I looked down at her face

And fell in love with myself

for the first time.

If I could mother this child

I could conquer the world.

Oh here she comes. About time. Spending most of my time alone in a lamp doesn't exactly make me the most charming, insightful being, but if I had to guess, I think this one is an obnoxious old bumpkin. Although, I have been known to misread my subjects. But who picks up a genie in a lamp and doesn’t make an attempt to engage it’s magical power? The look of my humble abode is so classic surely any idiot would attempt a rub or two.

"Bumpkin" picked me up at a garage sale a while back from a sweet old lady. I heard her nasty tone that day. Kinda scared the crap out of me. Exactly how long ago that was I couldn’t say because inside this lamp, for obvious reasons I have lost all track of time. If I had to guess, I’ve been dormant for a year or two, maybe more. And I still can’t get her annoying voice out of my head.

“Hey lady. How much for this old piece of crap lamp?”

“Ten dollars,” said "Sweetie". When she asked me to solve world hunger as her only wish, I told her I’d be happy to grant her unselfish wish as best I could, but to remember; I’m just a genie, not a miracle worker.

I then asked Sweetie if she would kindly pass me along quickly, because quite frankly my accommodations are a little tight as you might imagine. If I can, I try to manipulate as much stretching time as possible in between gigs. She agreed without hesitation and said there was a neighborhood garage sale in a few days where she would pass me along for less than the $40 dollars she paid for me at an antique shop, for a quick sale.

Bumpkin continued that day like an out of tune violin, “Are you kidding me? For this piece of crap? Look lady. It’s late in the day and I’m sure you want to wrap things up. I’ll give you five to save you the bother of packing this junk back into your attic where it will sit till your next garage sale.

And I think she dropped the five and more or less walked off with me because I could hear Sweetie's diminishing exclamation to have a nice day.

And since then I’ve been sitting in total darkness biding my time. Perhaps I should think of this as a well deserved sabbatical. I’ve done hard time. You wouldn’t believe some of the problems I’ve been asked to solve. There are more than a few good doers out there, like the the old lady I just spoke of. Some have asked for cancer cures; an end to gun violence; a solution for the opioid epidemic and more, difficult complex problems too large to permanently solve, even for a genie, but I do what I can. And get this. I’ve also been asked to murder a few wives, making it look like an accident and as equal rights do prevail these days, a few husbands too. Call me a pseudo hit man if you will. This is the part of my job discription I cannot appreciate, but Genie's gotta do what Genie's got to do. Truth be told, the people I knocked off deserved it, otherwise I’d opt for a creative malfunction of sorts.

Oh yeah. She’s rubbing, come on baby, that’s it,........and.......YES! I’M OUT! Even though I’d rather not give nasty Bumpkin my standard spiel after the way she ranked on my housing and the way she treated Sweetie, I must, but not before I stretch.

“Greetings. I am your Genie. I have materialized to solve a problem that you most want to solve, but one problem only.”

“Genie!? Ha!? I knew it when I picked you up at that garage sale and decided to teach you a lesson. What gives you the right to be messing with God’s intentions? All this hocus pocus nonesense is just bullshit I tell ya. Bullshit. That’s why I’ve let you sit and stew all this while. Been 3 years since I tossed you in my attic. And problems...HA! Problems are for pansies. My momma always said, “There are no problems, just situations that need tending.”″

“Look lady. I’m just doing my job. Do you want me to solve a problem for you or what? You are giving me a headache and even though I really feel like stretching, at this point I’d rather go back inside my lamp than have to deal with you.”

“Well then I guess you can say you just solved my situation that needs tending. Genie, do the world a favor and go back into your lamp for good. Problem solved!”

Dear cold unpredictable person,

I don’t think you understand how people look upon you. Your coldness, your lack of care is astounding, despite your claims of love towards another. Your lips say one and your actions point a different implication. With all due honesty, you’re a liar.

You’re warm at one point and then cold on the other. You give false hopes and expectation and rip those away with callous and cruel acts. You think that your callous and cruel acts taught us well, give us the tools in life.

You’re wrong. It made us cold and unable to handle the warmth, because we are taught that warmth are dangerous. It’s as dangerous as the cold but at least the cold isn’t easy to indulge in. The warmth is, and when it’s taken out of a sudden, it feels like a cheat, a lie.

