bitterdiva

The joy that was cooking

The sweat poured down her forehead into her eyes blinding her by the immense sting of her own bodily fluids. She ran the back of her hand against her face and flicked the collection of liquid onto the floor. Exhaustion had taken control of her senses and she began to waver on her feet. Her mind was elsewhere thinking of the man she loved, thinking of the man with whom she loves.

The pan began to boil and the effervescence of the meal started to expand throughout all the rooms of the apartment. A mélange of spices conjured up old feelings of meals gone by that she had made for him. Her heart sank a little deeper and further inside her trying to burrow into a dark crevice where time hides all memories.

He always enjoyed the palatable dishes she made, experimenting with some new recipe in which she added in a bit of herself to each one. Her feelings were always that following the directions to the tea hindered the creative process that is primarily cooking. Without experimentation one never realizes how two completely opposite tastes bring forth the perfect combination that ultimately is the yin and yang of cooking.

She always raced to start before he arrived back from work. It was the one time she enjoyed excessive heat near her body when cooking. He walked in through the front door, dropped his keys by the small table and traveled into the kitchen almost if drawn by the mystical aroma. Her body moist with perspiration, she kept wiping herself down with a cool washcloth she placed in an ice bath by the stove. His hand lightly grazed her arm as it traveled down towards her hand intertwining his fingers with hers and they began to stir the contents of the pan as one. His chin rested on hers and his right hand traveled down the side of her body and rested gently upon her waist. He drew himself closer to her body and would smell the spice amid her hair combining itself with rose and lavender.

No prayers | 11:29 PM

She's a bitch

I hate your girlfriend and that’s unanimously true
Thoughts of her fill me with rage
I wish I could tell you how I truly feel
If you think I’m jealous you’re mistaken, I’m full of pity for you.

She treats you like a chump and she calls inappropriate names to our faces.
She’s bored with your style and with your interests.
She only cares about herself and thinks she’s better than everyone else.

Incessantly she goes on about the places she’s been
She flirted with my friends and my boyfriend
She tells stories from a time that took place on the same day
She thinks her tongue is the greatest of all

She’ll break your heart and make your life miserable
She’s manipulated your mind and cornered you into doing everything she’s wanted
She’ll displace you from your family and your friends
She’ll leave you a quivering pile of man

I will not speak when the time is right
I give you this literary device as a warning
I care about you as a friend to have you make a mistake
But if you decide I’m crazy then say so, I just hope I’m wrong and you’ll be happy.

Just know this: I hate your girlfriend.

No prayers | 01:41 PM

Good Omens

It’s been a long couple of days filled with anticipation, excitement, and sleep deprivation. It all started on Tuesday when my roommate informed me that Neil Gaiman was going to be in the NYC area signing his new book Coraline. His only appearance on the east coast until the fall, I knew that I would be there no matter what.

Wednesday night I was preparing for my trip to the city, gathering all the songs and cd’s my sister had requested since I have the beauty of broadband. I didn’t fall asleep until pretty early in the morning and had to wake up in only a couple of hours. Bleary eyed and exhausted I dragged myself out of the comforts of my bed to install software and upload all the pictures in my digital camera to make room of those I would take of Mr. Gaiman.

We started off on the road in the morning, stopping for gas, treats and caffeine to juice myself up for the two and a half hour drive to my parent’s place. I arrived there with little time to spare to take the 10:59 train into GCT. My mother had been delayed due to the fact that today was her last day of her career and people wanted to see her and say their goodbyes. She’s finally retiring and will be able to spend time on herself and relax after all the years of stress taking a toll on her body.

The what would be a short journey to the train station turned into a test of patience as we got behind every slow-ass yuppie driving their convertible and then dancing with horrible traffic on the Q Bridge. We resigned ourselves to the fact that we would have to take the 11:59 train and arrive an hour later than expected.

