Semi-Daily Scribbles

Wilma needed to scream. Her innards swirled. She felt her breakfast was about to leave the way it entered. Wilma wiped away sweat from the corner of her eye. Her long brown hair stuck to the back of her neck. The muggy, bumpy bus ride made the tumult inside Wilma unbearable. She estimated the length of black-matted floor between her and the nearest door. She hoped she could exit the coach in time. She felt fine earlier. There were no deviations from her morning routine. A sharp jab in her side made Wilma gasp. Despite the gastrointestinal discomfort, Wilma remembered the day's date. It wasn't just Friday. It was her anniversary. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breaths. Her stomach didn't lurch quite so vigorously. The muscles in her back began to unclench. An irritation of a different sort, however, jumped in to take over for the queasy gut. The Voice. It was Wilma's voice, of course, but it was Old Wilma. The Wilma who went under the knife and got shortened and clamped. New Wilma, trembling in her aisle seat, recalled all the fear and exultation of that May morning three years ago. Stomach trouble. Anxiety. New Wilma understood what was happening. She braced herself for the harangue that would begin in a few sec….

Youth. Beautiful. Lust. Amazing. Fat. Honest. Love. Epic. Bad.

Old Wilma never left. She liked to remind new Wilma of that fact, especially every May 2nd. Old Wilma knew what caused the most pain. She used the words that sealed her fate. She used the words that New Wilma still chased. Old Wilma wanted to know which of these words were hardest to swallow.