Under

I breathed in deep until I started tingling.  Prickles bloomed outward from my chest into my hands and felt like a slow explosion.  I could feel a halo of sensation around my toes, wrapping around my fingers and moving outward.  My ankles, buttocks and head were present but disconnected.  Everything else was numb.  I closed my eyelids as tight as I could while simultaneously relaxing my eyeballs.  I wondered if I stared off into the darkness of my lids hard enough then maybe I’d be able to see God.  I only saw thick green bars of light spreading across my vision, followed by bursting spheres.

I tried to relax, perhaps meditate or write some mental poetry but all I could do was sing a song over and over in my head.  And I thought how unfortunate it would be to die so swiftly with a stupid song stuck in your head.  How unfair it would be if you were alive and well and were suddenly hit by a bus or shot in the back of the head and your last thoughts were of something insignificant.  Everyone should be allowed to prepare for death, if not to get their final affairs in order and say goodbye to loved ones, at least to think of something more constructive than a catchy jingle.

My teeth were a mess and not easily fixed.

I’m afraid they’ll never be corrected to my satisfaction.

In the dewy morning I had blood drawn to find out what I’m allergic to.  Nose surgery didn’t fix the lump and now the doctor wants to change tactics again.  After deciding it was a different kind of cyst than previously thought, he read an article stating these kinds of afflictions can be effectively treated using allergy medications, thus the blood work.  It’s another avenue of possible treatment but if this doesn’t work, nothing else will.  He said surgery could damage my vocal cords.  I want to be able to sing to the pretty girls.

My throat is a mess and not easily fixed.

I’m afraid it never will be.

I drove around aimlessly for a while.  I bought five new lip balms because buying stupid stuff like that brings me temporary comfort.  Some were too sticky and some were too greasy.  The search for the perfect lip balm is still on. 

Strolling through Barnes & Noble only depresses me.  I looked at the endless row of books and wondered if I’d ever be among them.  I realized there are so many books that I should have already read but I haven’t out of laziness.  My high school English teacher always talked about the correlation between reading classics and being well educated.  I’m not very educated.  Book after book on writing poetry and nonfiction and crafting a story and I wanted to devour them all but I can’t justify spending that kind of money when I don’t have a job and about fifty other books that I’ve bought and haven’t read yet.  There’s still so much I need to learn and this education could help me with my book.  I don’t know what to do.  I want it written now but I want it done right.  There’s a fine line between patience and completion and I often find myself swaying in the direction of impulse.  I just want it done but I’m sure I’d regret the fact that I didn’t spend more time on trying to make it the best it could be.  I just feel like I don’t have much time left.  Who knows how long I’ll be around and wouldn’t it be better to produce something rather than nothing at all?  I want to write poetry and play the guitar and write songs and start painting but there’s some kind of block and I don’t know how to dislodge this depression or whatever it is that’s holding me back.  I see so many talented people doing something with themselves and while I’ve always been confident in my potential, I’ve never been in the talented pool.  I always thought that one day I would be but then life and death got in the way.  And now I’m nothing.

I drove and drove and drove and drove and drove.

Malls always depress me because they are filled with pretty people.  And old people who walk the perimeter of the building.  But mostly pretty people.  And the stores have nice clothes that I can’t wear because I’m too fat.  I think I’d be a pretty great dresser if it wasn’t for my flat butt and big belly.  Another way in which I can’t express myself and I know it’s my fault.  So, I go out and grab a large order of fries saturated in full fat cheese as a way to cope. 

To me, it’s hard to know that this is about as good as I can get.  I don’t know why I’m so wrapped up in image because that’s not the way people should be but I’ve never felt good looking and I just want to be able to feel that I am.  I almost feel like I should give up, like it’s the right thing to do, because of this lump.  It doesn’t matter how I fix my teeth or how much weight I lose.  This goiter is here to stay and it almost feels appropriate.  Of course, I’d have this after all these years of trying not to be ugly.  Yet, the universe deems it to be a reality every single day when I wake up and look in the mirror at a fresh pimple and when my hair thins our more and more and when the lump becomes inflamed and painful.  And the worst part is people have their limbs blown off in war and are born without ears and they are happy despite their deformities.  So, not only am I ugly but I’m pretty much an a-hole.  I know I should be thankful I’m not more mess up than I am and when I think about it, I am thankful.  Lots of people have it a whole lot worse but it’s still hard, though, when you look around and everything is so fake and perfect and you have no self-esteem and no support system to encourage you no matter how you might look.  Maybe the earless people had that kind of support so it’s easier not to be bitter.  Or maybe I’m just angry at myself because I could be so much better than I am but I’ve let myself go in so many ways and I’ve never done anything about it. 

Godiva chocolate truffles down the hatch. 

It’s the only thing I have to rely on because people aren’t very good at that these days.

And I’m still a mess because of that.

Wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out that I was allergic to my cat?  My mom would sooner throw me out than Moses.  It could work in my favor, though, because I’ve been trying to get out for a while now. 

The thing that is most frustrating is the fact that I’m not completely ignorant to my reasoning for how I feel.  If only I could be oblivious to my sadness.  But, because I’m not, I should be capable of doing something about it.  I don’t know why I can’t.  I can’t find a good enough motivation to fix my flaws because it seems like I’m trying to do the impossible.  And I’m tired of dealing with the impossible.

I am so awkward.  I left my two free nasal spray samples at the ENT and then didn’t have my insurance card at the hospital.  I stumbled through the patient registration and couldn’t hear the lady as she mumbled through the glass partition.  She probably thought I was stupid.  She is probably right.

I can’t feel my lips.