The closest to my deal that a blog is ever gonna come.

The tarp is that bright blue color you see used for tents and things, complete with a little hole at each corner for the rope and stakes to connect. It looks like it’s covering up a bunch of tractors or lawn mowers, or something. And it’s old. I have kept it this way because it’s embarrassing and disappoints other people. You can see as soon as I lift it from one end, why I guard it with my life.

I still worry about it, sometimes. Mostly because the buzzing snap up there concerns me. I have no idea… how it worked, or much of what’s left, anymore.

For a few years now, I’ve wondered what would be required in order for me to write about things I’ll be dammed if I write about. Do you ever keep something silent if the topic has been done before with plenty of exploitations and assumptions that you A) would rather not have attached to your identity and B) is an unsolved dilemma of sorts that would only be a seeming favor handed out at your pity party?

Throughout my life, I have had several encounters with people who decided that they would like to have been closer to me, for whatever reasons. That’s normal – that’s part of living and operating as a human being. The thing is, is that sometimes having someone else know you involves sharing the kind of back story that results in, “Eureka!” on their end. For me, there are few things worse than having seen that person watch you for a while and then feeling a part of the impact you’ve just had on them because you got done telling them something that hurts very much.

I was raised with expert training on how to leave marks, and my injection into other people’s lives has resulted in scarring. And that’s the truth.

The only thing I have ever seen sharing do, is make swell reason for the kinds of things that routinely ended up happening to people who asked for tragedy. Sometime around the mid-90’s, I got familiar with the pattern and told each new person I was very sorry ahead of time, but that I had no idea how long knowing me would be a positive thing. Then I advised them to pay me little mind.

No one will listen to me, and Everybody listens to me.

Can I see some form of ID to know which bracelet you need?

The one sitting way at the top? You might have to step to the side and look around the stupid disco ball thing, in order to see – yeah, up there where no one else sits. She owns this place.

If you’re reading this, you’re dancing for her.

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Rain Two

This is the second half of my rain saga, told all the way up to the point before the police showed up and made me go home to wash the Ecoli off my dog. I call it… Rain Two.

***

“I’m trying to stay up so I can make it to work,” Dan said, sucking down a massive fountain pop through a straw. Ever since I lent my bandana, I noticed he began to gangsterly wrap one around his head, making him look even better for saying something politically incorrect about other homosexuals.

There wasn’t a lot to do after my errands, so I asked, “Do you wanna come with me and Lacy to the park?”
“Sure!”

Sometimes, I try to do something for her. We used to go to Sleepy Hollow campgrounds, and I’d walk to the beaches and on hiking trails because I thought Lacy would have a good time. Making sure my dog has had fun, has kept her alert and alive for years and years. A few weeks ago, we were running by a long line of school kids and one of the little girls turned to me and said of my graying mutt, “You have a beautiful dog”, as though she knew something about good breeding.

“Is this entry going to be about her dog?” a reader asks, hoping I change the subject.

This entry would not have happened without the only thing that ever tried to stop m_______—-
dash dash dash —- beeping noises —-
________________________ — static —-
lights, muffling, electricity, sparks, etc. This part of the brain is an abandoned construction zone. Moving on.

Her reaction to the episodes was protest barks that made me cry. And when she ended up getting kicked across the room instead of me, yelping at the foot to her ribcage, I think that hurt me worse than when it was my turn.

If there was any way I could have gotten around mentioning that, I would have taken it. But the story doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless you understand why I decided to go the park on a gray day. I didn’t want to go; I thought Lacy might want to. And that’s why the self-centered fur-fearing may understand one of the reasons why I care so much about “some animal”.

I want to put good things in her dreams, and I do. That’s how true love works. Make a note of it, you perplexed bastards.

We got there, and large construction hurdles blocked right where I wanted to go. Everything from the valley behind the playground to the far-off bridge, was flooded with water. An extended river now stood where there was previously a parking lot, ballpark, and then some. My breath was immediately taken at the sight of nature telling mankind where it can shove its parking signs.

