THE DRAGON HEAVE

As a little boy, there were various things that I was afraid of...rats, people with odors talking to close to me, and everything having to do with my mother. I wish I could say that she was a gentle soul back then...but she is a Leo...and not the Mufasa kind...picture Scar as a woman!
Her looks could send chills up your spine and then they would settle in your throat to choke you unless you looked away. Her heels told her mood...clickety-clack for upbeat...thunder striking for otherwise. But nothing scared everyone in my house more than The Dragon Heave.
In a moment of exasperated energy, when she couldn't contain her rage any longer...she would let it out. It came from the pit of her stomach and would blow your hair back if directly in front of her. I gave it this name because it was like a warning of the fire to come.
As I got older, I grew less afraid of it and one day asked Maria Elena what she was doing.

"One time, I went to therapist and he say to me, when I feel angry or maybe like to kill somebody...just ehscream."

Who knew? This whole time, Maria Elena was simply relieving stress...as the years rage on...and we become our parents...I now use The Dragon Heave. I use it at work, on the train, I even use it to react to them not having my drink at Starbucks. I'm sure I come off as explosive, but I'm simply ridding myself of toxic energy.
Maria Elena, what a trendsetter!

Watch the instructional video and you too can be stress free.

SCAR TISSUE

We all have our scars. Permanent reminders of pain stain our skin. Sometimes they are sexy. Sometimes they come with a cool story. Sometimes they are emotional. They build character, make you identifiable, log your experiences.
Sometimes...they are just...there...with no cool story....just embarrassingly noticeable.
These are the kind I have.
The scars that I bear are not visible to everyone....only one is, if I leave one button unbuttoned on any given shirt...which I sometimes do when I'm feeling like showin' a little chest hair like a sexy, carefree, young John Travolta....not old, fat, gay, drag queen Travolta.
I have five of these scars...they are all raised above the skin...they are all reddish in color. They sometimes look cool in an intimate situation....sometimes the one looks somewhat masculine peeping from my chest hair in a v-neck t-shirt...like I might be dangerous.
The problem is when people ask about them...I want to tell a tall tale...I want to say that I was shot, or stabbed, or burned.....but the truth is....I only know how some of these scars developed....and the rest just sort of showed up, uninvited.

When I was 14, during a visit to Miami, I was roughhousing with my sister-cousin, Mayte, in a public pool. I was sporting a fresh, bright red pimple on the middle of my chest and two on the back of my left shoulder. Throughout the tomfoolery, I scraped all of my zits along the rough pool wall. When the scrapes healed and I picked the scabs (how could I help but not), somehow the areas where the pimples were stayed kind of raised and eventually became the Freddy Krueger like fleshy patches they are today.
I guess the one on my chest felt lonely because two more zits popped up and decided to NOT leave...oh no....they decided to return as SCARS ALSO! My zits must think they are vampires! One scar, throughout the span of a year, kind of...traveled...about 4 inches from one end to another and then created the "raised" look...it looks like a comet or shooting star...I've thought of tattooing it.
I'm not one to remove my shirt in public...but when bom chika bom bom is going to take place...I know I will be asked and I dread having to tell the pool-zit story.

I should say I used to dread it....now I kind of don't care....I , like, everyone else have scars. I have scars that came from zits...they are not cool wounds from combat....or sexy self inflicted gothy abrasions. They are simply marks on my body that are somewhat inexplicable. It dawned on me that they have a purpose. I don't have these scars because I'm cursed to be humiliated by them...I have them because, much like life, things happen. We are faced with changes that are out of our control. Changes that we can't really do anything about except to accept. In a way, I'd like to believe that the reason I have them is to remind me that nothing matters...things are what they are....roll with the changes....and to keep on keepin' on.
Now, If people ask me where I got the scars...I simply say, God. I mean for them to chuck it off as my snarky sense of humor...but I'm being honest. I got these scars from a higher power that intended for me to rise above them...in the same way that they rise above my skin showing themselves, humbly.

THE PUBLIC PLACE POO

As most of you know, I'm no stranger to phobias....well....here is a new one to discuss....the public place poo.
For years I have dreaded this activity and reserved only for extremely necessary explosive matters(see POOP STORY #1).
Why was I so afraid? What was gonna happen? They exist for a reason...surely other regular people poop at these stalls daily.
Here is why:
A. The toilet seat....sometimes there is caca on the seat...or peepee....or a streak in the bowl left by a very violent birthing of shit...someone else's....millions of asses sit at this seat and sweat....hair....dingleberries....all kinds of stranger grossness comes in contact with this seat and then they eject feces there....Why would I want to sit there.
B. Those toilet seat paper condoms don't work...they stick to your ass
C. I'm easily offended by vulgar etched stall graffiti.
D. My butt doesn't know how to whisper...and how embarrassing for others in the bathroom...plop plop fizz fizz is meant for Alka Seltzers...not my anus.
This has resulted in me holding my poo for hours...sometimes until the next day....and then what happens is....a monster turd forms from the hours of accumulated waste. This turd is the size of a baby and my asshole is not....therefore....I have to sit for a good half hour...crying and birthing....slowly pushing....then breathing through the pain until I deliver my new born baby poo.
I want to be a parent, but not like this.
So, because I like to watch Oprah and then pretend I came up with all her stolen philosophies as my own....I am a new me....and I now no longer hold it...I release it. Anytime it comes a knockin...I go in that stall...I sit my bare ass down...tissue paper-less....and just do it!
The result: I fell free...invincible, even! I create my own graffiti and...thanks to Oprah...I no longer cry in the bathroom...(because of poop).
Face your fears, PEEOOPLEEEEEEEEEEE!