I don't know why people think only the crazies hear voices. It's a lie. A fallacy. Total bollocks. We all have multiple personality disorder and good on us. I, for one, appreciate the 26 sided die. The many-dimensional person. Someone who isn't a pre-programmed automaton moving through life on a virtual cerebral escalator responding to any and all stimuli according to societal rules. Someone who doesn't allow themselves to be shoved into a cookie-cutter mold of what they're "supposed" to be. Someone who can recognize that life is not static and change is not an event. The kind of person who listens to their inner dialogue, takes notes and makes revisions. It takes guts to be this type of person and something most of us need a hefty dose of. Oh waiter, I'll take the heaping plate of spleen please, with a diet coke.
The problem too many fall victim to is the negative crap voices that steer you in the dangerous directions. The ones that say "jump off the cliff you worthless bag of retarded filth." "You're not worthy to scrape the shit stains off the toilets in hell". Don't get me wrong, a loud shout of warning inside our crowded skulls is a good thing. Reason and pondering, weighing options and outcome is a smart thing to do, should your next action be preceded by "hold my beer for a second, I'm gonna try sumthin". Perhaps not, idiot.
However, even those who can recognize and heed a persistent murmur of "that's not a good idea" are not immune to the diabolically cruel voices chipping away at our brains with ruthless hammers, although I think some learn how to play this internal chess game better than others. And I truly believe it's a boy vs. girl issue. There are basic fundamental premises of treating the sexes differently from the time the doctor proclaims the squirming mass of flesh to be either male or female. I'm not saying all differences in child rearing are wrong, but speaking as a chick, I think we need to do a hell of a lot more to equip the future women in our societies to serve up a lot more cups of shut the fuck up and a lot less mindless agreeing to complete crap and worse still, beating themselves up every minute of the day.
These hellish voices dictate so much of ourselves. Why do they have such power? And why is it so hard to get them to muzzle thier pie holes? If a random stranger got in my face and called me a fat ass, I'd have to count to about a billion in order to control myself from ripping out their throat and screaming "take that asshole" into the gaping cavity. If someone I considered a friend yelled from a loudspeaker that I was a stupid whore, I'd have to make them cry salty tears of regret, for about a year. If a family member treated me with disrespect and for the millionth fucking time while watching a monkey eat its ass on the Discovery Channel said "hey Bitter, look, you're on TV", well, this is family, you know we all reserve the most vicious and heinous revenge for those we are related too. Just picture something like jalapeño juice in someone's underwear. That's all I'm sayin.
My wish, especially for young girls, who's internal voices scream the loudest and are bigger bitches than any skank you came across in your junior high locker room, is that you grab hold of that frothing cunt telling you you're fat, ugly, not worthy, unlovable, stupid, crazy, lame, incapable, cheap, poor, etc., ad nauseum, and kick her with all your might right in the twat. Gotta teach that ho a lesson and that you're no match for her. Make an example for any other snide, self-righteous, turd breath voices who'd like to step in a take a swipe at you and your self worth. And that includes the haunting sounds of our mothers, ex-boyfriends, that brutal dyke of a gym teacher in 11th grade, or the soulless celebate-not-by-choice retail boss you had at the mall. Because you kick ass, and you'll make them bleed their own blood if they cross that line.
We are truly our own worst enemies and it's time we stop fighting with ourselves. I'm so tired of hearing all of my friends (and myself) deflect a compliment, brushed off like a gnat buzzing in their face. Yes, yes you are funny. Yes, yes you are a beautiful person. Yes, yes you are a pain in the ass but you're my pain in the ass and I love you for who you are, ya dumb bitch. I'm so tired of watching young girls balance their entire self-worth on what someone else thinks of them. Their lives can change in one small instant, with one well-placed barb. And most of these are happening in their own heads. They don't even need someone to say anything mean to them. It's boring, you bitches! Knock it off!
There are so many women practically paralyzed with insecurities. We have enough challenges to deal with; we don't need to be in a constant battle with the hag in our head tearing us down one layer at a time. Enough already. Be confident. It's sexy. We all have something to offer. We're all worthwhile. We're all awesome. And don't you forget it!!
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Friday, November 05, 2004
You want me to do what?
O.K. Now that that's over, we can get back to behaving like a normal human being. Or at least the other 49% of the population. I've packed up the Red Tent, stashed the pons in the back of the cabinet, and donned my oh-so-pleasant demeanor. Ha, right. Like that will ever happen.
