Morning Mind Squatter

1949-scattered-papersIn the early morning, as I rise from the depths of that all-encompassing death of sleep, I sometimes stumble into conversations and ramblings that aren’t my own.   In those moments right before I open my eyes, I feel my thoughts stroke surfaces of things I don’t even care about.  This morning it was something about a lecture on topography and a way to talk to those folks that prefer to dine earlier in the day.

It’s as if I woke into a wrong room, and body … inhabited by a completely different person who was not expecting my arrival at that hour, if at all.  Irritated that I was taking my synapses back, the phantom intellect and perpetuator of useless topics stood up in a huff and shuffled her papers in irritation, then stormed toward the middle or back of my brain to see about finding a more private room, or to schedule the current one for another time when I would be less likely to interrupt.

To my knowledge, I’ve never once been pleasantly surprised by this imbecile.  Her random topics aren’t entertaining in any way, and although boring, they are too awkward or alarming to effectively put me back to sleep. I think I understand where the stories about tiny shoe cobblers might have originated if this is the state of our condition in middle-age.  I’m not a big shoe collector, but I’d take quiet little cobbler elves over this ignoramus any day.  I fear she will chase away my muse inspired wakings – those mornings where I rise with good ideas and rush to my keyboard before coffee to get them written.

I’m not trying to be selfish here.  If she would simply pick any number of the millions of things that even remotely interest me to poke around in, I’d let her stay longer.  What’s wrong with a little history of Ireland, book reviews, Mars and physics or astronomy . . . even gluten-free or lactose intolerant solutions.  Okay, those last ones are snore-inducers, but there’s things in there like: Nero and pyromania, “the threat of pink,” oh – and don’t miss “code yellow butterfly.”  She has her pick of specifics or abstract to run with – all of them fascinating and/or useful.  But instead, I have to walk in on the sordid pictures of her dissecting the types of arch support, or why the letter “J” curves left instead of right.

I worry.  What if this is a takeover starting?  I’ve always feared that day, when I start to forget little and big things, and head down Alzheimer’s road.  What if this boring and presumptuous phantom is biding her time for that, so she can take over my person?  A body snatcher in the makings?  Perhaps more sleep and exercise is the answer!  Well, more sleep at least.

Don’t mistake my anxiety.  I know this mind squatter pulls these topics from somewhere in my head.  I’m not insinuating a lobotomy of all that is bland.  It’s just . . . well, you know the score.  Take a difficult math concept and “Teacher A,” who explains patiently, shows you pages in your book, and even scribbles some things on the board.  You just don’t get it.  Enter “Teacher B,” who says little and writes from simple to extreme across the board, then turns and, you feel enlightened and now completely understand the concept.

This morning intruder is starting to make me wonder if I might like to explore (more fully) the techniques of sinus cleansing.  If she ends up being “Teacher B,” I’m doomed.

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War with Me

Every night I wage a war.  The enemy crawls into the room and begins its familiar bombardment, first with feathers and then with rubber bullets.  In a matter of minutes I’m surrounded by fire breathing dragons screaming with urgency – I must enter their realm.  I refuse, at least for a few more hours.  It’s about the fight, yet I don’t even know where my objection starts in me.  This battle makes no sense and doesn’t do me any good.  But somehow, Sleep has become my enemy.

Its army comes at me as if I’m expecting it.  Like I’ll throw myself at their mercy once the grenades are thrown.  I shake my head and pop my lids open again, a yawn stretches me but I stay connected to the wakeful world … with my eyes.

Two days ago I went to the eye doctor and he tells me I have slight cataracts in my left eye and the onset of macular degeneration in my right.  What’s left to fight with if I don’t have my eyes?  The monster approaches tonight and my weapons start to ache.

All these years, for reasons I don’t comprehend, I fought sleep off.  It isn’t insomnia; it’s a conscientious, albeit an underground and seditiously layered response.  My mind wants to stay rapt with the happenings of the day or the fantasies I’ve missed while doing the responsible job thing.  It wants to read new depths and experience different worlds, scan new perspectives and flex different thoughts.  It’s crosshairs are a pair of blue peepers I’ve had since I was born.  Now the weapons of choice are losing their effectiveness yet the enemy is in no way breaking its stride.

