One-way Ticket

One-way ticket

Amanda, Amanda, Amanda. What the fuck is wrong with you? What goes on in that twisted little brain of yours? The date was January 11, 2010. I was holding up my weekly Time magazine, engrossed in an article about the one and only: Ms. Amanda Knox. My hero, my nemesis, my everything.

I remember when I first heard of the story. I was perusing CNN.com, and I came across an article about my soon-to-be reason-for-being. I thought “another murder, another day.” Then, a few more articles, a few more, and the story just blew up! Everyone was talking about her. “Amanda Knox, American in Italy arrested for murder”; “Is Foxy Knoxy REALLY so innocent after all?” I could not get over how much attention the story was getting! And as I saw Amanda’s face in the news more and more, I began to feel a force pulling us together. At first, it was like a little static electricity…and quicker than I’d like to admit, I began to feel like we were two magnets being driven together. Now, it’s as if there is a gravitational force pulling me to her, and as hard as I try to jump up and out of it, to be free, I cannot leave Amanda-sphere.

I don’t know what started my obsession with Amanda. She’s cute, but let’s be honest - nothing special. She’s got a decent little bod, a bit hefty for me. And she’s a total moron…not usually what I’m attracted to. But something about her, something about her just drew me in. The thought of her wearing that sexy red G-string, purchased the day of the murder, so cute on her lying-bitch-conniving little ass.

Now, I suppose after that statement, you’ve gathered how I feel about her innocence. I shouldn’t even put the pronoun “her” and “innocence” in the same sentence, as far off as they are. But I suppose part of what attracts me to her so is that she’s a murdering little pot-smoking-whore. I have fantasies of her holding up the knife that killed Meredith, so stealthily taken from Rodolfo’s kitchen drawer, seductively licking the blade, then straddling me, placing the blade tip up to my neck, smiling that wicked little smile of hers. And I tell you, I nearly come in my pants every time.

At first, my Amanda addiction freaked me out like nothing else. I mean, what is wrong with me? Why do I care about this dumb little bitch? What is so grand about her? What makes her hotter than Miley Cyrus or Lindsay Lohan? Or the lovely Meredith Kircher for Christ’s sake? It just doesn’t make sense! The whole thing is just pretty sick, as anyone in their right mind can see.

But I love Amanda. I love her, I love her, and I want her to tie me up, do nasty things to me, I want to break her out of prison, to show her who is really in control. I want her to sing to me in Italian, to take her soccer ball she so deftly played with (those pictures of her from high school, oh boy), cover it in honey, in wax, in whatever it may be, and do wild things to it with me. My feelings, however obscene they may be, are real.

So, I started writing letters to Miss Amanda. When the case first came out, I wrote about once a week. About six months into it, twice a week. By the end of the first year, well, I’ll just say it…every day (and those are just the ones I sent). Now, we’re into year two of the trial…and let’s just say, I spend a lot of time pencil in hand (pun intended)…a mix of love, lust, and hysteria taking hold of me, as I write her letters about my day, my feelings for her, what I want to do to her (and what I want her to do to me), and hell, even some poems here and there.

Has she writing back you ask? No, not once. Over 300 letters, 0 responses. So, as I sit here at my desk in my dim bedroom, I look at my open suitcase on my bed. Clothes neatly folded inside - enough for a week or two. On top of my desk lies my one way ticket to Italy, where she is currently imprisoned. I am sick of this little cunt ignoring me, and I will not take it anymore! Amanda thinks I’m a stranger, and I do see where she is coming from. But in my reality, the reality that I hold closest to my heart, that I will never be able to let go of, she is mine. And she will be mine.


I may be a sick fuck, but I’m a sick fuck on my way to Italy – Foxy Knoxy, here I come!

Slivering along

Slivering along

Things haven’t been bad since we took over the world. I bet you’re asking yourself, “Who is this ‘we’?” Well, it’s the rattlesnakes of course!

The year is 2678. And yes, there are still humans around. But they don’t rule the roost like they used to! Now it’s us in charge. We sliver our way down the streets, hissing along the way, making sure all is safe and sound. We wouldn’t want any uprisings, after all.

Now how did this happen? I have one word for you: evolution, baby! Yes, humans were the most evolved species. They were horrified of us for centuries, knowing the danger our venom could cause them, running away from us, terrified. But little did they know what we were up to while they were pissing away with fear!

While humans left us alone, afraid to touch us, frightened of being obliterated by our poison, we were becoming bigger, stronger, and even MORE poisonous, little by little. Back in the good old twenty-first century we were about four feet long, five pounds. But in a few hundred years a lot can change…we kept hidden, which wasn’t very hard, considering how unpopular we were. And we ate and ate and ate (mmm, rats and gophers!), grew and grew and grew, and reproduced like WOAH. And soon our four feet become twenty, and five pounds became one-hundred, and our population, it sky-rocketed! And we got STRONGER, and our venom even more potent!

