name hidden under blades of grass

you're buried in the cemetery off the big boulevard, across from the tire shop; name hidden under blades of grass. sometimes when i drive past, i feel my stomach flip, and an indescribable ache in my chest. the yearning to have you in the present, beside me, has been unbearable.

mom said you were the most beautiful baby she had ever seen, though mothers always profess this, i believe it to be true. she had three days with you, and i had none. instead, i created half a lifetime of memories with you, and feel guilt for doing so. 

the expectations i place on you are unreasonable, unattainable. i want you to be my shield, to protect me from the childhood that choked so much life from my tiny body. i wanted to know hands that would not harm me, but you would never grow into them. 

i try to imagine you, my older brother, as you were, a newborn baby. both of your delicate hands would fit into one of mine now. i have turned into your protector, trying desperately to save the memory of your short life, name hidden under blades of grass.

our poor parents couldn't afford a head stone, and prove existence of your life with only a marker stone. i want to sit beside you, and send you my heart through six feet of earth. i want to bring you flowers, but the flowers are like a mirror of you; a living thing that has but a few days but to grace us with it's beauty. 

our mom has pointed in the direction of where you are buried, "somewhere over there. i'm not sure anymore", she says. your marker stone lies on a rounded slope, and the staff stopped mowing the grass above you; name hidden under blades of grass. 

please know i've searched for you my whole life, forgive me, my dearest brother. i try to fill the holes in my heart with the memories of you i have created, but nothing fills the void. 

forgive me, jerome, o meu coração. name hidden under blades of grass.

what was i saying?

something about how everything is cheery and wonderful... well, it's obviously been a few months since i've checked-in with myself here.

everything is not wonderful. in fact, i'd say i have very recently descended to my rock bottom. the good news is; there's no where else to go but up from this point, so i am taking each day as it comes.

i am digging deep within myself to recognize unhealthy ways i've been coping, and blazing a new path towards growth and happiness.

i am hopeful.

show me love.

xo

it has been brought to my attention

that i haven't posted a blog here for almost a year. i sincerely doubt that i've disappointed many readers, because of the 3 of you, only 1 pointed out i have been very absent here...

it took me a few attempts to even sign in after my 11-month sabbatical. they wanted a user name that was actually a google account. i kept thinking--what in the sweet hell do you want from me, blogger? then i remembered having to create a gmail e-mail account more than a year ago. stop testing me, machine, i can't handle more user names, passwords, hints and secret questions. get out of my brain already!

perhaps i am just a big complainer, but i dislike having usernames (mostly "case sensitive") for airlines, on-line banking, health insurance, utilities, cell phones, work, hotmail, yahoo, gmail, blogging, kodak/snapfish, myspace, friendster, barnes and noble, the LIBRARY, ebay, yelp, orbitz, and any other on-line service that could potentially make your life easier... first they like to remove your brain, and rake it over hot coals. when you fail at your "case sensitive" log-in, they'll send you your info to your e-mail, but it is a cruel joke. it usually takes like an hour to get your gawddang username sent from alaska airlines, and by the time you figure out what it is, the freaking airfare has increased!

but i digress.

again.

i have not been 'round these parts for a very long time. i now have a smaller rack that i smile at every day. that's right, i smile at my chest. i will probably have a "revision" in the next 2 months to remove these little "dog ears" that pooch out under my armpits. it's routine. i would really hate seeing the same surgeon again, because he's pretty much a douche bag, but hey, insurance is footing the bill and i'll probably go home with pain pills.

all else is dandy. the gf, the cat, the apartment, work, the chimp mobile... it's all fine. and you?

~big boobs~

now that i've gotten your attention...
for those of you that don't have big boobs (or any at all), you'll never quite understand what the opposite end of the spectrum is like. if you prefer to live in a fairy tale world wherein large breasts are your absolute fantasy, you should stop reading now.
let me break it down.
at the end of the day, large boobs have been basting in their own juices. sweat collects on the underside and middle of the enormous rack. removing the bra can give a few sensations--one, a complete sense of relief. two, that gravity is no joke. three, what's that smell?
freeing the breasts from hours upon hours of torturuos confinement shouldn't be such a pain in the back. that's right-- i haven't even mentioned the severe back pain yet. lest i not forget the semi-permanent indentations on the shoulders from the bra strap, and the neck pain that moves upwards to give you a giant headache.
still think huge boobs are hot? how about you try strapping a back pack to your chest. load the bag with approximately 10 pounds of sand. carry that back pack around all day. i'll bet you find your chest is sweaty, and smells like a fucken jar of vitamins. your low back is going to feel like someone punched you a few times, right before they karate-chopped your shoulders, and you may have a headache.
imagine this is your every day.
what if the norm was for partners to pressure their men to go ahead and get the testicle implants that will make their balls weigh 5 times as much, and may cause cancer due to "leakage". i doubt you'd think balls the size of dump trucks that sag to the kneecaps are very hot.
having huge breasts also makes it very ridiculous to run. like sports? good luck. you're also more likely have cancer go undetected, due to so much breast tissue. big breasts are not your friend!
they're not my friend either, and that's why i am having surgery. again. but this time i am having them taken down as far as possible, and still have the procedure covered by my insurance.
thank jeebus for small (boobs) and favors.
i plan on scrawling a note to my surgeon on my belly the morning of surgery. the sharpie pen note will read:
a cup (f)or bust!