A question has gone blazing across my mind today after reading yet another funny story by Sundry. Not so much in the direction of having to pair up with a stranger, although I whole-heartedly agree. I can't stand the stranger hook-up. It immediately caused my stomach to lurch at the thought of every awkward horrible moment when I used to attend church, or am still cajoled by my parents to attend with them, and the minister calls out for the dreaded "greet your neighbor". Listen, that 150 year-old women sitting behind me with the nose whistle and the dead carcass around her frail shoulders is not my neighbor. I have no interest in grabbing her limp, cold, blue skeletor hand while feighing a counterfeit smile similar to the ones amateur porn stars exhibit when being rammed up the ass by Dirk Diggler and trying to act like it feels good. Noooooo thank you.
And this brings me to my question. Why do people make ludicrous suggestions whenever you have an issue, a need, a problem to solve? Whether you've asked for anyone's assistance or not? And why, for chrissakes, do we actually partake in some of these home-spun remedies and idiotic ideas when we know good god damn and well they are stupid as shit.
Take this morning for instance. I'm grubbin' on some almonds and whammo, one decides to jam itself between 2 of my molars, and that sucker was stuck. Fuck shit ouch. I scramble through the drawer I know I last threw some floss in, so I can unwedge the offending nut from my jaw and put my entire skull back into it's proper alignment, but it's not there. Fuck shit ouch. Now what am I going to do?
I call out to a couple of my co-workers, desperate for help, while trying to cram my fingernail between my teeth. Neither had floss but one comes skipping into my office with a sewing kit. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Sew myself a little pillow with a pack of dental floss appliqued on the front? Her proposed first choice for a floss substitute to fix to my dental dilemma was for me to actually pluck a strand of hair off of my head and...and...christ on a cracker, I can't even finish the sentence. The thought of actually winding a piece of hai...oh god, I think I'm going to puke. This might not seem like such a wildly disgusting idea that makes me want to crawl into my own ass just for a dark place to hide, but trust me, it is. I have a hair thing, which in itself is dumb since I have hair down to my waist, but I can't stand it once it detaches itself from my or anyone else's body. And we won't even go into free-floating watchsprings today, I'm nauseous enough.
I quickly quash that idea and cut her off mid-hair and grab the sewing kit with the dark blue string hanging out of it. Now, intellectually I know this is a crap idea. I know that string is not the same as dental floss. It has nowhere near the capacity to stretch or the strength as floss but what do I do? Yes, I separate it from the needle (I'm not that dumb) wind it around my fingers and jam it into my mouth and through the offending teeth and guess what? SNAP. Fucking string breaks, and now I don't just have the almond stuck between my teeth, causing my eyes to cross with the pain, but I have a piece of dirty blue string in there too. GAH!!
Thankfully, I went begging around the office and found some real floss and fixed myself right up. Still a bit queasy thinking about using a hai...EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Can't do it. Then I started thinking about all the fucked up koo-koo remedies my mother has come up with. I swear, if someone told her dog shit shakes would make you lose 4 pounds she'd be making the dog crap into a blender. Then there was the "a whole, raw clove of garlic" sore throat cure. Yea, uh huh, the reason why that works is because no one is gonna come near you for about a week since you stink like an Italian in Vegas.
That stupendous scheme was followed by the Aloe Vera juice cure. This was supposed to remedy all ills but mainly I think it just gave her the shits so bad she couldn't leave the house and everything seemed better since she had no contact with anyone or anything other than the week-old newspaper in the bathroom. There was also some sort of drink that poured out like pond scum and tasted about as good as a hair-permanent/grass smootie. And the really scary thing was if you shook the bottle it sounded like it was full of broken glass but no chunks of anything ever came out. Ick.
And don't ever tell anyone you're sick, broke, lonely, cold, bored, tired, constipated, etc., etc. It will soon be followed with "alls you gotta do is" and some asinine game plan that will undoubtedly involve a lethal concoction you'd only consume on a dare, while drunk, and high, and more importantly, could get laid over. Or worse yet, some hair-brained scheme that will find you so irreversibly fucked you'll have to change your name, dye your hair, get colored contacts, sell all your worldly possessions on E-bay under the login shitsandwich, and move into a cabin in the woods. I implore you, takers of bad advice. JUST. SAY. NO. S'what I shoulda done. String. What a dumbass.
