Woke up in a Mini Cooper

Pondering the night's regret

Feeling guilty, feeling super

Strung-out drinking... Walker, wet

Pitiful and drunken stupor

But the girl I can’t forget

I think her name was something with a...

Maybe it was Juliette

I'd seen her in her satin shirt

This young, petite, long-haired brunette

Sprayed on denim jeans overt

My eyes to something less a threat

But when her eyes found mine to flirt

I know I broke out in a sweat

I introduced myself and she said...

Perhaps it was Bernadette

Drinking, dancing, flirting, glancing

At her slender silhouette

I'd considered refinancing

Going deeper into debt

For such a beauty so entrancing

Eyes like none I'd ever met

I'd watched her lips as she revealed

I'm positive it was Jeanette

We drank a toast and danced engrossed

And I would make a bet

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

Would pine for this coquette

She would banter, I'd riposte

Each other we'd abet

No question, I would not forget her

I think her name was Antoinette?

The fire alarm caught someone chancing

Careless with a cigarette

And sprinklers rained on our romancing

We stayed there while others set

To dash away while we kept dancing

Silky smooth and soaking wet

In her hand a Johnny Walker

In my arms I held... Paulette?

Ushers ushered us outside

Breaking up our sweet duet

Her rushing friends rushed in and pried

Our hands apart and seemed upset

That we would stop and stay inside

And cause their blushing cheeks to fret

And so without a goodnight kiss

I said a sweet goodbye to umm... Collette?

With nothing left for me to do

I wandered, pondered, wondered yet

I strove to know the name I knew

The girl I know I’ll not forget

Sweet Antoijeanbernacolljuliorpaulette

I ordered a drink at the bar I'd come to

Only name I recalled: Johnny Walker... wet

And wound up in a Mini Cooper

Thinking ’bout the girl I can’t forget

Ah! It's Amy! Ha! 100% positive! It was Amy. Definitely Amy.

94% positive.

Anorexia is thought to be about losing weight - the anorexic is obsessed with pounds melting away, desiring to be "bikini ready." But it's more than that. It's your ghost staring at you in the mirror, after you've passed out on the ground, after allowing yourself a single apple afterwards, hating yourself for that transgression. The ghost looks hollow, and there's nothing you can do to yourself that's going to fill the void of trauma that led you to this moment.

Anorexia is a public disease. People will stare at you while you walk down the street. They will ask you (this happened): how did you lose so much weight? Are you sick?

The answer is yes, always yes.

But that's not answering your question. What was my body telling me?

My body was begging to be fed. It was bones you could see visibly in my back. It was sleepless nights; I didn't have enough body fat to be comfortable falling asleep.

I refer to anorexia as a "disease." Like depression or anxiety, it is at its core mental. The body merely feels the effects. It's about wanting to disappear, waste away - not even in a physical way, not after a while, but psychically. If I could kill my mind, my character, my soul, not eating was just a means to an end.

I didn't want to die, my subconscious mind did.

The body is resilient. It fights back. Eventually, I caved - this time, not passing out because I hadn't eaten, but because I ate an entire birthday cake in one sitting, after not eating for weeks. I threw up in the shower, unsure if I had to energy to get out of it. Eventually, I did, in one fell swoop, throwing up again as I stepped over the edge.

Anorexia is not glamourous. It is hiding food in couch cushions in front of TV dinner nights. It is lying about what you've eaten. It is bones, bones, bones. It is people crying because of "what you've done to yourself." It is people pointing fingers. It is people who do not understand that anorexia is a mental disease, not a desire to be thin. That desire had disappeared like my body fat, a long time ago.

Anorexia is felt in the body. But it is purely mental; a disease that the sufferer conquers alone, if they conquer it at all.

It starts with Supergirl

Flying to get us when we are sick

She slays the villainous cold with ice cream and kisses.

As time goes on, she becomes Wonder Woman

Carrying all the school books and bags

The shopping hanging from the tips of her fingers.