It certainly occurs to me (on a regular basis, should you question my clarity on this matter) – sleep would assuredly heal my situation,  or at a minimum slow this eye-death process.  Would that I could allow myself to be taken prisoner.  To surrender.  The sheets and the pillow call my weary body.  Why can’t I give in?  Shell shock?  Post traumatic stress syndrome?

But I still fight.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop this madness.  No doubt if I could just figure out what started this war for me, I’d be able to agree to a cease-fire, draw up a peace plan.  Resolve to do what’s best for my sanity.

Alas, I fear that peace may never come.

Deathwish?

A powerful light shines in the dark.

I’m haunted by the ghost of my inner me.  In the wee small hours of the morning, when there’s no one to tell you to get your ass to bed, a virus takes hold and strangles your brain.  Schedules, routines – such mundane and tedious stalwarts of responsibility.  Can anyone relate when I write – sometimes we just don’t want what we need.  We just don’t want them so badly that we reject them like the plague and grasp at other worlds of adventure like, “What’s in the fridge?” and “what’s the lyrics of that song in my head?”

Perhaps this is what becomes of not bearing children and maturing into older years having only ever concerned myself with the needs of another adult.  Caring for myself not as a person who must go on for the rearing and survival of a small brood, but as a semi-independent partner.  When the chips are down and sleep is essential, I have some kind of alter-ego that whips into action and stirs my brain, revs my sluggishness, and prevents a restful nature.  It’s almost as if there’s a war and some part of me is fighting, but against whom or what – and even if my ghost wins I lose.

The road will tell me why.  Here’s praying that caffeine and a direction will sane me up.

**Note to my faithful followers – it’s been so long.  I have hope for the future of my writing after a couple of co-workers unknowingly talked an “intervention” my way today.  Stress.  Homesickness.  Heartache.  Upsidedowness.  But I can see the saddle; it’s in my cross hairs.  I’m going to get back in it.  Please stick with me.

The Disappearance of inturruptingcow

I went on a trip on a train.  I played my role as devoted, loving partner and got a little time with my Love.  I found my story on the train ride back.  I can’t write anything else.

Now I’m stuck on 4000 words.  Approximately 180,000 words according to King’s book On Writing, and I’m stuck at 4000.  I don’t know if it’s being off my routine so long, the stress at work, or being away from M and all that is comforting, but I can’t get the rest out.  When I try, my head hurts.  Yet I don’t have anything else that feels worth writing.

In my slump I find that when I can’t look at the screen and see the story my next inclination is to slither into slothfulness.  I even turned on the stupid box today.  Feels like I’m losing.

My Hugging Coach

When I tell you that I went to a “hugging coach,” it’s important you know two things. First, it was by accident that I became a student of the hug. Second, it is the only subject I ever failed.   For reasons I will not explain at this writing, I am a very socially awkward individual. In crowded settings I squawk like a chicken and screech like an eagle while people are, all around me, whispering. I’m speaking metaphorically here, of course. I don’t actually make those noises; I’m actually rather quiet. But that’s how it feels to be in social settings without a clear mission.

When I was younger, I was spared some terrible embarrassment when, seeing I was new and shy, an 11th grade English teacher pointed me toward the Drama Club. Learning how to come out of my shell and pretend I had other traits and skills was essential to my development into, and survival as, an adult. My favorite trait to imitate is confidence. An element I lack, that I try to overcompensate for when necessary, is affection of the sentimental type. I don’t mean I find it difficult to show or express love to someone I care deeply about. I don’t have much trouble giving hell to people I dislike. The complication exists when people that I’m not so adamant about attempt to express something, sort of, in the middle. I mean, well let me paint a picture.

Picture it – 1998. A swarm of teenagers in uniform transformed from stationary pillars of silence, in neat little ranks and files – to a raucous gaggle of excited children, racing for their parents’ arms. I had just dismissed the cadets from the final formation before liberty. My boss and mentor at the time smiled at each of the staff as he thanked them, and wished them a pleasant time off duty. With each hand shake, he pulled them in for a hug, and sent each one hot-stepping it home for some much needed “R & R.” I felt my face blanch and casually disappeared below decks to log off the computers and gather my things. He headed me off as I tried walking past him on the gangway.

“Good job Team Leader S,” he grinned and reached an arm out toward my shoulder. He was going for that hug. I grimaced and leaned in slightly. I felt the coach-like pat on my back as our shoulders bumped. I was thankful that I had thought to carry enough out so that both my hands were encumbered, leaving me no arm to return the “Go Team!” hug. “We’ll make a hugger out of you yet, Ms. S.” His laughter wasn’t mocking, or demeaning. He was a good mentor and I appreciated his outlook and experience. But he knew, along with everyone else on the team, that I was not that particular brand of person described as, “a hugger.”