I stared down into the water’s edge, my pink toenails shining under water that has been awarded the toxicity level of “don’t even touch it”. Several dwellers were still up by the cones and caution tape, and one woman on a bicycle shouted down and out, “Make sure you don’t have any open sores!”

And on the 20-somethingth, God gaveth her first-born a third eye.

“There’s no way in hell,” Dan stated clearly.

I slipped my sandals off and left them in the mud.

“Come on, Lacy.”

Lacy took off ahead of me, charging across the knee-deep water. A few minutes later, I looked back and saw Dan sticking his socks into tennis shoes. Within that hour’s time, we had progressed from one end of the spectrum to, “Hold this. I’m gonna do a cannon ball off that picnic table.”

We weren’t the only ones snapping photos. There was a crowd gathered from both sides, some catching videos of us splashing around in the Shiawassee. I briefly worried that something would be published in the paper, humiliating my uncle the mayor, and my mother. After all, I had gone from being academically-directed to… wading in possible sewage and posing in the field as catcher and batter. There is no rush quite like swimming without a degree.

Some very bad examples were set as we made our way out to the bridge. My hand grasped tightly around Lacy’s collar in fear that the current and increasing depth would sweep Old Girl away.

“There will be a pirate’s movement,” I rambled off to Dan. “Inspired in large part by the bloated ridiculousness of trends like Pirates of the Caribbean and Peter Pan. But then there will be some who are downright political about it, and they will form organizations that are floating armies. It will be glorious! Places like this? They will be like little ports where boats come in to load up and trade and stuff.” I began to imagine a ship tied to the “clean up after your pet” sign.

“Yeah right. You think we’ll drink our own piss, too?” Dan mocked, remembering the unlikely reality of Waterworld starring Kevin Costner. It brought me down, because for all of the fantastical imagery in my head (at this point I was seeing a dock constructed and a kind of pub where sailors were sipping mugs of beer), I could not fathom technology so advanced as a portable, purifying urine-drinky machine.

Pulling Wisdom Teeth and Glory

Last night I stayed up late telling a gentleman about when I was put under for surgery, how I remember the nurse steadily talking with me and saying, “Doctor, she’s still awake.” The Doctor sounded impressed that I had not yet been tranquilized…

JetGrindMav replied: When they put me out, they didn’t give me enough. They thought I was out, so they decided not to clean up right away. Well I woke up, not realizing what was going on, and stumbled out of the chair, still wearing this bloody smock and face covered in viscera, mouth stuffed with cotton, and staggered down the hall and somehow made it to the waiting room, filled with small children.

Faith Rivada: omg.

JetGrindMav: ‘MURRRRRRGH!’ I groaned, very zombie-like. It was convincing.

JetGrindMav: Convincing enough to cause the children to scream in terror.

***
Wednesday was my last kickboxing class, and it was also my 23rd birthday. There is a free introductory to Power Yoga class being held next week, and I’ll probably go.

Last night I laid down in the ampitheatre and compared it to a blog. I have come to the conclusion that they are very much the same thing.

“Are you alright?” asked a passer by.
“Yeah,” I said, never turning my head.

There was a sticker on my banana today that said it *might* prevent cancer. What a crock.

I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, because I collapsed like a rock and never moved an inch. I woke up sore.

Better luck this time.

A funny thing happened to me on the way to a garage sale, Or, RainPt.I.

Last weekend, our county had a rare tornado warning that sent sirens ringing through the streets. Everyone was told to take shelter while the radio DJ played some Twista song because his sense of humor was apparently very dry. Meanwhile, I was driving my mother’s Venture with Nick the Twin sitting passenger, wondering what the odds actually were that this shitty rap single would be the last song we got to hear.

