Jesus Christ, this Sunday was fucking weird. I don’t even know if I quite understand what the hell happened.
I had been dating this auto mechanic for about two months. It wasn’t anything serious as we both had pretty busy schedules. We had a few dates and goofed off together, and he sent me good morning and good night text messages, never pressured me for sex, and pretty much treated me like a pretty, pretty princess.
Then he cut off all contact.
I was super fucking worried about him, but when he wouldn’t answer or return my calls, I cut my losses. After the shit show with Michael, I’ve become very good at ridding myself of people who hurt me.
Well, yesterday he texted me explaining how his grandmother was in hospice, he had torn his shoulder, and just wasn’t in a good place hence the radio silence.
And then he asked me to marry him.
Fuck. How the hell do I tell him I wrote him off?
I’m hoping he just had a mental break what with all the crap going on in his life and that he’ll pull a takesies backsies with that proposal.
I don’t put stock in psychics. I knew a few gypsies who would look through crystal balls, but they told me that half of what they said during a session was utter bullshit; the other half was what the patron wanted to hear. The old gypsy taught me to play a bit of violin in exchange for telling the stupid girls at the University of Tampa “my whole life’s course had been changed because of the Matron Mother’s readings for me.” Yeah, I was kind of a scam artist. And I sucked at violin.
While I think supernatural hullabaloo are a load of cock and bull, I’m wary of witches and the voodoo-practicing folk. My paternal grandmother is… I guess you could call her a swamp witch. She knows a little too much about the dark arts, and I’m certain Satan would answer her prayers before God did; this might be why she only prays to… something sinister.
Her garden is a damned death field. Devil’s ivy, foxglove, angel’s trumpet, oleander, chinaberry… I feel uncomfortable when she offers me tea because she could slip any of that in my drink and I’ll be pretty fucking miserable, if not dead. Besides her doom-and-gloom botanical garden, she also has a Ouija board that appears around her house at random times and locations, all set up and ready for everyone to play, and a satchel filled with human knuckle bones, runes burned into them. She casts these bones onto a mat made of human skin taken from a former lover. I reckon the knuckle bones are from him too… That’s not the only bit of human skin she has lying around. She has several books bound in human hides. She’s never let me open them; she said I’d go blind.
And as fucked up as all of Gramma’s shit sounds, she told me to never get mixed up with the voodoo people because “they’re worse.” I think they cast bones too; I make that assumption because I crossed paths with a voodoo lady by the name of Madame Bones in Ybor City. She was kooky and her shop smelled like old cabbage and burned hair. She scared me when she started to croak about my grandmothers (the swamp witch and the monk). “Shadows and the Sight. What lovely gifts the mothers of your parents pass to you. Let me cast for you.”
I got the hell out of dodge. As I said before, I don’t put a lot of stock in the spiritual, hocus pocus stuff, but I also don’t tempt the gods.
All that being said, I visited a psychic anyway with my brother and friend anyway. I didn’t like her, bad vibes.
I have a recurring nightmare. It’s been with me since I was very young. I haven’t dreamt it in several years, but I had it last night, and I wasn’t able to fall asleep.
I’m walking down a long hallway, open windows on both sides that let moonlight through. I’m the only one walking, but I can feel the presence of something behind me, watching. I walk faster; I hear foot steps behind me matching my pace and then increasing speed to close the distance. I try to run but I can’t move quickly; it feels like I’m in quicksand. I feel something brush my back. I turn and leap from one of the windows.
I land in the bed from my childhood. I see a dark thing crouched in the corner of the room. It slowly stands and starts to mumble indecipherable noise. I know what’s coming next in the dream and I want to wake up. My grandmother appears beside me; she cups my face and breathes, “Just listen. Open your mind.” She kisses my forehead and claps my ears. I hear white noise and then it’s quiet. My grandmother is gone, but the shadow creature has reached its full height and begins its approach. The mumbles from before begin again only this time they make sense. “Jesssssssiiiiiiiiiccaaaaaaaa…stay…wait…” It extends an arm towards me. I feel cold. Its fingers brush my cheek. And then I wake up.
I sprung from my bed in a cold sweat. Shit still scares the bejeezus outta me. I curled into a ball, knees to chest. And then my phone went off with a text message. That scared me too.
It was Michael. He said his throat was killing him. I was glad he texted even if it was because he felt awful. Social contact brings me back to reality and shakes off the nasty vibe that nightmare always leaves behind.
I’m gonna hug the shit out of him when I see him later.
My paternal grandmother is very white and super racist. I don’t blame her too much for her ways. I find that most folks her age are racist, products of their eras, if you will. Since I’m of her bloodline she’s pretty damned nice to me…relative to us other “coloreds.” Whatever. Karma got her ass.
She had two sons, and neither gave her white grandchildren. My uncle Bill married a nice, Catholic lady, but alas, they couldn’t have their own children so they adopted my cousin Rebecca who is of Hispanic descent. My father married my Korean mother and conceived mongrel, barbaric children (Celtic warrior father, Mongol horde mother).
Gramma: I just wanted some Wonder Bread, some crackers! BUT I GOT RICE AND BEANS INSTEAD!
Okay, she didn’t really say that, but I’d bet my morning coffee the thought has crossed her mind.
Lemme start off by typing my paternal grandmother is one kooky son of bitch.
She catches and cooks gator, owns a Ouija board to converse with something (it scares the shit out of me and I will not be in the same room as it), knows a little too much about herbs (both the medicinal and scary kinds), and is extraordinarily racist. I can forgive her for the last one because most people her age are racist. Whatever man.
Anyhow, all the swamp witch stuff aside, she told me a thing or two about men that I think I should share with the Internet.
There is no such thing as a woman who can’t orgasm – only men who can’t fuck.
If he doesn’t brush your hair away from your face while you suck his dick, he’s not the one.
She’s quite a character… and has been married three times.