We're Not Scare-Mongering (This Is Really Happening)
Happy New Year!
...or we'll just see about that, now wont we?
I rather wait it out a month or two before insisting the next 364 days that follow are to be "Happy" ones.
Everything will turn out fine in 2009. Everything will turn out fine in 2009. Maybe if I repeat it over and over as some sort of distorted mantra, the words will blossom into an off-color reality. Where are MY ruby slippers? Glittering red pumps never go out of style.
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For almost two years I've had an excuse. But I know, even if I didn't, things wouldn't be any different. It literally upsets me when a subplot in a novel brings this to my attention.
I find myself plowing through the 2 or 3 pages that keep popping up. It's truly a hardship. I sometimes end up slamming the book shut and throwing it down on the couch beside me. I would never intentionally read something with the theme, as I purposely avoid movies and DVD rentals with the same subject matter because I know exactly how it'll leave me feeling. Empty. Lonely. Sad. Freak of nature.
I would hate to admit the reasons for my tears. Luckily no one's ever around to ask me why I'm crying.
I just dont need the added reminder. The clock is enough.
I'm not smiling in any of my pictures. Take it as you will.
A few of the kicks with having a neurological disorder are the symptoms of the disease that get mixed up with the side effects of multiple/certain surgeries. The brain is a wrinkly, soggy, complicated organ to tamper with. And as a result of all that, one of the (many) gifts I've been left with is partial facial paralysis and numbness.
It's not that I can't or don't have a smile, because I do. But now in the aftermath, it's a little crooked and asymmetrical. To the naked eye, my smile is fine and can pass for any other grinny minny. Yet it's unfamiliar to me and I don't like it. It's not as bright; it's not as genuine. It's just not mine.
From the tip of my nose to the bottom of my chin I have lost most of sensation. This means drinking everything through a straw or having orange juice splash onto my lap, practically needing a bib that says, "Don't Tell Me, I Got Something On My Face?" with every meal -including banana nut muffin breakfasts and Pizza Machine dinners, and having to withstand itches that creep under my skin like a swarm full of ants with no way of getting to and relieving. It also means CONSTANT UNCONTROLLABLE DROOLING!
I swear, if slobber-faced Beethoven (The St. Bernard) and I were in the same room, you wouldn't be able to tell us apart. Disgusting. I lounge and (shamelessly) watch Rock of Love Bus, only to minutes later discover small puddles of saliva across the chest of my Tshirt.
And I just want to make things clear. Even though I love the mystery of what could be beneath the parade of rainbow bandannas and cowboy hats, as strongly as I am attracted to the flabby neck that morphs into three while giving sloppy kisses, as sexy as I find the mini beer gut that peeks over one-size-too-small jeans along with the eyeliner and shimming lips gloss, and ooh that trail of a long limp blonde ponytail -- I am not drooling over Bret Michaels. But keep in mind, I would gladly take CC DeVille.
I am a mess, and this is just my mouth. One less thing I have control over. I'm so caught up in the big fight, I forget that I eventually will return to somehow function in the real world. What am I going to do? I'm gross and falling apart.
As for everything else, I'm going to allow people to believe whatever they want to believe.