Tag Archives: Birthmother

Scrubbing Bubbles sing the National Anthem for Viruses in my Belly

I just spent two days laid up because I ate something or something chose my body as a percolating host and I laid in bed and did what a math background min does when half conscious, make algorithms out of all bodily sensations; I had split parts of my stomach pain into sectors and had explained all of them to gain control until I headed to the bathrooma nd realized no such algorithm exists;  it’s just a naughty asymptote, which in math is like a horizon; something you can approach but never reach and depending on how stuck inside the Bible you are, may or may not actually exist.

But once an illness is done, it’s like an involuntary cleanse and I feel clearer; I haven’t had any caffeine or general processed food to, in a very 80’s way, deregulate my moods and generally give the greedy, uncultivated moods free reign over the hard working and unsuspecting more nominal and day to day moods;  Tonight I talked about my drama with my birthparents and finding them last year, both separate cords to follow and both with strange pieces of meat tied to the end, one with a bag of fruity orgasm in the middle; I will expound on that later; tonight, though, talking about it to Kim on the phone I recalled that my birthfather’s wife (not my birthmother) in one of her last erratic highly unregulated, one would say Libertarian, mood letters told me that in August 1972 my birthfather became a father again, which was eighteen months after I was born and not to my birthfather’s current wife; therefore I have a half sister floating around and have no idea who she is;  I hope I never dated her; maybe she was one of the five Lisas in a row I dated; I doubt it;  this drama, as per instructions to my life before I was born, requires plot points made of silly putty-shrapnel  hybrid, a storyteller bounty hunter paradise;  Suddenly finding a possible half sister seems like a plausible entry into this emotional-spycho-spiritual Wonkaland, As it is 1AM I am winding towards my nightly ritual of falling asleep to the magical patters of Sparkles, the rat in my ceiling/wall that refuses to relocate; tomorrow one of us dies.

Bursting with love poop

This is what I tell my dog when I talk to her, asking her if she is bursting with love poop except in a voice that would land me the role of a lifetime as a leader of a castrata army that sings and dances their way to victory of 6,000 computer generated Norse gods.  I have a belief that come December 21, 2012 when Quetzecoatal returns with Jesus in sort of a Supertour sponsored by State Farm Insurance both of them will appear on national TV, maybe co-host SNL and during their opening monologue where Alec Baldwin drops by for a cameo both of them will unzip their bodies and a bunch of wiener dog puppies will  spill out and run around and for twenty four hours control all of our minds and the whole planet will strip naked, eat whatever they can find and sniff and hump and be adorable.  The Mayans knew it; just because they cast shit in stone doesn’t mean it’s true; nothing’s written in stone, especially if it’s written in stone.  This is my vision, as fed to me by Cairn Terrier. The truth is I want to be in a room full of wiener dog puppies. I think it would be very healing.

I am also going to start keeping track of commercials that use couples who take subtle digs at each other to keep divorce lawyer business and handgun sales robust. I was watching another ad for a cell phone and the girlfriend said something to the effect of ‘my hubby/boyfriend/secret enemy never does this right…’ or something horrible. I’m getting a notebook right now and putting it by the TV….ok that’s done.

On another foreign note drifting by the tune, I wish my birthmother a happy holiday.  I wish my birth father a happy holiday. I sent out a personal energetic transdimensional greeting card and hope one day there’s a little crack in the windowless shack and one reaches out. I also wish my birthfather’s wife a big sweeping breath of mental clarity.