dug my "singin in the rain" CD out of the basement because i had to -or- where did all the good dance numbers go?

* * * * *

all of chicago north of north south of irving, and east of damen should be bombed back to the stone age. i honestly don't know what we're doing in the middle east. i've encountered more than a few terrorists, and most of them keep addresses in lincoln park or wrigleyville. i almost get mowed down at the intersection of roscoe & sheffield, at the south east corner headed north, across the street from penny's noodle shop and less than two blocks from my last apartment. i saddled up to the accompanying car to my left and crossed the four way stop when he/she did. when that car was about a foot in front of me, the car at the right stop sign gunned it, looking right at me. he laid on his horn. at me. for fucking crossing the street. his intent was to hit me, or at least to come so close to hitting me that he would scare the shit out of me, intimidate me--i can only suppose--for not driving. for not being a superficial tramp in heels, for looking like shit today, for being really tired, particularly stressed, sad, and underpaid. honestly? i don't know why. but i know he saw me. he didn't want me in his way. i--as he saw it--was in his way. so inconveniently in my way, that he wanted to hit me--A HUMAN BEING!!!--with his big ass day trader daddy's money soul sucking conservative racist homophobic war whistling cum ride because i don't deserve to be here as much as he does. i so don't deserve to be here that i don't even deserve to cross roscoe + sheffield, under the L tracks for fuck's sake.

i got hit by a car once. about this time, three years ago. crossing south on dayton, i believe it was, at from the east corner of armitage. she was brunette and driving a black Porsche Cayenne. she drove right into me. not hard. i wasn't hurt. it was more a nudge than "hit." but i would imagine people saw it? they must have. that is a busy area. loads of strollers and facials. no one said anything. i think i flicked her off. i don't remember. i was so inconsequential to her. she didn't even look at me. even after she hit me, she pretended not to see me. after i got to the other side of the street, she kept going. or did she go before i finished crossing? all i remember is feeling so...nothing. i remember that no matter what was happening in my life, i was just dropping off the rent and going back to class. i was walking that time, and i had braids in my hair that day, too.

do you want to run me over? be. my. guest.
i mean it. do it.
if that's what you want, if that's how you feel in this big screen plasma deep dish rock band super bowl shuffle moment.
by all means.
get in there.
claim your piece of land.
stick your flag in a grungy pothole and keep on moving.
that's the world we are living in, wrigleyville cickwad. you and i both know it. i wish, for both our sakes, you would have hit me.
you? to add an inch to your measly pecker, a trophy to mama's mantle, and boy scout badge to your cubs shirt, a cold sore to your girlfriend's best friend.
me? to prove a point. a few, in fact.
you can see where i'm going with this. you can see it's not pretty. you can see from this that i'm losing perspective (not to mention sleep) on more than a few things. well, i don't feel like i'm losing it so much as i feel like it's being taken from me. from a lot of us. it's not just me. i know.

i'm sorry, people who know me as a polite and respectful person or family member. i'm sorry for being vulgar and graphic and downright tasteless about things, but something is very wrong around here. lots of things are very very wrong. and that guy who thought about grinding me into the asphalt was right. i don't belong here, in this america. he does. i don't, and you likely don't either. the people who belong here aren't reading this. they're watching Lost. on DVR. with their hand down the front of their sweatpants. smoking a bowl. in my neighbors' living room. if they're reading anything, it's written by dan brown. i've never read dan brown or anything. i'm just saying.

does this belong on the internet or in a overconsidered-looking notebook? is this art? hipster garbage? i don't know what this is and i don't know where to put it. forgive me. it's just that _ _____ ____ ______ __ ____ __ and that's my own fault. when you have something to say, you just have to say it.
somewhere.
or something.
this is a distraction. i shouldn't be here. i should be home. on my way there. booking a flight. closing up shop for a month or so. there are things vastly more important than one's own feelings, that i am thinking of when i remember where she keeps the cards that she taught me to play solitaire with.
no, for real. solitaire the card game. that is the only thing here that is NOT a metaphor for something thick and cakey.
there are half a dozen or so packs. i prefer the blue bicycle cards over the red bees. there are trade paperback mysteries. they come from The Booklegger on Holmes. or they used to, anyway. she took me there once. i got to pick out a book. i don't remember what it was. i think it was a Goosebumps.
if i went to church, she would love me more.
if i were born again and again and again to resolve bad behavior.
if i were a ______ she would love me more.
i didn't send thank you cards this year. i was too busy. i bought them, but i never wrote them. i never sent them.

i can trace this behavior back. my own, i mean. i can trace it back to at least the 5th grade. no no, the 4th grade if not the 2nd, the shame back even beyond my first stab at kindergarten. i can track these patterns up into 7th, down the backside of 10th, swelling through 11th, passing like a stone through 12th and lingering till 14th or so. i can taste it when i swallowed it, when i held it back there for a couple years like a swollen cotton ball vitamin the morning of a hangover. i watered it. eight glasses of eight ounces each. a day. it grew. it bore seeds. i took care of it myself. it grew and grew and grew into the clouds and now there is a giant up there waiting for me fie fo fum.

that story ends somehow. that i started to turn into a really heavy handed metaphor that just isn't worth it. you can look that story up online if you don't remember how it ends. draw your own conclusions. it's clear what they're getting at. i say "they" because i don't remember who wrote it. i suppose i could look that up online, too.

there's too much down the rabbit hole and not enough up the beanstalk if you catch my wind.