"The MAG"

SUSAN TELLER

I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, I live in the United States, the most corrupt state, Georgia. I was born August 11, 1966. I have never been published for fiction.

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THEORY 101

I was on a rant at a rave at a local club. Some dude slipped me a mickey to shut me up. Oops, the term mickey isn't politically correct anymore is it? Now the term is roHIPnol. I apologize for not being HIP to the new shut-up chicki and let me screw it to you, your independence, your ideas, your thoughts, your beliefs, your morals, your values, your-you. Too bad my tolerance for illegal narcotic intake/abuse is so high, but they threw me out of the club anyway. The club had no tolerance for my rant at their rave.

Chick lit makes the lit of the chick light. I always hated being called a chick. My first boss, Mr. Grossman/the Gross man used to call me chick, or chicki, right before he would rail into me. "Listen to me chicki, I'm the boss and what I say goes. There is no room for a rogue here, so follow your mommy's example. Be a good little chick and don't back out of my office when you leave, I want to be able to see your ass sway out of here, just like your mommy's ass does when she leaves my office after a good railing/rant-rave by me." Listen to Mr. Gross man. Mr. Grossman fired me when I backed out of his office with my middle finger swaying in his face. My first fuck you gesture to the gross man/gross men. I kept my finger up when I was walking down the street too. My friends told me, "no wonder men don't honk at you." My reply, "look you stooooopid chicks, I don't like to be looooooked at as if all my anatomical female parts encompass who I am as a human being. Let the HONKERS say nice brain instead of nice tits or nice ass after they honk and then maybe I'll stop giving the fuck you gesture to the gross man/men."

Then there was the perverted, older Italian man named Chick, who worked at the Italian food store. As soon as I turned into a young girl with breasts Chick would lick his lips while he watched me walk up to his counter. He would tell me to make sure I come see him when I turn 18 because I was turning into a fine looking young woman with a great pair of tits and a nice ass. One time, when Chick turned around to cut my Italian meatloaf sub, I spit in his drink that he had sitting on the counter. Why? Well, Chick used to flick his tongue at me after he would tell me to come see him when I turned 18. I figured Chick would have wanted a taste of my saliva in his mouth, whether with his tongue or by my own spit, so I decided I would never let him put his tongue in my mouth; I would give him my spit instead. As I walked out of the store I heard Chick yelling, "who spit in my fucking drink?" The middle finger gesture covered my ass as I walked away.

You want to know the real pain for a woman/girl/women/girls/chicks? Do I need to flower-up the version a bit for the story to have an impact?

Pour on some sugar and spice and the man has deflowered - shut up bitch - you rancid cunt. Don't make any more noise or I'll make this hurt worse. This hurts me more than it hurts you. My pain goes away when I deflower the flower, pop the cherry, steal away with the virgin. Does that version make the story ironic enough? Or is the irony the story itself?
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      PunctuationPunctuationPunctuationPunctuation
     I started writing when I was thirteen. Alone and isolated in my room, but I liked to be there-I still do-nothing and no one can bother or assail with the crap/crapper of humanity when remaining isolated and alone. Writing is a spontaneous reflux-a hiccup-releasing my bowels-regurgitation of the soul-Q-tipping the crap out of my ears with my pencil-edit, edit, edit…
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   The only good writing comes from rewriting. Bullshit. The only good writing comes from observing human feces. The only good writing comes from humanity assailing a writer with crap, crap that gets stuck in the writer's ears. I don't know much about anything; I don't even know why anyone would read this. I think I read that in Beckett somewhere. You must be bored-I am bored writing this. I take medicine because our society is sick-society's crap makes me sick-the crap in my ears makes me sick-humanity is ill, so I have to take medicine-Irony-back to what I was writing-
IstartedwritingwhenIwasthirteenaloneandisolatedinmyroombutIlikedtobethereIstil
ldonothingandnoonecanbotherorassailwiththecrapperofhumanitywhenremainingisolateda
ndalonewritingisspontaneousrefluxahiccupreleasingmybowelsregurgitatingthesouleditedit
edit…
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         ProofreadProofreadProofreadProofreadProofread
   I now know why Van Gogh was suicided by society…with the knife…cut off his ear…his ear never heard the crap/crapper of humanity flushing. The crapper never flushed, the crapper overflowed into his ear. Artaud too-Comte-no words to describe the feces in the crapper-that is what Artaud thought-sometimes, I think that too-
Humanity's crap isn't brown or green from meat or greens. Not liquid, like diarrhea, although, the crap does flow from humanity's crapper just like diarrhea. Words, words, words to describe-none I can think of- like Artaud. Maybe, Van Gogh just needed a suppository to remove the shit in his ear, an enema? Maybe, he tried and both solutions failed-no; he cut his damn ear off. Van Gogh removed the shit- the crap in his ear-why didn't anybody let him climb to the top of the pile of humanity's crapper when he was alive? No, instead they told him crap. They told Van Gogh his art was crap to humanity. That's what Van Gogh's ear got to hear. Who wants to tell the story of the invisible apparent? Falling short of being a hero-lofty ideals floating above the crapper-the air ran out, the ideals fell into the crapper-The ex, my ex, Mr. Cueball complained when his balls would touch the inside of the crapper-That's it! Van Gogh should have cut off his balls instead-Society wouldn't have cared-Van Gogh, Artaud, Comte, suicided while alive, capitalistic, artistic, exhibit masterpieces when dead-did anybody hear that-with their ear???????
     What about your eyes? Do you care to read that with your eyes?
     On the other hand, do you need Van Gogh's ear to hear?
     Van Gogh would have wanted to read, Artaud too, Comte too.
     Why isn't Van Gogh's ear on display? Capitalists could make millions.
     NounNounNounNounNounNounNounNounNoun
     VERBVERBVERBVERBVERBVERBVERB
     PRONOUNPRONOUNPRONOUNPRONOUN
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     ARETHOSEINTHERIGHTPLACE.,:;.,:;.,:;.,:;.,:;?
        What was I writing? Oh yeah, back to the point, back to the point…
     If you are a true writer, you must know the mechanics. Bullshit or human feces. Crap. Humanity's crap. The crapper never flushing just overflows into the ear.
        ISTARTEDWRITINGWHENIWASTHIRTEENALONEANDISOLATEDINM
YROOMBUTILIKEDTOBETHEREISTILLDONOTHINGANDNOONECANBOTHERYORA
SSAILWITHTHECRAPPEROFHUMANITYWHENREMAININGISOLATEDANDALONEW
RITINGISSPONTANEOUSREFLUXAHICCUPRELEASINGMYBOWELSREGURGITATING
THESOULQTIPPINGMYEARSWITHMYPENCILEDITEDITEDITSTRANGERSTHOU
GHILIKESTRANGERSSTRANGERSHAVENOPREJUDICESSTRANGE
RSDON'TASSESSBYAPPEARANCEORDOTHEYIHAVETWOCHILDRENP
LUSTWOMOREPLUSILOSTTWOPLUSONEMOREINCOLLEGEIDIDNTLOSETWO
THEYDIEDINTHECRAPPEROFHUMANITYSUICIDEDBYTHESHITOFSOCIETYS
HITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT
     ~~THEY WOULDN'T PRINT ME. MY STORY GOT TRASHED. NOT ENOUGH EDITING.~~
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     GRAMMARGRAMMARGRAMMAR
     Wordswordswordswordswordswordswordswords
     HESAIDSHESAIDHESAIDSHESAIDSAIDSAID
     I was told, the other day, my writing is simplistic at best. I wasn't sure what they meant, but I came home and wrote the simple sentence down. They asked me why I write. I couldn't tell them why-I just have to sometimes. My writing is in snippets. Everybody wants a specific form. Plot and plan the story. Have some purpose by the end. Save the world, hit the top 10 best-seller's list-be famous for the writing that is produced-
   Who is gonna save the world? Nobody. The world will not be saved with my writing. Shit, here they come. I need to go to sleep now, or just lay up in the bed and smoke. I need to isolate myself. That's what they are telling me. Rest, rest, don't write. The professionals seem to know everything. In The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman-my name is hyphenated too-am I a feminist? I don't think of myself as a feminist. Don't categorize me; don't make me into a feminist just because I choose to hyphenate my name. Feminists, hard-core, are too militant about the whole feminist thing for me. I wasn't allowed to join the military, so don't put me in the militant category. My ex-husband wouldn't let me join the military. He was the man and only the man can join the military.
     I wouldn't be considered a feminist if society had never started labeling and categorizing everything and everybody. In The Yellow Wallpaper, the walls were yellow from age-the story suggests-the walls were yellow from drug use-too much pot can give the eyes a yellowed hue-mine are yellow from smoke-gotta harness the smoke from the fire somehow right? Boy, is that cliché. Clichés are so passé.
     I went to class this morning. I wanted to learn about fine art. Fine Art101. Slides of two women standing over a man, the man, well, he had a dagger lodged in his throat-the women were smiling-not sure what the message was? The teacher said that men don't help women in art, so the message was to kill all the men and then the women can succeed in the art world? As women artists are we supposed to kill all the men in order to have success in the art world? My class saw a female exercise video too. The women were exercising in an elaborate home library. If you have that kind of library in your home, you are rich-that's what the teacher said-the message, the art teacher said, was the more a woman takes care of her body the more cultured she is. Let me ask this: Maya Angelou isn't cultured? Maya Angelou is overweight. The art teacher is a cross between Calista Flockhart and Madonna, material girl bangles on her wrist and all. I guess she thinks she is cultured. Yogurt is cultured. Most people who obsess over their bodies eat yogurt, so those within humanity who obsess over their bodies are automatically cultured because they eat yogurt? I still don't get the message, but now my ear is full of crap, or yogurt, where's my pencil? I need to Q-tip this crappy yogurt from my ear.
     Feminist Theory101, how about I suggest a new one? Women, especially women with issues, hold all women back by their inability to check their psyche at the door in professional situations. My arts teacher was a perfect example of that. The female exercise video we saw was done to try to get the elite rich within humanity to start exercising in their homes. That was the message-capitalistic marketing101-that simple.
     I used to jog four miles, five times a week. By the time I was done, I had no energy. I was a size seven, but hell I didn't have any energy to go out and show off my new figure. Of course, that wasn't why I jogged. I was jogging because I thought that my health would improve-what a concept, jogging should only be done to trap a man or woman, according to Feminist Theory101. I stopped jogging because jogging made me exhausted. I met someone after I stopped jogging-what a concept-let's tell the story of the woman of the new millennium now, or will that be suicided? Will the women listen or cut off their ears???????????????? My fine arts teacher almost made me cut off my ear. The new woman has no
   logiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogiclogic

