Poof

You ever get the feeling that no one would notice if you disappeared?

Forgive me father, for I have chagrined

Confession time.

It happened again yesterday. It's a phenomenon I can't explain. A strange gravitational pull that grabs hold of me, my senses and my ability to push a little button. The loss of all muscle control and no distraction can penetrate my enraptured gaze. I get sucked in, transfixed, mesmerized. It feels good. And I'm not sorry.

My attraction to trashy things does not stop at bad packaged food and body glitter. Oh no, I'm much more sophisticated than spongy cake filled with sugary crisco and cheetos colored day-glow red. I'm also a willing victim of a few horrible movies that I will never be able to pass up if they're playing on the idiot box. Played weekly on bad cable just for my viewing play-sure.

This time I'm talking about a little piece of cinematic genius known as, Staying Alive.

I love this movie. It has every cheesy 80's element you could want. A young, thin, uber-greasy version of John Travolta. (Seriously, his body is so rockin you'd want to eat a pita pocket off his pecks, if it wasn't for all the OIL). Head bands. Vomitous music that you end up knowing all the words to. (Don't lie to me, you know them). Floofy hair. Sex. Balads painfully forced out of the plastecine face of the lesser Stallone. White leather. The maximum capacity of zippers as fashion. Spandex wedgies. Gratutious male packages. A weak plot. And shiny, wet New York streets.

About a month ago I came across Staying Alive on HBO, not a butchered version on the USA channel. I was actually excited. Shut up. Yesterday I found it half-way done, but knowing it as I do, knew I'd discovered my dirty, secret pleasure with plenty of time to see the slow-motion dance scene with Anorexia Rhodes AND the highly dramatic and strobe-light flashy finale known as Satan's Alley. Feel the tension...

If John had only made a wiser choice and left out the violent shimmy in the middle of his pirated solo. It gives, in my opinion, the worst moment of ew, but now I just look away and am spared an inevitable vurp.

I don't know why I can't turn the damn channel when I encounter this piece of truly embarrassing theatric gruel. But really, who could resist Barbarino slathered in 40 weight motor oil. Bet you couldn't either. So NYA.

PROOF

I did not slip into a coma

Although an occasional fugue state would be nice. I've either been crazy busy or a moody loon (I did recieve some crapalicious news this week so I was justified with the crying and the pouting), both of which have kept me from writing. Thank you for any comments left lately and I have every intention of e-mailing and commenting back, I just need to catch up to life, which is currently 3 long paces in front of me. And remember to take my medications.

In the meantime, I highly recommend you go and get yourself a dose of Oliver. It will make you smile.

Be back soon.

For all you confused people

Let's just straighten something out once and for all. OK? I'm tired of going over this fact with practically every dumbass I encounter in my life. I do not have the time to educate you people one-by-one. My life needs to have available time for watching bad movies and laying on my couch. So I'm sure you can understand where I'm coming from. And if you don't have the intellectual equivalent of at least a gopher to log on to the internets and google your life away for proof, enjoy tripping through your paltry existence as a drooling moron basking in your substandard appetite.

White chocolate is NOT chocolate.

It's waxy, disgusting, coagulated, opaque poo, bleached pond scum mixed with sugar and I'm quite sure, rancid, curse-ed, congealed milk leaking from the nipples of Lucifer himself. It's grainy and putrid. Laced with excrement from a thousand albino sheep. If you have the misfortune, or unfathomably bad decision-making skills to consume this malodorous, vulgar, sweetened puss, the touted aftertaste you experience is in fact your soul draining out your tastebuds, leaking past your lips and into the atmosphere to be grabbed and gobbled by demons leaving you empty and damned. Slathered in false, decayed vanilla misery. It's gag-worthy and foul. An imposter infiltrating the purity and benevolence that is kissed-by-the-angels, delectibly delicious, real chocolate.

I'm just sayin.

Well, shit

I said I didn't care about Valentine's Day. I seriously believed I didn't give a fart about any of it. I practically spit on the holiday, flipping my hand at the mere thought that anyone needed to do anything for me. Showing their love and admiration with a small token of their affection. I nearly ordered my beloved to not go out of his way, to spend one iota of energy or time finding just the right symbol of his love. I am a modern woman, secure in her relationship, don't you know.

