Fractured Fairytales

Ever since the move I've been stuck with crappy seats on the train. In the mornings, Tarrytown is the last stop before Grand Central and the crowd waiting on the platform is huge - hundreds easily. And when the train arrives, everyone pushes and shoves to be the first on board, scrambling for the all-hallowed window seat. I occasionally am lucky enough to procure one of these seat, but it never fails that it's facing the wrong direction...looking back instead of forward. I can't explain why this bothers me so much, but it's been a thorn for the last year - for as long as I've been taking the Metro North. When I do end up with one of the backward seats I find I'm always trying to rationalize that a window is a window...at least there's something to look at. I should be happy that I'm not stuck staring at the back of someone's head or the seat in front of me. I can see the river, the bridges and the cliffs across the way... But reasoning with myself ne

"I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words bother me." It's no secret that I struggle with Depression. I may not openly admit that I'm a loony fuck, but those in my life can tell when something isn't quite right. They witness the "real" me - the talkative perky bitch who will bug the shit out of you with girly nonsensical chatter, crazy laughter and too much silliness. I like this person. She makes me happy...probably because she is happy. But then there's this other me. The fearful Doubting Thomas, the one who counts imperfections on her bedroom ceiling, the one who curls up in a fetal position for days at a time, crying out for someone, anyone, to come and hold her, cradle her like a baby and rock her back and forth saying "It's all right...It's ok..." The scary thing is, in those moments - while I'm sobbing and an emotional wreck - I do find that comfort I need, however it's my own hand that caresses my cheek, my

I knew something was different as soon as I opened the door. It was the smell...stale and old, like an ancient house that had been kept dark for centuries. This house is old and well stocked with more nick-nacks, battered lamps and ceramic vases than one could ever hope to find a place for, which could certainly make the claustrophobic feel rather constricted. Yes, at times the overflow of forgotten junk can be annoying, but it gives this place a decidedly grandmotherly feel (a feeling I quite enjoy now that my own grandmother has passed). Until today the air in the house has been fresh...unless you ventured into the basement after a particularly nasty day of baptisms and defecations by the two house-rats (I dare not call them dogs because these animals lack any of the common sense or cuteness of their canine counterparts) and in those instances a gasmask would not save you from the assault - but I digress... The smell stopped me in the entry way, backpack still slung, key still in han