A question has gone blazing across my mind today after reading yet another funny story by Sundry. Not so much in the direction of having to pair up with a stranger, although I whole-heartedly agree. I can't stand the stranger hook-up. It immediately caused my stomach to lurch at the thought of every awkward horrible moment when I used to attend church, or am still cajoled by my parents to attend with them, and the minister calls out for the dreaded "greet your neighbor". Listen, that 150 year-old women sitting behind me with the nose whistle and the dead carcass around her frail shoulders is not my neighbor. I have no interest in grabbing her limp, cold, blue skeletor hand while feighing a counterfeit smile similar to the ones amateur porn stars exhibit when being rammed up the ass by Dirk Diggler and trying to act like it feels good. Noooooo thank you.
And this brings me to my question. Why do people make ludicrous suggestions whenever you have an issue, a need, a problem to solve? Whether you've asked for anyone's assistance or not? And why, for chrissakes, do we actually partake in some of these home-spun remedies and idiotic ideas when we know good god damn and well they are stupid as shit.
Take this morning for instance. I'm grubbin' on some almonds and whammo, one decides to jam itself between 2 of my molars, and that sucker was stuck. Fuck shit ouch. I scramble through the drawer I know I last threw some floss in, so I can unwedge the offending nut from my jaw and put my entire skull back into it's proper alignment, but it's not there. Fuck shit ouch. Now what am I going to do?
I call out to a couple of my co-workers, desperate for help, while trying to cram my fingernail between my teeth. Neither had floss but one comes skipping into my office with a sewing kit. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Sew myself a little pillow with a pack of dental floss appliqued on the front? Her proposed first choice for a floss substitute to fix to my dental dilemma was for me to actually pluck a strand of hair off of my head and...and...christ on a cracker, I can't even finish the sentence. The thought of actually winding a piece of hai...oh god, I think I'm going to puke. This might not seem like such a wildly disgusting idea that makes me want to crawl into my own ass just for a dark place to hide, but trust me, it is. I have a hair thing, which in itself is dumb since I have hair down to my waist, but I can't stand it once it detaches itself from my or anyone else's body. And we won't even go into free-floating watchsprings today, I'm nauseous enough.
I quickly quash that idea and cut her off mid-hair and grab the sewing kit with the dark blue string hanging out of it. Now, intellectually I know this is a crap idea. I know that string is not the same as dental floss. It has nowhere near the capacity to stretch or the strength as floss but what do I do? Yes, I separate it from the needle (I'm not that dumb) wind it around my fingers and jam it into my mouth and through the offending teeth and guess what? SNAP. Fucking string breaks, and now I don't just have the almond stuck between my teeth, causing my eyes to cross with the pain, but I have a piece of dirty blue string in there too. GAH!!
Thankfully, I went begging around the office and found some real floss and fixed myself right up. Still a bit queasy thinking about using a hai...EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Can't do it. Then I started thinking about all the fucked up koo-koo remedies my mother has come up with. I swear, if someone told her dog shit shakes would make you lose 4 pounds she'd be making the dog crap into a blender. Then there was the "a whole, raw clove of garlic" sore throat cure. Yea, uh huh, the reason why that works is because no one is gonna come near you for about a week since you stink like an Italian in Vegas.
That stupendous scheme was followed by the Aloe Vera juice cure. This was supposed to remedy all ills but mainly I think it just gave her the shits so bad she couldn't leave the house and everything seemed better since she had no contact with anyone or anything other than the week-old newspaper in the bathroom. There was also some sort of drink that poured out like pond scum and tasted about as good as a hair-permanent/grass smootie. And the really scary thing was if you shook the bottle it sounded like it was full of broken glass but no chunks of anything ever came out. Ick.
And don't ever tell anyone you're sick, broke, lonely, cold, bored, tired, constipated, etc., etc. It will soon be followed with "alls you gotta do is" and some asinine game plan that will undoubtedly involve a lethal concoction you'd only consume on a dare, while drunk, and high, and more importantly, could get laid over. Or worse yet, some hair-brained scheme that will find you so irreversibly fucked you'll have to change your name, dye your hair, get colored contacts, sell all your worldly possessions on E-bay under the login shitsandwich, and move into a cabin in the woods. I implore you, takers of bad advice. JUST. SAY. NO. S'what I shoulda done. String. What a dumbass.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
PMS - you're my bitch now
The hormone fairy is a cunt. I hate her and her basket of bitch she carries. All tra-la-la-ing through the forest of my brain depositing her nasty gifts and fucking up my world, more than usual, for more than a few days. A few days that we will all pay for. Because of that whore. It's not my fault, it's hers.
I love being a woman. I wouldn't want to be a man. Dealing with huge boobs is akin to juggling 14 casaba melons on fire as it is, I could not cope with a twig and berries between my head crushing thighs either. And I love having an innie. I love make-up and shoes and flirting with men and sucking dick. Wait, now I think I'm a drag queen, but whatever. My point is, I like being of the female persuasion, most...of...the...time.