     reasonreasonreasonreasonreasonreasonreasonreason
     womendeathofwomendeathofwomendeathofwomen
   deathofreasonlogicdeathofreasonlogicdeathofreasonlogicdeathto
   the new woman as seen on television daily 11AM - 3PM Soapoperasoapoperasoapoperasoapoperasoapoperasoapopera

     Standing here           looking at gray sky
               I witness                    purity of intent
     For the first time                         nature
                    no hidden motives
     so, you know, standing outside with the wind breezing, blowing, bountiful
     the birds are fluttering, flitting, flying
     the rock is rolling, raucous, rounding the corner
     so, a child again, breezing, blowing, bountiful, fluttering, flitting, flying,
     rolling, raucous….no hidden motives

      WHO WANTS TO TELL THE STORY OF THE APPARENTLY INVISIBLE IN AMERICA? WHO WILL? WILL THEY BE SUICIDED TOO?
Dear Editor,
America's highest public office has been bought and paid for by the business partnership of the Bush/Bin Laden family and the partnership of Halliburton/Cheney.
I am surprised that, given all the evidence before We The People, Bush got elected again. The fact that our highest public office has been bought and paid for means that our system of government is now a Capitalistic Representative Republic and not a Democracy or a Representative Republic, which is unconstitutional. The theft and ownership of our highest public office by corporations is far more serious than Former President Bill Clinton having a sexual tryst with a White House intern was is. How many federal statutes were violated with the altering of the voting ballots in Florida in the 2000 election? Wow, does that mean I can not get away with breaking federal law and statutes?
Now that we have invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, (Iran is next) plans are now underway to build a natural gas pipeline from India to the Caspian Sea. Halliburton, which Cheney is a former board member of, and the Bin Laden family construction company will reap millions from the building of the pipeline. Halliburton and MCI WorldCom have already reaped millions off the invasion of these two countries.
All my life, I have heard about conspiracy theories in our government and have thought, "no way," but the theft of our highest public office in 2000 and 2004 by the Bush family makes me wonder if conspiracies really exist? Will I be suicided for writing that last sentence? Will be deflowered for treason? The Bush/Bin Laden families have a long-standing partnership right? Bin Laden hasn't been caught, right? Does figuring everything out really take the mind of a treasonous, mad-genius? That is what people call me. Why aren't the Bush/Cheney stock portfolios made available to the public? Let We The People see how much money these two, and all their corporate partners, are making off this war and the building of the pipeline.
As a child, when I stood in my school classroom reciting The Pledge of Allegiance, I would get goose bumps. At times, I would actually cry from the pride I felt at being an American. This reaction by me, as a child, was based on the ideals I was fed about my country, which now all seems to have been untrue. Now, when I think about The Pledge of Allegiance, which my children now recite, I cry because my children are, essentially, pledging their allegiance to capitalism instead of freedom.
I suppose, if the media power players would just come right out and state the facts then the media couldn't get their piece of the capitalistic representative profits that are being reaped, by the millions, all around the capitalistic, corporate world.
The very fact that our system of government is now a Capitalistic Representative Republic is unconstitutional. The Congress, which is supposed to represent the wants of We The People, is doing a disservice to We The People by not taking back our country from the hands of capitalists and corporations.
According to our Constitution, the Congress, not the Supreme Court, is supposed to be the only government entity to deal with any corruption surrounding the illegal theft of the votes of We The People. The Congress is, according to our Constitution, supposed to bring the President up for impeachment concerning the illegal appropriation of our highest public office.
Nowhere in our Constitution does it state that the Presidential election process in our country should only be made accessible to two parties. Nowhere in our Constitution does is state that whoever has the most money can run for President of the United States of America. Right now, only two parties, with corporate backing, because of our electoral process being decided by whom has the most media coverage, which costs money, have access to the means of sending their voice and vision to the American public. This is unconstitutional.
Bush talks in nothing but euphemisms, supposedly, Kerry and Bush come from the same family tree. Seems that whichever party We The People vote for in November, we will, essentially, be voting for the Capitalistic Representative vision and voice.
I, as an American citizen, over the age of 35, should have access to our Presidential electoral process. I should, according to our Constitution, be able to run for the office of President. Those are the only two requirements listed, correct? Those two requirements have now turned into three, with the third being whoever has the most money. That is unconstitutional.
The people, and the very foundations of our freedom are being perverted by the Capitalistic Representative society we have now become. Shame on our Congress, shame on the media power players, and shame on We The People for allowing our society to become, not a Democracy or a Representative Republic, a Capitalistic Representative Republic, not to sound cliché.
Signed,
Susan, just one of We The People.
Will this get published or suicided? Maybe the reader will cut off their ear, and then I will have an editorial masterpiece.
The editor hacked through all I had written.
     IstartedwritingwhenIwasthirteenaloneandisolatedinmyroombutIlikedtobethereIstil
ldonothingandnoonecanbotheryorassailwiththecrapperofhumanitywhenremainingisolated
andalonewritingisspontaneousrefluxahiccupreleasingmybowelsregurgitatingthesoul…
     Oh shit, I have a mind that always thinks one step ahead of everyone else. You think that's crap? Should I shit out the contents of my mind to prove that my mind is not crap? If you think my mind is crap, you think my artist endeavor is crap. You think my mind is crap. Human crap. Human feces. How can I write the manic movement of my mind? How can I write about the crap and feces in my mind? How can I write the manic movement of society? How can I write about the crap and feces in society? Artaud tried, he said he couldn't find the words. Then, what was Artaud writing about? The shit of humanity. That's what Artaud was writing about. Sporadic writing. Manic mind. Assailed with the feces and crap. Society's crap. Will they let me climb to the top of the crapper? If I made it, I could finally flush the crap/crapper of humanity. Will they let me get there while I am still alive? I tried to read the newspaper today, but I decided to save it for when I am out of toilet paper. At least, I am trying to recycle right? I have ecological crap to donate. Our ecological system is full of crap. Crap in our streams, crap in our lakes. I caught a fish the other day; he had crap oozing out of his eyeballs. Should I eat the fish? Why not. I got so much crap in my ears; I don't think I would notice. Maybe, I should wrap the fish in newspaper.

