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A Bitch-box Accompanied With Broken Thoughts.

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(no subject) [Jul. 23rd, 2008|08:03 am]
A Bitch-box Accompanied With Broken Thoughts.

B I G V E R S I O N : : http://a825.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/111/l_6bf8b058e67abe91b4b163f715b721d0.png

dear... diary,

B I G V E R S I O N : : http://a825.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/61/l_7d3d940c3e010de401d9867266c30726.png

Cancel that. So not my style. But just what is my style these days, anyway? Seems I've lost it. It's much more critical than writers block, me thinks. It's called: having no time. The past couple hours have been dedicated to the almighty but most handicapped box that is my shedevil of a bitchin' tower of terror. Aw, but we've been through so much. And to think, I turn her on less than twice a month. Thing is, she just doesn't do it for me. Or my life [more importantly]. I'd love to do what I used to... who gives a flying fuck and all that fun lovin jazz, but... alas, this cannot be and i have surrendered to the powers that be... FINALLY. But as you can see, my message here can mean only one thing: to this online world i shall issue no farewell. not to You, my friends from a far, and NOT to IT.

To the run down. Alexis has new digs, and she loves it. The back yard is small, but private and holds so much potential for a future garden. I am on the brink of capturing a jewel that is achieving ones personal FLAWLESS!fantasy of a new h o m e. Yeah, I know flawless only comes in diamonds, minus sentiment. Sue me.

Next? I'm dancing again. Don't say a word. I know what I'm doing now. Also, I no longer go to the club that I used to work at and as I look back at the sorry ass slum for a go-go, i think to myself: dancers go there to DIE. Anyway I work in a club where girls in LA's couldn't get in on their best day and the great thing is that the owner adores me enough to let me get away with murder. So far. It's been two and a half months, maybe I should give it time. And now I have to go! Love around the world.

Virtually Yours,

PS :: Two fotos...

A STRANGE BUT NEATO VIOLET-EYED EDIT, http://a473.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/33/l_02ac70b2780b3c902dc5620236ee6020.png


lookin' sssspaced out. nothin too new there.
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the secret garden [Apr. 22nd, 2008|11:50 pm]
A Bitch-box Accompanied With Broken Thoughts.
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Written on Saturday the 19th of April, 2008, after a day of too much sun and not enough flowers.

Look 'ma! No bra! wHo-ha!

Taken the night
I wrote this entry.

“How much longer can I lament?” I ask myself, pretending my words suspend in the hot air around me. All I can hear are my own thoughts, being drowned out by the usual clatter anyone in a neighborhood on a beautiful day might witness. Children are laughing, one cries in the distance, sprinklers are set at full throttle, the low rhythm of a decent bass system drones on further away, less than few cars passing by on a road that is not my own, and so on. I am Alexis, the lonely seer. Only today, of course.

Me prior 2 assault by ze sun.

Being the observer is much better than to be the observed. That is my personal opinion, anyway. I’m talking about reality in the flesh world. I do not mind the diary I keep here, which is a never-ending fountainhead filled with bitter sweet memories and what ever I felt like bitching about that day.

“And what the fuck have we here?”
Again, I am asking myself questions aloud. A soap queen, for sure. Bravo, Alexis. Bravo. Here I have found a weed. A wicked little thing, peering at me as if to say, “And when you pull me out bitch, I will be back.” With a vengeance, I know all too fucking well. Yank! My anger is fleeting toward this thing that keeps coming back. Not in the same place, of course.

My lawn is a verdant one in comparison to those around her. She is small, along side the beloved area I fancy for a garden. Not much the cypress I crave. Or the fields of poppies I dream to behold [haha]! In my youth, our home possessed an enchanting grove; trees galore, their roots a happy maze beneath more adequate soil and thick, emerald-colored grass. My mother had the green thumb, as they say. I always loved flowers but swore to God [to my mother at the time] that I would never be caught dead in the dirt. So different from the girl I am today, but not totally true, as you should already know. I speak of taste.

“Love is reckless!” This is more a mumble than anything. I chase this statement down with a swig of Dr Pepper, which to my surprise has the same texture of warm wine. I’ve forgotten how long it’s been sitting there and now gage the time outside against my skin. It’s too sunny to tell but I already know: I have an unwanted tan line. So I go inside to survey the damage.

