Let Them Eat Cake
Kate Moss said once that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I remember being fifteen and deciding one night at an Italian restaurant while eating a slice of chocolate cake that it would be my last. I didn't eat another bite of cake for two years. Kate Moss was right: diminishing myself into nothing wasn't just rewarding, it was the death sentence I had been looking for.
That paragraph is horrible, isn't it? I can't believe I just wrote that, a sprinkle of cosmic, toxic thought put out into the internet. But if you want to get to know me, really, the real me - you have to know that I love cake exponentially, that I now have low blood sugar, and cake is the perfect remedy to starting the nosedive into low blood sugar oblivion.
To jiggle the handle, you need to know that cake is my favorite guilty pleasure. Sure, I don't eat it often, but when I allow myself to do so, it tastes better than a thousand flutters of Kate Moss's toxic, wasteland of a mantra leaving her lips.
To jiggle the handle, you need to know that I am one bite away from insanity, but that leveling out my blood sugar will make me function, love, be the best person I can be.
Let me eat cake.
Wild Card Bitches
Some exclusions apply,
see yourself out for details.
If you can hear me blink twice.
Things are closer than they appear.
Not for use in a convection oven..
Quirks and Perks
This mind is a funny thing,
churning and spitting out one idea after the next.
like it hardly reflects.
Never fitting in,
always rejected somewhere.
Tinkering one moment.
Twiddling fingers the next.
Fidgety, always trying to fix things,
to invent something new.
never meeting the gaze of another unless pressed for battle.
It seems meek, mild even
but it is not timid.
For it is ferocious,
a beast waiting in the dark,
but tickled pink at the slightest idea of a challenge.
Should you challenge it to create something?
Should you will it to do battle?
Say it complete.
All of it. All of it is due.
But if you shutter to imagine,
that if you ever ever put restrictions and restrains on which it can paint,
it will die out in a moment like a flame deprived of oxygen.
Left listless and lying in a dazed wake.
Should you give unclear instructions,
so open and obtuse.
It'd shudder to finish a thing,
until every littlest question remarked.
So without further adieu,
please welcome the brain of blue
The brain of bleakness, the brain of sorrow.
The brain of sinister renew.
It knows fear, but it respects it.
It knows anger, but it doesn't reject it.
It knows flight, but fight is the first objection.
Welcome all to the sinister spinstress anew.
Jiggle the What?
I had an aunt who was dropped on her head while being born out of my grandma. Not kidding. Apparently, my grandma went into super-sudden labor while out and about, and this aunt of mine was halfway popping out of grandma or whatever, and my grandma passed out and fell right on her. Something like that. That was what I’d always heard. Whatever it was, this aunt of mine was just a little bit not right upstairs. Not that any of my mother’s sisters or my mother were right upstairs, they were all quite dysfunctional, but this particular aunt of mine was just a little bit slower on the draw than the others.
I had an uncle-in-law that was one of the funniest guys I ever met in my life. When he laughed, everybody laughed with him, and he was usually the joke-teller or the instigator behind whatever anybody and everybody was laughing about.
All of the dysfunctional grown-up relatives on my mom’s side used to go meet up at grandma and grandpa’s house in the summer, because grandpa had had a pool put in, and they all drank beer and smoked cigarettes and made one another laugh about grown-up stuff. In between Budweisers and PallMalls, Grandpa would do stuff like find somebody’s temporarily abandoned, newly poured glass of ice tea sitting on the kitchen counter, and he would ask the room whose it was, but before anybody could answer, he’d spit in it and say, “Mine now” and start drinking it.
But the toilet in the downstairs bathroom at Grandma and Grandpa’s was one of those wonky ones that would sometimes keep running after you flushed it, and to make it stop after you took a leak, sometimes you’d have to go back in the bathroom and jiggle the handle a bit.
It was one of those times one time, one summer we were all there, when somebody had used the downstairs bathroom and the toilet was still running in there, and my funny uncle happened to catch my slow aunt walking right by the bathroom, so he yelled over to her, would she please go in and fix it, go in and “jiggle the toilet, ” he said. Slow aunt went on in there. (And by the way, it’s not like she was RETARDED or anything. She was fully functional. She just would do bonehead, ridiculous things like what I’m about to tell you.)
Well, a little bit of time went by, and she’s still in there, and apparently my funny uncle heard some funny noises coming out of there, so he got up to check it out, what was going on, and what he found was my slow aunt with her arms all the way around the toilet bowl, trying somehow to jiggle the whole toilet to make it stop running.
As raucous as I had all the time heard my funny uncle laugh, this was the raucousest of all. He may very well have pissed his pants for all I know. It was bad. He came stumbling out of the bathroom, barely able to contain himself, desperately trying to describe to everybody what he just saw, and like funny uncle always did, he got every grown-up relative in grandpa’s whole living room to join up and laugh their asses off at my aunt. My aunt took it well; she liked the attention, in spite of it all. But then, that story joined the pantheon of other stories my funny uncle would tell every summer; damned if my funny uncle didn’t tell and retell that story for years and years, every summer we would all gather at grandma and grandpa’s house to go swimming, multiple times every summer, that was always one of my uncle’s favorite go-to stories to tell, about how he’d once told my slow aunt to “jiggle the toilet,” and then she disappeared in there, so he went in there, too, and BY GOD, SHE HAD HER ARMS AROUND THE WHOLE BOWL, AND SHE WAS JIGGLING THE TOILET, ALL RIGHT!
So if I had any advice about “jiggling the handle,” I guess my advice would be, make sure it’s just the handle, and not the whole bowl that they want jiggled. Ask questions. Get some clarity, before you go on in there.
when it doesn't work
you just have to grab that handle
give it a yoink
oh shit, you broke the handle
just fix it with some glue
let it dry for a little bit
then jiggle the handle again
It´s a little blurry,
you have to stop gazing
Put it in focus.
You may have to jiggle the handle a little bit.
If you had my brain
Be careful in there, it's pretty dark, and I'm afraid I forgot where the light switches are.
and when the thinking starts, you need to stay aware of a ticking clock............
Books, movies and songs, make it spark, but live theater gives it a glow, and Musicals may make your face hurt, just a little.
When out and about on a crowded street you will find your feet picking up speed, dodging and weaving is an enjoyable sport. And if in a park don't be scared if you suddenly find yourself half way up a tree, just let it do it's thing, sitting on a branch is like being home for me.
If at night your finding it hard to sleep, I often pick a song from the built in music library. My go to is "The Devil went down to Georgia" but I'm sure you could find one that suites you better.