getting at here is that maybe, just maybe, a little hoarder resides deep within each and every one of us, biding its time in hopes of eventually accumulating more, more, more! As such, it seems that perhaps our lives are nothing more than an epic struggle to keep this pernicious, consuming little imp at bay, lest we too end up buried alive.

global warming doesn’t exist because it still gets cold in the winter

Not. However, 18-year-old me really did utter those asinine words once upon an ignorant time.

The temperature reached 61 degrees today. In Northeast Ohio. In January. Now, far be it from me to complain about such phenomena, seeing as I suffer mercilessly winter after winter, teeth chattering and extremities freezing to the point of painful numbness. Seriously! I am cold. So cold, in fact, that I would happily relocate to Fallujah on a whim if it weren’t for these pesky cats and demanding boyfriend. (I also hear it’s quite difficult to procure the types of, ahem, libations, I am want to imbibe in Muslim nations…but, what? They produce copious amounts of poppy?  Sign me up!.)

Nevertheless, spring was in the air. In January. In Cleveland! Why am I both happy and disturbed?

to my high maintenance cats.

Dear Donovan and Buddy,

Let me begin by saying that while you are each adorable in your own fluffer-kitty-kat-squeeeee way (well, Donovan, you are cute. Buddy…meh), there are some issues that we need to seriously discuss.

Why must you cry outside my bedroom door at all hours of the night? Are your peabrains so small that you can’t even remember I already fed you? Twice! And while we are on the subject of food, how is it physically possible for you to convert rather meager portions of it into such mass that your body is effectively stuffed into a tight casing reminiscent of pigskin around a football (I’m talking to you, Buddy). And Donovan! You have a pouch dangling from your undercarriage that sweeps the ground, swinging to and fro like a furry pendulum as you trot to your bowl. Your feeding habits have become so complicated that each of you needs to be fed different amounts, in different locations, at different times.

Buddy- please know that there is a clear distinction between a tupperware container of birdseed and your litter box. Learn it. Love it. Live it.

Donovan- no, you are not going outside right now. It’s 2 am and -10 degrees. WTF!

Buddy- I am wearing stilettos. I would appreciate it if you did not step under my foot as I walk. Seriously. (Ok, I made that up because it sounded better. I am not much of a stiletto-gal. But trust me, combat boots are every bit as painful.)

Donovan- that is a piano bench, NOT A SCRATCHING POST. I have provided you with no less than 6 designated scratching posts throughout the house. WTF WTF WTF!

Buddy- due to your aforementioned husky stature, you are not able to properly reach all parts of your body and, therefore, are unable to sufficiently clean yourself. As such, it would be much appreciated if you did not rub your cat schmeg all over the walls- especially those that I painted not one week ago.

And lastly, can you both, pretty please, keep in mind that you are just. f#@*ing. cats. You exist for the sole purpose of providing your owner companionship and perhaps some mild amusement. You seem to be blissfully unaware that this gravy train could be cut off at any time, without any warning, by yours truly. We’re talking growling bellies and frozen, wet, miserable Ohio winters. So I am sure that you won’t be at all bothered by the fact that I am declaring my right to pick you up at any time I see fit without protest. Claws in! No biting! I mean it! Damnit.

Thanks so much.

Stay fluffy,

Kerry

terrible minds

I stumbled upon author Chuck Wendig’s blog at some point last week and was so intrigued by his “Flash Fiction” contest I decided to give it the old college try. The challenge was to be inspired by an actual locale that appears so otherworldly as to not seem real. Enter Yellowstone’s Grand Prismatic Spring.

The Spring

“Elaine Gretchen! You best not be fixin’ on runnin’ out that door now! If you do, don’t ‘spect it to be open when you come a moseyin’ back.”

This stopped her in her tracks. If anything was to thwart her escape efforts, it would surely be her mother’s use of her middle name. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, eyes locked in electrically charged fury. She knew leaving was a mistake, but the urge to flee was overwhelming. As she turned her back the electricity evaporated into the chilly night, and she was propelled out into the wilderness by what? She couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was simply the peculiar defiance that resides deep within the soul of every sixteen-year-old girl. But it felt like something more, as if a force of destiny was beckoning.

Bobbing and weaving through the shiny metal maze that comprised the Yellowstone RV campsite, she ignored the “Park Closed After Dark” warnings and embarked upon the path she had explored with her family a mere 7 hours earlier, when both fawn and flora were still bathed in the sun’s comforting glow.  Now the entire park was cloaked in blackness, and she blundered along with only the glow from her phone’s flashlight app to avert sprained ankles and scraped knees.

“Why in heaven’s name is there no moon tonight?” she wondered, surveying the starless expanse above.

After walking nearly an hour she saw it. Actually, she smelled it. Inhaling deeply, she recalled the tour guide’s explanation of mineral-rich water surrounded by a series of microbial mats. By the light of day the psychedelic rainbow of hues encircling Grand Prismatic Spring had entranced her like a hypnotist’s spiraling wheel. Dizzy and weak, she remembered nearly toppling over the canyon’s edge upon first sight.

