Archive for July, 2011

Posted: July 31, 2011 in hidden admonishment


Posted: July 29, 2011 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

A sheath of staples touches a tiny packet of airplane salt, and I nudge it away to expose a male to male coaxle cable connector and a purple paint chip from the last apartment I rented where I could afford to live alone

above a pedophile from my own youth.

The questions of happiness and God are humming in the back of my mind. Well over a year ago, you thought a petty sort of jealousy had come over me, because you were happy for a moment

without me.

It upset me much more that you betrayed my trust in order to entertain someone more feminine than me. Happier. More confident in seeking the acceptance of the masses.

Someone normal.

I dole out imitation happiness in a life that has become a little too one sided lately. Sex and femininity apparently go hand in hand for me, although one comes naturally enough and the other fails to follow.

Lace on lace with rhinestones.
Synthetic floral scent imprints.
A pervasive, sickening nauseation with the self-imposed shift.

Confirmation comes that you like this, but you still notice.
You still tell me what’s wrong with me
what I need to fix
how I am “too smart for my own good.”

You tell me again and again about happiness, each with your own path to enlightenment.

I can stand still and manage to hold up the facade, but when I lie down, it doesn’t lie with me.

I lay it down.

I’ve had enough.
It’s time to throw some of this shit out.

You know why they like me? You know why?
You know why
like me?

You know why they all break the rules, including you?

I do.

Islam is a hard religion for me to love.
The Southern Muslim American “community” is a humbling place to find myself
passed along the fringe
as a woman
and harlot.

You try to guilt me now, but you provided initiation into this ring.
Make eye contact with me.
You try to make me feel bad about myself now.
Because you feel bad?
Because I’m not with you?
Because very little has changed for either of us?
What is it?
How do you want me to respond?

I will neither lash out at nor embrace your god, but you…
You couldn’t marry me as I am anyway, even if I wanted to, and I’m not going to change
It’s against your rules; your unbendable, unbreakable, unbearable divine rules.
I’m not acceptable.
I am subhuman, and what’s worse; I am happy to be so.

People of the Book.

I would have to lie to myself, and…your god.
The God.
I would have to lie, and you think it would make me happy?
Do you think I can do anything but pretend?
We’ve had this conversation before.

It’s strange.
I don’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t believe in souls or karma or Heaven
or Hell,
but I’m not a shitty person for taking it up the ass once in a while.
I don’t believe in God, but I also don’t believe that my convictions are necessarily right.

Maybe you are right.
How am I to know?
A book? Which book? Who should I ask?
Your book?
The Book.
To be perfectly honest, I’m not going to worry myself about what I can’t know.
It is not in me to believe in a prophet, or a god, or a book; so I would have to lie.


No one can force what isn’t there.
Go ahead and pray for me if you think I deserve the sentiment.

You can’t save me
convert me
or even condemn me.

It’s not your place.
Learn it.
I’ve accepted mine.

I’m too old for the HPV shot, so I guess I’m old enough to get cancer.
I feel special.
I actually have HPV, although it’s not an interesting strand.
It’s the sort that shows up from time to time on the bottom of my foot.
Next time, they’ll tell me I’m too old to take the pill.
I suppose I’ll have to start having children then?

If I don’t want children, I’m not supposed to enjoy my sexuality.
That’s what I’ve gathered being “pre-pregnant” amounts to.

I am an incubator for breeding filth and shit.
Cute, cuddly…
Yet, I’m one of those poor gals with loose morals that would gladly opt in for voluntary sterilization.
We can avoid the whole abortion screed entirely.
Remove my sex.


I’ll deal with the goddamned gender on my own terms anyway.
Come inside of me.
That’s what you tell me.
That’s how you want it.

Do you honestly look at me and see a mother?

I’d rather take my insides out.
There are alternatives, they tell me.
Actually, they said they wouldn’t call me if everything was fine.
So, when they called…


The woman tried to speak to me in Spanish first.
Listen here, my first name might be some Latin gibberish, but the last name isn’t even remotely Mexican. I can say please and thank you and good morning/day/night. I can count to a hundred and identify a few concrete nouns, but if you expect me to know what the fuck is going on…

Please, speak English if you’re going to tell me I’m dying.

I’m not dying.
Damn did they ever prolong spitting that out.
First it was Spanish, and then it was an epic suspense novel.

“If you have a minute, I’d like to go over the lab results with you…”


All they told me is that they didn’t get the kind of cells they needed to look at in order to tell me anything.
Thanks for that, guys. Really. Thanks.
Don’t call me unless there’s a problem.

I’m going to stop answering soon.
“What happened for you, baby?”
Baby, baby, baby, baby.
I might have asked you what you meant by that if I cared more.


Nothing happened for me.
I’m the same pathetic individual I was yesterday
and six hours ago
and two.

You’re coming across a bit desperate now.
A little sad.
Extremely irritating.
At a certain point, it’s not flattering anymore.
If I wanted someone to check in on me every ten minutes,
I’d go home.

Anyway, you’re the one that needs some help.
It’s not my fault you didn’t take your own bullshit into account.
It’s not my problem.
I’m going to hang up now.

“If you call me again before the beginning of August, I’m never going to answer you again. Do you understand?”

not just instinctually

Posted: July 24, 2011 in transliteration

After giving it serious thought for about a month, I’ve come to the same position I was in the second you let the words slip.

My answer is, No.

I do not want to marry you. I do not want to have and take care of “your” children. I do not love you, and I cannot love you.

Now, after a little extra thought, it’s the same…but based on more than the simple fact that you don’t like dogs.

I suggest when you’re home, you buy yourself a ten year old. Unfortunately for you, I’ve already developed a mind of my own.


Posted: July 22, 2011 in otiose

Inappropriate thoughts that go through my head during dirty talk:

You just used terminology from Joseph Heller’s, Catch 22. It had to be a coincidence. You’re not Italian by chance, are you? Right. Okay…