The nuclear dump that has become my mood is now at red alert. Even terrorists would run from me today. And bring it on Mufasa. Whatchoo got?? I'm having moments of such overwhelming, seething hatred I'm not looking anyone directly in the face since my deathray-eye could be considered a weapon of ass destruction, since it will hurt you and is usually followed by my nearly uncontrollable urge to kick your ass like the annoying red-headed step-child you are. You don't want to be on the receiving end of one of my puss faces. Seriously, I can make people cry and soil themselves. There are way too many people deserving of my dripping repugnance and way to many that I've encountered today, which is not the day people! So watch your step. Cuz I'm crazy. And I'll cut ya. Stupid bitch.
Excuse me? Does this lane belong to you? Is your name painted down the center spanning the entire 2,000 mile length of Interstate 15? Is there some type of mental disorder handed down through the generations of your inbred ancestry who's family tree resembles a straight line that does not allow anyone the ability to slightly glance to the left and see the car next to them is patiently and politely trying to merge over with a blinker furiously blinka blinka blinking or they're going to miss the exit and be even later since the fuckwits at the voting place hired 4 mouthbreathers to man the 50 people waiting in line at 7 fucking o'clock in the god damn morning. Yea, didn't think so. Stupid bitch.
And why do you insist on buying shoes that don't fit your fat fucking feet?? I don't want to see those dried out and cracked skanky heels hanging off the back of your 2 for 1 sandals from Payless. And who are you trying to be Miss I Brought My Tween To The Polls with your dowdy purple fugly dress paired with come-fuck-me shoes. I hope your feet hurt so bad by dinner time that your weeping blister gets stuck to the tiny leather strap and rips the skin right off of your pedicured toes. Get some fashion sense or I'll shove a Glamour up your ass. Stupid bitch.
Are you kidding me? Are you actually asking me the same dumb fucking question that I just answered in the e-mail I have now sent for the 4th time explaining how it all fucking works? Did you do that many drugs at the vocational high school you attended in Fuckass, Arkansas back in the 70's that what's left of your questionable intellect cannot compute the 3 short sentences I so painfully constructed in hopes that you'd be able to follow the basic principles of the written word and recognize the letters of the alphabet and that those letters when put together in certain combinations actually form words, and when those words are further joined together in a particular order that they actually create complete thoughts and valuable information is transmitted, received, accepted and understood. I thought you were at least that advanced beyond primordial soup. But apparently I was wrong. Stupid bitch.
Ooooo. Halloween candy.
Yes, yes, yes, you are the most important person I've ever spoken to. No, no, no, I have nothing else to do. I just sit here day after day after day waiting for you to call so I can only take care of you because I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO. Listen fuckneck, we've gone over this a few millions times. You will be taken care of as quickly as I can get to it, which now means sometime in the next millennia and when I'm good god damn and ready to since your attitude is by far no match for mine today and your request will now be filed somewhere UP MY ASS. Stupid bitch.
Fucking hormone fairy. Stupid bitch.
I love being a woman. I wouldn't want to be a man. Dealing with huge boobs is akin to juggling 14 casaba melons on fire as it is, I could not cope with a twig and berries between my head crushing thighs either. And I love having an innie. I love make-up and shoes and flirting with men and sucking dick. Wait, now I think I'm a drag queen, but whatever. My point is, I like being of the female persuasion, most...of...the...time.
The nuclear dump that has become my mood is now at red alert. Even terrorists would run from me today. And bring it on Mufasa. Whatchoo got?? I'm having moments of such overwhelming, seething hatred I'm not looking anyone directly in the face since my deathray-eye could be considered a weapon of ass destruction, since it will hurt you and is usually followed by my nearly uncontrollable urge to kick your ass like the annoying red-headed step-child you are. You don't want to be on the receiving end of one of my puss faces. Seriously, I can make people cry and soil themselves. There are way too many people deserving of my dripping repugnance and way to many that I've encountered today, which is not the day people! So watch your step. Cuz I'm crazy. And I'll cut ya. Stupid bitch.
Excuse me? Does this lane belong to you? Is your name painted down the center spanning the entire 2,000 mile length of Interstate 15? Is there some type of mental disorder handed down through the generations of your inbred ancestry who's family tree resembles a straight line that does not allow anyone the ability to slightly glance to the left and see the car next to them is patiently and politely trying to merge over with a blinker furiously blinka blinka blinking or they're going to miss the exit and be even later since the fuckwits at the voting place hired 4 mouthbreathers to man the 50 people waiting in line at 7 fucking o'clock in the god damn morning. Yea, didn't think so. Stupid bitch.