S
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Auguste Comte traveled to Paris-observing-observing-the crapper of humanity-guess he regurgitated all the crap that went through his ear-out his pen-
Artaud, Van Gogh, Comte-all locked up, with no toilet paper, that would be too dangerous-insanity-society-can't compose a rhyme to write, right-does the left think that, or the right-?????????????????????????????????-that's what the ear hears?
   An ear is just for vanity-to hold up the hat-Van Gogh's hat wouldn't stay on-

Was he vain????????????????????????????????????????????????Forcuttingoffhisear?????
Literally???????????????????????????????????????????
???????????????????????????????????????????????
     CINAGRO THE LITERALIST-ABHORRER OF HUMANITY FOR THE STATE OF CEREBRAL COMPLACENCY, AMONG OTHER THINGS-MAKES A HOP-SKIP-JUMP-LANDING SMACK DAB IN THE HEART OF SUPERFICIALITY-WHICH-IN THIS ATMOSPHERE-HAS CREATED A CEREBRAL COMPLACENCY WITHIN ALL WHO INHALE THE GOVERNMENTALLY FUNDED FUMES IN THIS ATMOSPHERE.
     THE CEREBRAL COMPLACENCY IN CINAGRO'S ATMOSPHERE IS FAR LESS COMPLEX-MUCH HARDER TO ABHOR-THEY ARE ONLY COMPLACENT ABOUT THE PILES OF SHIT IN CINAGRO'S ATMOSPHERE-BUT HERE IN THE ATMOSPHERE OF SUPERFICIALITY-THE HOME OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE-WITHIN EACH HERE-HERE THEY ARE COMPLACENT ABOUT THE SUPERFICIAL SHIT THEY ARE DOING TO THEIR BODIES-THEY ARE COMPLACENT ABOUT THE SHIT FLOWING OUT OF THEIR MOUTHS-THE SUPERFICIAL SHIT DOESN'T PILE UP HERE-THE SUPERFICIAL SHIT CLOGS THE EARS.
     CINARGO IS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN OF BILLBOARDS. BILLBOARDS THAT HAVE BEEN INJECTED WITH SILICONE THAT LEAKS FROM THE BOSOMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE THAT NOW SURROUND CINAGRO-THE BEAUTIFUL ONES ARE POURING CINAGRO ORANGE JUICE WHILE COLLABORATING WITH EACH OTHER ON THE EXACT DIRECTION CINAGRO'S COURSE SHOULD STEER-THE ORANGE JUICE TASTES LIKE SILICONE-WILL THE SILICONE HELP CINAGRO REACH THE DESITINATION?
     CINARGRO REMEMBERS THE LAST SUPERFICIAL, FOLLOW YOU, FOLLOW ME TRICK-DIFFERENT TOWN-SILICONE TREES DID NOT LINE THOSE BLOCKS ONLY CRYSTAL TREES-SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOU CUZ THOSE TREES WERE CARED FOR BY THE CHURCH…THOSE TREES KNEW ALL-HERE-SILICONE SUPERFICIALITY TREES ON      EVERY BLOCK-THIS IS THE STORY OF THE SUPERFICIAL SILICONE TREES-OR IS IT?
     NOW, THE BEAUTIFUL LADY WITH THE ORANGE JUICE IS OFFERING CINAGRO SOME GRAPEFRUITS TOPPED WITH COLLAGEN AND RASPBERRIES-SURELY, NOW, THIS IS A SUPERFICIAL FALLACY-SILICONE AND COLLAGEN FOR BREAKFAST-A FALLACY? FOR SOME REASON, CINAGRO CANNOT FIGURE OUT WHY THE WORDS SUPERFICIAL FALLACY KEEP COMING TO MIND DURING THIS CHANGE OF ATMOSPHERIC CEREBRAL COMPLANCENY. (THE WOMAN, IS CONSIDERED BEAUTIFUL, ACCORDING TO CINAGRO'S EARLY-LIFE, FEMALE TEACHERS BECAUSE SHE HAS BLOND HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND LOOKS LIKE A PENCIL WITH TWO HUGE ERASERS GLUED OVER THE NUMBER TWO. FAKE ALTERING OF A PENCIL-YUCK-PREFER THE ERASER THE WAY IT WAS MADE ORIGINALLY-NO FAKE ALTERING OF THE PENCIL)-COMPLACENCY-CINAGRO DECIDES TO SKIP THE RASPBERRY, COLLAGEN TOPPED GRAPEFRUIT-HOW CAN YOU WRITE WITH A PENCIL THAT HAS BEEN ALTERED?
     EVERY ARTIFACT HERE, ALONG WITH THE SILICONE TREES, COLLAGEN RASPBERRIES, AND BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE SEEMS TO BE A-SYMMETRICALLY PLACED-CINAGRO KNOWS WHAT IT MEANS WHEN ARTIFACTS ARE PLACED A-SYMMETRICAL-LUNACY, SCHIZOPHRENIA-THIS PEAKS CINAGRO'S INTERESTS-OUTSIDE-HOPPING, SKIPPING, AND JUMPING-STOPPING TO FEEL THE BEAT-COURTNEY LOVE IS THE FEMALE-HEROIN(E) OF THIS TOWN, SOMEONE SAYS-WHO? LOVE-WHAT IS LOVE? DOES COURTNEY REPRESENT LOVE HERE? ACCORDING TO THE SOURCE AT THE BAR CARRYING A CREAMSICLE OR DREAMSICLE-ONE MAN SAID DREAM AND SOME GIRL SAID CREAM-LOVE MEANS DEATH, ACCORDING TO COURTNEY'S FRIENDS-AND COURTNEY-WELL-FIGURE THIS ONE OUT-COURT-NEY.
      COURTNEY IS ON A BILLBOARD-OH, DIFFERENT ONE-CINAGRO IS THINKING-THE SKYLINE HAS FACES INSTEAD OF STARS-OR ARE THE FACES SUPPOSED TO BE THE STARS? THEY DON'T LOOK PERFECT-NOT LIKE A REAL STAR-SOME GIRL SAYS-"WAIT, REAL STARS AREN'T PERFECT EITHER"-WHY WOULD SHE THINK THAT? OH YEAH, CINAGRO'S EARLY LIFE FEMALE TEACHERS TRIED TO CONVINCE CINAGRO OF THIS CONCEPT-SILICONE AND COLLAGEN-THIS LESSON DID NOT WORK-MOST OF THE LESSONS THEY TRIED TO FEED CINAGRO DIDN'T WORK-ONES OWN THOUGHTS ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN THE TEACHERS-PICTURES.
   THE WALK OF STARS IS ON THE GROUND-TO MATCH THE SKYLINE STAR FACES-MARILYN, TONY (WASN'T TONY LARGER THAN LIFE ON SCREEN? HE HAS SMALL FEET THOUGH…)-PICTURES, ESPECIALLY MOVING PICTURES CAN BE DECEIVING-CINAGRO CHECKS THE WATCH: 1:30AM-PIZZA IS COOKING-BUT THE JALEPENO SMOKE IS FOGGING UP THE SKYLINE-NO HABLA-YOU HABLA INGLES? CINAGRO SEES, OUT OF THE EYE-CORNER- THE LONGEST LIMB EVER SEEN UP CLOSE BY CINAGRO'S EYES-THE SHADOW WITH THE LONGEST LIMB IS TOWERING OVER FOR A SLICE-DRIPPING A GOLD ROLEX FROM THE LEAVES-JUST ANOTHER SILICONE TREE-CINAGRO SEES, OUT OF THE OTHER EYE CORNER, ONE OF THE SKYLINE FACES FROM A SHOW…
     THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED BY ANOTHER HOP-SKIP-AND JUMP-
NOW, CINAGRO IS SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF DEAD VOODOO DOLL LINED STREETS. LITERATURE ABOUNDS-SURROUNDS-ABSORBS CINAGRO INTO THE ATMOSPHERE RIGHT OFF, NO SLEEP NEEDED-THE LOCALE-ABANDONED BUILDINGS-NOT SO YOU KNOW-THERE IS LIFE HERE IN THIS ATMOSPHERE-EVEN THOUGH EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE THE DEAD VOODOO DOLL TREES-ANARCHIST LITERATURE-BUCK THE SYSTEM, OR LEARN HOW TO, FOR A BUCK OR TWO.
THE ESTABLISHMENT HATES THE ARTIST, ABHORS THE LITERATURE. THEREFORE, PUT THE ART ON DISPLAY IN THE ABANDONED OLD WAREHOUSE-TOO FILTHY FOR THE ELITE-HOME MADE BOOKS CATCH CINAGRO'S EYE CORNERS-A BOOK OF MIRRORS-LOOK AT THE FACE TURN TO ANOTHER MIRROR-THE CAPTION-LOW LIFE, SCUMBAG, NIGGER - HOW DOES IT FEEL NOW TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR WITH THE CAPTION UNDERNEATH - NIGGER! IMPACT IN THIS PIECE-LOW COST-GLOSSY MIRRORS ARE THE COVER-JUST A SET OF MIRRORS-OR ARE THEY?
WORK THE BROWSERS-CHAT EM UP-GIVE THEM A FREEBIE-MAYBE THEY'LL PURCHASE-CINAGRO ABHORS HUMANITY-TOO MUCH PR WORK. GOTTA PR TO SELL, RIGHT? GOTTA PR TO LIVE HERE. KISS THE ASSES OF THE ILLITERATE LARD ASSES WHO BROWSE FOR SOME BATHROOM READING SUPPLIES. LONELY WOMEN SEARCHING FOR A FUCK-A MIND FUCK-NO SILICONE HERE THOUGH-JUST EXTENSIONS, VOODOO AND SCARS. BY THE TABLE THEY COME, VAMPIRA AND SCARBOY. THIS IS A SIMILARITY BETWEEN THE TWO HOP, SKIP AND JUMPS-SELF MUTILATION PROVIDES SATISFACTION,
EXCEPT, HERE IN VOODOO LAND THE SCARS ARE NOT HIDDEN. SCARBOY IS PROUD OF THE SCARS OF SELF-MUTILATION. IN SILICONE LAND, THEY DENY THEY HAVE THE SCARS. THE HOPES ARE THE SAME AS SELF-MUTILATION, DISCOVER ME, LOOK AT ME, NOTICE ME-I'VE MUTILATED MYSELF-TORTUROUS LIFE-SELF-TORTURED ARTIST-TORTUROUS WRITING-VAMPIRA IS THE AGENT PARTNER-SHE IS SIZING UP CINAGRO-POTENTIAL MANUSCRIPT VICTIM-SCARBOY GIVES THE WORK-FEEL THE DEATH OF THE WORLD THROUGH THE DEATH OF A LOVER-WHAT CRAP-NEED SOME NEWSPAPER.
      VAMPIRA AND SCARBOY MIGHT BE HOLDING PULP-FICTION INTENTIONS. THE LONELY LADIES ARE LOOKING FOR A MIND FUCK. MAYBE, THEY ARE POTENTIAL MUTILATION VICTIMS-THE DEATH OF HUMANITY CAN BE NOTICED WITHOUT THE DEATH OF A LOVER-WHEN MURDER IS COMMITTED TO ONE HUMAN THE EYES ARE WIDE OPEN-WHEN MURDER IS COMMITTED TO ALL OF HUMANITY THEY EYES REMAIN CLOSED-EVEN FOR THE VICTIMS-OR WERE THEY SUICIDED?
     CINAGRO RELIEVES SCARBOY OF HIS WORKS. I'LL EMAIL YOU. CINAGRO HAS JUST LIED TO SCARBOY; LYING IS ANOTHER REASON THAT CINAGRO ABHORS HUMANITY. SCARBOY, WITH HIS FOURTEEN-INCH LONG, SELF-INFLICTED SCAR UP HIS ARM, IS USED TO PAIN. MAYBE, IF HE GETS NO EMAIL HE WILL CUT THE ARM OFF-MAYBE THE EAR-THEN HE CAN WRITE ABOUT HOW THE DEATH OF HUMANITY CAN BE DISCOVERED BY THE LOSS OF A LIMB-LIKE TREE LIMBS.
     TOMBS ABOUND HERE-MARIE LEVEAUX IS THE FEMALE HEROINE OF THIS TOWN-HEROINE OF EVIL, LUST AND SEDITION-COMPARES TO COURTNEY IN SILICONE LAND-EXCEPT, THAT MARIE'S LEGACY IS UNTRUE-DEVOUT CATHOLIC IS WHAT THE TOMB SHOULD READ-BUT, THAT WOULDN'T GENERATE ANY INCOME-CAPITALISTIC PROFITS-
DEATH/INCOME, THE CAPITALIST'S DREAM. COMMIT SUICIDE ON YOURSELF FOR INCOME-THE DEATH OF HUMANITY-THE DEATH OF THE ARTISTS-CINAGRO SMELLS CREOLE. THE DEATH FEEDS ON ITSELF WHILE CINAGRO SAMPLES THE CREOLE SHRIMP-GOOD DEAD SHRIMP-ANOTHER TOWN, ANOTHER DAY, AND ANOTHER EXPLOITATION.
CINAGRO WILL HAVE TO TAKE ANOTHER HOP-SKIP-JUMP- ACROSS THE MAP OF SELF MUTILATION AND DEATH-SOME OTHER TIME-THE DEAD SHRIMP MUST BE ABSORBED FOR NOURISHMENT-AND DEATH-THE DEATH OF THE ORGANIC-CINAGRO.
     HYPHENHYPHENHYPHENHYPHENHYPHENHYPHENHYPHENHYPHEN
     THE ELITE DECIDED THE RULES ON PUNCTUATION DIDN'T THEY? THEY DID.
     WHY DO ELITISTS GET TO MAKE ALL THE RULES? THEY DID. GEORGE BUSH IS PART OF THE ELITIST CROWD AND HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW THAT HIS FAVORITE CHILDHOOD BOOK WAS PUBLISHED AFTER HE WAS BORN. THE SMARTEST ARE NOT THE ONES IN CHARGE. THE DUMB AND DUMBER AND DUMBEST ARE IN CHARGE.
IstartedwritingwhenIwasthirteenaloneandisolatedinmyroombutIlikedtobether
eIstilldonothingandnoonecanbotheryorassailwiththecrapperofhumanitywhenr
emainingisolatedandalonewritingisspontaneousrefluxahiccupreleasingmybo
welsregurgitating…all of this makes me want to shit…maybe, I can get some newspaper from Molloy. That is what a newspaper is for, right? Newspapers are for wiping one's shit. Why don't women know that? They know everything right? They know all men care about is eye candy right? At least, that's what they taught in a town I was transplanted in last year. Did I read that in the newspaper? Did one of the town hag-gossips tell me? I don't remember. I need some newspaper, so I can take a shit. Molloy, in the spirit of Beckett, I need some newspaper.

