Introducing My Sister

So, being the over dramatic older sister I have decided to stop being so self absorbed and shed light on my sister's fabulous ability of writing. Here's a little story she wrote about me (Well, I can still be a little self absorbed, right?).
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The Day I Ate Leaves by my sister Ciara.

I remember when I was little you were always the better one at coloring and the fact that you could do something bigger, better, faster, slower, nicer, or just different than me, made my competetive vibes flow. ( I like to think that this is what attributed to me being more athletic, and according to Sts. Peter and Paul School's social standards, more popular than you).

You were never one to fight back when I called you names like "dumbo"..which I so elequenty named you after Andrew, the love of my life at the time, had decided that your Barbie was "prettier" than mine. (I think I recall punching and then breaking up with my kindergarden sweetheart after he went on to decide that he would marry your red-headed doll.) I wanted to scratch your eyes out....you big fat dumbo. However, being the good Catholic girl that Mom raised us to be, I confessed this five years later to Father Jim at my first confession and think I actually still feel bad about it.) However I later went on to realize that you actually weren't fat and certainly not a dumbo. Then I didn't realize that it was your long skinny legs, blue eyes, and blonde hair are what made me choose my Barbie. She looked just like you...and so would naturally, be better. How could I continue resenting something that I so desperately wanted to be?

I was always ready to show you up...no matter what the occasion.

I like to call this one moment in particular, "The day I ate leaves".

You and Sarah, older and much more "mature", knew that I would do anything, and I mean anything to be "cool". As I approached the tree on the left side of our red-brick Texas mansion, you and Sarah were struggling to contain your giggles by sparking up random conversation. Of course I was eager to join in on the fun and ran to your side. I swung my hip to the right as I so cooly brushed my hair out of my face only to remark, "What are you doing? I want to do it too. Hey! You GGGGUUUUYYYSSS let me do it too!" Sarah let out a long sigh, and now that I look back on it I think I can remember a slight grimace forming at her lips as she decided that for the first time, "I could hang with the big girls." (This is ironic only because Sarah is a Nun now...a good, non-grimacing type of nun.) I was overwhelmed with excitement, but tried to maintain my composure. You and Sarah uncurled your hands to reveal three leaves. I was confused. I had no idea that this is what adults did....Eat leaves. "Classy," I thought. After you and Sarah simultatneously brought the leaves to your mouth and continued to sneak them behind your backs so that I wouldn't notice, you presented me with my leaf. I shoved it in my mouth but was unexpectedly surprised by the bitter taste. Your faces seemed so content with the leaves as you moved your jaws in a chewing motion. I refused to let you see that I was in fact, not an adult and not cool. So I smiled as I scuffled down the leaf.

Contrary to popular belief, the leaf was not made of chocolate (#*&...i love chocolate), was not as classy as caviar, and was not your everyday "happy meal" at McDonald's.

The fact is that I could never color inside the lines...so I just quit coloring all together. I decided that being short, having brown hair, being clumsy, and just overall uncool can be just as good as being a crazy extremely outgoing tall blonde model who colors inside the lines....sometimes.

so ha.

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So there it is. She's talented and I was a mean big sister.

Cheyenne

And I turned over my shoulder to see her. Her perfume wafting over to me cutting the thick air of alcohol and smoke, the tits and ass, the broken dreams. She hugged me like we'd known eachother for years. Kissed me gently on the cheek.

"I missed you, you look good.."

I pause and smile. Ash my cigarette, sip my free drink, put my arm around the guy sitting next to me. She giggles. Holds her chin, cracks a smile through her fresh botox treatments. Remembering the times when she taught me. How to walk and talk. How to milk 'em for cash. But now, I'm a pro.

"I just got my chin done, I look like I just had a stroke."

She looks like she's had three strokes. But she looks good for an old bag. Tits done, lipo, chin done, botox. She's 40-something, but she looks 34. Soft eyes that glisten in the lights, maybe its the alcohol, but her charisma makes her sparkle.

"Come back baby, we miss you, this is a small town, don't burn your bridges."

I'm happy here. Now. Away from the sick celluloid fantasy. Although, something draws me to it. Maybe life is one giant burlesque show. Faking out someone else's dreams. Looking for a light at the end of the tunnel and if you're not fast enough you'll get stuck like her.