And I hate lies. And you decorate these around in my life, choosing to have them dictate the life I lived. You chose to make me feel like things are to be blame on my side. Your character changes are my faults, the events caused are mine as well. I don’t think I will ever know why; I don’t even want to.

But despite of this, I like to think you are afraid. You are afraid of showing warmth to another in fear that they would take advantage. In fear that they would leave you because you are easy to hurt and easy to manipulate. By showing that you aren’t afraid of that is a way of telling them that you don’t need them and that if they want to stay in your life, they need to behave.

You want them to be desperate for you because you believe that your actions would make them think twice before leaving you all alone. After all, if they treasured you, then they should do all their best to stay here in your life. It’s like being strong in front of enemy, making them think you are strong. After all, you looked at everyone as an enemy. An enemy that would take advantage in every way.

I’m telling you here, right now and then. If you think this way, you are wrong. We never once thought that way. We always wanted the warmth from you. When you thought being strong and uncaring kept us with you, it kept us apart instead. You believe that it’s because we didn’t love you enough when in actuality, we love you too much to look down on ourselves, believing we aren’t enough for you, thus keeping us away from you.

In the end, despite of all the love we have, we leave because we know our needs can’t be fulfilled by somebody who was too afraid to go forward. We can’t live damaging ourselves and you do that to us.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry even now that I can’t help you. I understand your fear and problems. But because I’m damaged by you, I can’t afford to be within your presence any longer. I learned that I’m not enough to handle you, to help you out. I hope you find that person and I hope you learned that one day, it’s okay to show warmth to another.

Yours Sincerely,

The tired and broken one.

I think that there are some people who will never be happy with their lives.

They stumble around life, making mistakes but never admitting to them. They hide themselves behind the facade they wear everyday. They act nice, and talked like they are the best. A young you would be fooled by them, believing they are the equivalent to a great man in history. An older you would have smiled politely and declined their friendship, only keeping them as acquaintance for future benefits.

Whenever they are wrong, they blame people. They blame them for everything, jumped to conclusions and damage relationships that were strong. They lived thinking that they were right in everything. Or at least that’s their way of consoling themselves, trying to hide their mistakes even from their own conscience and bury the guilt under the waves of anger and pride. It’s a way of running away from life, from the truth.

Then they built more relationships. More and more till they broke every one of them. Then at the end, they asked themselves: “why?”

They chose to believe that others are at total blame, and never pointing at themselves. They never cherished the relationship more important than their pride. They don’t get happy; they get self entitled. Because when a person thinks he/she is perfect with no blemishes, they would always think the others are faulty, wrong and damaged. After all, it’s the damaged goods that damage something good.

And the people who get closed to them always get burned in the end. They are left to wonder if I was ever good enough. Did I have worth? Didn’t I do enough? And they leave because they can never give these people what they want. How could an imperfect person give a supposed perfect person what they want?

Then they live miserably, always trying to search the perfect thing to make them happy. The perfect people to make them feel life is worth living. I’m not sure how these people live their life; it’s an illusion of perfection that holds nothing but misery below.

It has been one hundred years since the day I stood in the doorway with the wind clawing its fingers through my hair and turned, finally, into its hungry embrace, deciding then that I would never look back at you.

It is the anniversary of the day I fled into the woods surrounding our cottage, woods that used to protect me, but now suffocated me, the trees lashing their branches together and spitting water down upon my shoulders as if they mourned for me, but still could not let me go.

I ran until my feet tracked blood behind me along with the remains of my soul, unspooling from me like silver thread still caught between your fingers.

It has been one hundred years since I stumbled through the rain, and the edge of the chasm yawned before me, and I closed my eyes, expecting to feel the fall, but I never did. Instead, when I opened my eyes, the stars swam before me like rungs on a ladder, and I tangled my fingers around their sharp edges and pulled myself upward. Their light lodged beneath my fingernails and my blood stained some of them so red, the astronomers peered up in shock and could not explain their unexpected jump to supernova.

When I reached the overarching dome of the universe, I banged my fists on the glass, crying for entry, but I was just a soul trapped beneath the ice, and I couldn't climb any further. The dust of the cosmos lodged in my throat and with its bitter taste in my mouth, I swam back down towards where you waited.

