Letting Go of Candy

Candy flounced away from the kitchen like an teenage mal-content; one of those American Beauty kids who is smart, middle class, and who would be good looking if she didn't smoke grubby cigarettes and wear Wet 'N Wild soft black eyeliner.

She's not.
She's my alter-ego and my best friend and my comforting comfort of comfortable.

She is going to make me lose what's left of my MIND, I fumed. What do I have to DO around her to get a little RESPECT?

All I'm asking is for her to lay off me while I get through not eating any sugar. PROCESSED sugar. Nerds! Kit Kats! Pop-Tarts! I eat tangelos.
I eat beets.
It's not like I won't put a goddamn egg noodle in my mouth!
What does she WANT from me?

God: She's losing you, Sarah.

Sarah: Oh no. Not this again. Not YOU. I don't want to hear voices, dude. Talk to me out loud, or through an oracle or something but don't fuck with me up in my head, yo.

God: (Rolling His eyes and taking the form of Dr. Rey on Dr. 90210) (Smoothing His lapel): You're all she has in this world (turns head as large-breasted Beverly Hills matron gets in a Porsche and drives off) Sorry. It's all in the name of my profession.
(God focuses and begins speaking rapidly but with a very sexy Brazilian accent) You're all she has in this world. She doesn't know anything else. And now you turn away from her, so fast and so strongly that she... she has to act out. This is all she knows. You must accept that this is who she is and how she approaches life and when you stop fighting her, with the hair-pulling and the button-popping and the...

Sarah: God? Please.

God: Sorry, you're right. As I was saying. Fighting is her way of engaging you and getting you to hold on juuuuust a little bit longer. Do not fight her. Let her go. You are two different people with the different goals and dreams of different differences. When you stop fighting with her, you do not stop loving her with her softest Twizzler hair and those dangerous Orange Slice eyes of hers. You only stop fighting her when you stop fighting her. You allow her... to become.... fully candy and you allow you.... to become.... a real hottie.

Sarah: God! Please!

God: I'm just sayin'.... and I could make you look phenomenal if you let me give you a breast augmentation. These need to be bigger, bigger! And we need to make them so there is no ugly gap, only beautiful cleavage like all of the Brazilian women in the world!!!

Sarah: I'm Russian.

God: As Dr. Rey, I am such a brilliant plastic surgeon that I can make you anything, even Brazilian!

Sarah: Sigh. I dunno God. I see what you're saying, despite playing up the fact that English is your second language because that way you sound sexier on TV.

I am pretty stressed out, like to the point where my hair is falling out and sleep is elusive, at best. It's rainy, I'm tired, I'm responsible for a whole lot of stuff that I had to delegate, because I'm a team player like that and the person to whom it had to be delegated is still not getting it done. This has been going on since July.
She's not the one who's facing consequence on it, I am, and consequentially, I want to shove her.

I'm off the sugar and that's cool because can you imagine what this mood would be like if I was still bumping up on Lik-M-Aides and snarfing Caramellos for breakfast?
NOTE: This remains not an analogy for drugs, in the event that my employer or parents are reading. I'm seriously talking about candy.



Sarah: (Banging on a closed door while desperately shaking the door-knob and shouting Cnady's name over the blaring ambiguous speed metal in the background.) "Candy!!! Candy!!!!!!!!!!! Open this door Candy!!!!! Open it!!!! I need to talk to you , just Let!


Sarah: Sinks to the floor and sobs. br>


God: Smooths pink silk Versace tie before snaping His left fingers and dissappearing into a flicker of a light.

arizonasarah at 9:56 a.m.

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