~~DEAR EDITOR,~~

I MUST WRITE THIS EDITORIAL CONCERNING YOUR LOCAL COMMUNITY. MAYBE AFTER READING THIS EDITORIAL YOUR LOCAL COMMUNITY WILL HAVE SOME INSIGHT INTO THEIR OWN TOWN. SOMETIMES, ONLY AN OUTSIDE OBSERVER CAN SEE WHAT'S REALLY HAPPENING ON THE INSIDE. I HAVE BEEN OBSERVING THE LOCALS FOR A YEAR NOW. FIRST, IN REGARDS TO IF THIS TOWN IS A NICE COMMUNITY, THE NATURE LANDSCAPE IS PLEASING TO THE EYE, EXCEPT FOR THE TREES. THE ROLLING, GREEN HILLS PROVIDE SOLICE AND HAVE NOVELLA POTENTIAL, BUT THE TREES, THE TREES ARE SPINDLY. THE TREES SEEM TO CONVEY, ON AN ABSTRACT LEVEL, THE MORAL HUMAN LANDSCAPE THAT EXISTS HERE. AS AN OUTSIDE OBSERVER, THE DESPERATION OF THE DISEASED, SPINDLY, HUMAN LANDSCAPE IS WHAT MAKES THIS TOWN UGLY. THE DESPERATION OF THE DISEASED, SPINDLY TREES IS A REPRESENTATION OF THE DISEASED, SPINDLY HUMAN LANDSCAPE. THE HUMANS HERE SEEM AS DESPERATE AS THE TREES FOR SAVING. FROM A SOCIOLOGICAL PERSPECTIVE, THE MORAL FIBER OF YOUR COMMUNITY IS ONE THAT LEAVES A HINT OF CHEMICALS IN A VISITOR'S MOUTH. MAYBE, IT'S THE CHEMICALS IN THE AIR. THIS VISITOR THINKS IT MAY BE BOTH. FASCINATING, HOW MANY CHURCH GOERS PARTICIPATE IN THE BREAKDOWN OF MORAL HUMANITY. NOW, I KNOW WHY BUSH WAS ELECTED IN THE FIRSTPLACE. NONE OF THE LOCALS SEEM TO NOTICE THE SPINDLY TREES HERE. MUST BE BECAUSE THE HUMAN MORALS APPEAR TO BE JUST AS SPINDLY AS THE TREES. MY FAMILY WAS TRANSPLANTED HERE. OUR ROOTS WON'T TAKE HOLD. WE WON'T TAKE HOLD. WE CAN'T. WE NEED FLOURISHING TREES, NOT SPINDLY TREES. WE NEED FLOURISHING HUMANS, NOT SPINDLY ONES. FROM A FEMINIST THEORY101 PERSPECTIVE, I MUST ASK THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF ALL THE FEMALES IN THIS COMMUNITY: WHEN WILL YOU WORK TO SAVE YOUR SPINDLY, DISEASED MORAL FIBERS. I GUESS Y'ALL THINK YOU'RE TOO CUTE FOR THAT. MAYBE, IF YOU CONCENTRATED ON THAT THEN THE SPINDLY TREES WOULD START TO FLOURISH. YOU MUST ALL FIND COMFORT AND SOOTHING NOT TO CONCENTRATE ON MORAL HUMANITY AT ALL. TO AN OUTSIDERS EYES, THE WOMEN HERE APPEAR AS IF THEY ONLY THING THEY SEE STARING BACK AT THEM IN THEIR MIRRORS IS THE MARRIED MAN THEY WOULD LIKE TO LAY CLAIM TO. THEY NEED TO LAY CLAIM TO HIM TO SAVE THEM. IS THAT WHAT THEY THINK? FOR THE LOCAL WOMENFOLK, SEEING A MARRIED MAN IN THEIR MIRROR MUST BE MORE SOOTHING THAN SEEING HOW UGLY THEY ALL LOOK. IS THIS WHAT THEY TEACH IN THE LOCAL CHURCHES HERE? THIS OUTSIDER WILL LEAVE, MY FAMILY TOO. OUR FAMILY COULD NEVER FLOURISH HERE. THE MORAL FIBER OF THE LOCAL SOIL WOULD CAUSE US TO BE SPINDLY, MUCH LIKE YOUR LOCAL FORESTRY, SOCIOLOGICALLY SPEAKING. WILL YOU PRINT THIS? TOO NEGATIVE? HACKED AGAIN.
PRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINTPRINT
IstartedwritingwhenIwasthirteenaloneandisolatedinmyroombutIlikedtobethereIstilldonoth
ingandnoonecanbotheryorassailwiththecrapperofhumanitywhenremainingisolatedandalon
ewritingisspontaneous
     The explanation surrounding why I started viewing humanity with the naturally instinctive eyes of a sociologist, at the age of five, involves mere necessity on my part. As a five-year-old child, I was forced to develop some type of protective mechanism for my own personal survival and self-preservation.
     My parents' divorce, when I was five, placed me in the unusual circumstance of being in charge of my own care and safety for much of my formative years. My mother worked two jobs and was never home. My older sister and brother, who were on the cusp of their teen years at the beginning of my parents' divorce, did not take the responsibility of caring for me, their younger sibling, seriously. In fact, they, for most of the time, abhorred the thought of having to take me along. At the age of five, with the personal circumstances placing me in charge of my own self-preservation, I had to decide, out of necessity, what steps I needed to take to guarantee my own self-preservation. I was not a feral child-I had not been locked up-I was not denied the tools necessary for assisting in the personal care of myself. My mother, father, brother, and sister had shown me, by the age of five, all the necessary skills that assisted me in taking care of myself. I knew how to wash myself. I knew how to wash clothes, cook and clean, even, shop at the store. My mother would leave money with my sister and brother. I was, often, by my mother, sister, or brother given money to walk to the local grocery store and purchase food. In short, I did not lack the ability or freedom to see to my own personal care. What I did lack was adult supervision and protection from the society that surrounded me. I knew I would, at the age of five, on my own, have to be able to determine if my own personal safety was at jeopardy. I knew, in order to survive my childhood and guarantee my own self-preservation, I would have to constantly observe and analyze the actions of the society that surrounded me. I decided, at the age of five, with my survival and self-preservation left to myself, to hone and fine-tune my gut to be able to determine if my interaction with others, or my surroundings, would leave my personal safety in jeopardy.
     Since reaching adulthood and entering the world of academia, more specifically, since discovering the field of sociology, I have come to the realization that my self-preservation instincts of constantly analyzing and observing the American society surrounding me has placed me in the extraordinary position of being a life-long amateur sociologist.
     According to Auguste Comte, the credited founder of sociology, "the goal of knowledge is simply to describe the phenomena experienced, not to question whether it exists or not."
     According to C. Wright Mills, 1959 sociological imagination enables a sociologist to have a broader vision in the analysis of human behavior-that moves from the particular to the general, from the narrow, familiar, and easy explanations of social life to the later interconnected and more profound social milieu-