Then one day, the old tribe, led by Jorb and Coza, brought together the first RSU (Rattlesnakes Strong and United) army, to be followed by hundreds of armies worldwide. Did our armies have weapons? Hell no! All we needed was our size, stealth, and super poison.

We did, however, need a plan; no matter how poisonous you are, how deadly you are, you humans are still pretty darn smart. So we mapped out our strategy: We started in the US, with the good ol’ Amarillo, Texas clan making the first attack. Then each of our armies hit our appointed countries, and little by little, we were the majority! Did we kill you all? Of course not! That would be just no fun.

So, the year is 2678, and us rattlesnakes, we are in charge. As much as evolution has helped us physically, in terms of our size and poisonous capabilities, we still aren’t all that social of creatures. So we basically just sliver along, occupying our days on the hunt. And what has happened of you humans you ask?

We call them “surlaps,” which in our tongue is more or less equivalent to prisons. We make them out of leaves, vines, and sap, sort of like a combination of a bird’s nest and a spider web. And there remain the humans, all 1 billion of you or so. It’s funny, as used to us as you must be, you still cringe every time one of us approaches you. And that look of sheer terror, well it’s just such a hoot. During the weekends, our only pleasure time, we usually choose a few surlaps, take you on out, and drop you in a ditch with a few hundred of us. It’s such a darling show, so much jumping and yelping and pleading for help. Not bad entertainment, if you ask me.

So that’s life here in 2678. Taking over the world was pretty great, but life now, well it’s not all that much different than before. What the hell, who am I kidding…it’s way better than before, it is AWESOME ruling the world. As you humans know, being on the top of the totem pole is pretty grand.

Delicious, Disgusting, Decisions

Delicious, Disgusting, Decisions

Barbeque or Sour Cream and Onion. Barbeque or Sour Cream and Onion. The bags of Lays stare back at me from their spot on the shelf in the wide aisle of the supermarket. They both are pulling at me, yelling my name “Buy me, buy me” they shout. Barbeque makes an excellent case: “I’m tangy, yet sweet. I kick at your tongue as you lick your lips and feel that slight burn dance in your mouth. I am the life of the party, I will fulfill all of your needs.” Sour Cream and Onion come in with a sharp rebuttal: “I am amazingly creamy, even in my powdery form. My crunchy richness will amaze you, and then the onion will jump in to shock you, perplexing your taste buds, making you beg for more.”

This is me, at 2am, in Walmart. In my old, baggy, gray sweatpants with a hold in the left knee, my white tube socks (complements of my ex), my Nikes, and my favorite UCLA pull-over hoody. Hair matted, standing, or better yet, slouching, in front of my current best friends: chips. Chips oh chips, how I love thee. I feel my belly pinching out from my sweat pants, but choose to ignore it. My fat just needs more chips!

Now, a sane person would say, “Just get both chips.” Of course! An even saner person would say, “Go to bed, you crazy lady. You should be asleep at this hour!” An even saner person would say, “Dude, it’s pretty pathetic that you’re at Walmart in your jammies at 2am on a Saturday night.” To all of those people, I say, Fuck you (with a capital F).

I grab the barbeque, and head to the check-out line. Of course there are only two open at this hour, both with long lines. I wait, chips in hand, eager to get home let the barbeque prove itself to me. It’s finally my turn to check out. The cashier places my barbeque treasure against the scanner. Nothing. She tries again. Still nothing. Again, again, again, then again, then again. The dumb fuck really thinks this will work at some point. “Can’t you just type the code in?” I ask. She turns the bag around so the barcode faces her, as if this idea were a novel, confusing idea. She looks at it, looks back up at me, and said “No, the numbers somehow got smudged, I can’t read them. I”ll call for a price check.” “No, it’s fine,” I retort. “I’ll just get another bag.”

There I am, back at the chip aisle, once again faced with the barbeque and sour cream and onion debate. It’s as if I have to make the decision all over again. So unfair, stupid smudge. I grab the sour cream and onion this time, guessing that fate smudged the bar code, wanting me to make this choice. I take the bag, and walk back toward the check-out counter.