And why do you insist on buying shoes that don't fit your fat fucking feet?? I don't want to see those dried out and cracked skanky heels hanging off the back of your 2 for 1 sandals from Payless. And who are you trying to be Miss I Brought My Tween To The Polls with your dowdy purple fugly dress paired with come-fuck-me shoes. I hope your feet hurt so bad by dinner time that your weeping blister gets stuck to the tiny leather strap and rips the skin right off of your pedicured toes. Get some fashion sense or I'll shove a Glamour up your ass. Stupid bitch.
Are you kidding me? Are you actually asking me the same dumb fucking question that I just answered in the e-mail I have now sent for the 4th time explaining how it all fucking works? Did you do that many drugs at the vocational high school you attended in Fuckass, Arkansas back in the 70's that what's left of your questionable intellect cannot compute the 3 short sentences I so painfully constructed in hopes that you'd be able to follow the basic principles of the written word and recognize the letters of the alphabet and that those letters when put together in certain combinations actually form words, and when those words are further joined together in a particular order that they actually create complete thoughts and valuable information is transmitted, received, accepted and understood. I thought you were at least that advanced beyond primordial soup. But apparently I was wrong. Stupid bitch.
Ooooo. Halloween candy.
Yes, yes, yes, you are the most important person I've ever spoken to. No, no, no, I have nothing else to do. I just sit here day after day after day waiting for you to call so I can only take care of you because I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO. Listen fuckneck, we've gone over this a few millions times. You will be taken care of as quickly as I can get to it, which now means sometime in the next millennia and when I'm good god damn and ready to since your attitude is by far no match for mine today and your request will now be filed somewhere UP MY ASS. Stupid bitch.
Fucking hormone fairy. Stupid bitch.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Caution
Be careful with my heart, that is all I ask. All I ever ask. It's fragile. Made of glass. Like the kind spun out of sugary webs by the quiet man in the lonely booth at the county fair. His shelves lined with icy unicorns, horns dipped in gold that little girls yearn to hold but who's small hands haven't learned to be gentle enough for delicate love.
My heart has worked so very hard. It's tired and weary, but hopeful. It's remained steady and at moments strong. Protected. Surrounded by chisled granite and mortar. But like any stone wall, can be moved one rock at a time. Allowing light to shine through to the other side. However, if this heart is not treated with ardent hands, the barricade will be built to unreachable heights, wrapped in barbed wire and armed with guardsman.
All hearts should revered this way, mine included, and I shall do the same with yours. That is all I ask.
My heart has worked so very hard. It's tired and weary, but hopeful. It's remained steady and at moments strong. Protected. Surrounded by chisled granite and mortar. But like any stone wall, can be moved one rock at a time. Allowing light to shine through to the other side. However, if this heart is not treated with ardent hands, the barricade will be built to unreachable heights, wrapped in barbed wire and armed with guardsman.
All hearts should revered this way, mine included, and I shall do the same with yours. That is all I ask.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Wanted: One Don't Give a Shit Gene
I don't get it. I really don't. I wish I did, but I don't. How is it possible to not care about the assholes in the world and the stupid blather that they spew from their rotten gaping pieholes? How is it that some people are born with the ability to let stress slide off of their backs like whale shit in an iceflow? How do you turn off the worry switch before it melts your brain like an ice cream cone in Vegas? I do not possess these traits. And it's driving me crazy.
Scientists need to get off of their assess and back-burner something lame like male pattern baldness and check this out. Sorry guys, but a shiny head can be sexy and you can always buy a hat. I think figuring out which chromosonal pair holds the key to the big "fuck you" on a cellular level is much more important. Discovering how to turn off the loop in my head that replays a distressing and rancid situation over and over and over again would be better than finding the perfect pair of jeans.
I truly believe that men, boys, males, for the most part, are born with this gene. This makes me jealous and that's why I must destroy them. But I digress. With the exception of their primal need to kill things and punch each other in the neck on occasion, not much bothers these fellas. Of course, I think both sexes are nutty in their own way, but I cannot express with clarity the seething envy (and in some cases much lurve) I have of those people who can shake off a concern or a nasty exchange with a shrug and a "fuck em". I can do this once-in-awhile, but not on the daily basis that my life requires, and it sucks. Big. Giant. Donkey. Balls.
