bad ass, cream puff

It seems those are my two main modes. I wonder, if I move quickly enough from one to the other, will it appear as if I am in the middle?

I'm sick, it's true. And I tell you, right now I can feel it. It's not like crashing my Vespa at the end of March wasn't enough. You know, broken fingertip, ankle raped by asphalt. It's not like I don't already make the same exact turn every day on my way to work, in my limping LandRover, and curse the spot. There's been a dead smushed furry somthing there for the past three weeks.

No I know I'm not feeling well. I hide behind my monitors. I hate people secretly, without reason. Short-tempered, I bark. Brittle bad-ass, snapping at friends and people who try to take care of me. That's just before melting into a puddle of weepy, nose-reddening self-pity, writhing around in despair.

O Despair!

No... then I can go into some sort of auto-pilot... particularly facilitated by FB Mafia Wars. Click. Click. Fidget, wait. Click. It's the ultimate mouse-in-maze cheese hunt ever, for me at least.

Now my ears are burning, and I'm pretty sure it's coming from inside.

I crank the volume on my music, to drown out the LOUD OBNOXIOUS voices coming from the hallway. I think again with queasiness about the grinding sound now suddenly coming from my front wheels in the truck. Or maybe that queasiness is from the meds Doc T gave me yesterday. They are pretty potent, making the world spin just a litle. And I feel... ill. Hard to describe yukkiness, coiling and hissing in the base of my skull. Light bothers me. Some sounds bother me. That voice in the hall particularly, but she seems to have gotten the hint from my music volume and is now no longer using her outside voice.

Fucking moron.

I whip up hatefull thoughts more easily than I cry. I wonder about my defense mechanisms, and knowing that those who care for you are the first ones to take advantage of you. I know it. Four year old me knows it. And she's been around for a long time. She sits in a rocking chair on the front porch, a bitter Lily-Tomlin-take-off, smoking a long pipe and reminding me that it's never safe. Ever. Never safe. Feeling bad now? Just wait, it gets worse.

It's probably the brake pads wearing down or just wearing out. I should stop driving it until it's fixed, I can tell. Wonder how much that'll be. Wonder when my money will get straight. Wonder when I'll pass Adult 101... I'm not sure that I have. Is it possible to get a grade in 301 and still be remedial in 101? All the kids in the advanced class love my prose but they don't know I still can't tie my shoes.

Spinning, spinning. I know. I do! Or else I couldn't write it down. No no. I document to disarm. Proof and evidence of existence. I am here. Here I am. Beautiful and bumpy and infected.

And worn out. With a smile in the corner of my mouth. Even as I pool up in distress. I reach out and feel love coming back. I can imagine your hand on my head, smoothing my hair. Many hands. Many snuggles and nuzzles.

And that's when I know I just want to go to bed. And dream of Angel Caretakers who don't know how to steal.

And tho you're not here, in this moment, I can tell you that Ani DiFranco serenades me with Amazing Grace, and I'm sure it's gonna be all right.