Coconut Turn About by the Superintendent of the Rec Center

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we're singing and hanging out at the rec center,
exploring the hilly west side with big houses and wooden porches.
And a nineteen year old is murdered at 1pm on the South side of the water after an argument.
"Something's wrong with Baltimore."
I watch two brothers, artists, actors, dancers, walk away from me down the blue corridor, past the ceramic kiln, past the crew cleaning the bathrooms, toward the gymnassium with the dance troop, and I think the same thing.
I think that if they aren't here and they are walking outside these walls, by themselves, or WORSE with a group, their safety can't be taken for granted.

Mr. Furlow knows it, my new friend that reminds me of my father and my brother (if you could mix them both together). I walk with him and smile as a toddler toddles quickly in the opposite direction. Mr. Furlow takes his large hand and gently places it on top of the toddlers head. He times it perfectly like a magic game of whack a mole. The little one stops and like a Reiki master of Louissiana, wills the child to change direction as if the tiny head is part of a huge mechanism, a coconut-sized weathervane that must point north.

And he smiles, and I can hear the echo of a silent whimsical giggle behind his eyes, as he takes his hand from the top of the child's head and he toddles back in the right direction.

Jonah and the Whale?

I woke up on Saturday and I was glad the rapture didn't happen, I guess.
But, guess what. I had the date wrong. It's this Saturday the rapture is supposed to happen. And all the good people are going to get sucked up into God's blow hole ( because God is a huge whale in space... duh)

So anyway, that has not happened YET. And I'm not sure what my plans are on Saturday.

I have a menial job, but at least I have health insurance so that if I hit my head on something while I'm going up the vacuum tube, I can recuperate in the hospital with a five dollar tylenol. In fact, I have excellent health insurance, so if I'm lucky enough, I'll get a vaccine for zombie bites since the other side effect of the rapture is that the dead walk the earth. I mean, Jesus. Really? I have to worry about this?

Probably not.

I'm having my coffee and vitamin B. I'm going to fight child abuse today. And I'm also going to work late, late hours today. I won't fail. Today will be a success. I'm drinking out of a cup that says 'Princess'. I won't ask too many questions. I'll stand up for myself if I need to.

That's all I have time for now.

Let the Professionals Handle This

Like hair bleaching, some things should be left to the professionals. It was roughly two years ago, I found myself with a little free time on my hands. And like they say, idle hands can be the devil's plaything, and I was trying to stay busy, obviously to avoid evil as always. I bleached my own hair. Half way through, I called my friend Joey to help me apply the bleach to the back of my head. He helped A LOT. But neither of us were licensed in this practice. It was too strange and I dyed it back to brown within twelve hours.

The following year, I had a job and payed someone to make my hair blonde. It was fun while it lasted.

This evening, five hundred dollars into an ongoing investment a professionally styled head of blonde hair, at eight-thirty-seven, I had fully committed to bleaching my own roots. What is pathetic is that I failed to learn this lesson. And what's more important is that I didn't lose my resilient nature in the past two years.

I tell myself to keep hoping. Yet, now that I've made this mistake twice, the only time I'll ever make my hair blonde again ( by myself at least ) is only if I am put into the witness protection program and it is required to avoid death.

Although I enjoyed galavanting as a bombshell of a different descent; and conducting my own psychology experiment ( yes, people dooooo treat you differently ) ( and yes, I had my own little joke about being a white bitch barbie ); every time I looked in the mirror for more than ten seconds, I missed my old self.

Above all, I'll have more money for cigarettes this year. Like my friend Jeremy says, "she quit her job once so she could have more time to smoke".

True.

Your mother broke the See-Saw

Your mother is sooooo fat, she walked around the corner, saw her own ass in front of herself tryin' a get around the other side.
Your mother is soooo fat, she walked around the corner, tried to pick pocket somebody, felt somethin' touchin' her ass and smacked herself in the face.

Your mother is so fat she set off the neighbor's smoke alarm makin' pancakes and bacon. Your mother is so fat she has a george foreman grill in the passenger seat of her car and fries chicken in the glove compartment.

That's all for now. Rapper's warm up, #1.

Out of Practice Big Time

Now that the "911 generation's boogeyman is dead" I'd just like to say that I'm from the generation before that.

I'm from the generation after the hippies on shakedown street, but before Brittany Spears.

We had a LOT of fun before all of this paranoia. Things were pretty cool. And I'm hoping we can go back to chillin' like villains and quit the witchhunt mentality.

I'mjustsayin'.

Wouldn't that be great?

I'll tell you what would be splendiferous, if people would also stop spewing gibberish like tiny-minded cause-whores. That's right.
I can't possibly be so passionate about so many things since the internet blew up for me in 2005 when I got a job with a computer. I just got the internet at my house in 2008 and it was a whole new world.

I became empassioned, enraged, engaged, and enraptured all at once and wore it the fuck out.

I realized that some of my closest real friends are not on the webs at all and I talk to them on the phone on the regular. Some of my closer friends I just run into on the street, but that's rarer these days, yet, it does happen.

So, goodnight. I have no super-creative spark to send you, just tired fingers writing a tiny bit of my perspective.