As I do, I catch a glimpse of him in my periphery. My ex, laughing his girly, giddy laugh, walking toward me with whom I can only presume is his new girlfriend, hand in hand. She has a huge smile across her face and giggles softly as he laughs away. Love and lust emanate from them. He looks up and sees me, and his facial expression suddenly changes from glee to utter mortification. My heart races, I look back at him. All of our moments together flash through my mind: our first kiss, late night Taco Bell runs, lounging on the couch watching movies, going from club to club dancing and kissing on our crazy nights. Then the last moment hits me: Him, over the phone, saying to me “I’m sorry, I wish I felt differently, but I just think this is the right thing for us both.” I see those moments, and they feel brand new.

I quickly leave Walmart, chips in hand, hurrying out, not caring that I didn’t pay. I find my car, and sit in the driver’s seat. I feel my bag of Lays in my lap. I open the bag, pull out a chip, and bite into it. I taste the creamy powder, feel the onion pierce into my tongue. I put chip after chip into my mouth, the flavor changing as my salty tears creep into my mouth. I continue to eat, until the bag is empty. I feel sick to my stomach. I get out of the car, empty bag in hand. I walk to the trash can. As I do, I see my ex exit the Walmart, looking around, preoccupied. Looking for me, of course, hoping he does not see me. I stand in front of the metal garbage can a few feet from my car. I throw away the empty bag of chips, once filled with such delicious delightfulness, now vacant, having left only traces of repulsion coating my insides. I turn back to the car, get in, turn on the ignition, and drive toward away.

No decision

No decision

It was sucked out of me. Just like that. Snap. So long. Bye bye. It was gone forever. I stared up at the white ceiling, and felt nothing. I heard buzzing, as the doctor held down the button next to my chair, raising me back to an upright position. He told me to remain seated for a few moments, and then I could leave. He said to call him if there were any problems.

I sat up in a daze, then closed my eyes again. I practiced my relaxation breathing, a technique taught to me a few therapists ago. In deep through the nose, feel my stomach extend as my diaphragm is pushed down, exhale slowly through the mouth. As if that made a difference.

A few minutes passed, me sitting in my paper robe, legs exposed, feeling a slight shiver run through my back as the cool air coming out of the vent above me tickled me all over. I listened to the hum of the air conditioner as the air blew over me, using the noise as my focus point, so that I could clear my head of everything else.

I opened my eyes as the door opened, the nurse coming back to check on me. She gave me instructions as to post-op care, then said I could get dressed and leave. She walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. I slowly rose from the chair, peeling my sticky skin from its plastic cover. I threw my sundress on over my head, then my cardigan sweater. I slipped my underwear over my feet, then tore open the pad lying on the counter, sticking it on. If anything remained, there it would land.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tall, thin, long blond hair. I looked like Barbie in my powder blue sundress, with its white laced collar and lace trims along the bottom. I was Barbie to everyone around me; little did they know what I had just done.

I strolled out of the exam room, out the office door, then out the front door of the medical building. I picked up the phone, found Dylan’s name, and clicked “call.” “Hi, baby,” he said, sleepily. “Hi,” I said back. We chatted on for a few minutes; we discussed our upcoming wedding, our excitement for our honeymoon, and the life we’d have together. “I’m so excited to be married to you,” Dylan uttered. “Me too,” I uttered. And even as I felt the blood leaking from my underwear, sliding over the pad, and down my leg, I knew that I truly meant it. I walked on down the street, chatting with Dylan, feeling bliss defeat agony as the wrestling match came to an end in my heart.

The Rose

The Rose

I feel the warm water run down my body as I gently massage the shampoo suds along my scalp. As I wash myself, I hum along to the music in the background, softly singing. The music is faint, with the sound of the running water overpowering it, yet I know the words so well that I could hear them over anything. As I sing along, I absorb the powerful lyrics, and tears trickle down my face. They mix with the soapy water, and slide down my body as the music eases its way through me.

Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower and you, it's only seed

Her voice is so inspiring, her words so hopeful.  She understands love’s danger.  Yet she sees beyond it, she sees the sparkle, and all that it’s worth.  The song continues as my body tightens.    

It's the heart, afraid of breaking that never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying that never learns to live

I listen to the words, the urgent need to give it all, to let the fear be lifted from me, fading into the clouds, disappearing forever. I want to feel, experience, live. 

When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the winter snow
Lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose

These simple words, these soft metaphors, they caress me.  I feel hope, I feel dreams, I feel life outside of the water and soap surrounding me. 

I see a rose, fragile red petals atop an arched green stem. Ominous thorns, awaiting their opportunity to prick you if you squeeze too hard.  The petals shake in the wind, daring to fall off, leaving the rose behind, all alone.  I am that rose, I am that fragility, I am those thorns. 