I worry about everything. I worry about the shape of my eyebrows. I worry about the clerk at the grocery store who didn't understand that I couldn't make eye-contact this morning because I didn't even brush my teeth today and was worried I had a total bat in the cave since I think I caught a cold on a germ-infested flying tube of death last weekend. I worry about the trip to Europe I might take sometime in my life because I don't like to fly and holy crap we'll be over the fucking ocean for hours and hours with no hope if an engine blows and I don't even own a fucking passport!! I worry about the person I haven't spoken to in a few days and have to supress thoughts that I've done something to warrant this non-communication. I can step right into a pile of shit without any effort, so it's not unreasonable to think I might have inadverdently stuck my finger up someone's ass by accident.
I'm extremely sensitive and if you say something the wrong way my temper flares and depending on the gravity of the offense, you'll either get a shiny fang glinting in the sun as a warning or a full-bore ripping of your throat with all my claws. And they are sharp my friends, they are sharp.
And how about text? For a long time I loved the fact that I didn't have to actually speak to the majority of jackfucks inhabiting the earth, and seem to all work for my company, since they could send me an e-mail. But now, I do so much of my communication through written word that the doors for mis-interpretation are way too wide. I was already slightly paranoid. Now I'm the Superintendant of Paranoiaville. Although I will contend that people have brought being passive-aggresive assholes in text to a new art form. Or they have been able to ignore modern culture and still don't get that ALL CAPS IS YELLING YOU RETARDED DIPSHIT.
Sparring is O.K. every now-and-then, you know, batting around a shivering little mouse watching its eyes glaze over with fear then witnessing the realization sink in that they're way out of their league and they should probably start praying for a favorable outcome. Or just kiss their ass goodbye with an "alright, you got me, enjoy the snack". But holy christ on a cracker, this stress-ball shit is ridiculous not to mention boring me to tears.
Granted, I have had an exceptionally bad time in the last year or so, and my stress meter is constantly at 11, but jebus, I either need some Prozac or I need to get laid. Damn.
Scientists need to get off of their assess and back-burner something lame like male pattern baldness and check this out. Sorry guys, but a shiny head can be sexy and you can always buy a hat. I think figuring out which chromosonal pair holds the key to the big "fuck you" on a cellular level is much more important. Discovering how to turn off the loop in my head that replays a distressing and rancid situation over and over and over again would be better than finding the perfect pair of jeans.
I truly believe that men, boys, males, for the most part, are born with this gene. This makes me jealous and that's why I must destroy them. But I digress. With the exception of their primal need to kill things and punch each other in the neck on occasion, not much bothers these fellas. Of course, I think both sexes are nutty in their own way, but I cannot express with clarity the seething envy (and in some cases much lurve) I have of those people who can shake off a concern or a nasty exchange with a shrug and a "fuck em". I can do this once-in-awhile, but not on the daily basis that my life requires, and it sucks. Big. Giant. Donkey. Balls.
I worry about everything. I worry about the shape of my eyebrows. I worry about the clerk at the grocery store who didn't understand that I couldn't make eye-contact this morning because I didn't even brush my teeth today and was worried I had a total bat in the cave since I think I caught a cold on a germ-infested flying tube of death last weekend. I worry about the trip to Europe I might take sometime in my life because I don't like to fly and holy crap we'll be over the fucking ocean for hours and hours with no hope if an engine blows and I don't even own a fucking passport!! I worry about the person I haven't spoken to in a few days and have to supress thoughts that I've done something to warrant this non-communication. I can step right into a pile of shit without any effort, so it's not unreasonable to think I might have inadverdently stuck my finger up someone's ass by accident.
I'm extremely sensitive and if you say something the wrong way my temper flares and depending on the gravity of the offense, you'll either get a shiny fang glinting in the sun as a warning or a full-bore ripping of your throat with all my claws. And they are sharp my friends, they are sharp.
And how about text? For a long time I loved the fact that I didn't have to actually speak to the majority of jackfucks inhabiting the earth, and seem to all work for my company, since they could send me an e-mail. But now, I do so much of my communication through written word that the doors for mis-interpretation are way too wide. I was already slightly paranoid. Now I'm the Superintendant of Paranoiaville. Although I will contend that people have brought being passive-aggresive assholes in text to a new art form. Or they have been able to ignore modern culture and still don't get that ALL CAPS IS YELLING YOU RETARDED DIPSHIT.