In the event of so much as a sprinkle, my family unplugs the computer. I’d gone from this level of security to sitting alone in some flooded street under an unsteady stoplight. The only other people I had seen in twenty minute’s time was a couple looking out from their home as they pulled their garage door down, and they had looked back at me and Nick as if to say they’d be praying for our souls.

“Thing is,” I started to think out loud, “there’s no tornado. It’s just perfect conditions for one.”

Nick shrugged, like he always does. The pelting rain was amusing me, but I’m sure he was bored. He’s often mentioning how safe he feels, while I’m driving. For some reason, I get a surge of concern whenever the speedometer gets high and he hasn’t grabbed the door. That afternoon, a juicy Robin had exploded against the windshield and Nick hadn’t flinched. Being the first thing I’d ever hit besides butterflies, I was upset.

“It was expected, considering you were going 90. It was stupid to fly out in front of you,” was all he’d had to say about it, slouched in the seat. A part of me is flattered that I have his trust, but another wants to tell him that I or anyone else could end his life, any given second.

We spent the sunnier part of that afternoon, cruising the garbage in other people’s garages. It’s amazing to me, that anyone would have the nerve to put a price on stuff that can only be described as Goodwill. Why should they make the money; they’re the ones trying to get other people to haul away their junk. Even so, we tried to follow the fluorescent signs to, as Nick put it, “find the treasure.” The most amusing thing I’d found was a floral-shirt patterned woman selling her cute little artsy-crafts alongside her very clashing and disturbing collection of bloody horror novels.

It was neigborhood of The Bratty Prince of Gays, Danstown. At one point in time we were 2 houses down from his residence. Dan has mentioned several times that the area is very religious and conservative, and sure enough. Every sale on his block had Amy Grant cassette tapes for sale. The inspirational hardcover version of some female country singer’s journey to happiness and success.

“If you see something and think it’s too much, we might be willing to come down on the price,” said one of the domesticated entrepreneurs bouncing a baby on her knee.

Then we hit this place that had boxes and boxes of old art supplies. The man overseeing kinda looked like you might think the stuff belonged to him. He was enough of a frizzy mess to be scary, like an artist, so I didn’t plan on hanging around the shed for more than a walk-through. My fingers dragged along the stacks of matting board, and it had me remembering when the art teacher taught me how to slice inner edges double-sided using some kind of T-Cross blade. That’s when the funny thing happened.

I recognized my own matting work.

There they were, the remains of what I’d left behind from my high school portrait display. Discarded measurements, too wide or too thin. Jet black with white trim. I suddenly started noticing other odd things that I had seen in the back of the classroom before a younger teacher replaced the old one…

“I did this,” I said to Nick, reaching out and grabbing a large square. He wasn’t sure what I meant.
“You did? You made that? I mean, how do you know?”
“This is mine. This must be where all of that stuff ended up. Wow.”
“Are you going to buy it?”
“No, we can go,” and as we crossed back over the front lawn, “I haven’t drawn anything in a long time.”
“I know.”

It wasn’t soon after that, when everyone began turning tail. Was it because sales ended around 5? Had the first raindrops summoned the tarps? Why are these guys crowded around the TV set, and how much do they want for it?

The dialogue is missing, because the men were using terms I’d never heard before. Something about the degree of storm warning and what state it implied the people were to abide by. I understood their faces and tones in the darkening garage, seriously worried about the weather. The occupants were bent down, pointing at one of those country maps as the digital colors swept over Michigan.

Excitedly, we ran back to the van and called it a day. There was never any tornado spotted, to my knowledge. A few people stood outside on their cells, looking up into the sky. A police car turned its lights on and shot off at high speed. Water continued to flood the Shiawassee River, but there wasn’t going to be any swirling funnel touching down. Just like there wasn’t any treasure to be found, or anything inside of those frames.

After the initial surprise and intensity had worn off, I fell into a depression behind the wheel.

“Maybe we’re in the eye,” Nick mused.