I didn't need flowers on my desk. I didn't require savory chocolates. I didn't want a present.

I was wrong.

:(

Dammit.

Please insert another 50 cents

When do you take the plunge into the "fuck it" pool? How much is too much? Where is your line in the sand? What risks are you willing to take?

I get sick of one entry after another reeking of self-pity, although I do have empathy for those who have the ever-pressing weights of the world crushing their skulls. I know all too well the smothering darkness of it all. Depression is a flesh-eating virus that consumes from the inside out. And I have the internal damage to prove it.

And when things aren't that bad, it's hard to justify a singular whine about one's measly problems. There's always someone out there sucking the shit end of the stick worse than yours. However, that does not invalidate struggles and hardships we all go through.

I'm wondering. When do you cram it up someone's ass and walk away? From anything. Your job, a bad relationship, your crap obligations, those bad habits. What makes a situation intolerable? Because somehow I've lost the ability to discern a shit sandwich from a lollipop.

You'd think this would by easy peasy, but such it not the fucking case. I'm 30 damn 7 years old and I haven't figured this shit out yet? What is wrong with me? I understand that I've gone through some junk that shook up my world like a bunch of bingo balls in a giant spinner. I can't tell my boss, and this job I loathe, to shove it because I need insurance and drugs. Drugs that I'll die without. Drugs that I can't afford as it is. So haste is not a word allowed in my vocabulary anymore.

But dammit. I continue to choose the wrong path over and over and over and over and over. And frankly, I'm sick of hearing my thoughts slamming into each other like a 10 car pile-up.

I've got the love thing right. For once. I have a wonderful man in my life whom I love and who loves me. Neither of us have settled. And that feels great. Here's the but. But, there are some very important aspects of my life that I really want to walk away from and I can't seem to take the first step.

This is what I wrote in an e-mail yesterday.

I want to take some time off.
I want a dog.
I want more.
I want to be healthy.
I want to feel good.
I want another career.
I want a change.

I need a god damn break.

I know what I want to do. I know what I need to do. I've heard my inner voice, the one who's smart and protective, and I continue to ignore it. Because I'm an adult that has to take care of herself and be a responsible human being. -shakes fists in air- But I don't want to be. I want to dye my hair blue and sleep in until 10 and not drive in 15 hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic every week. I don't want to deal with fuckers who treat me like shit. In my personal and work life.

I need to remove myself from all of these stressors that I set myself up for. Or at least the ones that are driving me bat-shit crazy!

Problem is, I know how to live in shit. I have a high tolerance for it. Or do I? Crap. I'm looking through fog and it's thick. I'm sleeping on a bed of nails. Choking on a crust of bread.

I really don't know what to do.

Share Time

This is so fricking funny please wear adult diapers while viewing.

I warned you.

The Human Tornado

Alright everyone - let's all relax about my last post. -deep breath- There, that's better. I wasn't murderous or anything, just defending my baby after someone gave him a rash of shit and made the mistake of mentioning me. I wasn't that mad, I'm just very gifted with my claws. A'ight? :)

___________________________________________________________
Something Special K posted last Saturday has compelled me to make a confession. Why, you might be asking, do I feel the need to spew to the internets one of my many secrets and bad habits? Because you must know. And how many times have I told you that my purpose in life is at best, to educate, and at the very least, serve as a warning to others? It's my calling, so suck it.

I am a slob. A tried-and-true beast of bedraggled bedlam. I am Princess Pigpen. Nice to meet ya. (And I'm not alone, am I girls? No, I didn't think so).

I don't exactly know when this all started. I grew up in a house with an anal-retentive stay-at-home tennis-club goddess mother and lots of off-limits stuff. You know what I'm talking about. The coveted living room so pristine it was one step away from being wrapped in shmeg-proof plastic. The good plates. The good couch. The good silverware.

The guest towels. Ooooooo, the guest towels. DO NOT FUCK WITH THE GUEST TOWELS. EVER. If you want to make it through you life without terry-cloth scars, refrain from even thinking about the guest towels people. You will spend eternity sucking the devils dick if you use the guest towels.