This is one story, one of many that preceded and followed it, that outlines my social adversities as they pertain to hugging (among other situations). It wasn’t until, close to 8 years later, I started dissecting my mental insides and deduced – something was rotten in the state of me. That’s when I was referred to a hugging coach. That wasn’t what was on her business card, sure, but that’s the essence of what she was.

With her help, I delved into the family tree, sought roots for my various jungles, and found trails I could hike to escape, survive, or make peace with my fears run amok. I did some journaling, reconnected with my spiritual beliefs, and talked more to her than to any other person prior to that time. Life was okay, and then life was good. The most memorable aspect that still resounds in my head from those sessions is the “hug practice.”

I had explained that I was uncomfortable, for many reasons, with hugging everyday friends. Which angle do you use when going in for the hug? What do you do with your arms and hands? What about people who are different heights? What if you hug one person who is standing next to someone you don’t want to hug, and they indicate a hug is in order? It’s all so ridiculously horrid to have to decipher and process!

My hugging coach did her best. She provided simple logic to these and other questions. We practiced scenarios; she even taught me a particular hug that seemed to solve all my problems. The “Sideways Hug” allows you to keep the front of your body free from bodily contact, while still offering an arm to the person who feels they absolutely must be hugged by you. If done correctly (I should say, “skillfully”), the two of you will resemble a greeting card to onlookers. It will be as if you are posing for a picture.  If don’t clumsily, the accosting hugger will try to fold that card, thereby negating your attempts at diplomacy, and throw their second arm around your neck. This not only defeats the purpose, but results in a situation exponentially more uncomfortable than if you had just stiffened and allowed the original hug attack to occur.

Kidding aside, I know that a person who feels the need to touch another person in public, to enter their personal space, does not always do so callously. For some, a hug is a great way to punctuate a final, parting sentence, and is no more an invasion than a “high five.” For others, perhaps they subconsciously sense a connection with you, and want to physically acknowledge it in a way that makes you aware of it too. So … just to clarify, hugs are not always attacks. Regardless of how thoughtless and assuming huggers may seem, I don’t take their advances to heart anymore.

That said, I never mastered the art of the hug. I was able to identify, to analyze, to compensate or overcome. I turned much of what I learned from my “hugging coach,” into ink or bytes. Scripture says blood is the life of the animal; I think ink is the life of the imagination. And while I may not be likely to welcome a hug physically, I am certainly interested in receiving “hugs” in the form of feedback in the comment section. Let’s hear it. How many artists out there identify with a distaste for crowds, an awkwardness in social settings, or are prone to verbal faux pas?  Any other non-huggers out there?

From the Womb

I think the moment I came out of the womb I was too crowded.  It’s why I spend so much time in the bathroom.  Not because I primp or spend hours putting on lipstick. I only wear blush.  I need more time by myself to be myself. I need more time with my voices of reason and calmness.

Tonight I drove up French Mountain road and turned left on Shanghai Divide.  It was a dangerous, beautiful, peaceful ride.  I saw a black bear cub, three white tail deer, and some bunny rabbits.  No one talked to me and I didn’t have to listen.

Tonight was the first night in a long time that I’ve missed my 8pm goal to post something.  I sacrificed 24 minutes to gain my sanity.  Life is good.

Broken Mosey

Mornings for me are a bit wonky.  Is this not an accurate statement for 80 percent of the population?  I have always felt that I have a knack for empathy and can sense what is somewhat “usual” for others.  I can’t imagine that there are many people that don’t feel slightly off-kilter in the morning for at least a modicum of time.  Depending on how I feel the night before, I set my alarm for a “get up and write” amount of time, or a “latest possible” time hack.  Either way, I have to have my “mosey time” each morning or I am not suitable for the outside world.