An older photo
I thought fit.

“Reckless.” Is all I can muster, while staring at my orange reflection in the mirror. Florescent lights are unforgiving, as usual. Asssss fucking usual. Anyway, I am powerless to this newfound glow, which after close inspection, I begin to like. I do not, however, go back outside without having painted myself with a thin layer of 15 proof. Given the season, it was all I had in stock.

“Chris!” My neighbor is outside smoking, as is the rule to not do so in his house. I have no more cigarettes and I am stranded. No car. No Josh. No bubbies. I’ve been sick, but I’ll go into that much later. So I tip-toe along my black mulch and land on his door-step. The first thing I eye is the nasty Sonoma in which he pollutes the air with. Not to mention his lungs. Do they not know how much they stink? Cheap cigarettes are cheap for a reason, my friends. Honestly now. Here comes my plea.

I continue, playing the damsel in distress very well and for very stupid reason. He replies with wide eyes and seems speechless. I mean, there I stand, in a light-weight, white tube top and khaki skirt - too short for anywhere but there. This outfit suited the weather just fine, I thought. I never intended on showing off. I just wanted to garden without drenching in sweat, really. Eighty-five degrees and rising.

After I tell Chris of my predicament, and give him some cash out of my reserve, he departs for the PX. I am thrilled. This guy is no threat to any man. He is strange, as is his wife, and they are spoken of in the most ill of manners behind closed doors. I know that a lot of the rumors to be like most usually are: a load of steaming bullshit. A load probably as large, if not bigger, than the one being feasted upon by the fiendish wives and whiney folk around here in regard to me and my own.

The group of photos below, which include my beautiful sons, were taken in March.

While he is gone, I think of my boys and what they are doing. Today they have gone to the zoo. I am worrying about the heat. Are they hot? Do they miss me? Of course they miss me. I am mommy. The supreme being in their big, jade eyes! God, how I adore those faces, cookie sweet and smooth like silk... ever fresh like milk. The scent of a child, your own that is, never fades. It can nearly knock you on your ass with complete and utter awareness, to be in awe I guess you could say - or it can bring you the comfort that nothing else can. Depends.

Description on foto.
das my boi, Jak.

Something else clouds my mind. I have to allow it, otherwise I’ll die for not being with them. These intrusions are never subtle. The dreams. The passions. The business of love. MY business of love. I feel mocked, after watching Atonement, and I am not sure why. I don’t even want to think of that tragic tale. I stab the earth with my spade and gaze heavenward. The sun beams wash out my face and more dreamy visions eclipse my mind’s eye.

“Always lost. Loved, loving, and lonely. Five senses and five directions. They, I, we... own them all and yet they offer me... too much or... not much at all.” These thoughts parted my lips recklessly. And then, out of no where...

Chris is standing in front of me, asking if I am reciting poetry. Or angry poetry, as he put it. I reach out for my pack of reds, thank him with a sneer for a smile and blame the wretched weather for my rambling. He’s used to it, I’ve come to find out, as he merely shrugs, says you’re welcome, and disappears inside. I swear I heard his wife bitch him out for being out at the PX for too long, but love can never come without quarrel. LOVE!? There it is again...

Taken in the same week,
as second photo posted.

“I am a Pisces! Let the ocean devour me whole!” I am in the house again, and my scream is lost to the melody of The Beatles ‘I Want You’, which emits from my computer’s not so little set of speakers.

After listening to the entire song, twice, I fall onto the couch. A big, black leather thing. Silence. No music. Just me and the world beyond. I suddenly feel like I am cradling my own heart. So inwardly quiescent about this for so long. Perhaps this is what feeds my sickness, which by the way has been nothing short of a RA flare. Nothing major but... just enough.

I want to liberate my soul. Without fear. Have I not already done this, though? With my whole heart? Broken, bruised, and always on the mend? I am my mother’s child. Suddenly, I am submissive to a rekindled fire and I hesitate to snuff out it’s desirable flame. What an aim, I am thinking. A true human, I surely am. A woman at her weakest. Remembering the cup from which I became so very drunk with ecstasy. Atom-like, but without mercy.

