why is my main blog PINK. i hate pink. i've always hated pink. this summer for some damn reason i couldn't get enough of pink. i wore it every freakin day. i looked like some damn cone of cotton candy. now i have all these clothes i don't want to wear. they make me want to vomit. so does my blog. i think i'll keep it that way.

i hate tunnels. i hate the magic little feeling i get going through a tunnel. how the world turns into a hum and i can hear the tires bump over every road blemish. i hate the cold black air that whizzes by me. it makes me want to hold my breath. fucking tunnels.

So delicious. It fed her for days. Thank you.

she's going to sleep through your day off, you know. the sun's already slicing through the blinds. please wake her up when you read this. please. she doesn't want to waste the day.

okay, jayc you may be the only one that understands this, but this whole black lodge thing is really working for me. i'm going to embrace my doppleganger. consider this the bad coop blog. ahh, my friends. if you haven't yet been introduced to the fascinating horror of twin peaks, let me have the pleasure. i'll even serve cherry pie.

Faustus: I think hell's a fable. Mephistophilis: Ay, think so, till experience change thy mind.

duck duck goose mother f*cker- she never ever caught that little bastard with his shoes untied. or red rover, every damn person in the class ran directly for the weakest link...her. what a mess of a gangly child. she had these long long monkey arms, yes she did, that's what her mum always said. and a long long ballerina neck that she touched when she got nervous. ballet didn't take. most things didn't. well, music did. she played fur elise by ear at the age of nine. and took off with violin at ten with suzuki to become the youngest ever concert mistress at meridian junior high. whoopee. by then wire choir was so damn boring that she had to switch to viola in high school just to entertain herself. jayc grew up in a place where kids couldn't pick out a violin in a line up of tubas. he told her she was amazing, and he really thought she was, he came to all of her concerts and sometimes left notes in her instrument locker. she married him right out of ricks college.

ricks. the weather was unbelievable. f*cking miserable. it snowed on her graduation day in the middle of april. the sidewalks all had built in heating devices to melt the snow. she never got over how warm they were when the very snot in her nose was crystalizing. if there's anything she truly hates, it's being cold. seattle was a mildly cold place, mostly wet and always gray. her english mother kept all the damn windows open all damn year, because "that's what they do in england." needless to say erica's favorite place in the house was sitting on the heater vent with a wool sweater stretched over her body so far out her knees looked like double d's.

now here she is, sin city, nicely thawing from a life time of coldness.

sometimes she wants to drown in the tears she never shed in childhood. and be reborn.
god help her, she closes her eyes and you're all still there.

to jayc-
i'm sorry i scratched you. i was just trying to get some traction when she tossed me on your belly. i know it hurt. i felt my claws ripping through your skin like it was muslin. i smelt the blood leaking out of those four long streaks of courage. it wasn't my fault. i felt really sad that i gouged your pink human flesh with these translucent spikes of death. please forgive me. let's plot our revenge on that woman you keep calling erica.
-kitty.

i think she's finally getting tired of referring to herself in third person. it's so...i dunno, uppity. if she could just quiet the insolent mutiny in her head for a few short minutes...if she could just soothe the vainglorious longings of one erica and stop up the self-effacing truths of the other...how much time could she save out of the day? a lot. might i be overbold and suggest that erica need not save anymore time. that's all she's got. boredom breeds bedlam. and with that quaint little alliteration i bid both erica and you a good night.

erica walked to smiths barefoot on flooded sidewalks. she watched rescue helicopters swoop like they were fighting king kong. she got home and took a really long shower. it was a wet, wet day. of special note: a wet brain. wet with ideas.

when one looks at her husband one does not think, "he must be good at math." but one night, ever the chameleon, jayc dreamt about physics and woke up and wrote a mind blowing twenty line treatise under the working title "parallel lines are equidistant" and scared the living spam out of her. she must ask for special permission to savor these theorms here. until then, indulge her in the first two of her own:

1. all it takes is confidence to be competent.
2. there is no such thing as confidence.

sleep deprivation prevails and she must leave you now. but don't worry, she's just going to sleep, she's not going to die. tonight.

today she got some great advice from her doc. meow meow meow stretch yawn meow eat drink plenty of water from the toilet bowl meow meow have your back rubbed. makes you feel so much better, doesn't it? doc is always right. always.

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her last night in seattle it always rains. usually she's safely up in her old room, feet on the heater vent, listening to it slap the trees. but this time, erica found herself in a drafty vinyl tent on her mother's property, under a dark, bruised sky, and the rain sounded like little spasms of polite applause. thank you for coming back, it said. your performance was flawed though, even complete strangers were asking you why you looked so sad. but only jayc understands. the family game exhausts her. her mother is crazy, the real thing. and it always takes days to recover from getting drenched in her strange downpours. as perdictible as, say, the rain in seattle. erica is afraid that her warm emotional shelter is now as flimsy as that tent.

most recent in the string of paperback shrinks: ibsen. the longer she lives the more convinced she is that "we're all haunted in this world- not only by the things we inherit from our parents- but by the ghosts of innumerable old prejudices and beliefs- half-forgotten cruelties and betrayals- we may not even be aware of them- but they're there just the same- and we can't get rid of them. ah! if we only had the courage to sweep them all out and let in the light!" thank you, dear henrik, her lightbulb has just been replaced.

she doesn't believe in the forth wall. she believes in three walls and a sea of hostile faces. engaged faces. bored faces. amused faces. whatever their act, the most interesting angle in the theatre will always be the one facing the breathing oil painting she likes to call an audience.

bowling with your friends is like running in the special olympics.
even if you win, you're still retarded!