GLITTER

This week I feel like a baby in the midst of a growth spurt. I need to sleep for twelve hours but I won't because I'm too achey and cwanky. I'm screwing up my face, I'm holding my breath, turning purple, working my way up to an epic scream. My little heart will not surrender. Yes, it's been a very hummingbird week. Sometimes all this doing nothing feels like a lot of nothing.

But that's my old nonsense. I did what I could. Today is new and it will end. You have to know when to go to bed early.

Here is what happened:

I got exhausted and I didn't know it really so I didn't say it out loud. People should know when you are exhausted. People should know all your feelings if you want them to love you. I didn't go to bed. I neglected my body. I got sick. I was alone. Cathie called me and told me to stay away from her husband, she won't share him with me and I need to move on with my life. I got a colposcopy and felt in control of my cervix. I made Moroccan quinoa with mushrooms and served it in a mint green bowl. I laughed a lot. I watched Martian Child and didn't cry. I am Martian Child, waiting for my real family to come back for me so I don't have to fall in love with John Cusack.

How do you cry anyway? Can't I just talk about how I feel like crying? It's like the time I wanted to paint my walls with glitter but it was too expensive so I painted the word GLITTER on my wall instead.

In order to express our sense of reality, we must use some kind of symbol: words or notes or shades of paint or television pictures or sculpted forms. None of those symbols or images can ever completely satisfy us because they can never be anymore than what they are--a fragment of a reflection of what we feel reality to be. Mr. Rogers

I met an alien in Rome. Alien Rodrigo. He cracks me up. His mission on Earth was to show up in Rome in flip flops and blow up the Vatican. But he got distracted by all the leather. The aliens didn't care that he never got around to blowing up the Vatican because he brought them back shiny leather jackets and they realized this was a far greater mission. They ooohed and aaahed. Alien Rodrigo was a hero. He asked me a lot of questions while he was in Rome. Even when he got answers, he kept asking questions. Answers did not stop Alien Rodrigo from asking more questions and more questions and he never noticed that he was exhausting me. It was my fault. I should have told him "I need to go to bed". I should have asked him to come to bed with me, just to tuck me in and kiss my forehead or stay and bang me whatever I'm not the one with all the mishagas. He left. And that's how I came to find out he was an alien. If I had known it at the time, I may have been able to help him blow up the Vatican. Instead, I helped him pick out all the leather jackets for all the aliens back home. That was me. I did a great thing but I don't need any thanks. It's enough knowing that I did something so selfless for another planet.

My mission on this Earth is to not only love, that's the easy part, but to ask myself why and how and to accept that I may never fully understand. Chelsea Monty, she was a Great Lover. I vow to keep showing up with that day's version of my most honest self. I will know when to say "I need to go to bed" and I will say it. I will forget my blunders and absurdities. I will scream that epic scream. And Mission #2 is to get banged.

(I have sex with the sun. Come over to my house for further explanation and demonstration)