... and they’re home!

Much love,
Virtually Yours,

after-thought[s]: forth paragraph, I say, "I always loved flowers but swore to God [to my mother at the time] that I would never be caught dead in the dirt." to which I shall add, in ultimate promise, and of course to take it to the absurd level that I always seem to climb with my statements... that, despite my love for the earth, I wish to be cremated.

A favorite near and far.
Taken last month.

First photo, which as I said was taken the night I wrote this entry, is, as you'll notice, not the best of quality. It's among a group of likewise photos, save for a couple of grateful exceptions. Few, actually. I took them to record my new sun-kissed bod. You know how I do. Heh. But yeah, that fucking tube-top I wore did nothing to protect my torso, as I haven't been able to wear a bra without ample irritation since. Not that I like wearing one anymore. Sometimes the situation or occasion calls for one, as a real lady knows. Anyway... the other photos vary from pretty damn recent, to one [I refer to as Miss Scarlet], which is from late, last summer.

Last, I think, I'll mention, now that I've noticed after reading this over... is that I never concluded my status with Chris and his family. I feel badly for having described him and his wife as strange, which they are, but not to any profound level that is no greater than my own. I mean, I am an odd bird, for fucking sure. They are much like us, or who we have become over the passing year and a half; keeping to ourselves, pride and true to family, and involving no one that is not blood in our activities. This is going to change once we move off base, where military folk do not reside in such large numbers. I cannot stress to you enough how twisted some of the couples on the base can be here. But don't let ME get it twisted, as there are a few cherished people who I have met here and will never, EVER forget................................. anyway, they keep to themselves as far as other neighbors go, but do have friends over occasionally and that is where we differ because we do not. But as I said before, we hope to change this because we know that not EVERYONE in the world is out to hurt our family. It's sad though, to live like that. I blame Josh for it, mostly. When he isn't there for me, my whole world is turned upside down because it's just me... and the kids. And he doesn't see us. He just sees what is currently taking his attention off of us and not giving a fuck. BUT FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! I will not get into that. He and I have been fighting off and on for the past three weeks over the most silly white boy bullshit. Alas, I REFUSE to deal with immature man children. And the sad thing is... there are so many of them.

So, let me rewind to where I should of never strayed from... the matter of our friendship with Chris and his wife. It's kind of utilitarian for both of us. If they are out of cigarettes the first person they hit up is us, and vice versa. I think I've had Josh borrow a cup of sugar once and they just gave us the whole bag as they'd switched to raw or some shit like that ~~LOL. They've been in our house twice since we've lived here [moved in Jan. 24th of 2007]. And they are two out of eight people from Josh's work who have been here, half of which did not even step foot in the house. So I hope that gives you an even better idea of how protective I am over the stability of MY house. :] In the end they've been okay friends. A few times we've had to tell them to quiet down because our children were trying to sleep and they were outside their window, drunk and acting drunk. Aside from that and some shit that does irritate me but I don't dare share for fear of another tangent, they is/was/are/can be/maybe are/act like good people.

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(no subject) [Apr. 6th, 2008|04:02 am]
A Bitch-box Accompanied With Broken Thoughts.

banality no more
April 5th, '08

The Noose, by A Perfect Circle, dominates all sound in this room... like waves, a constant crash, upon the shore... of my mind. :] Or this is how I envision it.

Welcome to a beautiful blur... MY blur.

click for full: most recent foto [march'08]- taken in a dressing room prior to buying the viewed shirt.

I wish I were escaping some erotic whim to create this entry but as a very early Sunday morning would have it, i am escaping nothing more than insomnia. Insomnia, once acute, now so very much chronic.

As I sat down to start, I needed something that I usually hold off on until after I've walked away from the computer. A fucking cigarette. Meanwhile, a drink and music are always in order. One cannot sit for too long in silence without the companionship of music and her drink of choice. In this instance, I am drinking the semi-new Life water, compliments to... who was it? SoBe. More useless tidbits to fatten this bitch up with. Okay, okay, maybe I am just submitting to a certain weakness that is to ramble. Ramble on, that is.

