No one knows or is

Until you are and become

Your life awakens

The cycle begins

The form takes shape and style

It touches, it tastes

Growth dictates choices

Love and hate dictate actions

Acceptance shows up

You see yourself now

You accept the others now

The world’s path is new

The tears come and go

The memories make you laugh

Your life goes to sleep

Charm. I've always wanted to be charming, feel charming, exude charming. I do none of those. I garner mild curiosity at best. Fleeting. I tell jokes badly, have an awkward energy and burn my tongue too often on hot drinks. My laugh is average and my wit is the same. I'm at my best when I have a story and at my worst when I tell it. Charm is so enviable when I see it in others. I wish I could learn this power, wield this power, use it everywhere I go - but I can't, I don't and I won't. Dems da breaks.

She lied...she lied about everything she did that day. She lied about giving birth, she about leaving the city and she lied about leaving a note on the table. We found her two days later, passed out in some scuzzy hotel, bag of cocaine in her purse and low lifes' crawling all her body.

The Spanish Pig.

On a warm summer night in Madrid, the sound of pig was everywhere. Not the squeals and snorts you were expecting, the swishing and swallowing of people consuming pig with every course. The Spaniards are not shy about their love of pork. All pork. And not from head to toe, from ear to toe. Every delectable morsel. Especially the baby pigs. The succulent sucklings. The sweetest, most tender meat, ever to almost

not exist. To look at them could be frightening. They were smooth and shiny skinned babies; but this was mostly a tourist's problem, never a Spaniards. Pigs have been on the butchering table in Spain for centuries. Long enough for their fate to be woven into their knowledge of existence. Yet they still fought it. Especially the sucklings. Too young understand their fate per se, they nonetheless sensed when was coming more than any adult pig ever did. They knew when death was coming, just from the sound of the approaching footsteps. They were heavier than usual, because of the knife in the farmer's hand. Thats how in tune sucklings were with their last moments. Too slow to run andtoo immature to figure out a plan however, they succumbed to the blade every time.Until Herve. Herve the suckling pig, who fooled them all and lived longer than any pig ever lived in Spain. This is his story...