Where the Sun Doesn’t Shine

Is your world dark and rank? Do you feel as though you are bathing in an abyss of excrement? Do you find yourself surrounded by shit and want to rid yourself of the reek in your life? If so, here are some hints to help wash away the rancidness wrapped around you:

Start by considering what is causing the crap to compile in your personal space? To find the answer you must first search through the brown fog and locate your head.

Upon finding it you will surely make the keen observation that your think tank has not been resting atop your shoulders as you once thought, rather, has unequivocally been thrust up your ass. This dim prospect may be difficult for you to accept, but you must do so before moving onto the next step.

Once you are ready, you must voluntarily pull your noggin out from between your buttocks, regardless of how long it may have been there. I know this will be hard to do, as you have lived with your head stuck in your hind-end for so long, but it is an essential part of the process. If you believe it is too trying to do on your own, find some friends within reach willing to help. They will be the ones who stuck around while your head was stuck in your lower most orifice.

Upon your primary attempts to free yourself, there will no doubt be some resistance, as your anal retentive instinct is to keep you brain firmly in its place – it is now comfortable in the home you have created for it. However, I'm sure you will find that after a bit of buoyancy, a tad of tugging, and perhaps the aid of an amigo, your skull will soon easily slide out your backside and resume its position on top of your shoulders where you can clearly see what is going on around you.

If you should succeed in returning your head to its original home, take a deep breath and make some observations. Has the odor changed? Does the world look brighter? You might detect the faint aroma of roses and see something called sunshine . . . .

Don't be alarmed if you feel awfully overwhelmed. The ability to change your outlook on life is something you haven't been acquainted with for quite some time. It will no doubt take some getting used to, but eventually you will begin to enjoy the light of day and take pleasure in the smell of sweet things around you, and perchance even prefer it to the pungency of your pooing porthole.

If the time should come when you again feel as if your life is headed to the shitter, you will predictably try to disrupt the flow of life and poo as you have done in the past. Resist this at all costs. However, if you end up experiencing an encore of your excrement, unable to see the luminosity in your life, repeat the steps above and remember, when engrossed in pessimism and unable to put things in proper perspective, that the sun doesn't shine out of your ass. Shoving your head up there further is not going to make your day any sunnier, and if you don't make every effort to put it back where it belongs, will find yourself festering in your feces and drowning in your own dung.

Good luck to you on your journey out of your ass. May you behold the beauty that exists outside of it . . . .

Side effects of following these helpful hints: You may no longer have stomach upset, bloating and/or constipation. Your head will probably stop aching and a sense of calm may overtake you. There is a chance you will sleep well and want to get out of bed in the morning, and possibly even experience happiness and joy. If you have any questions about these changes in your life, and a friend is unable to talk you through them, call a respectable therapist that is able to explain these new sensations to you.

I dedicate this to those like myself, who spent much of their lives sulking about their supposed sad state of affairs, refusing to revel in the redolence of the roses. This serves to remind me that "sunny days sweeping the clouds away" do indeed exist, and that I have the ability to enjoy them if I just remember to look up.

“My Hell Is the Closet I’m Stuck Inside” . . . Still

This closet is my brain; it puts up steel traps and won't let me out.

I've never been out west, west of Chicago that is. You know why? Part of it has been lack of opportunity and funds, but mainly it's been because of my fear to fly.

I've taken six flights in my life – three dreaded flights to get to France and three even more dreaded flights to get home – all of them within 10 days of each other, all of them with fellow classmates of mine in the French club.

One month after the aforementioned trip, on July 17^th, 1996, TWA Flight 800 crashed. I stayed up all night watching the coverage. Sixteen students from a Pennsylvania high school French club were on that plane. All of them were to tour with the same company my French club toured with – all of them died in the crash instead.

I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that if that crash had happened a month before my scheduled trip, I never would have gone to France from fear of the same fate. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that if my trip had been scheduled for a month later, I probably wouldn't be around to think about whether or not I would have gone to France.

At 18 years old I was frightened to death of death. At 23 years old 9/11 happened and those fears deepened.