     Using sociological imagination along with, what I believe is my natural affinity for being a keen observer as a springboard; I plan to offer my own sociological theory on female teenage runaways. I plan to challenge the theories offered that would suggest that the female juvenile delinquent, who is considered delinquent because they find themselves in the situation of being a runaway, is nothing more than an actor. I plan to offer that teenage female runaways, rather than an being an actor, is, in reality, merely an audience member who becomes delinquent as a reaction to the actors, usually adult, that surround them in their home. I am limiting my theory to females because, first, I am female and I plan to offer as evidence my own personal experience as a former teenage runaway. I also plan to use, as evidence of my theory, recent studies done on the female juvenile delinquent. Secondly, I plan to offer my theory based on the female experience due to the current state of gender-based theories being somewhat scarce. What happens when I, teenage female, runs away?
IstartedwritingwhenIwasthirteenaloneandisolatedinmyroombutIlikedtobethereIstill
donothingandnoonecanbotheryorassailwiththecrapperofhumanitywhenremainingis
olatedandalonenoonecaredthatIwasbeingsexuallyabusednoonecarednoonecared
     My first intimate relationship consisted of being raped.
     When I was raped, I cried for nearly three days. As I sat up in the bed, when the rape was over, I looked down on my blood and tried to put the whole situation in the back of my mind. I tried to imagine that the torture of my body had been a bad dream. The clasping of my mouth, the shhhhhhh…be quiet, was the boogieman who would come and penetrate my thoughts at night when I was young. Funny, how the boogieman was a myth created by a boy, my brother. To this day, I am not sure if my own brother raped me when I was the age of 9. To this day, I am not certain if the penetration of my virgin being was nothing more than a sick, bad dream. I, to this day, have been unable to figure out who was on top on me clasping my mouth.
Our society is sick. Our society is sick with sex. You have to have large areolas if you want the attention of the opposite sex. Make sure the opposite sex sees you have large breasts on your web site photo. After all, that is what breasts are for right? Is that the right of passage? Breasts: flaunt them to earn your right of passage to the art world.
   Feminist Theory101: Surviving as a teenage runaway. Most female teenage runaways are nothing more than audience members reacting to the adult actors around them. When a family member sexually violates a female the shame is horrific. Who's she gonna tell? Will anything be done if she does? No one did anything when my stepfather felt me up or stuck his tongue down my throat. Running away often becomes the only answer. Runaway or suicide one's self. According to the Midwest Longitudinal Study of Homeless Adolescents, 32.1% of 254 females interviewed claimed that they had been forced to do something sexual with an adult caretaker. Does figuring out why females are running away really take geniuses? No. Nobody is protecting our daughters at home. Here's what our daughters are doing:
Starving, gnawing, biting
                                           Tasting the skin
                                                                                      Providing nourishment
                          Tasting the nails
                                                                                 Spitting the nails out
Satisfying hunger
                                           The stomach gurgles
                                                                                      Gurgles from acid
                          Only acid exists
                                           Starvation pain
                 Hunger pain
                                                                                      Thin is in
Pain is beauty
                                                                                             Gotta have bone tone
                                                                                 Not fleshy skin tone
Lick the bones
                                  Not the flesh
                                                   The flesh is personal
                                                                                 The nails are personal
To feed off of
                                                                                             Flesh and fingernails
                                  Giving bone tone
                                                                                      The hands feed
The new woman

I was talking about Jesus last night. I became cross with the myth. Supposedly, he slept with Mary Magdalene. If it was consensual, who cares? Mary Magdalene wasn't raped. Or was she? Is the story true or not? I don't care if they slept together. Did anybody hear that? I know Van Gogh couldn't hear out of one of his ears-so what about everyone else-will they hear?
WRITERWRITEWRITERWRITEWRITERWRITE
Write it all down. For what? Why should I? So I can be suicided like Van Gogh, Artaud? I don't want to cut my ear off. Not for fame. However, then they'll read what you write. I don't care; I don't even know why I write.
Do you know why I write???????????????????????
Give them the red essence of the human unpredictability, grotesque, enlightened self that is shown to the rest of the world-
Red explodes from within to leave the clues, to figure out, to decipher, perplex, confound-
Surely, the red essence can lead them down the right highway map-to figure out how to find the way inside-
To understand-
A pathetic, debauched, deprived, depraved, listless, human ailment-
The source of the eyes which see red from green-
The green smoke wafts above the nose-
Caused by the perfect physique that dances freely with wanton glances, daring the red to surface and chase-
Hacking away green with malicious knives-
Sharpened to pierce through thick, green cocking crows, inhaled scents-
The libido covered green-
Green hue tinting-
Create the reality for the inhaling libido, thrusting red off the knife-
Out of the guts-
Onto the map--
Shit, someone just shit in my ear. I need a newspaper. Molloy, get me some newspaper. I gotta get this shit out of my ear.
???????????????????????????????????????????????????

IMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACT
IMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACT
IMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACT
IMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACTIMPACT

     I started writing when I was thirteen. Alone and isolated in my room. I liked to be there-I still do-
     I am the house mouse, housefrau, bullshit…I am a person, a human being and I am tired of the morally venomous world around meOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
     CAN'TANYBODYHEARME?????????????????
     thecommagoestherethecommatherethecommagoesthere
     The town I live in is trying to suicide me. Hell, I think the whole state is trying to suicide me. I think they might succeed. The thread is too frayed, so is my mind.
     Today the girl is awake. Delores is not awakened, just awake. The feeling of awakening will remain out of reach for yet another day. The mirror reflects the image of the girl from many years before. Not the image of today, or the image that will be in the mirror tomorrow. The image of the girl when awakening is not, at present, plausibly attainable. The mirror image, the girl sees, of the Young Delores is in the reflections. Being awake seems to be all that is necessary for now. If the girl is merely only awake she can still spew venom from the image of the Young Delores on to those Delores believes took away her potential for reaching the unattainable feeling of awakening.
     Was her dead husband to blame for taking away the potential of Young Delores' achieving an awakening during adulthood? Was Young Delores' mother responsible for taking away the potential to awaken? Was it Young Delores' father? Young Delores believes that all-of-the-above is the correct answer to the questions.
     The mirror is now smashed. Blood pours on the floor. "Not my blood," Young Delores says to herself. Young Delores mutilates herself on a regular basis and blames one of her ex's. Ex can include a former spouse or ex-boyfriend. Ex could include her dead husband. Young Delores gathers the blood from each self-inflicted wound and preserves the blood to serve, someday soon, to those who are not awake as she is.
     Firearms provide a sense of comfort to Young Delores. Unlocking the cabinet to pull out a gun, Young Delores feels each vein in her body igniting with excitement. "I am awake," "I am awake," repeating this phrase several times a day serves to leave Young Delores awake, not awakened for each day of her pathetic, sleepwalking through life, existence.
     Young Delores reaches for her telephone. The telephone has been Young Delores' only vice since she retired. The telephone was now Young Delores' weapon of choice. Well, ok, her weapons of choice are the telephone and a firearm.
     The telephone is white. Cordless, speakerphone capability, connected to the net. Young Delores discovered the net a couple years ago. The power of the Internet, spewing venom has never been so easy.
     Young Delores dusts her telephone before each call. Fingerprints look horrific. The law has been set. No fingerprints on the phone. Pick up the receiver. Did it ring? No one has called today. No one called yesterday either. "Why don't they call?" Young Delores asks herself. "After all, I am the one who is awake."
     Young Delores remembers her delivery from yesterday. Opening the boxes sends flicks of erotica through her clitoris. Young Delores thinks of Kimo and Lirlee. "Now, I can trap him." She installs a new telephone and recording device into the last of her three rooms. Young Delores' clitoris cannot take the excitement. "I wonder if I left the turkey neck in my nightstand?" The turkey neck reminds Young Delores of Kimo. Her special order, via E-Bay, electronic, technologically enhanced turkey neck dildo. Kimo is a turkey hunter, so, of course, to copy Kimo's weapon of choice only a turkey neck will do.
nbsp;    Young Delores, upon climax, reaches for the telephone. After calling Nasu, and hanging up, she places another tick mark next to Nasu's name.
     Young Delores needs a name change.
     I agree.
What, sort of, name should you give an awake, yet, not quite awakened into the adult world, Young Delores?

Well, this needs some thought.
Tick marks for Nasu. The tick marks get tick-marked, on a special chart each person, supposedly, responsible for the nervous tick, mental disordering of Young Delores' psyche has their own little chart. Harassment and stalking requires organization.
"Damn, where did that gun go?" Young Delores asks herself. The piles of papers have engulfed the present.

     I was shot. I was shot three times in the abdomen. I can see the bullet ends.
     The bullet ends resemble silver buttons. Silver, gut loop shank, buttons. The bullets are lined-up, on my stomach, like buttons on a shirt or something similar. Three buttons in a row. Now my flesh resembles a jacket, or a shirt. My flesh has become anything with buttons.
     Bloody trails seep out of any given opening of my flesh when I move. I shouldn't move-I have to move. Who in the hell am I going to get to remove these buttons? Where should I move once I start moving? Now, I am bewildered that I am still standing with three bullet buttons seeping blood trails from my abdomen when I move.
     As I lift my head, I see the canopy of leaves that have protected me now for some time. From the first moment I arrived in this spot when I looked up and saw the canopy of leaves I knew I would be safe. I knew I would be safe from ex-anyone. Ex-anyone, to include family.
      The canopy has streaks of sun seeping through the openings. The wind moves the leaves creating the openings in the leaves that the sun seeps through. I am now chuckling at my first thought. Stand completely still just like a tree. Trees are not completely still. Funny, it takes getting three bullet wounds, in the abdomen, to discover, at the age of 37, that the old adage, stand completely still, like a tree-you won't feel any pain if you stand completely still-is a falsehood.
nbsp;    The bullets say something, but I can't make out what the writing says.
     When I was a young girl the first domestic, grown-up, supposedly, feminine skill I learned was how to sew buttons. Boredom was a frequent situation I would find myself in as a child and boredom is what led me, at the tender age of five, to ask my mother for something to do, "anything," I begged.
     As usual, my mother attempted to dismiss me, since children under-foot was one situation that my mother had little patience to tolerate for long. On this occasion, however, I refused to be brushed-off my mother's shoulder, like the dandruff she would flick away off her shoulders with a disgusted look on her face. This time, I held my ground and after ten minutes, of relentless whining, my mother finally gave in to me. She did not give in happily. No, my mother was not happy to save me from boredom. Parents did not play with their children when I was growing up.
     I could tell my mother was angry when she would grab me by the arm and pull me along sometimes, half-walking, half-dragging my feet across the floor. My mother had long legs and she could walk in a stride that most horses would be envious to have. Next thing I know, I am in my mother's room. This was the first time I had been in my mother's room while the lights were still on. Once, when I was four, I was able to sneak into my mother's room, in the middle of the night, and remove all the rollers from her hair. Funny, she is more upset about my asking for her help in finding something to do than she was about my taking the rollers out of her hair.
     Being in my mother's room, on this particular occasion, is the first time I heard the old adage, "stand still and steady like a tree." That was what my mother said to me as she placed me to wait by her closet door. I could not help but take in the surroundings. My mother has a cedar chest. Wow, I thought, I wonder what is in there. I will have to find out one of these days when she is at work and the older kids leave me at home alone.
     I could not see what my mother was doing while I stood by her closet frozen in shock. My mother was a towering figure to me, when I was a child, and her towering always blocked my view of anything, or anyone, I ever wanted to peak at. I saw her moving towards her sewing box, which was probably, just like every other object in the room, full of dust.
     My mother stopped sewing, cleaning, cooking, and being a Mom when she divorced my father. Everything in the house was always dusty; well, actually filthy now. I cannot remember ever seeing my mother sewing anything. The only reason I knew she used to sew was that the older children told me she used to. Why is she going to her sewing box in an effort to find something for me to do? The shock of being in her room had still not dissipated when she told me to hold out my hand. What she placed in my hand, at that moment, sticking the needle into my fingertip, the fingertip, or, other places on the body, can act as a thimble. Is that how body piercing got started? I guess this was all a precursor for what was to come with the aging of my life as a woman whose mother gave her…
     That's right. My mother handed me buttons, gut loop shank buttons, a sewing needle, that she spiked through my fingertip, and a spool of thread. She could tell that giving me these items as a form of entertaining myself had me pathetically perplexed as to what I was supposed to do with these items by the way of entertainment. She offered me no guidance. A few hundred pinpricks, in my fingertips, later I taught myself how to sew gut loop shank buttons. I learned my first feminine domestic skill. The experience was not entertaining. The experience was painful to my fingertips, but I started early to develop a high tolerance for pain. Most women need a high tolerance for pain right? How could I ever get through childbirth if I didn't have a high tolerance for pain? Pain is what I got for whining and begging my mom for something to do. I should have not bothered. Don't bother your mom and she won't bother you. That ought to help me with these bullet shank buttons; you know the gut-loop shank kind. Guess if I figure out whom to call to help me with the gut loop shank bullet buttons that person won't be my mom.