~i am such a liar!~

i am not 5'4.

i'm 5'3.

i had a doctor's appointment last week, and politely requested that i be measured. you'd think i had asked to do a keg-stand in the waiting area, whilst naked, after having eaten a tray of bran muffins washed down with a gallon of prune juice.

i had to explain that i hadn't been measured since i was 17, and wanted (HAD) to know exactly how shrimpy i was.

the good news: i am not really shrinking.

the bad news: i am fucking short.

the rest of the good news: i can fit in small spaces (i.e. "coach" airline seats, the over-head bins on an amtrack train, a child-size bed, and ford festivas) with little-to-no problems.

the dirty magic of the city

last night proved to be another interesting evening, brought to you by the fine folks and friends of the pepto house.
a quick jaunt to treat street, where i am called a dyke and whore by the same fellow. he later strolled through the bar, and short term-memory out the window, he breezed passed w/o incident, clearly not recalling we were bosom buddies like 5 seconds ago. oh, the dirty magic of beer.
what is a trip to the mission, w/o circling to the lex with a pack of queers? well, i don't know, because someone always suggests we go to the lex. a friend's friend lifts the mood by proposing to "kidnap" us. awesome, only, i am the one driving. after kidnapping myself, we land in the castro. ah, the dirty magic of kidnapping yourself to a bar that's like 3 blocks from home.
dj booth hops, but not quite as much as the scene outside. there's one buck chuck (he kept pulling the same dollar bill from his pocket, and happened to be named, "charles"), a 10 minute story from a stranger about her getting busted with weed at the beach, and a GIANT golden/bejeweled purse filled with liquor! ok, that's a stretch, it was a teeny bottle of jager, but still.
one buck chuck explains in great, very great detail, that he is a philosopher, poet, husband, and kindred spirit (to moi, though i never felt the need to produce the same dollar bill throughout the evening). he's wearing a hoodie, and it's on backwards, so the hood is in the front, and appears much like a full diaper in it's sloppy, bloated arrangement.
one buck chuck keeps doing the lean-in, and index/middle finger gesture to his eyes, and outward. you know, that, "we're really on the same page here" waggle. hey, anything is possible, especially when you don a large, heavy, sweaty leather strap adorned with enormous silver bells, and a backwards hoodie. he ends up giving a spectacular bronzey/bedazzling in it's uniqueness, bracelet to my friend. all i can think is, dude, that beats the silver bells.
everywhere i turn, there's one buck chuck, doing the finger waggle, and smiling at me. i figure it's at least entertaining, until he decides to place the sweaty leather strap with the enormous silver bells on my neck. it smelled a cross between a donkey, and a belly button funk. i promptly removed it, and handed it back. i beg your pardon sir, i do not feel the dirty magic in that.
a walk around the corner for smokes proved to be a 20 minute task. i enter the store for the goods, and my friend is outside, on a bench, hamming it up with two very bleached blonde, heavily made-up younger ladies. well, pretty much, i kind of expected that. we stand around and gab about (?) stuff for a bit, and a bottle of jager is produced from an obscenely large bejeweled golden purse that's the size of vermont. oh, the dirty magic of the city!
you just never know what's going to happen on a sunday funday.

dirty.

magic.

~jury duty, the joy and pain~

what joy can possibly be derived from having jury duty? well, sleeping in, walking in the sun to muni, and not having to return to work after being excused. yes indeed, i took full advantage of my civic duties.
however, the pain is still fresh in my mind, or should i say olfactory senses? humans have the ability to distinguish nearly 10,000 distinct smells, and yesterday, mine had the misfortune of smelling stale ball sweat. not basketball sweat, nope, i am talking about musty nuts.
the juror sitting to my left, kept doing that lobster claw, open-shut leg deal. i think men try to pass it off as a nervous habit, but really, they are just clanking their junk around in their pants, getting off. and i was smelling the most stank nad funk ever. he kept trying to talk-whisper and bond with me, and i was ready to rip my own nose off, so i would no longer be subjected to the dumpster odor eminating from his jeans.