And though she could not yet actually see the geyser, the aroma generated from the comingling of bacteria and boiling mineral water was wildly intoxicating, and nearly brought her to her knees once more. Doing her best to focus her spinning head, she continued across the basin. Sensing a looseness in her right sneaker she bent down to retie her flailing shoelaces.

“Eeeeeeoowwwoooooooo,” an otherworldly voice wailed in the distance.
“Coyote,” she reassured herself, although she had never encountered a coyote capable of such sonorous reverberations. She rose from the ground and resumed her advance.

“Eeeeeooowwwwwoooooooooeeeeeeeoooowwwww.” This time a chorus of supernatural beings howled, their voices echoing and multiplying across the canyon walls. A surge of chills rushed across her limbs, and she shivered, realizing the monstrous bellows were emanating from her destination.

All was quiet now, and she contemplated turning back, but there was something in those screeches that, while not exactly comforting, seemed somewhat familiar to her. She resolved to press on.

Alighting upon the edge of the spring she was overcome with disappointment; she was sure she would uncover the mystical source producing such immortal melodies. Even more discouraging was the complete lack of activity, visual or auditory. In fact, the night had descended into a banality that left no sign of any life whatsoever. The only indication that she had not stumbled upon some barren wasteland was the hissing presence of steam rising from the depths of the geothermal lake.

Determined to find something, anything, she began traversing the rim, keeping her eyes focused upon the center. Within 20 minutes she had completely encircled the spring and still nothing. She was exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that she lay down on the hard surface of basin floor not one foot from the edge and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“What’s that!” she awoke with a jolt. She had no idea how long she had been out, so she checked her phone. Not only was there no reception, the clock mechanism seemed to be out of whack, displaying 10:30 AM.

“That’s strange,” she thought. “I distinctly remember uploading snapshots in this exact location earlier today…” Her attempts to reboot the device proved useless.

Just then, the sound of a splash took her focus away from the phone. Whipping her head toward the sound, she peered out over the water. Again she was disappointed. Ever so slowly, she crawled toward the shore, attempting to silence the weight of her body against the gravely terrain. Gazing over the foggy surface, she thought she could make out the shape of a being- no a person- gliding through the boiling trench.

“Impossible,” she muttered. Then nothing.

Gathering all her strength she moved as close to the edge as she could. Slowly, something emerged from the surf a few yards away. All she could see was a mass of flowing black hair and two giant, crimson eyes that glowed like burning embers. Then, another emerged. And another, until there were four such sets of ruby irises glimmering across the scorching surface.

As they approached she knew she should run. But she felt bonded to the earth below, as if she had become an essential component of the landscape. They were speaking to her. Shrieking and clicking, they seemed to be communicating something very important as they advanced ever closer. Their torsos, now exposed, brandished bare breasts clothed in mud-colored scales.

Silently, one being reached out and grabbed her arm, grinning while dragging her into the water. She thrashed and kicked her legs, causing all manner of debris to launch into the air. All four scaled beings descended upon her, tugging her across the surface ever closer to the red-hot center of the pool.

Arriving at the centermost point, they began to shift their focus downward and pulled her under. Aware of the futility of her struggle, she gave in, and the burning liquid engulfed her. Unaware of time and space, she allowed herself to be pulled down, down, down. Ever downward into the abyss.

from a reluctant “twi-hard…”

I realize what I am about to tell you makes me a total freak: I do not like weddings. Pause for gasps. Furthermore, I do not enjoy wedding gowns. Pause for the dull thuds of women across America hitting the ground after passing out from shock. In fact, the very thought of walking down an aisle in a white gown while family, friends, and people I barely know but had to invite because-my-parents-were-invited-to-their-daughter’s-wedding stare at me and cry…makes me violently ill.

As such, no one was more shocked than me to find myself obsessing over the Carolina Herrera wedding gown worn by K. Stew’s character, Bella, in Twilight: Breaking Dawn pt. 1.

The detail on back cutout really got me:

PS. I understand that this movie came out months upon months ago (I don’t know…it could be years…and that’s how out of touch I am), which means this post is neither timely nor relevant. However, it is my opinion that anyone willing to fight the brace-faced, bieber-loving throngs to view any of the Twilight films in the theater is either high on something I’ve not yet discovered or downright looney toons-padded-cell crackers. Secondly, I am too cheap to rent anything and, therefore, prefer to wait until it airs on Showtime at which point I can watch it FOR FREE* from the safety and comfort of my bed.

*I realize the use of “for free” is not entirely accurate, seeing as Showtime clearly costs money. But it doesn’t cost me money due to the fact that I am a SAHG**, so for me it is 100% free.

**SAHG = stay at home girlfriend