Wonder Woman transforms into Cruella De Vil

Stopping us from seeing friends because we "have" to study

Nothing can halt her rampage.

Cruella De Vil turns into Batwoman

The one you call in tears after a tough exam

The one you look forward to seeing when going home

The one whose cooking you miss.

Then comes Black Widow

Both good and evil

The one you know will understand

when you become Supergirl.

I struggle with the concept of soulmates. It implies that there is just one person who is ideal for you. This seems unnecessarily cruel. What if you live in California and your soulmate is a shepherd in Egypt? The odds of living happily ever after with your 1 in 7 billion soulmate is about as good as me becoming a published author (I have no intention of EVER seeking publication). Sorry, but I have been married to the same wonderful woman for almost 18 years and can honestly and thankfully say I am glad she isn't my soulmate.

Having a soulmate implies that you have the ideal relationship with this person. There is little to no arguing, you both have similar goals, you like the same music, you share parenting views, and your in-laws live on another continent. So, if you're with your soulmate, you should expect to wake up every morning with lovebirds singing outside your window. You smile, stretch, and yawn enjoying the glow of the remaining endorphins left over from your passionate and frenzied lovemaking the entire night before. The previous evening is always romantic. You and your soulmate enjoy a quiet dinner with charming and flirtatious conversation followed by a trip to the bedroom where you make love in the glow of candle light. The lovemaking is always perfect as you both cum repeatedly and neither of you have to sleep in the wet spot when you finally slip into blissful slumber. (tip: unless one or both of you goes off like Old Faithful at climax you should be able to cover the love stew spot with a hand towel) With thoughts of the previous evening sending a delicious shiver through your loins, you rise out of a somehow unsoiled bed. Seeing that you're now awake, squirrels slip in your open bedroom window and bring you your bathrobe. Humming a post coital tune you go downstairs where your soulmate has already made breakfast, but before you eat, more frenzied love making (just not on the dinner table you pervs, people EAT there). After breakfast and afterglow you have a sexy shower together before you both go off to work.

Sounds perfect right? WRONG! Real love is forged in the fires of adversity, compromise, and the frequent desire to hit your mate over the head with a 10 pound sledge hammer. Having a soulmate would be boring. How do you and a soulmate learn to weather the sick kids, financial issues, and sexual droughts resulting from a calendar full of playdates, soccer games, and little to no alone time? Answer? You won't. Your relationship will fold quicker than a Victoria's Secret in Amish country. If everything in your relationship is ideal you won't have a fucking clue when the less than ideal outside world launches multiple 10 pound flaming turd-like problems at you and your fairytale relationship. It is the friction, the differing opinions, the mutual hate for each other's in-laws, and the occasional yelling and screaming fight which tempers a relationship. The world and its problems will break a soulmate relationship quicker than a dollar store vibrator overheats in a porno movie.

So what evidence do I have? My wife and look like we don't belong on the same planet let alone in a marriage that is pushing 20 years. My wife was raised in a church and taught Sunday school. I'm surprised that I'm not struck by lightening on the rare occasion I enter a church. My wife grew up in a town known as, "The Cowboy Capital of the World," and was raised on country music. I FUCKING HATE country music, redneck, and cowboy culture. My wife likes Hallmark movies and romances. I like the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, Pink Floyd's "The Wall," "This is Spinal Tap," Monty Python, and Mel Brooks movies. My wife enjoyed middle class security growing up. I was raised in the shadow of domestic violence and food insecurity. We have worked hard at our marriage, our rough edges smoothed with experience, compromise, and bouts of quicky love making because the kids will want something else in a couple minutes. It's not perfect, but I would bet on my marriage over any relationship between two soulmates. Fuck, we'd probably kick the soulmate couple's asses when they refer to themselves as such and on the hunch that they probably have a "Live, Laugh, Love" print hanging somewhere in their home. Both would set us off

Look, if you believe in soulmates, good for you. The problem with perfection is it doesn't have the foundation and battle proven strength of a relationship that has survived personal differences while simultaneously weathering the 10 pound flaming turd level problems life throws at them. I don't need a soulmate, I need a friend, sex partner that knows how to keep both of us out of the wet spot, and someone who is willing to forgive my legion of fuck ups. You can have your soulmate, I will take my, "Well this Kinda Sucks but We'll Get Through it" mate and enjoy another 20 years together.

