Facebook, Smart Phones & Girls of the Night (or mid-afternoon)

Ossie Clark dress photographed by Barry Lategan, 1976.
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August 31, 2012

Do smart phones drive you bonkers, bananas, batty?

Is it like a meth addict carrying a pipe in their pocket all day?  Swearing they only use it for the noblest of intentions?  Or maybe it's just for an emergency.

This train of thought takes me to the very fine line between Sanity and Insanity.

Remember Sanity?  She's perceptive, witty and stylish.  Sanity has been missing the last few weeks.  Fall isn't too far off and I'm almost sure she's gone hunting for the perfect pair boots.  I can forgive Sanity's abandonment if she comes back soon with something like these:

fall boots 

Maybe her absence is why I've felt the not so gentle tug of Insanity at my ear.  Oh, don't get me wrong, sometimes I welcome her heinous takeover of my brain.  As Sanity's narcissistic twin, Insanity doesn't share well.  She's an all or nothing kind of gal.

Rewind one year
August 2011

I've been on my own for months and Mr. Scabs has taken his uneasy place in the pink bedroom.  There's the occasional phone call or drop by the house but he isn't a regular part of my life anymore and I like that.  I'm warming up to the idea of divorce and preparing myself and my kids for that inevitable day.

After all, there is no possible way a relationship can survive such a wallop.  No sane person would attempt to repair this kind of loss.  It's like sneezing with your eyes open.  Impossible.

I think I'd be a great divorced person.  Unlike Insanity, I'm great at sharing.

It's odd how things come to you when you least expect it.  Like one morning when my eyes made a double-take across the photo of a young Asian woman.  I followed the link.  Attached to the photo was a note to Mr. Scabs from one unfortunate girl named Joy.  A girls who's life I can't imagine but know it terribly exists for millions of women around the world.  A girl abused by the selfishness of men.  A girl abused by the entitlement of Mr. Scabs.

In that moment, my heart's half-healed scars split open.  The flesh torn and raw again, pounding long and slow as if beating out it's own life.  At any moment it would stop and I would cease to be.

I don't recall the words she wrote.  The note was a few months old and Mr. Scabs hadn't replied but it didn't matter!  The clock muffled, ticking away the seconds, my breathing slowed to a single gasp as the tangibility of his choices knocked me down a flight of stairs.

Bloody with frizzy, matted hair I lay at the foot of the stairs, defeated.  My eyes are swollen from bruises and tears and I smell the familiar staleness of Insanity (she smokes Camel Reds and lives at the bottom of the staircase).  Her hand reaches for my waist as she pulls me up and dusts me off.

"I'll take care of you," she rasps, "I'll take care of you."

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