There’s No Retreat Back Up the Birth Canal

Bottoms Up, Selfie

An imperfect order isn’t a license to falter. If we’re not winning the life we wanted we need to choose a different way of thinking, which is the first step toward healthy living that we typically let whiz past in our tizzy doing things along a more craptastic route. It’s usually not our sole fault. Truthfully. Most of us come by failure honestly from the help of our family or rife with some historic horror. They don’t give you proper walking papers as soon as you pop from the gooey mass of your mom’s innards into this chaotic hailstorm we eco-warriors fondly call Mother Earth. (Sidebar: sometimes, I wonder if I put half as much energy as I give to planet conservation into mothering myself, or mothering the heck out of the perennially fickle feelings about my stint as related to my own mom I could well sort the scars into something less scary. Say a tattoo to attract a strapping hunk.) There’s no retreat back up the birth canal for reconsideration, much less a redo. How are we supposed to know right from harm? It might as well be your prison release in some Podunk town, where you have no phone, no car, no credit card, and no brain memory left to total the correct ten digits needed to get an ass with gas to retrieve you in order that you revel with the underbelly openly. Maybe what you’re missing is mounting as swiftly as an Everest avalanche the same as it is for me. Instead, you might have ghosts that grab you by your balls, tearing into the fabric of your lovelihood, as Chelsea Handler wryly and rightly displays in her newest autobiography of authenticity (turned ongoing podcast, thank God!) Life Will Be the Death of Me.

I want to make love to your adrenaline. ~Braden Kuhlman, in response to reading my friends first novel (aka An intoxicating line of banter, which is soul food I cannot live without)

Think about it as a numerical equation. Take my inability to secure a marriage (not to mention anything but two ridiculously drug-fueled indecent proposals; at least one of which I vaguely think I jealously bullied an ex into mouthing as words between a candy ring-pop bobble). If the idea was that everyone was paired up in some relationship or binding union it’s, likely, we’d still have to off at least one person, and I’m not into murder as an approved bonanza (cough, cough, like some politicians). I’m simply assuming we’re not a perfect enough species on the whole (like my American schooling kept telling me that China pretends to be) to pop out an even amount of babies in ratios that will suit our gender bias nor relationship tastes. That’s way too complicated a scheme. Just because you may be the pudding treat for a poodle, where you’d rather have a human licking your chops along with their own, doesn’t mean you should succumb to tippling despair. I’ve considered that I may have landed into a cluster of lucky. A pristine tumbleweed tossed around without a care but roaming easily. That was until the day I saw a semi-truck barrel through one shredding it to smithereens. I was aghast at the ease of this apocalyptic damage. Suddenly an esoteric frame flexed in my brain (the most exercise I’d noticed in my body in a foppish length of time). Pure empathetic conjecture, but a reception of critters could gather those wayward pieces to nudge the dear fluster of twigs back together. The destruction of ego by brute force doesn’t have to bury the being. My point is that your lens, what erupts or disrupts, can be better after blows.

I’m no stranger to fucking up. ~Kathleen Glasgow, Girl in Pieces

My twang reeks with alacrity. God forbid anyone points out the systemic betrayal of my (our) ancestral lineage, not to mention my own oppositionistic patterns to appearing unshakeable. Clearly, a sarcastic comedian lounges in her liberally-lathered baby oil bathing repose a few layers below my sun-pocked epidermis. I distinctly recall mapping out my future with the entitlement of my teenage self. At times, trying to sway my father that the Episcopal Youth Leader was not a pedophile or how the church retreats I was attending were in no way a fatalistic cult. As it happens, the man was never brought up on charges of misconduct (that we know of anyway) and I’ve lived to tell about my spiritual Happenings. I went on to rack up a list of (failed) relationships. Each with a self-perceived growing arc of months to years spent together. I thought the longer someone remained my boyfriend the closer I was to scoring in this marriage game. This comment alone should tell you a lot. Mainly, the part where I’ve referred to anything about life as a game. See, that’s the bulk of my troubles. Hell, maybe many of ours. Viewing aspirations as competition. I’ve long sat with a notion that anything vexing me is tandem to judgment. I don’t have the husband, the kids, a corporate 401k-pension retirement future mandated for me with all the symptoms or rules most play by. But the veil is thin. Precipitation would fall heavily (aka tears) if only I’d tap into my backbone. Writing of bones, mine ache to be jumped. I want everything beautiful YOU have, only without the lynchpins.

If you have the tendency to always fuck up, try to switch it up and fuck down. ~Anthony Liccione

Lately, I’m entwined by patience and philosophical musings more often than I’m inclined to mimic your drama. While that leaves me bereft of anniversary sex or ear-piercing toddler lung discoveries, it staves the obvious evils that haven’t been poached from your territory as frequently or callously as the African elephants. I have no doubt I could get laid (filtered from an abundance of former indulgence). It’s been a conscientious shimmy to censure my vulnerability. I used to give myself away as creatively as a Muppet maker tries on variable eyes to felty furries. My former flustered chronology is now snobby. I seek to snuff any future susceptibility to accumulated blindspots. Also, this transference of torsional tension from exterior to interior has assuaged the juvenile detective sport à la Clue for Sherlock Holmes’ prudence. I exist out of order. Breakfast qualifies as dinner, heck, even dessert regularly enough for me. I keep staggering flirtations operating. I’ve charted an epic haul of male friends in the last thirteen years. In my ancient times, they’d have rendered me a weeping mess, as I used the experiences akin to lab rats badly zapped. I’ve found family in the universe before any has ever protruded from my p*ssy. But this doesn’t seal vanishings within my fate. I will not be frightened by my reality. None of it is sanctioned for scorching one’s dreams. Perchance my periods of submission to resignation are proving to culminate in a balletic quality of love. Perhaps too much binging that led me to purging is a time-honored tradition destiny’s children were only hoping some mortal would muster to blog about for all the world to read.

And you fuck up. That’s okay. If you fuck up and you fuck up, then you’re a fuckup. ~Justin Halpern, Sh*t My Dad Says

I’ve been riffing today in a slightly unusual manner for my predominantly perky blogging. Not to say I’m without shame or dark stories preceding, as anyone with enough time that’s bothered to read all of my stories can find the levels of colossally cursed hubris tossed within the sexy sheets. Maybe a long-lost drunken night would do me some good. A throwback to the times I was dizzy with intimacy. When depleted didn’t signify lacking semen or even seamen exchanges. On the contrary, it insinuated your guts were down some toilet drain from the combustion of beer mixed with tequila and too many shots from some shoddy fraternity ward. They got that word ‘mocktail’ connotated all wrong. A mocktail ought to be mentioned when referencing the irrational corruption from flooding oneself with cocktails. They’ve consistently transported me into the arms of some dude.

Nowadays, I get rapidly preoccupied debating cynical people who are terrified of honest communication with someone they deeply care to be very well fucked by in their search for, or to savor, Mr/Mrs Forever. I’m a glutton for the punishment of knowing how to fix others, yet starving myself of repair. Unfazed is not the headliner at the Troubadour who will take me from behind and leave me wondering why ‘altering” drugs follow me faster than any (marriage) altar. This sophisticated (and, yes, you may translate that as sanely as any stripper who supports herself) version of me maintains a sweetly swigging inspiration habit amidst the scattered cantankerous showers.

The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain. ~Dolly Parton

It doesn’t matter how you take your life. So long as you gulp it all ’til the very last drop.

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