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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Thursday, February 9, 2012

princess bridled (one moment in time)


the cracked-out cry that launched a thousand parodies.

i remember reading about a young whitney houston in "seventeen" magazine. after 13 years in a private girls' school, it became my bible on how to stand and deliver my teenage years through high school. me, an awkward thirteen; fashion senseless, gangly and green. and whitney, so ripe, so resplendent as a teen model; column quoted, "dreams of becoming a singer"...

i actually remember the headache caused by rolling my eyes.

[aren't all models really rocket scientists?]

what, me, bitter that i stopped growing at thirteen?

but, whitney did rocket with talent so extraordinary, that even if her music for the masses and lacquered lyrics accelerated your breakfast just a little too quickly, like haley's comet, she was undeniably one in a million.

[or at least once every 75 years...]

so it was within a collective tongue, tsk-ing tumult that whitney's addiction was revealed.

the headlines were so pedestrian. so unimaginative. so unscrupulously gleeful.

"houston, we have a problem..."

dive into the melee, tear up the mosh pit...oh, how we love to watch them fall. with a patronizing tilt of the head, we calmly stand tall over our cannibalistic trophies. panting, self-righteous. back of the hand to the lips. blood smeared. blood sport.

"it's a shame about that whitney. she had so much potential."

beware famebaggers. today's disco ball headlines are tomorrow's compost mulch.

there's a surge before you crest that wave of adrenaline; like the anthemic build of a perfectly crafted pop song. it wiggle, wiggle, wiggles the french tips of your pedi., body surfing through to its hair tossing conclusion.

ah, but today's was a natural high.

"we got your cell cept level back and dr. k. feels comfortable lowering you to 750 mg twice a day".

[hot dog!]

and so i extracted a past only 10 months old. and emptied. and emoted.
[holy cow, can i emote...]

she used to take 23 meds a day. now she takes 4.

and i thought.

i could, "what if" all the live, long day about the increased potential for rejection...
i could, "what if" my side effects don't improve...
and i could, "what if" i relapse...and...and...and...

but, instead i thought.

this is one moment in time. it will never come again. and you are so rip, torn happy, your head might explode if you don't soap a smile on that mopey mug.

"give me one moment in time...when i'm more than i thought i could be..."

[me and whitney. who knew.]
                dear whitney,

                       thank you for the stinky, cheese ballad that soared through my head all afternoon.
                       in high school, i thought i was you for a hot minute. oh, and everywoman, i feel your              
                      pain. every minute of every day.
               love, the little red-haired girl   xoxo   

and so this galvanized gladiator lay down her sword, glistening with chunky giblets, and sighed.

because tomorrow she will begin the fight again.


  1. When any small good thing happens, and this is not a small thing, this is a big thing, you must revel revel revel in it so that the universe brings you more good news... and it brings it because you FELT GOOD... I Feel good about your news, I'm reveling!!

  2. the anonymous above is Jennifer Lamm.

  3. i don't believe we can control getting more good news, but we can control how we react to it!

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