Sparring is O.K. every now-and-then, you know, batting around a shivering little mouse watching its eyes glaze over with fear then witnessing the realization sink in that they're way out of their league and they should probably start praying for a favorable outcome. Or just kiss their ass goodbye with an "alright, you got me, enjoy the snack". But holy christ on a cracker, this stress-ball shit is ridiculous not to mention boring me to tears.
Granted, I have had an exceptionally bad time in the last year or so, and my stress meter is constantly at 11, but jebus, I either need some Prozac or I need to get laid. Damn.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Next Stop: Freaktown
I'm finally convinced. My town has officially reached its max on freaks. They're all here. And they're breeding. OK, so yes, I live in California, Southern California to be exact, but that's NO reason for a disproportionate amout of carnival acts to be living in my neighborhood. No matter what everyone west of the Mississippi says.
Fahchrissakes.
I am not perfect, I'm far from it. I'm carrying around too much junk in my trunk and let's just say Sports Illustrated hasn't been chasing me around for years trying to get me in their swimsuit issue. And I will freely admit I have occasional lapses in judgment paired with useless- information tourettes resulting in some poor unsuspecting sales girl getting to know my current and personal life story while she's ringing up my 90th pair of jeans that I don't really need while desperately trying to get that super-fused hanger separated from my denim so I'll get the feck out of her face and she can finally get stoned in her Subaru on her lunch break. But I only do that once in awhile. And sometimes for sheer shock value. Cuz I'm evil like that.
But christ on a cracker, the shit shows I've run into lately are pushing the envelope for mutants and I'm thinking about developing a raging case of agoraphobia so I don't have to leave my house ever again.
Due to a shit-ass illness I was so lucky to be diagnosed with last summer, I've spent an obnoxious amount of time in doctors offices. In the beginning it wasn't so bad. I'd check in with the receptionist/front office nazi girl, find a magazine with the least amount of DNA on it, and park my sick butt in a chair. There would, in all probability, be another patient waiting and we'd give each other the obligatory glance, each wondering what the other was there for, then look away. Cuz that's what you're supposed to do.
The farther I've gotten into this crap the more it's required me to start seeing a few specialists. I was joyously oblivious and innocently pure to the going's on in a doctors office who is beyond the norm of medical practice. A physician with skills so exclusive that hopefully most of the populous will never need their services. Unfortunately, I have not escaped that bullet and thus, need to see a specialist for some junk going on. And, I've come to learn, so do the freaks.
Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost sympathy and buckets of empathy for anyone dealing with physical pain, limitations, scary and painful procedures, and fucked up diagnoses, but come on people, the waiting room is not a cocktail party. It's not a support group, and it certainly is not your private home.
Last week I had an appointment. No biggie. I arrived a few minutes early and as soon as I cracked open the door I noticed there were wall-to-wall people in there. Ah fuck. This is going to take awhile and someone is going to talk to me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And sure enough. The second I sat down in my chair with my DNAzine I had some old mans baggie-pantsed ass in my face while his geeky girlfriend started telling me about her latest mammogram while grabbing her National Geopraphic boobs. Seriously, he had about 6 feet in front of him but felt the need to have his big old butt practically parked on my nose. Then she started handing out fliers from the office to people at random without saying a word. WTF? This went on, I shit you not, for an hour and a half. I seriously had to fake a hearing impairment.
Then just when I think I'm either going to lose my mind or have to leave, a poor woman is wheeled into the room in her wheelchair and parked, yup, right in front of me. I'd already been chanting the mantra "please don't talk to me" for over an hour but when I looked up to offer a little smile I noticed her gaping trachea apparatus on her neck and she was staring off into space. Thinking I was safe I went back to reading the same page I'd read about 4 times already. Out of the corner of my eye I see her hand move, close over the trach and say something to her husband. Immediately I knew something was askew. It didn't sound right. Way too gurgly. Oh crap, I thought, this can't be good. Sure enough, she picked up a tissue, and as she faced me from 18 inches away, covered her neck and horked the loudest, most bubbly, gag-producing snot rocket I've ever heard. There aren't enough happy places for something like that. Yea, yea, I know she's in a bad way, yea, yea, I know I'm lucky, yea, yea, yea. It was still horrific and I had to force down my puke for a good 10 minutes.
Then, yesterday I'm shopping and it was one geek after another. Big, smelly close-talkers. Pony tails pulled to tight with bright blue eye-shadow streaked across the forehead, big girls in small pants, people walking down an isle and stopping right in front of me with now way around. (Jebus, I hate that). And a giant women with a giant daughter, who seriously looked like Charles Manson's love child, cutting in front of me in line to ask a question. The woman pushing her psycho-grin kid forward yelling at the top of her lungs that "YOU'LL NEVER LEARN HOW TO BE AN ADULT IF YOU CAN'T ASK A QUESTION". Hey, Godzilla, how's about you teach your kid to wait her turn so bitches like me won't run a heel down her shin for getting too close and cutting in line? Eh?
