Dream: 1981 (that is to say, I had this dream in 1981)

That old vanity where she always put on her makeup and curled her hair had a mirror big enough for the two of us.
It looked like rock-n-roll and royalty. It smelled like cigarettes and seventeen.
I liked to watch her in the reflection: her perfect eyes, her luscious red lips, her confidence. She blended and highlighted and brushed like an expert.
She'd been the only girl.
After having three rowdy boys by natural means, my grandmother decided not to take any chances. She adopted a girl.
And so, my aunt garnered quite a bit of attention from the rest of the family, including me.
She was the center of the world. She listened to the loudest music, had the wildest friends, knew the sexiest dance moves. She was living the life, and I wanted to live the life, too, so it didn't faze her to have me always at her side, soaking up some of the awesome she exuded.
The vanity, that's where it happened.
That's where I became suddenly aware of the other presence in the mirror.
A small child with big, blue, adoring eyes and soft, blond curls stared back at me.
A beautiful girl with a crack running across her face--a big, black crack from ear to ear.
The Me in the chair looked at the Me in the mirror, wondering--what could it mean to have such a crack straight across like that? What damage could it cause? How should this be handled?
The Me in the mirror had no qualms. She reached up with both hands, lifted the upper half of the head and revealed the brain within.
No worries.
The crack sealed itself up once the deed was done, and the Me in the mirror placed a finger on her lips and smiled back at the Me in the chair.
The Center of the World never even noticed

Soup's On

I'm trying to write this story in the living room, and it's difficult.

I've made my demands for the television to be off. I've let people know that I intend to sit here and get some substantial creativity flowing onto these virtual pages. I've got the lap top atop the lap, yet...nobody's taking me seriously.

Nobody's allowing me to have the peace and quiet I need to focus on the character development. Nobody's skedaddling into other areas so I can concentrate. Nobody's shutting up.

It's like...they think I need to be part of their "intellectual" argument simply because I am within proximity of the ongoing conversation. They're so lively about the things they're saying to each other, and every once in a while, they expect me to chime in with my take on the story, which has nothing to do with the story going on in my head. Nothing to do with me at all.

We oughtta just bust out a deck of cards and a six-pack.

Because I am not getting anything accomplished in this environment

And its been going on for a few weeks.

And it needs to stop.

Because I need to write this story.

100 Words: Stank

What is that smell?

It's like a dirty skunk and a musk ox fell in love and gave birth to a wet dog.

Seriously, it reeks.

It's worse than Matthew's socks, and if you've ever been within ten feet of Matthew's socks, you'd be handing me the flame thrower to ensure proper eradication of the offensive items.

I'll have to shut my bedroom door to keep from retching. Or maybe...maybe I'll shut her bedroom door instead.

It is my house after all. She's just a temporary freeloader moocher guest.

(I can't wait to have my house to myself again.)

100 Words: Plop, Chatter, Hiss

     There's enough drizzle to set a gloomy mood, but not enough to scare away the workers at the apartments down the street. They've got edgers and weed-eaters and mowers out mighty early today. The roar vibrates across the wet asphalt, strikes the wooden fence, bounces against my house, whips into my living room.

     I'm disappointed. I like to open the door, listen to the trickle of water run across my roof, gather in the rain gutter, and plop onto the patio. I like to listen to birds gossip across powerlines. I like to hear the hiss as precipitation hits pavement.

I'll Give You an Arm, and Maybe a Leg

I'm up. I can't tell yet whether it's far too early or far too late for an old lady like me to be out of bed.

I'm eating Fritos and Coke instead of saltines and Gatorade in the ebb of a migraine hangover. That's all we had in the pantry. There were two empty boxes, but not a cracker to be found. I blame this on the two teenage boys who moved back home a couple of months ago. The headache and the foodlessness.

Second migraine incident of the year, and this one was a doozy. During the worst of it--that hour when my brain turned to molten lava while angry spirits tried to bore out my eyes with an invisible jackhammer-- I dreamt up a thousand ways to end my own life. Also, I dreamt up a thousand ways to end the lives of all those people in the area who were doing all the noisy things that magnified in my brain a hundredfold. Lucky for them, I was incapacitated.

Seriously, though, I often tell folks I'd rather give up my left arm than ever have another migraine. And that's saying quite a bit since I'm left-handed.

I'm sure once I'm dead, the doctors will be able to look back at my headache diary and surmise that it was the migraines that killed me. They'll cluck their tongues and shake their heads at my funeral wondering why I didn't go see them sooner. I was, after all, much too young to die.

I'm Out of Kahlua, But I've Still got Vodka.

Right now, I feel a little jazzy.
I wish I lived in the old neighborhood.
That place where we could light up the grill at 10 pm
and get the whole neighborhood in on the party.
I wish somebody would offer me a toke (even though I'm allergic).
I wish we could turn it up and 
let it loose and
invite the cops.
I wish it was Margarita Monday
with a bit of Sassy Saturday mixed in
for your listening pleasure.
I wish I could take a clumsy spin around the patio
with old Green Eyes
who secretly loves me.
But he's just too cool to say it.
 

Look at these while I bask in Gloriousness.

Just a little bragging: I managed to complete my Associates with Highest Honors in the top 1% of my class. Not too shabby...