The two girls from Hell

I’ve had a dream and within that dream we were referred to as; “The two girls.” Now hear me good there was Hell on earth. And on that earth, Hell was spreading thick and mean taking everything with it—non-discriminatory. It didn’t hurt; hell no, it was non-discriminatory. And so I didn’t want to get wet I skipped back and looked over my shoulder only to find a haven, but within that haven you could lay your feet safe and sound on a place where you could find nobody—else.

Mindfulness recipe

Ever thought about what to use for all of you sensitives who sleep & dream about the ultimate all purpose cleaner; what about baking soda, warm water, and manual scrub. What about going crazy and dash it with essential oils, lemon juice, natural soap, white vinegar, and/or what is left of your dignity.


The truth is that one who wants to pass as someone else will always be off. An off beat view about the way they look. An off beat intellect about the way they sound. An off beat feeling about the way they act. An obvious and rudimentary learned social behavior which would be typical and expected of that said individual, or race; I mean there are reasons why spies are on a timed schedule.

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My parents, the providers, would say to me; “We found you in the trash,” followed by mockery and mimicry in a strong French accent. “Our blood is running through your veins,” and they would stink in vain. “You grew up in my belly,” and they would look at each other bursting in laughter. “You are not my child,” words would be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You are not my child. I am not your mother. Go see your mother,” words would again be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You’re mixed up,” were repeated twice in laughter when I would share flashbacks of my birth in my mother’s arms with my father near standing still in the corner. My parents, the providers, would never provide an explanation of which my brain, some time on its own, tried to rewire; “Remember when you said that I am not your child. Why, why did you say that to me for,” and they left me—in silence.

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My father, the shelter and lifts provider, once said to me; “It’s not my problem.”