If I had a quarter for every screech followed by a bellow finished by a damp towel thrusted into my face. "THESE ARE THE GOOD TOWELS. THEY ARE FOR GUESTS. YOU IMPOTENT TWAT". OK, my mom never called me a twat, but she nearly beat me with a wet, green, cotton one once.

What the heck was I supposed to do? We only had 2 bathrooms in the house I grew up in. The one in the 'rents room and the other one. Not my bathroom (I say with a snotty scowl), thank you very much, I was not permitted to claim the hallway lavatory. I was not allowed to hang my towels in there. I had to keep my scummy wet towel in my room only to mold the top of my wicker hamper. Then I got in trouble for that!

If it's not one thing it's your mother!

And my mom is so hyper-clean and fast to organize every scrap of whatever comes into the house she's forever forgetting where's she stashed something. Not the greatest filing system eh there mamacita?

"I just had it a minute ago and now I can't find it".

"Well, where'd you put it"?

"I don't remember".

"You don't remember where you put something you just had in your hand 5 seconds ago"? "What, you got the alzheimers or something". "BAHAHAHA".

-SMACK-

"I will help you look for it".

And my dad is the same way. If I visualize him mentally he's medium height, salt-and-pepper hair, wrinkly face, and has a vacuum cleaner as a right arm. Wah? Seriously, I've never seen a man run a vacuum so much. And he is The Lint Police. The man is 79 years old and has the eyes of an eagle for fuzzies. Can't hear worth a shit, and he'll probably crash into you one day on the road, but he'll chase your ass down if you have a microscopic sweater ball on your butt.

Sometimes I speed up as he's reaching for me and he just barely misses his little nubby target while tripping after me with outstretched pinching lint grabbers for about 20 feet. Hee, makes me laugh.

This leaves me perplexed. Being reared in a home that was immaculate inside and out, complimented as being professionally decorated by my mom's amateur gift of objet d'art organization and filled to the brim with quality goods, should have rubbed off on me a little, no?How did I get to be such a pig?

I can thrash an entire house in a matter of minutes. My mother calls me the hurricane. Clothes strewn across every inch of carpet. Hair balls at my feet. Dirty dishes piled to the ceiling growing science experiments in their nooks and crannies. Globs of toothpaste adhered to the sink. Cobwebs wafting from the corners. Stinky laundry spilling down the hallway. Cat hair. Oh god. The cat hair.

How did this happen? Did I begin to rebel at a tender age? Wait, don't answer that. I was and always will remain a pill. But seriously, why doesn't this shit bug me? Or better yet, why does it take SO LONG for it to build to the point that I'm either going to spend 4 days cleaning or take a match to my house and start over.

What doesn't matter to me doesn't matter only works when you don't have a swarm of fruit flies clouding the kitchen because you've let a sweaty bag of nectarines fester foam and ferment on the counter. And I've made more penicillin than Eli Lilly.

I had the audacity in college to mark the roommate preference section on my dorm questionnaire as "cleanly". Who the fuck was I fooling? I knew by the second day my side would be a land-mine of shoes and underwear and fast-food containers. Luckily she had lied too. Unluckily for me, that wasn't the only thing she fibbed about. Sloppy I could handle, raving night-terrors with a butcher knife lunatic I could not. We lasted 3 quarters, but she lived so, you know, win-win.

I do try harder as I get older, but I can't bullshit you, it can get really bad. When I was super sick I had a free-pass, but now, not so much. And I'm in so much trouble because whitey is a complete neat freak. My garage gives him hives. Granted, it's a mess that stresses me out too, but how am I going to maintain a tidy home when he comes to San Diego? I'm a lazy sack! The only time I really clean now, not just put things away and straighten, but actually clean (sponges, water, scrubbing, etc.), is when I have plans for a visitor.

Wanna come over?

And yes, baby, the coffee is still in the pot.