I lived in the branches of the trees above where you walked, I wove the stems of flowers together into crowns to adorn my hair, just to have something mortal still about me. I watched you grow older from afar, watched the life bleed out of you naturally, not like mine, not like the knife wound in my shoulder the night I fled.

When your soul shed your body like snakeskin and, shaking itself, began its own upward climb, I watched the stars until their molten silver dripped onto my cheeks like paint, allowing me the facade of tears. I saw you swim through the dome that's trapped me for, now, one hundred years. Kneeling above the Milky Way, I knit crowns out of stars, and sometimes, when I'm moved to, I place the stars in the eyes of mortals who remind me of who I could have been.

There’s nothing more painful than being yourself.

It’s easy to be an imitation of others. They already provided you a map and instruction. All you have to do is follow it.

It’s harder to be yourself because you have no idea who you are. You have to dig into yourself, into the influences and thoughts of others that injected into the your very being to find it. And they come in fragments, which gives you another job of piecing them together.

But it’s better and more worth it. Because nobody is just like you.

My parents have been married for 33 years.  I was married for 3 days.  Everyone; my parents, my siblings, my friends, even the wedding planner told me not to go through with the wedding.  Why didn’t I listen?

Our fights were not normal fights. They would usually start with me just being me, but saying or doing something Miranda didn’t like. Like the time I really didn’t feel eating sushi again and I asked, “Could we order Chinese or cook a steak?”  You would have thought I spilled a bottle of soy sauce over her head or stabbed her in the eye with the pointed end of a T-bone. 

“Why do you always disagree with me?”  I can’t describe the emphasis she always placed on the word always.  It was octaves higher and decibels louder and was as cringe worthy to me as nails on a blackboard.  My spontaneous reaction was a dead giveaway to her; the wrinkled nose pinching my eyes shut; the clenched jaw. Any obvious negative change in my demeanor would prompt her to say something like, “You’re such a loser.  You don’t deserve me.  If I leave you, you will be alone for the rest of your life.”

The thought of me being alone was particularly disturbing and always silenced me into obedience since my one and only girlfriend before Miranda, my childhood sweetheart, Amy, broke up with me after I forgave her for cheating on me.  The experience left me with serious abandonment issues and when the one and only, blond, busty, beguiling Miranda Murphy said yes when I got up the courage to ask her out, I promised myself I would do whatever it took to make our relationship work. “Teddy has hit the lotto with Miranda,” my guy friends said at first, until they got to know her.

As we continually fought about everything, or should I say, she fought with me, especially about the wedding plans, I delusionally rationalized that things would get better.  They did not.   At one point my parents weren’t even going to come to the wedding because of all the nonsense.   My parents were told they could invite 20 people including my immediate family, and when they offered to pay for additional guests, they were told there wasn’t enough room at the venue.  We wanted my niece and nephew in the wedding party and we were told by Miranda there were to be no children at the wedding.  My family has celiac disease and we were told we should eat before we come or bring gluten free snacks. I could go on, but bringing up all these memories just gives me a headache. 

What I really need to get off my chest is what happened at the wedding.  Miranda really did make a stunning bride. Thankfully, my parents agreed to attend; a gratitude I would come to regret.  They were there; albeit begrudgingly, two tables of ten in the back of the oblong hall, no kids, no gluten free meals.  We as a family like to think we let things roll off our backs and move on with dignity and we were doing just that until it came time for the bride to cut the cake. When I lifted the small piece of cake towards Miranda’s tight mouth, I was feeling a bit confident as my friend Justin yelled, “Smash it in her face!” Justin is my best friend and whatever confidence I had through the years emerged mainly because of his encouragement.   So smash I did.  It’s tradition, right?  I’ve seen it performed at so many weddings; the wiping and smashing of cake.  Funny haha.  Lol....Oops.  I apparently had a momentary lapse of judgment because I had forgotten that Miranda told me the week before the wedding, “Listen to me.  I am very particular about my makeup.  Do not.  I repeat, do not pull a bull shit stunt on me and shove cake in my face.  Do you hear me?  Do you understand?”  I don’t remember if I said, “Yes dear,” or if I just shook my head afirmatively.  I was just so happy at the wedding; the nuptials, the compliments, the beautiful flowers and pomp and circumstance, that all I focused on in the moment were the words of my best friend Justin.  What was I thinking? I grabbed a chunk of cake and wiped it ever so gingerly, so I thought, across Miranda’s luscious lips.