For those curious among you – “mosey time” is that dimension of space between now and then that is not assigned to any required outcome.  Continue reading

Fragments of Inertia

 

Waking up with a terrible thirst and reaching for the bottle of water on the one night you forget to put it there.  Pulling on a clean T-shirt to sleep in, and itching all night because you used the wrong detergent.  Choosing PM instead of AM and missing your alarm, hence jumping up in a panic that follows you the rest of the day.  Developing a slight case of paranoia from sleep deprivation and a lowering of self-esteem because your diet’s not working and you are too lazy to exercise.  Overcompensating for your fatigue with caffeine, thereby instigating an apparent mania that you know, inevitably, will crash you to a record low.  Reverting to a stubborn, disobedient child in your mind when it comes to taking care of yourself because you are homesick and depressed.  Staring at a blank white screen because you can’t accept that you are barren of words and your body and mind is in revolt against your dream.

 

What do all these sentences have in common besides being fragments?  They are soap scum in the tub of my self-pity.  One of these days I need to find a Sweeper that will do his damn job.

English: A brick wall (stretcher bond) Françai...

BANG HEAD HERE. English: A brick wall (stretcher bond) Français : Un mur de briques (Appareil en paneresses). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

trust

Don’t give up on me.  I strive for perfection and fall short every time.  I don’t sleep regular hours and rarely stay down all through the night, but that’s not why I’m restless.  Stress throbs my temples and you know what that feels like.  Bear with me.

I only give up about ten times a day.  If I had a dime for every time I got side-tracked …  Just have a little faith.  This could get scary and time is the only damn thing that will tell.  There’s a lot riding on my efforts so have a heart.

All I need is your confidence and occasional encouragement.  I can watch as the cracks form in the sky.  I don’t mind bearing the weight of the continents on my shoulders.  I can take it when all seems lost and tomorrow could totally crumble around my weary corpse.  Don’t look at me.

I don’t care about the money, or the clock ticking.  I will keep moving forward little by lots, blow by blow, life and limb.  Just don’t ever give up on me.

Play crack the sky.

Play crack the sky. (Photo credit: timothygareth)

Beer, Bait, and … Homos?

This is not political.  I’m not taking a stand here on the right to bear arms or the logic behind background checks.  I’m simply explaining why I personally do not want to own a gun.  But it appears that to even make a personal statement of that “magnitude,” some would have me clarify my thoughts on their choice to have guns.  So I allow me to answer in like fashion as some of my favorite gun-toting pals have shared with me on some of my other “issues.”

I have lots of friends who own guns.  I don’t ever want my friends who own guns to feel like I look differently at them, or that I fear them.  I don’t have a problem with their choices or how they live their personal lives.  I just don’t like the kind of gun-freaks that want to flaunt it, make a big deal about it, and even flash it in my face that they own guns.  You know the ones; they wear t-shirts that say things like, “Gun Control is a Tight 5-Point Shot Group,” or “God, Guns, and Glory.”  I also don’t think they should prance around talking about their guns in front of children.  I think it’s okay for gun-owners to raise children together as long as they don’t force their gun beliefs on their children and make them decide about guns before they are old enough.  When I see pictures of elementary school children with guns in their hands, smiling parents standing next to them, I often wonder why CPS isn’t being called.

What really ticks me off is when they try to convert me.  I don’t know if they get some kind of prize or a box of free ammo when they sway someone toward NRA membership, but I really don’t want them telling me that I should own a gun.  That’s where I draw the line.  Keep your leather holster to yourself there, buddy.

Here’s why I don’t own a gun.  I think that when you look at the Adam Lanzas (Sandy Hook Elementary School) and David Berkowitzs (Son of Sam) of the world – there’s really only one little synapse or chemical imbalance in the head between them and us.  I mean, how much does anyone really know about psychopaths, sociopathy, and insanity.  Even the experts can only speculate.  Likewise on the current research on depression, impulse control, and other brain and socio/psychological disorders that have blossomed like earthquakes, hurricanes, and tsunamis over the last 50 years.  Fact is, what separates you from me is one false move, one spark of recognition, one apparent threat that turns a calm demeanor into a raging lunatic with a finger on the trigger.  I don’t own a gun because I know myself enough to know that I don’t know what I don’t know.

I’m one of the most self-analytical people I know.  So when I say that I choose not to own a gun because I don’t ever want to allow the possibility that I might use it on myself or someone else in a moment of darkness or a rage of anger – I don’t say that lightly.  I have aged to the point where I control myself when people piss me off.  I have overcome severe depression over the years and I’ve done it (for the most part) without drugs.  So I’d pass a background check.  All in all, I’d probably be just fine with a gun my home.  In the state I reside now, I’d be able to get a handgun before you can hit “like” on this post.  But I think I’d rather die at the hands of an idiot with a gun who doesn’t like that I love another woman, rather than hurt the ones that I love by taking my life or that of someone else.  Some might say that logic makes no sense to them.  I respect their right to disagree.