Your mother is the person who raises you from birth and protects you, nurtures you, loves you unlike any other, and is your shoulder to lean on. My mother was everything but. From a young age I remember her chasing me down our hallway with a wooden spatula trying to hit me for whatever triggered her temper at that moment. I cried because I had no friends and was lonely, but in her eyes it was due to me being arrogant which I didn’t know I was. Getting my period at 9 years old and having no clue what was going on and instead of keeping my secret, announcing it to a group of strangers that I had never met and being congratulated moments after cleaning the blood off of my hands. At 17, when I found out I was pregnant and told my parents, she was so furious that she threw her trash can on the floor and started throwing her dishes like frisbees. Being 15 and suicidal only to be told that I needed to get over my depression and that one day it would grow wings and fly away, like a bird. Being told that my miscarriage was a blessing because she hated the father of my child and that I had no reason to be upset because it was for the best. At 25, being disowned for not allowing someone to have the book thrown at them and allowing them to rot in jail for 20 years. Watching her yell at my elderly father for things he could not control. My mother was not the mother that I could cry to about boys because I was afraid of her. She was not the mother I went to for protection because it was at a cost and I would never hear the end of my stupidity and how she was my savior. Anytime I cried to her over the things she did to hurt me, I was a liar and she was a phenomenal mother who didn't need anyone to tell her that. She has no idea why I look for love in everything, everyone, and everywhere I go since I deeply lacked it in my youth. I’ve grown to watch families and envy the relationships my peers have with their moms and wishing I had the same undying love they do. Having two mothers you would think I would have gotten the love I needed for my pain, but alas I was unworthy for either one. To those of you who have a mother who you can lean on, cherish them. Love them and remind them of why you are thankful to have them in your life because not everyone has a mother on their side.

The shower is cool,

My head is hot.

My breath is begging,

It wants to wail murder.

Apparently, it's not socially acceptable.

I'll settle for this soft onslaught of water,

This snail trail of bubbles.

I can hardly remember,

What birthed this loathing,

This huddle halted in my throat.

The little baby crying?

The lady yelling?

The lack of parking?

Crap, I've been brooding not bathing.

My water bill.

I need to start lathering.

I snag the soap from the shower sill.

It squirms in my wrinkling fingers,

It smiles in pink suds and slithers out.

Plick.

The knot is rising.

It's sitting at the back of my tongue.

Don't let it out.

I bend down to pick up the soap.

It's sly; it slips again.

Plick.

The knot is at my teeth.

And it's learned a silly trick.

It slips through the cracks of my clenched grinding,

An escaped convict.

My knees hit slick white ceramic.

I silently scream.

Mouth wide open.

The white porcelain walls are watching.

My storms are now scalding.

The cold water isn't helping.

I curl.

I can't tell the tears from the shower- still spraying.

The knot is gone.

To hell with the water bill.

If you are reading this disclaimer, you have recently met a man, wait, a boy, child wait, NO a man! Name Ike. As a cautionary note, he:

-Might not remember you.

-Might begrudgingly remember you.

-You might not care if he remembers you.

Also note that he may have:

- Definitly said unsavory things in your presence.

-Snorted cocain of the bar or toilet.

-Bashed (insert: ethnicity, religion, politics, music, or gender).

If you feel the need to report his behavior please send message to Wetbrained@ikesalvador.com

Thank you for your understanding and we would just like you to know: Ike is a Nihilist, and no matter how hard you try to make him understand, or care, or feel bad... I must inform you it has not worked thus far. And furthermore attempts to dispose of this individual have somehow made him stronger, more diabolical, and hateful. So please PLEASE, proceed with equally as much demonstrative bullshit.