Do you not understand what I just told you?

Ok, I thought we discuss this. I'm fairly sure I made myself abundantly clear. So, why aren't you listening to me? Why are you still torturing me? The silence in the elevator was all to hauntingly familiar, you want to bring up college scars in the process of creating new ones? Sick and wrong is what that is. Honestly, the silence is worse than the stupid small talk.

Why you got be like that? Don't you care enough not to want to hurt me. I don't know what to do about all this. I gave you suggestion that you don't seem to be taking. Because doing the silent brooding thing makes it all the more worse. So we need a plan C, the way things are going, probably even and E, F, and G. But we will get through this, we will find a solution that will benefit all that are involved.

But what to do in the mean time? First, I will avoid you at all cost, this includes; darting out of the room the moment I smell you cologne drifting in my direction, hanging up on you if you pick a line that is not your own, and hiding under my desk pretending to feel an earthquake if you actually dare try to ask me a business related question. As for you, find yourself a proxy. Send notes by messenger, point clients in my direction without guiding them personally, and get a voice muffler for your phone so when you do have to call me I can pretend it isn't you.

These are only temporary solutions to our problem. Maybe you could introduce me to a cute single friend you have. Or get in some face disfiguring accident (ok, don't really mean that because if you actually get into a face disfiguring accident, I don't want to feel all guilty and responsible for it as if I karmically willed it to happen). Will work on the plans, separately, in different states.

Okay, I'm glad we had this second talk, but let's not make this a habit. Because pretty soon even a black ops CIA agent couldn't take all this torture.

I'm done with them.

I am so sick of having crushes on guys with girlfriend and fiances. No more. I can't handle the nice guys who are unavailable. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but after four guys in the last year I'm starting to think it is me. Safe crush I suppose. But I don't know, I usually like them before I find out, so I think it is rather karma playing a joke on me. What did I do in a past life to deserve this. All I want is for them to no longer be nice to me, don't joke with me, don't give me those eyes. Leave me alone, be mean. Have a heart and treat me like shit.

Where is Cary Grant when you need him? Is it so much to ask for a nice and strong man. Watching Tom Cruise go crazy on Oprah made part of me wanting to believe it was true and the other part of me wanting to believe it was a hoax. I don't know if it is better to believe it exists out there or to not believe so you aren't sad that you don't have it. But then I think too many people settle. This one guy got engage the other day and I wouldn't have known if someone didn't say anything. He wasn't glowing or even chipper. I don't know, it seems like you should be bouncing from the ceilings. Too many movies, I know. But maybe not, maybe the attainment of contentment becomes enough.

But please, whatever you do, don't talk to me. I'm all for longing, but this is ridiculous. Don't lead me on with your pleasantries. Cease making me smile with your sincere jokes. I'm not this sweet girl who you can safely flirt with. It might be safe for you, but it is deadly for me. Stop damaging my heart before a single man can come along and fix it before it become inoperable.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Fine, I will be the bigger person. I will be a bitch to you maybe then you will get the hint and reciprocate by being the asshole that I need you to be. Ok, deal. I'd shake on it but fear the repercussion of physical contact to my psyche. Instead the head nod will have to do. I'm glad we had this talk.

The wake up call

No more hitting the snooze button on my life, this seems to be the new resolution. You let yourself slide a little and all the sudden your not even on the playing field. "Batter up" they yell as I try desperately to find a helmet. The slow trek to the chalk outlined box. I take a few practice swings, inhale and exhale a couple deep breaths, and pantomime some gestures that give me guidance. Each step towards the destination increases the magnitude of the world I carry on my shoulders. One foot digs in before the other drags behind to find the dirt. I twist my foot trying to find further contact with the earth. The bat lifts to my shoulder as if a result of my body disobeying my will. The pitcher takes his stances, sure to throw me a curve if for no other reason than to spite me. The wind up...Silence. The air becomes crisper as my senses heighten. Everything becomes more distinctive except the sound, it muffles into a blur canceling itself out. But I can taste the October air, see the molecules that fill the area in front of me, feel the energy of the crowd combining to give me superhuman strength, and smell the defeat.

I become stuck in a timeloop of this moment, this energy surrounds me constantly, but yet I never get a chance to swing. But the silence, it's deafening. I live knowing only the silence. I'm trapped in the moment in time before something happens. I feel as though I am ready by stepping into the batters box, but the pitcher won't release. Release! I don't care if I strike out or hit a home run, I just want to rotate my body around and not just beat the bottom of my shoes with a bat. I'm not sure if the pitcher is overly-confident or is scared to death of me hitting it out of the park.

But what can I do? Taunt the pitcher, I doubt that will work. Instead I remain frozen in time. Not moving forward or backward. I'm standing still. Not knowing if I secretly wish to strike out.

The alarm won't stop buzzing. The ringing might be worse than the silence. I'm trying to get up but the air in the room is too cold. Only pneumonia awaits me outside the covers. But in the comfort of the sheets lays immobility. Wasting away at the hands of a duvet. Goose feathers create a chicken. Too afraid to face to world beyond the borders of the land ruled by Kings and Queens.

But no matter how long I bury my head under the fortress courteously of bed, bath, and beyond; the alarm keeps getting louder. Piercing my ears with the cellphone version of "Daydream Believer." But the six o'clock alarm does ring, so I must rise and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. So I face the world, on leg out of the covers at a time.