Letter to an Asshole

Dear T-Bag,

Listen up you intellectually bankrupt, impotent, cocksucking, prick. The smothering weight of your life-long failures are pressing down on that pickled, ineffectual, tiny brain of yours causing you to become confused. I will extend one meager favor and clarify a few points for you now, since you don't seem to have the capacity to put a short string of thoughts together to gather a valid conclusion.

I am neither an "internet chick" nor am I being stalked by anyone. The circumstances of Travis and my meeting, and subsequent relationship, are of no consequence and furthermore, none of your business. I have what you never will. Travis and I have a healthy, loving relationship. Let that burn through you like acid, you fucking useless, pathetic, coward. Ruminate on the fact that your life sucks while you wear an ass-stinking groove into that couch you spend the majority of your time on.

You do not have a crystal ball nor do you have the mental fortitude to recite the alphabet without cheating. Any small amount of talent you do have is emaciated by your lack of motivation to do anything on your own steam. Much like that unused, shriveled dick hanging between your cheesy thighs. No one is responsible for your weak existence except you.

I know it must be difficult living in the lying-sack-of-shit-no-life-to-conceive-of-I'll-try-and-stifle-someone-else's skin of yours. But the person you're trying to rule, control, and crush happens to be the man that I love. And if you've EVER in your life encountered someone that won't hesitate to rip your fucking throat out and laugh into the gaping hole of what's left of your soul, that would be me.

Keep it up fuckwad. I'm not as nice as Travis.

So, as you're not getting laid by your sham of a wife, and hopefully not ruining your daughter's life by being another selfish bastard parent who thinks about nothing but themselves while sitting on their unproductive ass all day, enjoy your pathetic life in Buttfuck, Northern California. Travis will be with me, getting laid and blown and having a full, loving, life. And he will be happy. That's a word that means satisfied and content. Look it up sometime, if you know how to crack a book.

Stupid Fucker.

Modern Medical Miracle

I think I could be the first documented case of someone actually getting their brains fucked out.

Dumb

Tired

Sad

Wistful

Satisfied

Melancholy

Will write when my smarts return. And my hoo-ha recovers.

Be jealous ladies. Very, very jealous...

Occupado

I'z be busy. Whitey be here. We be snogging.

Thanks for all your comments and reading this week and I hope everyone has a fanfuckingtastic weekend.

We'll come up for air in a couple days. :)

Betty

P. U.

I hate Dave Matthews. I hate his music. I hate his diarrhea spewing tour bus. I hate his stupid band of plinking plonking grade-school instruments. His voice sounds like a sack of cats being beaten with a hammer. He should be dropped from a terrific height, landing as a stain on the pavement.

Go away Dave Matthews. And take Sheryl Crow with you.

Death by Pop-Tart

I almost got hit by a car today. Almost being, I was so close if the car hadn't been screaming past me you might have thought I was standing in front of the door ready to insert the key and get in. I'm not sure how I was spared being clocked by the outside mirror, or freed from being flattened by the four-door at all.

I decided to stop at the Mobil station on my way to work and pick up some bottles of chilled water. O.K. I also wanted a pop-tart for breakfast. Alright! I wanted some chocolate too. I can't help it if I'm a junkfood junkie. It's my heroin man, lay off.

As I was pulling into the driveway I noticed another car zipping into the only parking space directly in front of the mini-mart doors. Crap, now I'll have to walk an extra 20 steps across the blacktop. Little did I know they could have been my last. Sheesh, you got me, It wasn't all that dramatic but I had a situational epiphany so go with me here.

I parked in another space and headed towards the store. Something to my left distracted me, something to her right distracted her. I looked up, and in the same instant, saw the maroon sedan wooshing literally 4 inches from me. My breath caught and my eyes widened as I watched the car disappear behind the building. It took me a second to begin moving again. I immediately thought, fuck, that was too close, I almost got smashed. Really, really smashed.

I gathered my sundries and waited at the checkout, the faint haze of what almost happened misting lightly on my mind. A female employee walked behind the counter and said to me "I almost hit you out there". This was a pivotal moment. One of those instances where it can go either way. Most reactions are a matter of choice, despite the vehement arguments you might receive to the contrary when in a terse situation. My own stubborness wanting to dismiss that notion as well. I'm not immune.