The recalcitrant of relinquishing my soul via the written word burdens me no more. publicly, that is...

Quietus and noise. These are the two words taking over the sanity of my mind. They came to me as I watched the whites of my knuckles beneath a faucet of hot water, ignoring the steam nor the heat, while I watched pink water trickle like rain from my fist. A gash owned my palm, and until this very moment I haven't been thankful it wasn't my right hand. I am now. Why did I surrender to this unnessacary pain without so much as a fuck!fuck!fuck! Because babe, I've become THAT patient. Yeah. Really. But then there is the noise...

While I am not one of those who revel is pain, like, i don't know, with a hell yeah, i do appreciate my newfound ability to overcome it. Find it non-chalant or not, if it's not lethal, all you'll get out of me is an oh well. Unless it's a total fuck up on my part, of course. Shit shit shit shit! Athousand curses, for myself okay, is what one might witness.

Not too long back I went to my doctor. A check-up. Nothing naughty. Nothing major. Blood work was in order. Ca ching, ca ching. Or, I mean, as it is every yearly. The nurse came into my room with a skip in her step and I could not help for a split second but wonder what she was on to make her so damn happy. The addict in me, I suppose. She came with her kaboooodle of torturing devices, as is her job to torture people with. No, I am and have never been a needle girl. Or child, for that matter. My eyes were fast over the multicolored cap viles. Assorted in size and vampiric needs. It was certain that dracula, nosferatu --or fuck it-- bathory, had it in for me that day. She needed many viles. In fact, according to yours truly, she needed too many. Aside from that, she nearly dropped a few. Great, I thought. I wonder how well is her aim.

Usually I do not pay much mind to the nurses who withdraw from me. In this instance, how can one not look into the eye of the person who is not only nervous but about to stick a sharp object into the vein within one of your arms. Had it not been for visible lack of experience, I would of never noticed the chick. After a decent survey, I surrendered to one silent inquiry: "Does she recognize me?" Oh yes...but... oh, but not at all.

Standing at a height no more than my own, there she was; dirty blonde locks, generically tanned skin, eyes --though almond in shape-- incapable of the romance i admire, acrylic claws painted the shade of a matte plum and a slightly frosted pout for lips. I also noticed her signature make-up regime still included a dark line beneath each eye, though this was [admittedly] taken down a notch. Before I tell you who she was, let me explain now that there was not one hint of equal realization in her expression. To be honest, given what I know about her speed to grab or catch on to things, this came as no surprise. I think I just heard a bubble pop beside her bleach-assaulted high-lights while writing that. Not to be witty...

Britney was her stage name and I am sure that it will not shock you, given the aforementioned wits of this dancer turned lab tech, to tell you it was the same as her birth given title in the real life. Not much of a stage name, if you ask me. I wish I could tell you that I tried to reason with and warn miss Britney about the dangers in using your real name but I cannot. For one, she fucking hated my guts, and for two, she wouldn't of reasoned nor paid heed. Lose, lose... and all that jazz.

A 'No way,' escaped from within; said, if aloud, like I would say 'dude'. I played it like I wasn't going to make a play at all.

Immediately afterward I looked down to notice a balloon of rising blood rising like hot air beneath my skin. Still calm. Two more viles, I then noticed. "Oh... my... God." Britney had said, seeming mortified. And surprised. You blew my vein! I was screaming from within. You stupid, stupid... my frustration shifted into pity. I knew, for time now, that eighty percent of tittie bars had been obsolete. Closed down. Mostly involuntary on the owner's parts. Owners I all knew to be addicts themselves. But anyway! Got to love the common wealth, baby. I could tell she hated being there. Between the far from attractive pair of scrubs, and white boxes for shoes, i knew she was a soul who craved attention, and certainly not in this modest attire. Work those scooby-doo print scrubs, damn you!

It was different to see her out of an element she totally got off on. She really, truly and deeply dug the fuck out of the attention. I believe, despite the closing of clubs in the majority, this current role in life had lowered her into depression. Her [fake] sun-kissd face, despite the forced skip in step, struck me like lightning during a mid-spring thunder storm. It was obvious that life as a lab assistant found her to be a dull girl, void of her coveted night life. All those attention-seeking-needing-fed off perks. The kind of night life that brings a girl out- out of her shell. But why, exactly, did the bitch hate me?

taken on the same day as the one above.