Only code slips through.

“I’ll show you,” came the words through a gravely throat. With her head bowed in the storm between the stars and someone else, lighting struck the debased mind and sprung horizontally. The one standing closest, possibly easily influenced or generally unsuspecting, fell.

Enough demonstrations like that and the townspeople stopped asking why she appeared to be phasing out.

Perhaps there was an electrician where she was going.

Kerouassady

Dear Jack,

You have probably never heard of me, and probably can’t hear me unless there is a working form of magic that science has yet to touch. There have been a lot of prayers traveling lately, racing every which way like their authors in panic. So even if this kind of thing actually works, it might have a tricky time reaching its destination.

Someone on tonight’s news said that one gallon of gas was four dollars. Of all the people whose tickets to What’s Next have been collected and torn in half, I thought I’d try to send this message on to someone who would immediately understand what kind of damper it puts On The Road to freedom.

It’s getting complicated. Anything you might be able to do directly or through the communication chain would be greatly appreciated.

Your Reader,
~Autumn May~

+++++++++++++++

Runny, or, Definitely Not Solid

Sometimes I like to carefully remove the plastic wrapper and then squeeze my fist tight, crumbling the after-meal treat that sat on top of my bill for so long. Then I abandon it, crippled and unread. The fortune is to the cookie as pollution is to the mind (that is the water you slosh around in after your canoe has tipped over). Real men and women don’t even bother.

ATTENTION READERS: “Get your mind out of the gutter” has officially been changed to “get your canoe out of that ditch, you sick bastard”. Update your phrases.

Weather’s cool when I say it’s cool, and right now it’s worth something. In times of storms like these, I run into all rooms and fling open the windows. I want to see raindrops develop over the trinkets sitting on the sill, and I want the house pets to cower from the loud cracks in the sky. Let the water pelt over this metal roof and have pages in my book soften. Don’t just be here; really show up and do something! Drop tree branches all around and make this machine flash hard enough that I have to write up another passage from scratch.

The gooey walls of my brain have been hastily spray-painted with “shit”, “fuck”, and “bitch”, which is rather childish in comparison to my potential vocabulary. Nevertheless, vertical toxins are leaving a fresh shade of red over my palms as I’m playing kick the can with contents under pressure. You’d think I’d remember doing something like this; from seeming normalcy springs split-imagery of the cryptically observant vs pissy-looking girl with her arms crossed – one of those pouty looks I want to punch off.

But wait. I don’t sink to that level of problem solving…do I? Maybe. I am the only one here, and considering my recent boredom with thought in general, it does make a little sense that brutality would be the flavor of the day. To be honest, it holds more weight than I’m letting on. Smarts are really fucking overrated, goddammit. Oops. Just blew my cover. Ok. It was me.

I spray-painted my brain. And you know what else? I like it. I think it’s pretty. Fuck you, if you don’t.

Would someone else believe that my dad’s mom showed me how to crochet?

“How, do you do?” <- my best Audrey Hepburn impression, via My Fair Lady, complete with extended hand, palm down, hiding traces of graffiti.

I went into an anime forum today, and read conversations like “IS SPIKE HOT YES OR NO”.

(Hotter than an Iraqi prisoner before we graciously threw water on them?) Oh, the things I think and do not type…until a little bit later.

! – on this can, it says: UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF DR PEPPER. Diet Rite is the doctor’s bitch. And Diet Rite is also spelled…wrong. How appropriate. If I take the physical beverage and give it life in twisted writing, does that count as recycling?

DietSoda/CaffeineFree/NoSugar/NoSodium/NoCarbs12 fluid ounces is arguably a good decision. I wonder how long its own discussion forum would last, if I was to include several related threads to get things jumping.

“Hey! Wouldn’t it be cool if we could get a 10 cents refund for taking our words back?!”[447 views] [0 replies.]

[445 people shook their heads and 2 didn’t get it]