I'm afraid of heights; I'm afraid of flying. I'm pretty sure in a past life I died from some kind of fall or plane crash, because no amount of logic, rhyme, reason, or rationalization will allow me to believe that planes are safer than cars, even though they are and we all know it.

But at some point I was able to move beyond TWA Flight 800 and 9/11, I got older, and my fears started to dwindle. I dreamed of traveling the world and considered flying again to get to where I wanted to go. My brain was rational . . . if only for a brief moment.

I managed to screw it all up.

A few months ago I started watching a little show called "Ghost Hunters", which led to watching another show called "Ghost Adventures". Both investigate the afterlife of souls trapped here on earth, souls that didn't move onto a better place, souls living the virtual hell of the closet they are stuck inside.

The fear of death consumes me again, but for different reasons this time. The death I once feared was not being able to see my loved ones again. The death I now fear is being stuck here to watch loved ones move on while I can't.

So I'm afraid to fly again, just when I was getting the itch to spread my wings.

I need to stop watching those effing ghost shows!

Yes, I'm unequivocally aware that I'm insane, no need to remind me. I write this for therapeutic reasons, and FUCK I need therapy, lots of it!

Critical Catharsis

Add some sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what good food is made of; a dash of care and some salt to spare to ensure my taste buds will love. But the soda's not right and the chocolate's not light, so the creation does not rise. Into the trash it goes unabashed, but at least it's not onto my thighs. I get a new spoon, a new bowl, a new goal, and this time it will be right. I mix and I stir without being deterred, the result is my tongue's delight . . . .

The needle plunges between two strands of thread, takes hold, and tugs back through the trail it has taken. A loop has been made, progress appears plausible. The strand wraps itself around the hook that offsets slipping and makes another passage through the filaments. A single stitch is complete, a stitch in the chasm I slip into slowly if the aperture is left in place. The longer the gorge is gaping, the further I fall, and the probability of crawling back to the surface seems staggering. So I press onward, allowing the process to repeat, ensuring the stitches seam the stretch of the slit. Progress seems solid. This pursuit is practically complete – that is until it happens, the inevitable . . . a mistake, an error, a sin if you must, and the stitches are unseamed, ending up further behind than where I have first begun. Relentlessly, the process repeats, and new stitches are made once again, suturing the split in my soul.

The fingers pound away; the letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pure genius appear before my eyes. I can't believe that something I've never done for pleasure before, and in fact once dreaded, is coming to me so easily. The words flow flawlessly to the page and I am pleased past pleasure. Who knew I've had this in me all these years. I put it to rest for the evening and upon my return I am revolted. How could I ever have deemed this prose passable, let alone pure genius? I'm embarrassed, no mortified. Whatever makes me think I have the talent for such tricks? Why am I wasting my time on the seven or so ideas I've started and have been unable to complete? I know I've gone mad; I'm beyond mental . . . . The fingers are relentless though; they return to their pounding undaunted.

No one is more critical of my adored avocations and the respective presentation of these leisurely pursuits than me. I am constantly unsure of my performance in the aforesaid arts, and nothing boosts my self-belief more than being praised on a product I've produced from these pastimes, because I have a penchant to be paramount in every task I choose to tackle and I blossom upon the prospect of being the best. I often opt for the path to perfection, which is viewed by some as a disparaging part of my personality. Nonetheless, when I have a perpetual passion for something, I am powerless to release it until I deem it mastered. I constantly question my conquest of such precision and wonder why I hold onto the assumed unattainability, but then I ponder what pleases me when the cake is crumbling, and it's hooking onto these hankerings that bestow the baptism my soul seeks. Clutching onto the craving to accomplish the ideal is the very thing that dissuades me from drifting downward. As much as my sanity requires religious routine, my soul forces me to fulfill my fervor. Baking is beneficial for averting aggravating anxiety, crocheting calms the concerns that constantly cloud my thoughts, and writing is way to release the woes that warp my wits. The process of each one of these is critical catharsis for my spirit and support for my soul. This blog empowers me to write away my worries and enjoy the essence of my existence. So in the end I must say thank you to all who frequent my frivolous features of feeling, and for allowing my funky therapy to invade your thoughts. I appreciate more than words can say.