What happened next is pretty much like a nightmare dream sequence to me now.  We were almost leaning against the wall behind the beautiful 7 layer silver and gold cake.  Next thing I know, right after the smear, Miranda literally whacks her head against the wall, like a crazy WWF stunt and screams out “Did you see that everyone?  He punched me in the face.  Call 911.” 

Truthfully, I thought I had seen her at her worst, but in this moment she looked at me with these Freddy Krueger demon eyes and before I could get out the words, “WTF”, she hauled off a right hook between my eyes, literally bouncing me off the same wall she just whacked her head on seconds before, leaving me speechless, bloody and dazed.  I dropped to my knees and crawled under the wedding party table wiping my nose with my rented blue tux until I noticed a linen napkin on the floor.  I picked it up and pressed it against my schnoz, trying to make sense of what had just happened.  The room became deafeningly quiet; no music, no forks clanging glasses, except for Miranda’s whimpering and the voice of her mother on the phone with 911. 

“What do I do ?”  I pondered in pain. Could I hide under table for like....forever?”

My father, the good negotiator that he is, was able to talk Miranda’s mother into giving him the phone and when he told the 911 operator what really happened, she told him with sarcasm to wish me good luck with my marriage.  He handed the phone back to Miranda’s mother and with prompting she apparently relinquished her request to 911.

How long was I under the table? Couldn’t say.  Not long enough.  It was Justin that climbed under there with me and somewhat convinced me that the inebriated crowd would forget all about the cake fiasco.  He handed me his monogrammed flask filled with Jack Daniels that I had gifted him for being my groomsman and I took a long swig, hoping the brown liquid would wash away the shame.  I wanted to believe him, but not even I am that naive.  What choice did I have?  The band was playing again and my legs were beginning to cramp. 

When Justin pulled me up and out, who was waiting for me at our table?  Cruella Deville, aka Miranda.  She was just sitting there by herself eating the tainted wedding cake. “Oh there you are, silly.  You didn’t think I was serious about the 911 call, did you?  Just kidding.  Go wash up.  You look a fright.”

“Yeah I do bitch, because you punched me in the face, and gave me a nose bleed but worse than that you put on a deranged performance for our 200 guests, falsely accusing me of spousal abuse,” I wanted to scream but didn’t.

With my head down and tail between my legs I hobbled awkwardly to the men’s room.  Justin followed me in and said.  “Dude.  That was scary.  Do you think you can get an annulment?” 

“I don’t know what to think right now Justin.  Let me clean up, get back out there, get this wedding over with and hopefully I’ll clear my head and decide what to do next after a good night’s sleep.”

Miranda convinced me to forget about what happened with whispers of what she was going to do to me back at the hotel bridal suite.  Honestly, in spite of what happened, I wanted what she promised, even though I wasn’t sure I could produce the tool necessary to receive her offer.  It worked and I received; fell asleep and dreamt about dancing with my ex Amy.  There was no one else on the dance floor but the two of us and I knew no one named Miranda.  I woke up with a hangover and felt as if I had just been sentenced by a judge to life in prison.  The reason I didn’t get up and run like Forest Gump was that my legs felt like Jell-O, in particular because I knew up until now, Miranda had rendered me spineless.  Could I break free?  Could I find the strength to dump her? 

It gets worse, but not right away.  Late morning of Day 2 of my life sentence, we leave for Acapulco; 7 nights, 8 days, all inclusive.  My parents paid for the honeymoon as a wedding gift and I was going, with or without Miranda.  She woke up uncharacteristically as Susie Sunshine and I thought to myself, “Just roll with it.”  We had an easy travel experience and it was one of the most pleasant days of our relationship, because as soon as we got to the resort, we put on our bathing suits and spent the rest of the day by the wave pool. The alcohol was flowing and we met some cool people (so I thought), followed by a lobster dinner waterside and then dancing.  For a moment I thought, this whole thing might just work out.

We woke up on Day 3 of my life sentence and it was raining.   We ordered room service and after we ate I told Miranda I was going down to the gym.  When I got to the door of the gym I realized I couldn’t get in without my room key.  It was a bit of a hike back to the hotel room, but “No big deal.” I thought.  “Extra exercise.”