I don’t judge gun owners.  I know there is a percentage of gun owners that take their own lives, and those that use guns to murder or rob.  So I pray that everyone that owns a gun does so from a right mind and heart.  I don’t know how I feel about the variety and types of guns there are out there.  I don’t know what I think about limiting magazines, or types of bullets, semi-automatic versus automatic, etc.  All I know is, if owning a gun makes someone happy and feel safe and normal – as long as they don’t point it at me or someone else – I’m okay with that.

2006-08-23 - Road Trip - Day 31 - United State...

Photo courtesy of http://www.cgpgrey.com/

 

this i’m not (Oct 1999)

in the ring or out
does the loser stay lost?
is the beaten always beat?
does the paying always cost?

this is not my song
suffering hard and long
my story is not one
of painful days are done

i’m no victim.

no sorry, beaten, broken
little shaken token
of hard knocks and heavy blocks
of treacherous walking and tearful talking
painful draining
shoulders straining
weighed down with no crown
to show for
the thousand different
fuck-ups and suck-ups
troubles doubled
that have me flattened on the sidewalk.

what i am i don’t always know, but this i’m not.

Underground

Invisible Dirt (May 1999)

baby talk
chew and walk
rub and pat
i can do that

twist and shout
sweat it all out
rock and roll
deep in my soul

fancy free
insanity
no order
inside of me
no method to the madness
no clear reason for the sadness

happy hurt
invisible dirt
painful joy
broken glass toy

wash and wear
have a care
permanent press
more for less

be a friend
make it end.

fog

Photo by inturruptingcow

What’s Wrong? aka The Three Stooges of Depression

For many people who have never experienced major depression, it can be hard to understand why, on any given sun shine laden day, a person can be low and have no apparent reason to explain it.  Those who have experienced it will tell you, there’s no question more annoying, or that can turn the pain into a burning desire to rip someone’s head off, than this one: “Why are you sad?”  Even marginally intelligent people, when dealing with an actual tangible “something” that makes them emotional, can figure out a way to deal with it.  Asking questions like, “What happened that’s got you down?” to a major depressive is like asking a Harley owner if her bike is broke because it needs a new fan belt.

Just chalk it up to gang warfare in the brain.  As best I can tell from what I’ve read or been told, it’s like this.  There’s these three stooges on the molecular level who like to call themselves “The Monoamines.”  Individually they are serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine*.    Serotonin is a sort of “trafficker,”  and deals with neurotransmitters in the brain to help move messages around.  When it gets low or doesn’t show up in force, messages don’t move like they should and symptoms can occur.  The other two fools are like enforcers, only in a positive way.  They don’t break your knee caps when you don’t pay up, they give you a high when you do.  That’s why some depressives turn into addicts – because drugs and alcohol can serve to boost these two clowns (at least for the short term).  If you prefer to see the movie rather than read the book, check this video out.

Video on this Brain Gang

So you would think that someone with major depression would want to take advantage of prescription drugs that help fix these brain wire wars.  Maybe save everyone else the mystery of being around them?  Some do.  Some have played that drug roulette and won with a solution that helps them.  But try and see it from my point of view.  Let’s say you just bought a shiny new sports car.  Imagine someone telling you they have done the research and had some trials and would like to use this new chemical to help keep it shiny when it rains.  This new batch of chemicals will not only keep it shiny when it rains, but it will keep off the dust and dirt when driving it regularly.  Are you skeptical?

You should be.  What are the unseen effects of this sludge that keeps your car looking so good?  What if it means that your car will lose its resale value in half the time it would have otherwise?  What if it looks great, but smells like a paper mill?  What if it looks great, smells just like a new car, but there is a very slight chance that you will encounter circumstances while cruising that cause the chemicals in this auto-pharmaceutical to explode, killing you and everyone around you?  Would you take that chance?

