I was holed up in anger and disbelief with all my faculties clear and nowhere to run and hide from the drowning effects of swallowing too much of the piss of life.
You don’t only get one stab at it. It’s humanly impossible to get it right the first time around and I don’t really care about having it all.
The lucky ones get it. The unlucky ones get it too but they hate it.
I love it.
I was born to live and then die. I was given the task to exercise my options and whip the ones that challenge me into shape.
There were times I succeeded and more times when I was overpowered.
Whenever the thought of walking into the Pacific Ocean wearing the dress I wore the last time I was tampered with fills me with spiritual awe — I curse at the God of my core.
The pain subsides and the water stops rising and I feel my limbs reattaching themselves to my brain.
Everything is suddenly brighter and lighter and I can control the bevy of material filtering in and out at a magnificent pace.
The C-word is the antidote to the survival of my being wherein God becomes the crime scene that has to be left to the professionals to clean up or leave bare.
There is guilt.
I feel awesome and free and powerful and mighty and irrational and playful and vindicated.
Mishandling the righteous word and the Almighty who will surely have me burned for eternity — pales in comparison to rotting away in a gorgeous body and ageless face.
The abominable will always provide the passage to all understanding that surpasses the clogged pores of verses, hymns and empty recitals.
I curse and use my filthy mouth to end the impoverished solitude of rejection.
My God is a fighter too. He gives as good as he gets.
When we’re bad we’re great. And then I say it and we back down.
Suddenly everything is better.