The do not disturb sign was hanging on the door to our room and I thought Miranda must be showering.  I knocked and I thought I heard a man’s voice say, “Oh shit.” 

“Must be the guy in the next room,” I thought.  I knocked louder and was sure I heard scuffling inside our room and Miranda’s voice utter go hide in the bathroom.   She finally answered the door with a towel wrapped around her and said, “Sorry honey. What are you doing back so fast? I didn’t expect you for at least an hour. I was taking a shower.”

“Were you?” I retorted and then ruminated in silence, “Stop.  Don’t let your mind go there Teddy.  It’s just your abandonment issues playing a mind F###.” 

“I forgot my room card and I can’t get into the gym without it.”  I went to reach for the card next to my wallet on the desk and I couldn’t help but notice the embossed brown leather wallet that was not mine; not Miranda’s.  “Who’s wallet is this?”  I pushed my finger into it to prove it was not a figment of my imagination.

“What are you talking about?  I don’t know.  Maybe the previous guest left it, or the guy that brought us our room service dropped it there by mistake.  Don’t ask me.” 

I just stared at her and was afraid of the next move I knew I had to make.  As I turned, she said, “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom,” I replied, knowing I didn’t have to pee. 

“Don’t go in there.” She snapped.  “I think I saw a big spider in there and I know you don’t like spiders.”

She was right.  I don’t, but my fear didn’t stop me even when Miranda jumped in front of me.  I pushed her aside like I was a Black Friday shopper. 

“Get out of my way bitch.”  Yeah.  I said that. 

My heart was beating louder than a coo-coo clock when my hand turned the door knob.  “Don’t punch me.” Wave pool guy said.  And I didn’t.  All I said was “Get out.”  That’s it.  He did. 

As soon as I heard the click of the hotel room door, I turned towards Miranda with the composure of Mozart and slapped her across the face, not as hard as I wanted to, but less than she deserved. 

Then I cautioned like a Michael Cohen wannabe, with an authority and clarity that I didn’t know was in me, “This is what’s going down.  You are going to get dressed, pack your bags, and go to the airport and fly home.  I am going to stay here and enjoy the vacation bought and paid for by my parents.  When I get back, the minute I land I’m filing for an annulment and if you try to F### with me whatsoever, you will be sorry.  I never want to see you again.  You’ve got one hour to be out of here.  She started crying and her cheek was beginning to swell, reminding me of my triumphant slap. “Oh, and if you tell anyone I slapped you, I will vehemently deny it and post naked pictures of you all over the internet. Don’t think for a second I can’t gather up plenty of people that will testify on my behalf that you have already made a false domestic assault accusation. Do you understand me bitch?” 

She shook her head yes, and I stepped out of the hotel room and away from Miranda for good.  With my room card in hand, walking as tall as LeBron James back to the hotel gym, I got there before my legs did, sat down in front of the weight machine and pumped iron like a mother f##### for the best hour I’d spent in a very long time. 

#FICTION

"Hey Death, do you think you can do me a favor and let me know when you are coming to take over? I really am a planner and if you don't mind giving me a date and time, I could put you on my calendar."

"Nice try Life. Do you really think you are the first one to ask this question? So let's get hypothetical here "MissIliketoplan." Say I tell you and the day I'm coming is tomorrow. You're gonna get all freaked out, start crying, gasping and snorting, calling everyone you want to say good-bye to, with snot dripping all over your iPhone. Is that a pretty picture?

Or

Say I tell you and I'm not coming for 70 years. You might think you've got all the time in the world, possibly changing the entire course of your life. I can just hear you; I'll read that book next week. I'll go on a diet next month. I'll have kids next year. I'll travel when I'm retired. Next thing you know you are dumb, fat, childless and boring! Get my point Life?"

"Whoa. Death. Relax. I thought we planners were intense. No wonder you are so final. Who could stand to be around you?"

Writing isn’t just an art. It’s a way of making sense of the world.

Our world is so individualized, so different from others, yet similar in queer ways. We write to make sense of how that world works, what that world does.

We write to understand how other worlds influenced our world, and what are the basic laws that governed ours. Writing makes us search deep within just to make sense of this world.

After all, what is life? We are still asking that question, still searching an answer in our own worlds. Thousands of stories, writings, but we haven’t solve the question. In the end, the answer isn’t universal, but local.

To each of their own, what is life, and what is their world like?