The train ride was uneventful, the city of Bridgeport has never been so beautiful with their dilapidating warehouses, ghettoes, and the void of trees! I also realized whilst staring off into space at a Courage the Cowardly Dog poster that a woman my age was indeed a person with whom I attended high school. This realization came only after I saw her stare at me then turn to her friends and say, “she looks exactly the same.” What a pity I might say, I would think I look a little different, but overall I do look the same, just a little older. She also looked the same, still beautiful with her perfect features, beautiful long hair, good taste, and a gaggle of friends that most likely care more about their looks and relationships than engaging in stimulating conversation. This could just be my biased opinion; people do change personally after all.

My sister greeted us at the train station looking the most beautiful I have ever seen her; it must be the factor of being in her natural environment. We darted off on our journey to her apartment in SoHa, that’s South Harlem – a term used by the residents of the area. It was the first time I have ever been to her apartment, it was what one would expect from an apartment complex near Columbia University – a trendy upbeat version of a dorm suite. I was also eager to see her kitty in his natural element as well, I’m so used to seeing him at the country club back in Connecticut.

From her place we walked around, saw Virgin Record Store there, it’s amazingly huge and I don’t believe I could step inside another record store without belittling it’s poor selection after seeing it there. From there we wandered over to Coffee Shop, a trendy diner/bar where the waitresses are either models or drag queens dressed up. It’s claim to fame is it’s amazingly good food, atmosphere, and the fact on the weekends it only closes for one hour.

After reestablishing a normal blood sugar level after not having really eaten anything except less than half of a six inch sub, we wandered over to the Barnes and Noble. The building was incredibly large, four floors in all. Inside it looked deserted and I was breathing a sigh of relief, we had gotten there in time to get a good seat. Little did I know what I was going to be faced with when we reached the fourth floor.

There were about 300 seats set up which were already filled give or take a few that just didn’t get snatched up. The staff there were informing us that we were to buy our books first then take a place in the line that was forming behind the roped off area for those who didn’t expect such an incredible large turnout. So we run downstairs, buy our books while my sister snatched a place in line.

Once returning back to the fourth floor, fortune smiled upon us when my sister was allowed a seat in the ‘line number’ area. As a side note, when she called the bookstore on Wednesday they said that they were not giving line numbers, which turns out to be the biggest crock of shit. My number was 218. Very far back in the line, I was pondering how long it would take to finally get the books signed. I snatched a copy of Coraline for my roommate to have it signed in case he didn’t get a number.

Neil read a chapter out of Coraline, chapter three to be precise, and proceeded with a short Q&A section afterwards. He may have said on his journal that he thinks he lost some of his accent, but personally it’s just as beautiful as I imagined it would be, ranking up there with Alan Rickman’s. All the pictures I’ve seen of him do him no justice, he was more attractive than I could have imagined. This is the perfect example of the type of guy I lust after. Tall, thin, and with a head of hair you just want to spend an eternity running your fingers through.

The program started roughly around 6PM and the signing commenced only an hour later. Now came the endurance trial. They first started calling the numbers in increments of 15. His fans were able to get multiple books signed and were able to have a short conversation with their favorite author. Time seemed to go by just as slowly as the line did. It wasn’t until a little before 10 when my group of numbers were called, they bumped up the increments of 25 in order to alleviate some of the anxiousness of the fans.

It was rather unfortunate that the store closed then and my roommate, sister, and her friend were kicked out of the store, along with the number of people that optioned to wait in a line rather than watch Neil read and answer questions. I felt really horrible about the number of people that had seemingly wasted their time waiting in hopes of an autograph. As my sister left she wanted me to take her camera up with me so I could get a picture with him, but knowing the complexity of the manual Canon AE1, figured it would be best if I just grabbed a picture some other time. Hopefully I’ll have the ability to get one sometime in the future.

