Tuesday, November 14, 2006


I asked a few colleagues today if the fact that I have to consciously fight not to sing along with Corinne Bailey Rae songs makes me questionable? The musician said no, it's good stuff. The frat boy called me a flamer. The girl said no it's sexy. The mormon just smiled that same smile. The smug one that reminds that she's going to heaven and she's bummed because there's a big chance I won't be there with her. It's her preset smile.

Everyone has their presets and mine is still small. It's that first reaction when you walk into a big room, empty or filled. To be absorbing everything and becoming the center of that universe. Or to reflecting everything. Not even reflecting but refracting and diffusing because god forbid you shine back in someone's eyes.

Of course first reactions can be overridden. Flight can become fight and a smile can be forced. There are days I have to plug into the energy drink I.V. and fight it with every white tooth in my smile. And there are still days that people won't understand. When the front door has to stay closed and not a word needs to be spoken and the little corner the bed makes where it meets the wall isn't just inviting, it's inescapable. The measure of the man isn't in his weakest moments. After all, you don't really have to be kicking their ass... so long as they think you are.

She can go to heaven so long as I can order it on Pay-Per-View.

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