What does a crack pot mean? For your information life is stranger than fiction.
Someone else mentioned I seem to be sad, call me anything but predictable - or negative. I happen to be innately optimistic. I always strive to perceive the glass half full. I simply tend to practice critical thinking skills on a daily basis, I observe, and object.
I distrust perpetually peppy people with a smile plastered on their face (botox permitting). I suppose one could take a happy pill, or go to Happy Hour post work, to obliterate the senses of the loss, pain, frustrations one may face at a particular moment.
I assure you, if my circumstances change a bit, and I am finally thoroughly fucked, (no...No, scratch that), If I am made love to, that will reflect in my writing.
The secretion of endorphins makes me smile continuously - much like the village idiot. When I arrive at a STOP sign, that is exactly what I do. I reminisce about our moments of passion for a bit, usually until someone honks at me to get going.
Regardless, I do count my blessings everyday. I used to be morose sometimes, yet one day I had a reality check. This happened while I met my mom for breakfast at a little place called Olvera Street. It is a quaint tourist attraction site, which resembles a Mexican market place with its shops, restaurants and the first Catholic Church built in Los Angeles, dating back to 1781. There we frequent a little Mexican restaurant, were the waiter always tells me he saw me on tv. Playing an opera singer who is suing her agent for extortion for oral sex, as well as not paying her just dues, is not something I'd like to be remembered by. They made me sing opera as well (not that I can). Least this is better than my boss watching me crying on court tv portraying a woman of loose morals and a drug junkie, while pleading custody of her kids. My crying scene would not dissuade him that it was "fiction."
My mom goes to mass every single freaking day - 362 days a year. I'd rather wait outside the church for her gig to be over with. On this particular morning, I waited by the grotto on Olvera Street which has a wall next the statue of baby Jesus. On this wall, people post prayers, pictures of loved ones, or thank you notes to Jesus. With time on my hands, I walked there to read some of these posts. One in particular caught my attention. A young man pleaded to be able to find a job as he needed money, and he wanted to buy his mom a stove. He needed this ASAP, as he was terminally ill, and didn’t have much time to live. He didn’t even pray for his illness to magically disappear; he wanted to leave a legacy to his mom – a stove.
It’s so true one should not sweat the small stuff; I refer to the above mentioned when things get rough.
Hemingway wrote about man being superior to animal, those lacking the intellect we are blessed with. Yet, I see the news and wonder. How can a female animal protect her pups with her life, and those blessed with intellect do not harbor that instinct? What is this world coming to? My cousin told me that she in considering giving her daughter up for adoption. I was dumbfounded. Yet I must take a shower now to get ready to face civilization, no time to elaborate on that.
You see, life is stranger than fiction.