lambourgini

Never trust an MD to prescribe any kind of antidepressant.  I suspect many of them work for the sludge companies.  Either that, or they are just blissfully ignorant; Hippocrates be damned.  I once had an MD see me for under 10 minutes, ask me a few questions about the depression I reported experiencing, and prescribe me Effexor.  It was the 24 hour capsule and, although I feared taking drugs for my funk, I was desperate.  I waited until bedtime and downed the thing at 9pm that night.  I had the deepest, most disturbing sleep I’ve ever had … every two hours.  I dreamed of dark shapes, muggy, stale air, and reptile like movements.  I sat bolt-upright in a cold sweat every two hours on the dot.  I felt creepy-crawlies on my body and sensed evil demonic elements all around me.  I checked the clock each time, went into a brief panic-mode for fear I would not make it to the morning; then I convinced myself I preferred the dark tank of my dreams to the freakish alter-reality around my wakeful self.  I had to be driven to work and home the next day, and had to get help finishing sentences on a project I was on. The drug committed homicide on every thought I had before I could finish them.  It held me, a helpless hostage, until it finally wore off that evening at bedtime.

The sludge lackeys recommended I try a different sludge.  Trial and error no doubt.  No thanks.

There’s another, non-medical way to look at depression.  Spiritually, depression is quite easily explained as severe selfishness.  Don’t get flustered with me.  I’m not one of those religious ignoramuses that blame people for lack of faith or prayer when they are depressed. I know this explanation sounds shocking and insensitive. Americans especially don’t like that word.  Hmm.  Try and see it in a non-blame way – a kind of psychological diagnosis.  Because my experience is that it really applies.

Of course, don’t ever tell that to someone who might be dealing with depression unless you are just evil or cruel.  Instead, ask them for some help.  Seriously.  Be sensitive to their stripped-down exposure by putting yourself out there with them.  That’s the highest form of love.  And if you have no need of help in any way (talking about a struggle you have and asking them for advice, or help moving some things from one place to another, or help getting organized) … then do this.  Find a volunteer service project and tell them you need someone to go with you because you want to help, but feel awkward going alone.  It’s brainwave therapy for the mind.

The chemical mafia that controls moods can affect your thinking patterns.  We could argue the chicken-egg question – is it selfishness that causes depression or depression that causes selfishness? None of that is the point.  When you can’t own a gun because you are afraid you might use it on yourself one day – who the hell cares about the blame game?  Point is – doing things to help others and giving of your time helps shift thinking patterns and the types of things the brain focuses on.  This, in turn, helps adjust production of the three stooges and can improve mood.

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Words (March 1999)

if words were like pennies i would truly be rich
for all the things i want to say to you
swarm my brain like pissed off bees defending their hive.

if words were ice i would truly be frozen
by all the icicles hanging in my skull
like dripping daggers painting to my heart.

is words were brush strokes on canvas i would be world reknown
for all the masterpieces i have created for you
in many hues of blue and blue and blue.

if words were clouds the world would die
smothered in the darkness my words keep me under
in my strain with the pain that lingers everywhere in me.

if words were bullets i would perish
in the prison of my love that cages me
while i aim at you and point the barrel at me.

if words were weeds i would pick up gardening
and pull them ’til my fingers bled and my hands stiffened
and my back broke and my body was covered in the earth

but they would keep growing.

in reality –
i am broke, warm, and of average artistic ability
i see the light most times
i am alive and i don’t care to week a garden
of my bitterness.

i feel –
rich with hurt, frozen from intimacy, a maestro of the pallet,
darkness surrounds me,
i am dead and can’t see it through vines of
betrayal that grip my legs
wrap around my neck
and swallow me whole.

if words were freedom I would truly be free.

[Blue grotto, Capri Island, Italy] (LOC)

Sake Drinker

She sits at the sushi bar and orders off menu.  She appears to watch intently as the chef prepares each order, but it’s just a front for her sake habit.  She wants people to think she’s important, a regular; she wants to be seen as flippant and carefree.  I’m irritable from the walk.  My thoughts are in warrior mode as a result.  So I instinctively shape her wants and needs into a victory in my mental war.  She is a frizzy old sweater wearing, frump of a gal with sinking middle class written all over her.  She would be on her tablet writing or communicating with someone if she was anyone of import.  She instead makes pitiful attempts to connect with the sushi chef because she has no one and while we were sitting here she probably just farted.

Now I feel bad that I’ve demolished her in this way.  I’ve really taken no prisoners this time.  I take a deep breath, readjust my thinking back to the original persona she was seeking.  I lift my menu and ponder.  I think I’ll have the Volcano Roll … and some sake.

Sake