Drunk guy dribbles over my shoulder.

"Ya ever been to Wyomin sweetie?"

Damaged

Dreaming comes so easily coz it's all that I've known.

I'm good at diguising who I am. I am an artist with a make-up brush. A master of concealing the cracks in my soul with stilettos and MAC. I can hide behind the false eyelashes and stand before you shading my face with Chanel and Dior. I can keep my heart locked in tight with corsets and expensive lingerie. But when will I ever be me again. The real me. Not this character I have developed so beautifully for myself.

But who am I anymore? Dixie, Daisy, Rachel, Ash? The names and the stories are beginning to blur before my eyes. I'm lost in the transit of Philadelphia life. Like a kid in a carnival fun house desperately trying to find a way out. Carousels spinning round and round, bright shining lights, the laughter of the crowd - except no one is there with cotton candy to soften the fall.

Outwardly one sees a ravishing young girl skipping down her yellow brick road of life in her Prada heels. Inwardly, afraid. Afraid to let you in for fear of seeing the real me. The girl who had to grow up a little faster than she wanted to. The girl whose soul is just a litt bit darker than everyone else's. The scars are everywhere. They don't make me beautiful. I'm last season's size 4 dress hanging grimly by a thread on the clearance rack.

What is real? The tears? Me with him? Me alone? Dancing? Writing? Denver? School? I'm tired of trying to answer this riddle of life to please everyone else. To tip toe around the taboos I was so excellent at portraying. I wrote about the cold hard parts of life people like to deny. I wanted to experience something that was real - Or at least seemed it. But in the end it is all a fairy tale. Someone else's. Never mine. But I have lived and I have learned about the hardships - no matter how gruesome they are.

But I leave now with my artificial nails, mystic tan, and long blonde acrylic hair, wrapped up and packaged neatly like the little Barbie in the box. But what happens to the Barbie's that are damaged before they reach the shelf?

I'm damaged so how should I know?

The Men In My Life

I dated a white trash scum bag for a while. I'm not sure what I was thinking. I guess I wanted to branch out and experience other people in this world. I ended up in a hospital bed with a fractured skull. Not the type of experience I was looking for.

I have come to a final decision that I can never only ever date one man. Yes, this does sound like an episode of Big Love, but its true. I am a polygamist in my own right. I love the thrill of spending time with a different man every night. Having the thrill of acting and dressing in one way for one man and completely chaning my being for another - All in the course of a week.

I currently have 4 men in my life. Manolo for when I am feeling stylish, Jimmy for when I am feeling like a hipster, Stuart for when I am feeling classy, and Charles for when I am being thrifty. I know it sounds awful, but its true love for me. No other man can offer me the thrill of looking so fabulous and bringing me absolute attention. I love being able to choose a man to accompany my style for that day.

As much as my life as a designer polygamist sounds so intriguing I do have to say I have been unfaithful. I am embarrassed to say that I succumbed to spending an evening with Steve. It's not my fault I can't be faithful. Being around this many men can really be harder than it seems.

Sick Dixie

He sat in the far back corner. Sucking down nicotine courtesy of Marlboro. Faded green Eagles hat and typical college guy striped shirt. He looked up at me as I swaggered my way to his table.

He tilted his head and looked up at me as I towered over him with my 7 inch platforms. Eyes glassy.

"You're gonna kill me aren't you?"

He chuckled and ashed his cigarette in a way that only a cocky bastard like he is could do.

"What do you want to drink?"

Coors Light. I answered that one myself.

I returned to his table with a drink. We sat we talked about life and strippers and money and. It was all too much me sitting there wasting my time talking to him. Feeling that I needed to feed him all the attention I could muster up.

After I left I crawled into the back. $60 to show for a night of work. I had a headache and a runny nose and no motivation to continue working. I left. I didn't say anything. Just got changed and left.

I am broke. I have a terrible cold and all I really want are some fucking flowers and an Hermes scarf. No, that's not what I want. I'm exhausted and the lack of creative energy is mainly due to the fact that I am terribly ill and I need a vacation.

I think I need a day in bed to watch movies and drink tea. Anyone care to play naughty nurse for me?