All this aside, without going into anymore detail, I knew she still lived with a customer. Was he without the money he'd once lured her with, knew she loved, or... did she want out? One can only speculate. As for why she made me an enemy, I will never know why. I will never understand her animosity.I helped Britney in her pre-dance days as a cock-tail waitress. Then again... she, like lil ole me, found ourselves performing more private dancing than serving the scum in the pits. Dare I say, competition parted our ways? So early on?

Want more?

In the beginning, Britney adored me. She was young, like I was at the time, and we kept close, like those of our age might of been at the time, given our fresh meat stage of go-go. The comradeship of the tittie bar industry became a must of many in the beginning. For me, anyway. You did need your allies in places like that. Don'tcha motherfuckin find!? Without friends in such a back-stabbing industry, you are as good as nerve-wrecked and vulnerable. Not that I worried so much about the latter.

By now the last vile was needed.

At notice of this, a distinct pain surface from the nook of my right arm. A small ball, like i mentioned resembled a balloon, had grown in size where the needle had penetrated. She could of penetrated me with a damned blunt object and I'd been less disappointed. Let me see, she is taking[this is provoking utter disgust, forming like a violent cyclone, from within my chest. I feel my cheeks burn with contempt] simply doing her fucking job and the anger of knowing her makes me even more mad.

"Do you have children?" She inquires to save herself. She fears she'll fail, which she figures is inevitable - always. An immediate response involves an enthusiastic description of my beautiful sons and their gifts for reading and writing. Then there is a period of silence.

"I want to have kids. Lots of kids." She says, probably to break the silence. More awkward silence. Again, I tell her that I have twin boys who are equal in beauty and skill. Her reply involved a secret yearn to have children. Lots of children. Trying to not seem like a smart ass, I tell her that maybe, just maybe, she will spawn many. Produce a clan so inspiring that she won't seem so unhappy in a job that she loathes... and a life that in reality truly pays off . Good looks, after all, do not always pay ze bill. I feel happy when humanity and life-improving promotes ... i FORGET my train of thought, as I am jumping into this after a trip to the kitchen in order to gather some eats. After pondering her wishes I pray she becomes a queen ant in the next life.

Anyway, there she was, gauze in her hand and a desire for making endless babies.My real reply stirred from within, helpless over my automatic opinion, one i could not smother, with the recovered addition of course, but here it came aloud: "Well maybe you shall come back in the next life a queen ant... or, uhm, how about mother fuckin queen... bee?" A laugh, sprinkled with relief for her bloody fuck up i am sure, erupts from her chest. I then ask myself: were those her true thoughts, the gush for procreation or after years of hustling, were the art of friendly conversation making and reading of different people being used? No. I know her confessions were complete and utterly false. Liar liar, pants of fiyah...

Miss Britnay. Tell the truth. You loathe children. Admit it! And... alll their... unpredictability. Blah Blah Blah.

After she was done torturing me, she made like fast to exit my room. Whether or not she caught on to who I was still remains a mystery to me. What I do know is this: had she recognized me, I would have never known. Perhaps I shall read the laws of hippa. Were they like the laws of anonymity in an addicts sanctuary, rooms too countless to fathom? Never too much to admire, of course.

Fuck it. She is nothing more than a person I forgot about until that very moment. Her face and all that goes with it will find it's self retreating into the deepest recesses of my cherished memory palace. Right where it, she, whatever... belong.

Not that I truly mind but that the yawn of dawn will soon be heard, come six AM, and though I am moderately far off from this hour... I need sleep.

Much love, friends close and far far away. Stay safe... as you always do.

click for full: most recent foto [march'08]- taken a week or two before the others posted.

BTW - Earlier I mentioned that I had cut myself. It was nothing more than a gardening accident. Blast the sharpness of a spade! Not really.

Also - if you should have the time, check out my scrapbook for those photos [original format] who will not load. Those bitches!

Virtually Yours,

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