As she proded and pressed on organs I don't even know the names of, I figured this was the best place, if any, for bantering small talk.

"So, my sister's having a baby." Unenthusiastic? Maybe. It's hard to be enthusiastic about fertility when that's the last thing I want.

"OH MY!!!!!" I felt a jerk inside of me, possibly a thumbs up. She's way too enthusiastic about life. Her zealous nature makes up for my lack there of. "You know, Twenty-five years old.. wow, that's a fantastic time to rear a child. Twenty-five is when your life should begin! This is going to change you, ya know. Okay, done with the internal. A baby! Yes!"

How she could bounce back and forth from vagina business to excitement to vagina business, boggles my racing mind.

Hmm.. I wondered if she misunderstood and heard "I'm" instead of "my sister".

"How old are you? Twenty-two.. almost twenty-three? You better get thinking about these life lessons, miss!"

While dressing, I couldn't help but think of twenty-five. Twenty-five. 25. 2-5. Two decades plus five. A baby at that age? Not even three years to find a suitable mate and get me knocked up. I'm all about unconditional love from a lump of flesh that just vomits and shits, but at twenty-five.. I don't know.

My life is going to change and I'm okay with that. A little more than okay. Ya know what, maybe I'm even enthusiastic.

Maybe.

I keep typing, deleting. Writing, deleting. If only I could learn to be constantly thinking, and deleting.

I yearn to think, and delete.

Lightyears have passed since I let someone else turn me into a wreck. As unaware as I am, that someone else could currently be my own foolish self. All of my mirrors are skewed, so it's not like I'd notice otherwise.

I've racked my brain, picked my brain, rearranged and arranged my brain. I pick fights to bring myself closer to others. To have that "wow, that was shit, but now I love you" outcome. So unrealistic. I've never had the make up sex. I hear it's fantastic. I've done the break up sex, not so fantastic. I've done the "you're leaving for awhile, let's just have sex" sex, so bittersweet. I had false hopes of make up sex. Does anyone ever have make up sex? Or is it too Sex and the City?

Funny things is, I'm not even talking about sex, I just like typing the word because it's the last three letters left on my keyboard that haven't faded.

Human Ipod to the rescue.

Wrestling with 7 overfilled bags of Wegmans groceries, I began to resent the beautiful rain. Plastic had never felt so slippery, my shoes had never dug into my heels so hard. As I saw the front of the Ambassador, I exhaled relief and inhaled the rain.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fukckcn;lkclknkcn!" I yelled, gaining the attention of the little old woman who frequents the beauty shop.

I felt my knees buckle, my feet protrude out from under me. Smack dab in the middle of a puddle. Mud and rain water soaked through my last pair of clean jeans, right through to my last pair of clean underwear.

I frantically looked around North St. in hopes of it being less busy than usual, no such luck. It's almost as if the snickers were deafening, yet the only sound I could hear was someone's familiar voice bellowing towards me.

"Jimmy cracked corn and I don't CAAAAAAAAAARE! Jiiiiiimmy cracked that cooooorn and I DON'T CARE!"

The Human Ipod! As he helped me to my feet, brushed off the murky water and gathered up my perishables, I couldn't help but laugh.

"Sometimes, you just gotta SLOWWWWW down, baby girl." He sang to me.

I traded him a Granny Smith apple in return for a serenading of "It's Raining Men".

Sometimes, life just isn't so bad.

Explosive, violent vomit. Fuck, who comes up with this? Open bar and secret Sparks are sure to be the death of me. Saturating my hair, nostrils and mind, I cannot control it. Amidst sobs and dry heaving, I fail to notice any commotion, anyone else.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" I can't make out a figure, let alone a face. My eyes can only focus on inquisitive Peterbilt, underneath my right arm, staring into the toilet simultaneously thinking along with myself.. What did you eat?! I have a vivid flashback to my insane, but lovable, sister telling me about her acid trips. How Jimi Hendrix abruptly showed up in her bathroom and she nonchalantly told him to "get the fuck out."

God, I'm desperate for this to be Jimi Hendrix.

I frantically click through my phone, perilously searching my drunk dials. Shit, fuck, oh god, why? Next time, remember to forget your phone - mental note.

I awake from an ever so groggy slumber. How did I get here? My bed is a safe haven that I know my feet did not lead me to. A faint silhoutte can be seen, wrapped up in my least favorite blanket on the floor.

"Umm.. did we?" I mutter, loud enough to wake the dead.

"No."

"Did I invite you over in hopes of..?"

"No."

"No offense, but why are you here? I thought I was talking to Jimi Hendrix!"

"Your brother called, he thought you needed a good friend. If you decided to let people in every now and then, you might have known that you really do."

Ashamed, aware and uneasy, I drift back into a heavy slumber. I need you.

"Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. This won't hurt in the slightest," a devious look with a sharply added, "I promise, quick and painless."

Where, oh where, have I heard that well rehearsed line before? Cloudy, dirty memories flooded my unconscious and I instinctively shuddered, followed by uncontrollable laughter.

"Was that the theme to your prom?" I asked while holding in my chuckles, my breath, waiting for my joke to reach ears.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm THE asshole."

Swift hand, rip of skin, and all I could do was stare at the bandage. Bits of my sweater had somehow found their way to the adhesive and clung on for dear life. That hurt worse than I imagined, but I liked it. I loved it. For the first time in lightyears, I was feeling something real. Something throbbing, stinging. Numbness was Japanese to me at this point. Foreign in all aspects.

I stared at the wound for what felt like decades without leap years. Rats, it showed signs of healing. What would it take to feel this again? For a moment I could relate to the psyche of a cutter. Nah, fuck that, I am too vain to accept scars.

Breaking my trance and perfecting my doe eyes I coyly forced words from my insides, "I don't think it's ready, yet. Might need another bandage for awhile, maybe two."

"You'll.. I mean, fuck, it will never be ready."

Silently, you know me too well.

I was depressingly correct, sobbing myself into a deep slumber in absence of Marley's abundant fur and limitless love is not even remotely fun.

I miss the warmth, the forever brown eyes, the rough and scratchy tongue doing its best to gingerly lick my tears away.

A gigantic heart covered in fur is what he is. How did I get so incredibly lucky to know such a creature?

I've always had an intense love for tupperware. A love that could only be rivaled by maybe puppies, Peterbilt even. Sure it stained if Spaghetti lingered too long, but there is just something alluring about its inexpensively priced competitors and that semi-vacuum seal. The ability to maintain a decent amount of freshness, while warding off mold and other unsightly tragedies riles me up.

Not only do I, along with countless suburban housewives, utilize tupperware to contain my most tastey of meals, but, while longingly staring into my favorite receptacle, I realized I've tupperwared myself all over the United States. I genuinely wondered, can I truly be encompassed in a 4 inch deep/5inch wide generic plastic container, or would I ooze, leak and seep.. or worse, rot?

I pondered, reflected, mulled over all of the many individuals who have a substantial and concrete piece of myself tucked away somewhere in their fridge or freezer. I know some of you have thoughtlessly let my insides corrode and furthermore thrown me out like yesterdays garbage, lacking such respect as to not even take the time and rinse out my tupperware.

It's okay. I've got the good ones. The ones that freeze me, defrost me, and devour me whole.