What My Ink Means

I got my first and only tattoo when I accidentally poked myself with the sharpened tip of a yellow Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil. I was in Mrs. Phillipson's rowdy 2nd grade class. Everybody had their left hand down on a piece of construction paper. Except the couple of lefties; they had their right hand down. It was the week before Thanksgiving and we were supposed to create Thanksgiving cards for our families. Everyone knows that when you trace your hand with your four upper fingers spread apart, the finished product resembles a turkey. That's what everyone was doing: tracing. My pencil broke mid-trace. I barely even got over the top of my pinky with my pencil before "crack!" I hate when that happens. If I have learned anything over the years about drawing lines, it is this: the secret is to be fluid and, once you start, you commit to that line until it is finished. You never stop midway because you will almost always get that awkward little irregularity where you left off. The fluidity is hard to match once you stop, or when your pencil breaks and leaves a nasty graphite heartbreak at the end of, what was to be, a perfect line turkey. Flustered, I marched over to the wall-mounted sharpener with my degenerate pencil in hand. I wasn't nice to this pencil because it wasn't nice to me. I shoved it in the mechanism and gave a few strong turns of the crank. I pulled it and checked my work. Looked pretty good. Then I gingerly touched the tip and the graphite just fell out in my hand. Stupid pencil. Ernesto was standing behind me at this point with his busted pencil, and was giving me an impatient hurried look. Back into the grinder it went. Crank. Crank. Crank. Ah, this time it looked good. The wood that held the graphite in place was flush and secure. This was a new pencil, I tell you. Sharp as a tack. I looked at Ernesto proudly and perambulated around the room a bit, noticing the progress of turkey development around the classroom. It was standard procedure in the elementary classroom to NEVER hold a pen or pencil, or scissors, or anything sharp for that matter, toward yourself or outwards towards others. Always down. That was ingrained within us early and a pretty good life lesson, I'd say. Don't accidentally stab yourself or others. Nice. Well, I don't know what I was thinking, but I was holding my small, new, yellow weapon pointing right at me as I took my seat and, with my hands held close to my stomach, I haphazardly thrusted the tip right into the skin above my hip. I looked down and the pencil was suspended in my skin without me holding it. I pulled it out and nobody saw what happened. I finished my turkey. There was a slight imperfection where the pencil failed me before, but it was still a turkey, nevertheless. I now have a small, grayish dot where I stabbed myself to this day. You better believe I was cautious with my pencils, pens, and scissors from that day forward.

That's what my tattoo means: DON'T BE A JACKASS.
Pretty cool, I think.
I could have gotten that or a coy fish. Whatever.

Take a Look Inside

My soul is in some sort of coma.

My mind is running a nonstop marathon.

My body is reacting to the discord.

A Pair of Wife

You can have eight pairs of jeans, but you will always favor one pair more than all of the others; much like a polygamist must feel about his eight wives. What if wives were referred to as "pairs" like jeans are? He has eight pairs of wives. Now I am second guessing if saying "pairs of jeans" is even grammatically correct. Are jeans are only pairs because they have two legs that are connected, but, for the most part, separate? Scissors and tweezers often fall in the pair category as well. Although, like jeans, they are definitely connected. Anyway, I just realized the jean and wife comparison is a bit faulty because when singular, we say a "pair of jeans," but this sounds funny when used with the singular "wife." A pair of wife? Nope. Unless we changed the singular "wife" to "wives" like we do with "jeans," we are not able to use the jean/wife thingy. Too bad. Maybe we could move even further than just wives. Maybe we could refer to people, in general, as pairs. We all have our two-sidedness. Or, maybe a pair is a soul and a body. I am a pair. You are a pair. Together, we are two pairs of people. If you wanted to get really confused, you could say "There is a pair of two pairs of people coming over."

Yeah, I'm tired.

Opening a Spider-Man Lunch Box with Some British Authors

I want to go back in time and set a bowl of Fruity Pebbles in front of Lord Byron.
I want to go back in time and give a Fruit Roll-Up to John Keats.
I want to go back in time and let William Wordsworth have a drink of my Squeeze-it.
I want to go back in time and share my Gushers with Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I would very much like to hear what they have to say about my colorful treats. I can only imagine how John Keats would go about describing a fruit roll-up, its taste, its texture, its funny perforated cut-outs of animals or kites or whatever . . . .

I am glad you are alive. 

AmericaWorld

Here's how I see it:

I am at AmericaWorld. It's this theme park that's been around for a couple hundred years or so.

I just got off this rollercoaster called Bush Whacker. It was intense. Had a lot of twists and unexpected turns. It was also really rough; needed some oil and new parts, clunked around and stalled, but I made it off alive! I heard they were going to shut Bush Whacker down after today. It had a decent run, but people are always wanting something new and exciting. It had its chance to shine. We are hungry for a new thrill!

Now I am on my way to this new rollercoaster at AmericaWorld called Obamania! It's huge! It's shiny! Wow! It's daunting, but so intriguing! I am not sure if I can handle it, but everybody's telling me it's AMAZING! I mean I can handle the loops and spins and turns okay, but this has all sorts of new things. Things I have never seen before! I'm up for it, though! Okay, I am getting on! I'll make it out alive. This AmericaWorld employee is strapping me in now. And we're off! Clicking up the ramp, slowly and steadily. Higher and higher. I am on Obamania and there's no stoppin' it now! Up we go! Together! We haven't even taken the first drop yet and there's this excitement in the air. The girl next to me is puking. The guy behind me is screaming ecstatically! The woman in front of me is clinching her hands tightly. The boy up a couple of cars is looking over the edge cautiously. I am just sitting here, taking it all in. A new thrill.

I can't wait to ride the next new thing that comes to AmericaWorld! I am sure it will be a doozy! AmericaWorld is known for their ability to create some of the most outrageous rollercoasters this side of the milky way!

I would also hate to see AmericaWorld go out of business. But HEY, that NEVER happens, right? Something this good should last forever and ever! Obamania won't get old. It won't have malfunctions. Look at it! It's perfect! It's everything AmericaWorld stands for!

Wilde Anticipation

"This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last. "

Abandoning Control

Control held his hand firmly, lovingly
All of a sudden, he unraveled fingers and let her go
"Go sit down over there. I'll be back later tonight," he said.
She sat on a bench and watched him disappear, lost
Control, lost and alone
Hours passed and she waited
He came early morning, foggy, and slipped his hand into hers:
"I'm back. Did you think I lost you?"