Dear Life(121)
Can you feel the monster start to awaken?
You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room.
One single pop.
You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into.
That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.
In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did.
It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human.
This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.
Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
Chapter One
MARLEY
“Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”
“Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth.
My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.
“And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?”
“It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”
In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.”
I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.
“The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us.
The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.”
“The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.”
Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.
Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?
Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.
Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time.
Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction.
“On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”
Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.
“What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close.
I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.
“Get back to your mat,” I chastise.
“It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.”
“Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.
Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”
Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor.
Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.