Funeral

I spend more time in envy than I do in greatness. Hearing music. Seeing art. Enjoying comedy. Watching stirring film or television. Reading something great. Amazed by conceptual design. They live and breath it. I breath settling dust.

What I do is great. What I can do is greater. I am and always have been a force to be reckoned with even though in my head I am currently a pea under a thousand mattresses.

What I have will BAM! and splatter like a quarter stick of dynamite sparked by one solitary moment of ignition. Or maybe like cum on a celestial thigh. I don't know. At least that's the way I picture it will be while still melancholy in mourning the person I used to be, growing into the person I would be if I weren't the person I used to be.

I've got faith. I know I'm a great idea God had a while ago. There are a lot of bad ideas out there, like wearing white after Labor Day or eating a 2AM chicken burrito from Erick's. But this one. This one is good. I know I'm not here to sit around and punch numbers into a machine or mope around because I've given up. I'm not a pussy.

I'm 17. I'm an anarchist. I am a feminist. I am a ball buster. I am a dreamer. I am a fighter. I am someone who doesn't know what the real world is like yet. I'm a style monger. I'm a truster. I'm an ambivalent omnivore. I don't know what to say unless I'm around people who know what to say. I'm an energy generator. I'm a photographer. I'm a writer. I'm a good cook. I openly hate my parents. I'm a nature lover. I'm a spiritual searcher. I attract weirdos. I dye my hair every color and pierce myself. I get all my clothes at the thrift store. I carry a lunchbox. I write on my shoes. I get crushes on bassists and drummers. I drag my best friend around to awesome local shows; eh, most times by myself. I carry a journal with me everywhere I go. I'm a serial obsesser. My first love. Oh, my first love. I break in to the church house to make out. I want to disappear with razors and will kill myself, then I stand on dangerous cliffs and will live forever. I will tell you everything and not even know I'm doing it. I'm fresh out of the gate, smart as hell and I've got a future like an avalanche.

Listen to what happened in between that and this during the eulogy. I'm so tired of this funeral. It just goes on and on and on. If you need me, I'll be in the back telling everyone they don't have to go home but they can't stay here.

I paid good money for you, but you're priceless.

Oh, little muse. If I want to see you, I have to look in the mirror backwards. We've only been friends for a little over a week and you're starting to itch already. I know not to scratch because you will fade away and need attention later if I do. Ever since you've been under my skin, I have sensed a new found inspiration. It's amazing to me how the smallest people in our lives can sometimes be the biggest. I know you will hide under layers of sweaters, scarves and coats this winter, but fear not; you will be set free once seventy degrees makes a come back! Even though you're in black and white, I might some day add neighbors with a little color. You look so good backwards. I think I'll take off my shirt while the radiator ticks and look again, for fear of forgetting what you're like. I never want to forget your form, oh you of inky darkness. Now that we're friends for life, we're just going to have to get used to each other. Let's make the best of it.

I'm Just A Little Person

Sometimes, I like the window seat so I can scoot across and feel where cute butts have warmed the plastic and fabric underneath. I don’t know what they were thinking when they put fabric on those seats, but because they collect little prickly ions of warmth from little people with infinite possibilities, I know it was the right decision.

I try not to be obvious as I scan for a face I can trust. Every time a new body walks on with a morning coffee, I can sense a phantom tinge of caffeinated bitterness on the base of my tongue. I wonder if he grinds that coffee himself. French press? I wonder if he is growing his beard out for the winter or just too lazy to shave. Either way, it’s very attractive. Scratchy soft.

My pin-up red fingernails extend a little further than usual from the book about spirituality that I so meticulously covered with bright paper as not to get dirty looks from anyone who might think I’m crazy for liking those kinds of books. A dirty look is like a laser; if you happen to catch the direct line of light, it can cause major damage. If anything, they should think I’m crazy for liking to feel a warm seat after another little person gets up and walks away.

If you happen to feel my butt-warmed seat, may you absorb my burned kilojoules with joy.

The Pact

We were just kids. We said when we were 15 that if we weren't married by 30, we would marry one another. And now, there you are - and here I am - in two completely different places in life. We're just as distant as we ever were, even when your face was on my chest. I haven't seen you in years, but I feel your security. If you're not there in marriage already, you're getting there; you were always very determined to be with someone special.

I have no idea where you are on the road of life, but my guess is you're even more complex and becoming more like your Dad by the day. I'll always care about you, no matter how crazy I acted over the years while I was still using. You never loved me because you knew I was batshit. Smart man.

Sometimes, I look over my shoulder when I'm riding in the bike lane and I imagine you and your girl pulling up next to me without recognizing me. I hide behind my sunnies and helmet, and I move on to the next daydream of the man in my life who will be more inspiring and cooler than you were back then. I will feel that muse come alive again. It's been far, far too long. 10 years of fog lifting now...watch me grow.