An over weight woman puts her dog on a diet

I've tried all the different smart ways of losing weight: excercise, fasting, atkins, the zone, veges, juicing, watermelons, Jenny, Richard, Oprah, My Preacher, God In Heaven, support groups, a journal, the Food Pyramid, 6 meals a day, celebrity diets, mediteranean diets, hobo diets. God damnit; I tried everything.

But my dog, I love my dog. And he's really fat. See, I can't have that. He can't go away. I need my dog. I need my baby. Oh god, please, I need my best friend. Like I said, I can go away; but I gotta save my dog, so he's going on a diet. Not the shams I 've tried. Not the diets that won't work, can't work, fucking dreamy, fucking dillusional, fucking pillow talk-get in my wallet won't work. No, not those fucking diets! I mean a real diet. I'm putting my dog on a real fucking diet, starting today, " Come. Come here, boy."

Diets don't work. That's why I need something better. But what? What are the alternatives? FDA approved? The fucking pyramid, it doesn't work. I wanna try lipo. I wanna try all these alternatives. I 've seen em in the paper. I've heard about em on the radio. Hell, the radio gal, she did it. I saw the weather lady, the one with the great tits. She had the lipo and the breast augment. I want that. I want what she's got. So I want to try lipo. I wanna do it in this order. When one doesn't work, I'll move onto the next and the next. I won't stop. I can't. I can't give up, not on myself, for Christ's sake. I can't. I won't. I gotta try. First, I gotta try lipo. I gotta save up twelve hundred dollars. Then I'll have fat sucked from here and then here. Suck here. Then I'll have my guts tied, so that food won't fit.

"Wait. Ok, Honey. I know you're hungry, but you're fat. And Mamma's gotta talk. Mamma's gotta think. You sit. You sit your fat ass!"

Tie my guts first, then I'll try hypnosis. And I'll quit smoking then too. No more cigarettes. Lipo, gut strap, hypno, yoga. Nah. No yoga. Those Skinny Bitches are pretentious. But maybe weights and power walking. I wanna walk. I gotta think about it. So I'll get this low cal dog chow. I'll tell my doggie it's chow time. I'll slap my thighs. My fucking fat thighs. I'll slap em like this.

"Come here, Boy. Chow time. It's chow time." But only once a day. And only after he runs. Not sits. Runs. He's gotta get up off of the couch, run and excercise or no chow. No chow without the walk. That is it.

He'll cry. He will cry. He'll look at me. He'll look up at me with those eyes, but I won't budge. Still: No walk, No Chow. And I'll be strong. I'll be determined. Because He's my dog and I love him. I love my dog. He's fat. So he's gotta go on a diet.

Letter to the State of Oregon

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CHURCHES

The First Day is always the best day in Church. I imagine it can only go down hill from there. I'd have to stick around longer than a few hours in the house of god to find out. That's something not in the cards.

I have been lucky in church though. My grandfather helped build one on the west side of Oahu back in the day. My brother and I, when we were still small , spent time in those aisles and pews humming along, eating bread and drinking cool aide. The cool aide tasted like wine in church. But it wasn't. It was a Mormon Church and Mormons don't drink. They do fuck-a lot. And populate. In this way the Mormon Church is a good match for the Hawaiian Islands. But that's another story.

In the aisles and pews we played trucks. Our trucks hauled rock from one aisle to the next over shoes and around hand bags to the disapproval of all the do goods that looked down at us. "We don't need your bleeding hearts," we mumbled.

"We don't need your sacrilege," they mumbled back. And their songs floated to the beams of the ceiling while the old woman on the organ hit a cord and shook the ground we crawled on. 

Grandpa never seemed to mind our way of worship. He'd open his song book, give us a wink and sing. 

When he'd take to the podium and preach he focused on something far off on the back wall and talk to it. He spoke of god, jesus, family, community, responsibility and money.

From our stance on the front pew, to little to sit, we cheered the old man on. "Amen!" I cried.

"Thank you, And the lord will save you," he said.(or something like it)

"Yeaa, God!" my brother interjected.

"Let us bow our heads," The sound of people in a church bowing, sounds like books closing, the fabric upon fabric of suits and shawls, squeaky new shoes, coughing and the clearing of throats, a blown nose, deep breath and a prayer.

"Dear heavenly father let us pray. Dearest heavenly man figure in the sky let us reap the riches of the land. Dear god, for christ sake, let us eat. our father who art in heaven hallow be thy name, Hallow B be thy nick name....and so on, Amen." And then there's a whole lot of soft spoken breathy,"Amens."

"Amen!!!!!" I screamed and stamped my bare foot on the pew-no shoes, dirty shorts and a clean tank- my brother the same, "A Men, god damnit!" And just as quickly as the fun had began it was over.

After, grand pa took us out to eat at a Hawaiian driver in. When we sat down with our food he asked how we liked church. "We love it,"

"me too." 

And we ate. The body of god tastes just like teriyaki. His blood, like guava juice.

understars

under stars for the first time in years, i slept with the constellations. orion, the dipper and friends chilled with me as we dreamt again.

since escaping los angeles i have seen the dark again and heard the silence. in a town full of light and noise pollution real magic hides behind noise and constant light.

now i feel my soul again. now i begin to rejuvenate.