Desert Storm

My mom mouthed "thank you" as I handed her over some money. I'm not made for all this maturity-responsibility shit because I've always seen myself growing up, hippie style. Before I butchered my hair as I have had my heart gang-raped, I had long semi-virgin (allow me) hair, down to my waist, with curls (and horrid tangles) casting pretty shadows on pretty shadows. I've always been the type who would wear a flower crown--still am, always will be.

Earlier today I walked from our office to this chipipay salon nearby for an out-of-nowhere mani-pedi. It was high noon. I loved the walk.

The warmth of the sun touching my skin felt like much-awaited kisses from flaming lips (of tongues on fire). There's something outlandishly lovely about soaking up the sun. I would if I could be a solar battery, be a solar battery.

Last night I was feeling blue because I was worried for our employee. Given the circumstances, I feel more concerned about her losing her job. I'm still utterly saddened by it.

Last night I saw our four puppies crawl and try to stand on their paws. One of the four, the darkest bundle of dark coat, was able to stand upright. It was magical, to see such little creature find his first drop of strength to carry himself. He also tried to shit upright that very night, although that second feat was a bit of a failure because his shit was probably too hot to handle.

Life is shit. I feel shit. But it's my shoot tomorrow so I might as well suck it up because if I don't, how the fuck will things get better. I mean, even if I can't imagine any good thing to milk just to make me feel a hint better, I am still enforcing a leave of absolution. I want to get to that point where the heaviest of sins would be absolved in my mind, so the rest of me will follow. I hate to admit, really, but I can't afford to flail.

There are things that are best left unsaid. Then things best left mouthed and read.