I hear a yelling in the background.  “Trish, hurry up, the bus will be here in less than ten minutes,” my mom shouts, as the song slowly fades out, and I am left alone with the falling water again.   I turn the water off, grab a towel, and wrap myself in its rough threads.  I head out of the bathroom, steam from the shower following behind me, along with my my tender teenaged daydreams.

All the possibilities

All the possibilities

I look down at the small, smooth, white piece of paper.  The numbers, in their square-ish font, smile back at me.  6 30 33 44 3 9.  There they are.  Would they be my destiny?  Would they change my life forever?  If only I knew.

I wake up a week later, unexcited to crawl out of bed and start my day.  Me, I’m your typical 40 year-old-divorcee.  I do billing at a small doctor’s office in my small, boring town.  Easy, uninteresting work, shitty pay.  When people ask me what I do, I explain.  They nod and smile, their facial expression revealing a failed attempt at conjuring up question or comment in response to my job description.  It’s always quite awkward.

So, it is another torturous, pull-yourself-out-of-bed-and-get-your-ass to-work morning.  I stand up, stretch and yawn, and give my pot belly a pat.  On my way to the bathroom, I notice a white ball under my desk.  I stop and look down to further investigate, and then it hits me.  My lottery ticket from last week!  How the hell did I forget about that?

To be honest, it’s not too difficult to imagine how I forgot about it.  I buy at least two or three a week.  Sometimes scratch-offs, sometimes PowerBall, something Pick Three - just depends on my mood.  Some might say I’m wasting money; me, I see it as an investment in my future.  I will win one day!  I will win!

I lean down to pick up the lottery ticket off the floor.  I feel old age creeping up on me as my back aches during its first bend of the day.  I suppose I’ve had a good life overall, but the stress of the past few years, what with my infertility and subsequent divorce, have taken a toll on my body.  I just don’t feel as young and spry as I used to.

As I lift myself up, white ball in hand, I think of how AWESOME it would feel if I won.  Back problems no more; I could visit the chiropractor every day. Heck, I could hire my own person chiropractor… and masseuse!  I could buy that leather sofa I’d been coveting at Williams-Sonoma…I could get those golden earring I’d always dreamed of..I could buy all of Tiffany’s for Christ sake!  And then a yacht!  And a little house in Tuscany, where I’d sip wine and watch the sunset from my porch each evening.  Oh, all of the happiness I would encounter, all of the beautiful things that would surround me.  I would no longer be me; I saw myself as Glinda, the Witch of the North, from the Wizard of Oz; covered in a white, sparkly, puffy princess dress, donning a silver, diamond covered, gleaming crown, and an expression of pure bliss and merriment splattered across my wrinkle free, Botox-filled face.

I look over at the clock, realizing I overslept, and am due in at the office in less than an hour.  I rush to the bathroom, complete my cleansing ritual in record-breaking time, and am on my way to work.

 

Stupidly, I leave my round, wrinkled up paper dream on my desk in my bedroom.  Normally, this would irk me, and I’d be overcome with curiosity all day.  But, today I find an odd tranquility surrounding me; I feel light and free.  I know, I just know, that that white ball of waxy paper and cheap ink holds my destiny, and that folded in it lay everything I’ve ever dreamt of.

Nine hours later, I am driving home.  I stop for some fast food on the way.  As I bite into my dry, meatless hamburger, I delight in the fact that this will be my last fast food meal.  After collecting my winnings, I will be eating lobster and caviar every night.

As I drive to my house, I feel at peace.  I hum along calmly to the music on the radio, a confident grin across my face.  I pull into my driveway, and turn off the engine.  As I do this, I feel a wave of sadness fall over my insides.  Who am I kidding?  There is no way I won, impossible.  I am a sad sack of shit, my happiness relying on some implausible hope of winning the lottery.  I look in the rearview mirror, my eyes staring back at me, two dark circles of nothingness.  I am nothing, I will always be nothing.  A childless divorcee, chronic back pain sufferer, and one lonely son-of-a bitch. 

I turn the key to open the front door.  I throw my bag down, walking through the living room to my bedroom.  I turn on my laptop on my desk, and look at the crumpled up paper sitting beside it.  I stand there in silence as the computer processes away, revealing my messy desktop after much buzzing.  I click onto the lottery website, bookmarked of course, unable to resist temptation.  Once there, I click the pulldown menu, selecting the date I bought my ticket (after a great deal of calendar calculating, I was able to figure out the date).  I look at the six numbers staring me in the face, and my heart races.  I feel my body once again fill with hope, feel the thrill run up my spine, through my arms and legs, shaking me up.  I pick up my white crinkly destiny, and slowly unfold it, flattening it out.  I look at the paper, and feel the exhilaration of a minute past vacuumed out of my body.  

