Heather L. Barmore
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Heather L. Barmore
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Heather Barmore
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    Change In Action at Babble Voices



    A few weeks ago, during one of my forays into New Jersey, I was driving around with my aunt and we saw a woman walking across the street who was just a wee bit out of it. Rachel pointed out that this woman was in fact a crack head, in which I responded with a hearty laugh and a “how do you know?” I suppose Rachel can just sense a crack head like a dog can sense bacon. I wonder if she can sense me now, all riled up and semi spastic, from 250 miles away.

    My body has developed an aversion to cherry blossoms – horrid motherfuckers that they are – and so now I’m reduced to a sometimes manic, sometimes not state of Claritin. The goodness cannot be denied though, because breathing is truly a wonderful thing and my eyes don’t feel like they might burn up in their sockets. Nevertheless I’m sitting here rocking and last night taught me that drugs and alcohol don’t mix. Who knew?!? I’m also wavering between giddy super happiness for trips and decision making and also an eerie all too familiar feeling of dread. But I think it’s just the drugs that are making my chest feel tight. It’s like something bad is going to happen, but I’m not sure what.

    I was thinking of going to get a Latte, but I feel a latte might knock me the fuck out or I might knock someone the fuck out. The first person to knock me off of my high gets one to the face. But I swear, that’s just the drugs speaking. I’m already begging forgiveness for later when I’m half assed on the floor at Lauriol Plaza in a pool of swirly margarita goodness and the after effects of Claritin.

    I wrote this an hour ago when at the peak of my high and now? Now, the Claritin has turned me into a lethargic little girl who is currently having quite the difficult time with this whole typing phenomenon.

    Just can't fight that feeling

    “The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.” ~Jim Davis

    Being a child with no friends turned an adult with a substantial amount of friends, can lead one to develop an acute case of Sociophobia as well as a deep fear of making friends. One minute things could be just fine and the next kapow! Everyone hates me and probably wants me dead. Call be crazy, neurotic, psychotic, whatever, that’s just how I feel and I’m growing perfectly OK with it. Ok, not really, because if it were perfectly ok, I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to come to grips with it via the written word. Because that’s what happens right? We’re more apt to write when something really good or something really bad happens. When trying to work something out, it’s easier if I get it all out in writing first and then get to tackling the matter at hand. That’s just what works for me. Regardless, I’m still completely neurotic and will inevitably think that someone hates me even if how that person feels is far from that. I need validation and the occasional “HB I heart you” to make me not feel like the worst person in the world.

    To this day, I have no idea what made people dislike me through the 8th grade. It’s not like I was the most hated person at Farnsworth Middle School but probably just Jr. High politics, but that was bound to happen as Cheerleading wasn’t exactly my forte. Instead I played the clarinet and soccer and pretended that a particular group of girls were actually my friends. This included bribes of gum and doling out the occasional dollar just so I could say that Jane spoke to me that day. So very sad, yet so very true.

    All of this came up because I’m awaiting a response from someone I had emailed this morning about something pretty fucking minor and insignificant, and yet I’m sitting here thinking that this person probably dislikes me. Because obviously this person doesn’t have a job or other more important things to think about and it’s all ME ME ME! So yes, I’m crazy and yes I need to get a grip and yes I need to realize that my neuroses is getting the best of me. Also? No, I cannot really understand how I went from the girls in 7th grade hated me so now everyone hates me, including the mailman. It’s just a sad and pathetic truth that you and I will both have to live with. And if you hate me, feel free to tell me.


    “Make your feet your friend.” ~J.M. Barrie

    In the three months since I’ve joined WSC, I’ve seen some noticeable changes. I’ve even turned into one of those people who freaks the fuck out when missing the gym for one day. I mean, God forbid I don’t get in my 45 minutes on the elliptical. I will perish, for real. Other than the pounds lost, I’ve learn to appreciate spinning and to use my snark on women with ass sweat. Which, I should add, is quite unsettling in itself, but recent events give way to more disturbing behavior.

    Now, I’m all for changing in the women’s locker room and I really could care less about who sees my boobs; though I will admit the one instance in which my coworker was in the locker room changing at the same time and I turned to face a stranger, rather than have my coworker see my boobs. Because that’s just weird. Beyond all of that, what gets me is the women who feel free to wander around a PUBLIC locker room BARE FOOT. As in sans any sort of protective layer between their feet and a lovely combo of hair/sweat/germs/general deliciousness. These are the same women who go barefoot into the shower. Shower! I am so upset writing this now that my eyes are closed because EWWWWW. Maybe this all upsets me so much because I’ve had my fair share of plantar warts. It was painful and something that taught me to always wear flip flops when at a public pool. Also, I have a severe disgust for…hold on a minute, I’m gagging…hair. The thought of hair on the floor and having my bare feet that are wet with sweat and/or from the shower makes my stomach churn and now I’ve vomited my pad thai.

    As if this initial sundae of nastiness wouldn’t be enough, there’s a cherry on top: the small asian woman who took it upon herself to prance – bare foot – from the shower area to the far side of the locker room, without any sort of covering. She also decided that then would be a good time to stand in front of the mirrors in the toilet area, to stare and admire her nude self, leaving the rest of us to admire her tiny ass and pubic area. Sweetheart? Those white fluffy things right there are called towels, use them.

    I dare you to scour these lovely images from your brain. You can’t, can you?