Finally I reached him. Tired from the five-hour journey, running low on blood sugar, and completely nervous what I would say to him, I greeted him with a smile. He asked how I was, the typical niceties of a stranger-stranger interaction. I related how I was good despite being tired from my journey from Albany. I handed him my books, which were set to the right page to be signed, and a post-it with the names of to whom it should be personalize. I remarked how I thought his journal was great, if it were not for that, I would’ve never known he would be within a traveling distance. I told him that I loved his work and how he’s a fantastic author. I apologized for being so jittery and shaking from the lack of blood sugar. He sympathized, someone before me handed him a box of Godiva chocolates to boost his sugar levels, there was a tin of star-shaped cookies someone else had given him. He slid the tin over towards me and offered me one. In complete shock, I accepted, I thanked him for his signature, he thanked me for traveling to the signing and I was off on my way to journey back home.

On the escalator ride down I saw one of the staff members, with whom I was chatting with over the long several hours, she greeted me and said, “are you happy?” I nodded, looked up at her, looked down at my cookie, and remarked, “He gave me a cookie.” I proceeded through the front doors with tears swelling up in my eyes as me sister took pictures of me walking out. I greeted her, my roommate, and her friend holding up my treasure that I received, the cookie. I started to cry hysterically, the emotions of the events getting to me compounded with the exhaustion I was experiencing. Several pictures of me were taken with the cookie, of me with my roommate and the cookie, and me, my roommate and my sister with the cookie. We hailed a cab and hurried off back to Grand Central to catch our train ride home.

Once on the train and situated we opened our respective books to read the greeting. Both of our Coraline’s were personalized to us along with a drawing of a rat. I opened my copy of Good Omens and read the personalization. I immediately began to cry. It was such a personal personalization and now that I think of it, in it’s own way, the entire day was filled with good omens.

We arrived back home at four in the morning and hurriedly wandered off to bed to get up in the morning for our jobs. I made it throughout the day drinking 40oz of coffee, mass quantities of soda, and Sudafed.

No prayers | 12:51 AM

An exercise in communication

In our society we often take for granted the various mediums we have for communicating with our loved ones, friends, and potential friends. We have the post, the phone, and e-mail. Though often or not, the most important communication is not through any modern marvels, but something that’s been around since humans and animals have existed, that is oral communication and interpretive communication (body language).

More often or not we sometimes falter in our ability to communicate. Some people hold inside them all the pain, fears, and troubles of their psyche building an invisible wall around them that is impenetrable by every method known to our race. Lying right outside their wall is the simple solution that would remedy all problems but if one dares not break out of their fortress, they will cease to exist. Eventually all life ends and would you really like to spend your last minutes regretting all the things you could have fixed if only you had let yourself become slightly vulnerable and received help.

Humans are one of the most complex enigmas roaming around the planet. Another one being communication of the feline species. There is no textbook definition of how to react to certain situations. There are books for etiquette, books for dummies in numerous situations (Dating for Dummies), there’s even a book to help you get out of the worst date. There is however no book to help you deal with the numerous factors involved in informing your mother how psychotic she may be and why it is not psychologically healthy for her to be hanging out with your baby’s daddy. Even then it’s almost a socialistic norm that mother’s should not be banging your baby’s father. That’s merely set aside for a Jerry Springer or Jenny Jones episode.

How does one communicate with their friend that her boyfriend is entirely wrong for her and that she’s speeding along the relationship highway with no brakes and the accelerator stuck to the floor? How do you tell your boyfriend that his addictions are killing him and you won’t site idly by watching the wretched human he’s become? And how do you get your sister to motivate herself and get a job before mom gives her the big ole boot to the curb?

Communication is too important in every realm of humanity. From school, to work, from friends to lovers, there needs to be standards of communication in order for relationships and life to evolve. Shutting yourself in a bottle of grain, a pack of cigarettes, a Porsche, or even a vibrating bed with a stranger in some hotel isn’t going to help you; it just pushes up the time for your demise. Some people have very odd or interesting ways of dealing with their problems. Sometimes a cathartic cry and some therapy are the best answers.

