Vlad, Henry And Me

 She feels the anger is beyond what is fathomable to concur. Nothing can contain it this time, no Xanax, Klonopin, or Valium. The only feeling she can think of is an eightball or a joint, or maybe a few Hacker Pscorrs. It is undying and has a hold on her like a sword cutting through her torso as if Vlad the Impaler was still alive gathering bodies for his pkingdom of fear and fury. The fear to ward off allenemies and maybe even some friends. Who knows really what good old Vlad was thinking but he clearly had his reasons. It is funny how the history of burning anger has left an image in our heads of justification of some sort. How about Henry VIII, well surely he was pissed off enough to behead a few wives, and why not, he had every right to do what the fuck he wanted. He was king and kings do whatever they want, overeat, get venereal diseases, sleep with whores, drink until they puke and drink some more. I guess I am trying to justify my anger at the world. But when it comes down to it I am no king, no Impaler, just a woman trying to get her head straight and feel good about life. Perhaps the notion of feeling good is too much associated with drugs of some kind. Can you feel the warmth of summer under your feet, no stress, no phone, no business to lure you back to the real world? And iPod, a comfortable lawn chair and the beating sun does give me some feelings of calm, of goodness, of a light at the end of the tunnel black with the souls of the mean girls from grade school I just want to punch even today. But as all the people with a great life seem to say "get over it" or "keep on ticking" or "appreciate what you have".  They never knew what I had nor will they ever. This shining sun may stay forever glistening on their skin, but I have winter, called daunting winters that break my shovel and leave my sidewalk impassable. I'll bet these women have someone to shovel for them. So I get in my car and it Smells faintly of vomit, cigarettes and all sorts of fresheners used to disguise the smells that my darling friends have so kindly offered my car in the spirit of selfishness and greed. I am too generous to lend out such a thing not paid for that has burn holes and puke and glitter, yes, glitter and a forever lingering smell of vomit from some girl I have never met.  As I sit and hear the clock ticking away it makes me wonder if that second I just missed was meant for something else then to be sitting here writing this, but I feel writing is what helps the angst of my life right now and it gives me a sense of even after my horribly brutal death a part of my subconscience will linger on in the vague smell of vomit forever in the air of my car, oh How poetic it all is when you are me...