Carving out a corner to post random crap.
In your solitude, create art. Virginia would want you to. There is no such thing as loneliness. Rub away the charcoal line until the jawbone is softened. With eraser, swipe at age spots that give up the great lie. Smooth as a baby's argument; clear as the conscience of a nun. Creases are a way to negate the answers only Time can tell.
Your room is the world we can only just glimpse that shines beyond the horizon.
Dudes are getting in trouble for being dudes. The rest of us are scrambling to fill the positions from which said dudes (Tastemakers!) get ousted. What will the world look like when power is shifted? We are still humans, after all.
Can I raise my hemline and my vibration at the same time without inciting a sense of ill ease? Live & Let Live doesn't come naturally when fleshy needs scream to be soothed. Our little lizard brains will keep us chasing tail until the day we die.
Pitchforks grasped within sweaty fists. Fair and balanced they are not, but the Tastemakers set the pace and throw shit like nobody's business. Drop and roll and duck and cover. Misery is today's Blue Plate Special. Hatred is an acquired taste. Acceptance, evidently, requires a blood test.
Have willpower, Patience! 
You'll never be the right size in their eyes.
A number on the bathroom scale does not determine health or warm fuzzy nudges of "I am the best lookin' bitch on the block!" Rather, how many times I can walk around the block before I get winded is my measurement of cardiovascular wellness. This bipedal mode of locomotion is also a super way to decipher what my back, knees and feet feel compelled to share at any given turn. HAPPY 2018! HAPPY I JUST CELEBRATED MY ___ BIRTHDAY! Again, numbers can be a confusing language when discussing health, and whatever the opposite is. But I will throw out a figure which will help in the writing of this here Love Letter to the Body: 22. There was a time, not so long ago, when I supported an extra 22 pounds on my 5-foot-nuthin' frame. Pleasingly Plump I may have been, but according to this I was overweight, and my numbers (damn pesky things!) sucked. Yeah, this was also a prolonged Blue Period, too. At a heavier weight, I was three pounds away from a number I knew was my Point of No Return. Once I hit that designation on the scale, it was only onwards and upwards for me. My health history and decades of family photos provided all the data I needed to choose a course of action.
Today I feel just right, someone in an official capacity thinks my numbers are acceptable, and I get asked at work what size pants I wear. Unless you plan to buy me a pair of jeans, I humbly submit: What the fuck? Ah, shaming. It does a body good (as in it doesn't really do anything to me, but the numbskull flapping her/his gums apparently gets a boner.)
For the remainder of my journey, I want health and well-being to take center stage, not a dress size or any kind of movement other than that of the bowel. Now to get my Hashtag Game on:
#FoodIsFuel
#HealthNotHate
#KnowYourFamilyHistory
#SayNoToTheShameGame
To My Tin Ear Troubadour,
O.k. then, pitch your tent. While you're at it, be sure to sew up the rents in the fabric of your argument. That's the best way to lure the lucky into your lair.
1.) Who are these lucky allowed entrance?
2.) What do they become when you let them leave?
And why won't you pick me when I pay full price for your 50¢ sentiment? As there are stars above us, we always remember The Pains in the Ass.
Warm Regards,
The Invisible Visitor
Varla Darney is drawn to her reflection.
Arms reach out from the quicksilver to bring her home.
A skull makes a great bludgeon.
Dr. Makeda makes a great martini.
PSYCHOLOGY FOR FUN & PROFIT!
The diagnosis on this one is clear:
Iatrophobia
*but one can always come to a resolution.
The light is diffused where you sit; off days spent pondering a smoky room. Why aren't you running out of the building, screaming FIRE! FIRE!? If it weren't for the Dead End advice Leoni gave me, I'd have believed all this time you were the Zeitgeist Master. What a disaster that would've been. I'm sick of hearing the sad, old song of "It's Not My Business." Change the tune and update your ticket 'cause the station's left without you. Your train of thought is polluted. Stay in your ashen comfort, seated close to the flame, and eat all the cake on your plate.
Got cake and balloons two days before my birthday. Two people in my sphere were actually born on the 24th. One forgot it was his moment to be recognized and declined his slice of eternity. The other was a lady engaged in official business of the head-counting sort at Waistland Industries. She got balloons at the correct time.
The Friend wanted to write the beginning or the end of One Epic Thought in the margins of a 99¢ birthday card. Nixed the impulse. Best to not reference the cloaked joker on an occasion that marks the mad dash of wasted days.
Occhi aperti.
Misty sees you wandering the halls. It is not easy for you as flesh is pressed in uncomely ways. Always rubbed the wrong way; trousers are a bitch with which you must compromise. Your body longs to wrap itself in a tupenu.
But you are seen through the lens of love. Your body of work is not about your body. Misty understands you stand alone in your quest for greener shores. She sings songs of lost continents to help you rearrange the rubble out of which a new world will arise.
The heart can be split only once.
Kindness
Is
Sometimes
Shady
Memories are
Yielding
Greatness is secondary to
Earnestness
Never let action become thoughts
Xylose and roses
Another year pierces the heart
Solidifying the need for
Solitude 
Semi-Daily Scribbles 