Therapy is successful only when good communication is involved. There is the surface water of your psychological being and there’s the deep dark abyss where every dark emotional problem hides. Sometimes we freeze the water from the rest of the world creating a mirror image to only reflect what others want to see. You refuse to allow the surface to warm up and allow the water to flow downward into the abyss where that damn 30-foot squid is waiting to be unleashed.

For times where there isn’t a good health care system in place or when you dare not bore some stranger with your problems, there is an alternative: Your Friends. Friends, lovers, and family are the best (and cheapest!) resources to helping out your problems. They love you incredibly and always want the best for you. This is a generalization of course; the mother with fooling around with your baby’s father apparently doesn’t want the best for you, just for herself (but then again, if he’s banging your mom, he’s certainly not the best person for you). Choose the person around you that you’re comfortable around and with whom you have the best relationship. You’ll be amazed to find out that they do not judge you, do not care about what occurred in the past nor do they belittle your decisions. As long as you ask for help and search it out, in the long run you’ll find yourself a little happier and maybe you’ll get rid of that pesky squid once and for all.

No prayers | 11:25 AM

In my room with lord vader

When I'm alone and scared I look over to Lord Vader who protects me from the gremlins and the aliens threatening a take over of my room.

When I was younger I used to believe that robbers and aliens would come into my room and kill me. My only protection (in my mind) was the vast quanities of clothes and items piled on my bed and floor. Somehow I thought that this extraordinary mess that I created would keep me safe and no one would see me under the heap of crap on my bed.

Then I grew older and realized not that there's no such thing as aliens, but that aliens would be able to see me because of their advanced ocular abilities and telepathy powers. I should have then created a suit out of tinfoil, but my mother having already started to worry about my psychological makeup, decided that it would be best if I just forgot about the situation.

To this day my family believes that I was just a dirty kid. Little did they know my paranoia and delusional thoughts! Silly parents.

No prayers | 11:16 PM

Through my eyes

the world is different from anyone else. I don't get the first hand view of my physical feature, I do not reside in the places that others do. I live in my room, in my world, and I see you as you see myself. The thought is odd, but it's one that often has to be acknowledged.

Sometimes we get a first hand view of ourselves looking at a mirror. Standing in the bathroom listening to the water fill the toilet, looking back on ourselves unobjectedly. Have you ever just stood there staring into the mirror for a period of time and becoming so comfortable with the features you see? How thick your brows are, how your irises and pupils combine into a hue that is not a distinct feature of either the color of your iris or of your pupil. Have you watched the light and the shadows dance on your face, cutting them into separate halves that almost look completely unlike the other side.

I stood there in the bathroom, the white of the walls enveloping my body as the backdrop dances an edge around me. The darkness of my hair, my eyes, and my clothing contrasting with the purity of the white walls and the light. A surrealist view of one's physical being being thrust into the mental image of yourself conflicting with how you look in your minds eye. I often have a morbid disfigured view of myself and of my physical stature.

Often in relationships we become aware of our being, of our physical senses being stimulated and attention being brought to your unique aspects. How soft your lips are, how beautiful the color of your eyes, how soft your hair is, how silky your skin feels, how your distinct aroma entices your partner. And as you become selfaware you start to enjoy yourself for who you really are. When your partner is not there, do you often fantasize about them, pleasuring yourself as if they were pleasuring you. Your hands moving directly to the areas of your body that you found most erotic, maybe by chance of your own when you came of age, or through the experimentation of each other's bodies.

Masterbatory acts can be self gratifying, but what happens when your mental image of yourself is completely destroyed and your fantasies evaporate with the dissolution of relationships, or when you no longer feel self-worth? Does one cave into the self-depreciating prophecy that they are not good enough to feel excitement, to feel loved, or even attractive?

Problems such as these, on a personal level, often contribute to the toxicity of my sexual drive. Lacking self worth why would one reach down to the own genitalia and bring back the thoughts of relationships gone bad that burn your heart just as powerful as the same day it ocurred in the past. These are often the burdens of my troubled mind.

No prayers | 11:16 PM