Sometimes I should be kept away from humans.
Fahchrissakes.
I am not perfect, I'm far from it. I'm carrying around too much junk in my trunk and let's just say Sports Illustrated hasn't been chasing me around for years trying to get me in their swimsuit issue. And I will freely admit I have occasional lapses in judgment paired with useless- information tourettes resulting in some poor unsuspecting sales girl getting to know my current and personal life story while she's ringing up my 90th pair of jeans that I don't really need while desperately trying to get that super-fused hanger separated from my denim so I'll get the feck out of her face and she can finally get stoned in her Subaru on her lunch break. But I only do that once in awhile. And sometimes for sheer shock value. Cuz I'm evil like that.
But christ on a cracker, the shit shows I've run into lately are pushing the envelope for mutants and I'm thinking about developing a raging case of agoraphobia so I don't have to leave my house ever again.
Due to a shit-ass illness I was so lucky to be diagnosed with last summer, I've spent an obnoxious amount of time in doctors offices. In the beginning it wasn't so bad. I'd check in with the receptionist/front office nazi girl, find a magazine with the least amount of DNA on it, and park my sick butt in a chair. There would, in all probability, be another patient waiting and we'd give each other the obligatory glance, each wondering what the other was there for, then look away. Cuz that's what you're supposed to do.
The farther I've gotten into this crap the more it's required me to start seeing a few specialists. I was joyously oblivious and innocently pure to the going's on in a doctors office who is beyond the norm of medical practice. A physician with skills so exclusive that hopefully most of the populous will never need their services. Unfortunately, I have not escaped that bullet and thus, need to see a specialist for some junk going on. And, I've come to learn, so do the freaks.
Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost sympathy and buckets of empathy for anyone dealing with physical pain, limitations, scary and painful procedures, and fucked up diagnoses, but come on people, the waiting room is not a cocktail party. It's not a support group, and it certainly is not your private home.
Last week I had an appointment. No biggie. I arrived a few minutes early and as soon as I cracked open the door I noticed there were wall-to-wall people in there. Ah fuck. This is going to take awhile and someone is going to talk to me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And sure enough. The second I sat down in my chair with my DNAzine I had some old mans baggie-pantsed ass in my face while his geeky girlfriend started telling me about her latest mammogram while grabbing her National Geopraphic boobs. Seriously, he had about 6 feet in front of him but felt the need to have his big old butt practically parked on my nose. Then she started handing out fliers from the office to people at random without saying a word. WTF? This went on, I shit you not, for an hour and a half. I seriously had to fake a hearing impairment.
Then just when I think I'm either going to lose my mind or have to leave, a poor woman is wheeled into the room in her wheelchair and parked, yup, right in front of me. I'd already been chanting the mantra "please don't talk to me" for over an hour but when I looked up to offer a little smile I noticed her gaping trachea apparatus on her neck and she was staring off into space. Thinking I was safe I went back to reading the same page I'd read about 4 times already. Out of the corner of my eye I see her hand move, close over the trach and say something to her husband. Immediately I knew something was askew. It didn't sound right. Way too gurgly. Oh crap, I thought, this can't be good. Sure enough, she picked up a tissue, and as she faced me from 18 inches away, covered her neck and horked the loudest, most bubbly, gag-producing snot rocket I've ever heard. There aren't enough happy places for something like that. Yea, yea, I know she's in a bad way, yea, yea, I know I'm lucky, yea, yea, yea. It was still horrific and I had to force down my puke for a good 10 minutes.
Then, yesterday I'm shopping and it was one geek after another. Big, smelly close-talkers. Pony tails pulled to tight with bright blue eye-shadow streaked across the forehead, big girls in small pants, people walking down an isle and stopping right in front of me with now way around. (Jebus, I hate that). And a giant women with a giant daughter, who seriously looked like Charles Manson's love child, cutting in front of me in line to ask a question. The woman pushing her psycho-grin kid forward yelling at the top of her lungs that "YOU'LL NEVER LEARN HOW TO BE AN ADULT IF YOU CAN'T ASK A QUESTION". Hey, Godzilla, how's about you teach your kid to wait her turn so bitches like me won't run a heel down her shin for getting too close and cutting in line? Eh?
Sometimes I should be kept away from humans.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
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