“Walmart”, with its huge capital W, is on the top of the paper; under that, a list items (tampons, Tylanol, and Ben and Jerries Ice Cream); prices to their right.  I look at the numbers on the computer screen as I squeeze the paper back into a ball.  I swallow the lump in my throat, throw the paper in the trash bin, and turn around toward my lonely, silent living room.  

Ethiopian Food

Ethiopian Food

“What the hell is this?”  I asked Brian, as the waiter brought over our food.   I looked at the red mush, the brown chunks next to it (which I assumed were some form of meat).  Brian responded, “I told you already, it’s called wat.  It’s a typical Ethiopian dish.  It’s just chicken and onion and spices.”  He gestured toward the plate in the middle of the table, on which lay a pile of pancake-like structures with holes in them, resembling squashed pumice stones. “You eat it with injera, this bread here,” he added. 

I picked up a piece of “injera” and dipped it in some gunk.  This was not my idea of fine-dining.  This was not my idea of fun.  This was not my idea of a good time.

 

The night went on, and Brian and I engaged in stilted conversation.  It was our third date, so you’d think we’d have a lot to talk about, all that “get to know you” stuff.  But the more Brian talked, the more I disliked him.  His pretentiousness (“Oh, this wat lacks fenugreek”), his over-confident air (“When you date me, you get to taste foods from all over the world”) and his annoying laughter at his own stupid jokes (“Then I told him, not that kind of cheek, he-e-e-e-e-e”). 

I looked across at Brian, and wondered why I was doing this to myself.  I had signed up for Match two weeks ago, on my little sister’s advice.  “Everyone’s doing it,” she whined over Skype.  She sat on her couch, hundreds of miles away, in her powder pink jumpsuit.  Its zip-up sweatshirt, covered in fur and silver sparkles, rested on top of her messy blond ponytail.  I looked at her, smiled, and said “OOOOOOOOkkkay, I’ll try it.”

When you’re 39 and single, people generally don’t bug you about your dating life.  At such a point, most people figure “She must be happy on her own” or “She must not want a family.”  Or, the most likely response, “She must be so devastated that she hasn’t found ‘the one,’ and that she’s all alone, a few short steps away from spinsterhood.”  But none of these were the case for me.

Josie was my boss, and she was my world.  I had worked as her assistant at Solister’s and Associates for the past nine years.  Josie was an up-and-coming attorney back then, and she was made a partner just under a year ago.  She considered her promotion “the best thing ever.”  It was also a huge promotion (ching ching!) for me.  But, I honestly didn’t care about that.  I was just happy that Josie was taking me along with her up the ladder, and that I wasn’t being left behind for whatever new low-level attorney they hired.

Back to “my world:” Josie was it.  Every morning, on my way to work, I felt both dread and longing – dread at the idea of sitting at a desk all day doing paperwork, and a longing to see Josie anew.  I yearned for the moment she would first acknowledge me; whether it be a wave hello, eye contact and a smile, or powerwalking toward my desk, file in hand and immediate instructions.  When she wasn’t directly addressing me, I indulged in just looking at her.  She was no supermodel:  about 15 pounds overweight, thin blond hair (perhaps a bit thinner than nine years ago, when she was just 35), and a not-so-keen fashion sense.  But I loved her all the same.  I looked at her little muffin top peeking out where her tight skirt pinched her hips, the faint wrinkles over her mouth that had started to form in recent years, and how her stockings ran over her paradoxically long and stumpy legs.  These moments of secret admiration were the most precious to me.    

Sadly, all of the energy I put toward Josie didn’t add up to much, other than a pathetic infatuation.  Josie was married with three kids (ages 10, 12, and 16).  I daydreamed about her having it out with her husband after she dramatically confessed to him that she was in love with her assistant; he would shout at her “How is it possible?!” and she would yell back, tears running down her face “I don’t know, I just don’t know.”  But this would never happen.  Josie loved being a wife and mother, loved providing for her family, loved loving them.

So my secret lesbian-self lived in my secret box, and there I would stay.  

Images of Josie flashed through my mind as Brian continued his monologue about Ethiopian spices.  My life, my falsehood, my sorrowful existence, they all didn’t seem as bad as sitting here across from Brian.  I got up, excused myself, saying I had to use the ladies room.  I picked up my purse and sweater, and very openly walked out the exit door of the restaurant, onto the empty sidewalk and the dark, cool night.  I saw Brian’s confused expression through the front window of the restaurant as I walked ahead, toward the metro station. 

I knew I would never have Josie, I knew I would always be alone in my closet, pitied by all.  But I would rather it be that way forever than have to face that nasty Ethiopian food again.