     I still haven't thought of a new name for Young Delores. Maybe, I can find the answer in the new issue of YM magazine. I have been receiving them for the last two years. Seems as if someone decided to take out a subscription for me. The subscription ends in May 2005. My daughter will be nine. Too bad the subscription will end then; my daughter will be the perfect age for YM magazine. Maybe, I should just call Young Delores YM. YM magazine is for the infantile, teenage years. YD is pre-adult. I think I will call her YM. Perfect.
     "Did I take a shower this week?" YM asks herself. One of her sons told her this morning that she smelled. Maybe, she didn't take a shower this week. Since her husband died, YM can't figure out why she needs to shower. Hell, if no man is gonna be sniffing on me, why should I take a shower? This is what YM is thinking after her son tells her she stinks.
YM wants to put the gun under her bed. There are ten piles of papers sitting in front of her bed. To put the gun away she would have to clean up the piles. "Forget it, I'll just take the gun into the shower with me," YM says to herself.
     YM is thinking of Nasu while showering. YM hates Nasu. Nasu represents all the potential that YM had when she was young. Nasu is awakened-YM is only awake. YM wanted to be a famous author. Nasu married an author. Maybe Nasu will be a famous author. Bitch. YM was an only child and books were her only companions while she was growing up. Her father was a drunk. Her mother never paid any attention to her. Books were all she had. Books were all she still had. Her kids, whenever they were around, did nothing but yell at her. Her daughter, especially. YM did everything she could to keep her daughter from yelling at her. She sewed buttons on her clothes, she cooked her food, she gave her a new Cadillac, and she watched her children for her. None of what she did for her daughter mattered. Her daughter hated her. Nasu was responsible. If not Nasu, then YM's dead husband.
     "How many more tick marks can I put by Nasu's name today?" YM asks herself out loud while washing her clitoris.
nbsp;    Since her husband died, the only sexual relief YM can get is from harassing people on the telephone or using her turkey neck dildo.
     YM reaches climax while thinking of putting more tick marks next to Nasu's name. "I can put, at least, ten more tick marks next to Nasu's name before my friend Dee comes over to do my hair," YM says to herself.
     YM met Dee ten years before. Dee loved the telephone too. Hell, it was Dee's idea to start using the Wal-Mart calling cards to make the telephone calls. Dee discovered that the calling cards couldn't be traced when she called a friend and asked how the call appeared on the caller id. Dee was as pathetic and unawakened; YM was.
     Dee was fat. Not only fat, short too. 4'10." Dee hated herself. Whenever Dee looked in the mirror, she would place a photo of Sophia Loren in front of her reflection and pretend that she was Sophia. Dee is Italian. Sophia Loren is "supposedly" the most beautiful Italian woman to walk the planet. Well, at least Dee thought so. Dee never awakened because she never wanted to.
     Nasu has the most tick marks. The hang-up calls to Nasu are dialed every hour on the hour.
     Why not just call Young Delores, Delores?
     I agree.
   Delores starting making calls to Nasu three-years ago. Nasu's tick marks over three-years adds up to 6,240 total hang-up call tick marks so far.
You mean Young Delores, or Delores I should say, called Nasu's house and hung-up every day, every hour on the hour, eight hours a day, for three years straight?
      That's right.
     Doing that to someone is not within normal psychological thought. Doing that to someone is just sheer madness on the part of the dialer.
       I agree.
     Delores spews venom at Nasu more than anyone else. Nasu is Delores' sister. Not her biological sister, but her blood sister. Ever since they were the young Delores has been jealous of Nasu. That is why Nasu deserves the worst venom. That is why Nasu gets the worse venom. Nasu and Delores look as if they could be sisters. Both have auburn hair; both have dark brown eyes. The differences would be mild to some, however; to Delores, they are major. The differences are the source of Delores' hatred for Nasu. Delores is 4'11"; Nasu is 5'4". Delores weighs 190 pounds, which for her small stature is obesity defined. Nasu is shapely, not obese, voluptuous, not obese. Therefore, because of these mild differences, Delores has always felt that Nasu has had an easy time for most of her life.
     Delores married a man she didn't love. Visiting Tennessee one spring, Delores met one of the toothless, illiterate, natives and decided to bring him back home with her. Delores got his teeth fixed, gave him a shower, bought him some new clothes, and put him on display. Delores could never get any of the locals to go out with her, given her problem of obesity, so, she decided to import from Tennessee. She probably would have been better off importing Jack Daniels. Nasu had been married before Delores. Delores had to scramble for a groom. Lug nut, as he was affectionately called, was an apprehensive groom, but he was just happy to have some new teeth, new clothes and be out of the sticks of Tennessee.
     Delores used to tell Nasu everywhere they went that men were staring at Nasu. Nasu never noticed and told Delores she was crazy. Nasu had no idea how mentally unbalanced Delores was. Delores thought because men looked at Nasu that Nasu had it made.
     I just figured out what the buttons say-Inspected by Delores.