I laughed and responded "yes, yes you did". She didn't exactly apologize but I got the inkling that she was a little more shaken about almost killing a pedestrian than I was about being flattened in gas station parking lot.

"I didn't see you", she said. "I didn't see you", she repeated with a slightly weaker voice. I smiled and told her I was glad she didn't hit me, said thank you for my purchases and was sent off with a "have a good day", hoping that my casual air and conscience choice not to react in anger confirmed for both of us that it was no one's fault and everyone was fine. This was not a situation to escalate, like so many split second near-miss faultless happenstances do.

I climbed back into my car without a hint of the jitters and calmly drove away. However, even though this was a brief exchange with a stranger, a mere blip on the screen of my life, it made an impact. At least for today. The divine design of what is meant to be is not easily lost on me. I do pay attention. I might choose to occasionally ignore, but they are not discarded.

I drove and pondered. Strangely relaxed and satisfied. Finally having a diversion to burn the miles of traffic ahead of me. A song began on my CD player and intensified the morning, supporting my sentiments. It can be found on the Garden State soundtrack. The movie and music I endorse completely.

The beautiful melody touched me and the words were profound. I listened to it once then replayed it again as I pulled into the parking lot at work. I sat in my car and let it finish while I watched the cars in the distance flow down the freeway like ants marching in a militant line. Then I took an ativan. (Sneaky, those panic attacks are). These words struck me.

Let Go

Drink up baby down
Are you in or are you out?
Leave your things behind
'Cause it's all going off without you
Excuse me too busy you're writing a tragedy
These mess-upsYou bubble-wrap
When you've no idea what you're like

So, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown
So, let go
Just get in
Oh, it's so amazing here
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown

It gains the more it gives
And then advances with the form
So, honey, back for more
Can't you see that all the stuff's essential?
Such boundless pleasure
We've no time for later
Now you can wait
You roll your eyes
We've twenty seconds to comply

So, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It's alright
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown
So, let go
Just get in
Oh, it's so amazing here
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown


I thought about how I made the choice to be cool about my near car crushing, and thwarted a potentially nasty exchange with a stranger. No road rage today. I had a close call, but I was fine. I thought about the art of letting it go. This is probably my biggest challenge. To be able to simply let shit go. Let. Shit. Go. God. It's so fucking hard.

It seems like it should be as easy as blinking. You think about it, and bam, done deal. Such is not the case. It takes practice. Constant iteration. I'm cursed with trying too hard in certain (most)situations, relationships, endeavors. I've been told I'm too intense. A spaz. A hothead. Being a reactionary is a burden, and something I continually work on not to do. I really don't mean to be, most of the time. Although it does come in handy once-in-awhile. Its usefulness intermittent but necessary. Don't fuck with me. And I mean that.

I heard a profound statement recently and it's been a constant on my mind. A philosophy that made instant sense and application to my own life. All this time, speaking of the last 2 years, I've thought I was lost. Plunged into blinding darkness trying to fumble my way out, when in reality, I've been too found. Too fucking damn found. Reality has been a shriek through a bullhorn in my ear. A continual slap across my cheek. Constant reminders at every turn boring into my psyche like being pecked to death by a chicken. Too much fucking truth.

Jesus, I need a vacation. I need to get lost. To vanish. Just for a little while. Everyone requires that at one point or another. Sometimes you need to get away not to find yourself but to lose yourself.

Today, it's been a relief to realize that one facet of my quest has been journeyed down the wrong path. Wasted time is always a risky regret, and I'll choose not to look at it like that. It's not being found that I've needed, it's getting lost. Taking responsibility for my sovereignty of choice. Freeing myself from binding chains. Peeling of smothering layers. Discarding suffocation. Letting go. Breathing.

And it feels really good. Today, it feels good.

Today's Truth

Everlasting smothers
Vacillation of soul
Detach from others
Extention of toll

Swarmed by thoughts
Brave face of lies
Almost wrought
Unwilling goodbyes

My bearing cross
To disease am bound
Disillusion of lost
Was in fact too found

A journey of years
Fortunes now seen
The quell of fears
Hope wills serene