The Only June Doe

Driving Down Memory Lane in My Green Machine

2011-10-13T09:57:00.003-05:00

I can't seem to control my memories these days. Things that I want to immediately remember for a conversation quote seem to elude me; and other things seem to come to me for reasons unknown, triggered by the smells?, the glances?, the weather?....And for what purpose? No idea. But, today is one of those days. So, I will record the story and see if I am supposed to get anything out of it other than simply putting it to paper in solid form.

On a recent drive across the large State of Texas to visit family, I had to drive through Big Springs. I lived there briefly as a small child with my mother, in a trailer park. My mother was mentally ill and spent a great deal of my life bouncing from one State Mental Institution to another. I know the town I live in now, the place is old, and gross and scary. And I always felt a certain amount of sadness for my mother being stuck, first in her own head, and second being in that state in a place like that. It is easier for us to dismiss the mentally ill, tuck them away in jail-like quarters. We never seem to take care of those places.

The funny thing about Texas, and maybe the United States in general, is we're so quick to erase out history and develop the newer, the better, the more shiny. In the town I live in now, giant, shiny high rises have knocked down the former lives of so many. You only get to stay if you're considered famous - the building has your name on it. Never mind, that in order for you to be so famous, there were so many other lives involved in your getting there....but, those are not important...just erase them.

But, in the small towns, you can see them. Where the big money and influence hasn't reached yet. The buildings half-broken down with faded signs. But, here in the US those are also a bit funny to me. Nothing here is ancient yet. Our country is so new still. Nothing is thousands of years old. So rather than being kept up like the Seven Wonders, these buildings and spots are more like items you find in some old person's attic with years of dust and cobwebs. Yes, there were lives in those places with stories and memories. Maybe better than the famous. Yes, better.

As I drove through the town, I saw Big Springs Mental Hospital. It was a very old building, but much to my surprise is was beautifully kept. Old architecture with gardens and a beautiful lawn. I teared up a bit. Maybe this was a least one place that wasn't so horrible for my mother to be at. Maybe. There was just a tiny bit of relief there. Oh mother, was this place ok for you? Just this one time?

I didn't have that many memories of this town, just a couple. I think when we lived here, I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I remember the trailer a bit. We shared the trailer with a male roommate. I don't remember his name. My mother and I slept on one side of the house and the man took the other side. The only things I remember about him were really snip its. I remember one time he showed me that you could eat these parts of the pine tree outside. And I did. It was sticky and very full of pine flavor. And he said that if I was ever out in the woods stuck, this would be a plant I could eat. I remember thinking that was so silly. I had never seen the woods, ever. So, how would I be stuck in them, sometime? But, still I stored the knowledge away, just in case...just in case.

I also remember that he did something my mother did not like. And she was so mad at him, and yelled at him not to do it in front of me, or he'd be sorry. I didn't know what it was, but I knew he would be in big trouble if he did it.

One day, my mother was at the store, and he told me I couldn't go outside and play yet, because he had to do something first. I was mad. I had my new Green Machine. I started for the door, but he grabbed me under the arms and took me to his room and shut and locked the door. He told me, just a minute and we can go outside. I was really mad then, I was big enough to go by myself. I didn't need him watching me and babying me.

He got something from under his bed and lit it. I heard my mother's car drive up. I knew he was doing the bad thing. And I was so mad at him, I was going to tell. See how he liked that. I turned around, unlocked the door and ran outside. Yelling, "He's doing it again!!! Mom, he's doing that bad thing!!! He's doing it!!! Right in front of me, after you told him not to!!!"

My mother went inside and put the groceries down, and started yelling. They proceeded to fight, back and forth. And I smiled and stayed outside. I had my own parking spot for my Green Machine. I wouldn't let any of the other kids play on it. I also had a plain old, Big Wheel. So, if you wanted to play with me, you could ride that one. But, not the Green Machine. I got on and went down the sidewalk. Faster and faster and faster. Sometimes, pulling the break on the side so hard I might spin around, or I might crash, either was good. But, I was forgotten for a bit and could just play by myself. It was awesome. It wouldn't be until years later that I would figure out that what the "bad thing" the man was doing was smoking pot. And, when I did it, sometimes I would hear my mother's voice yelling at that guy, and feel a tiny bit a guilt. But, not enough, I guess.

I also remembered my Bert and Ernie shoes. Man, I loved those shoes. Bert was one foot and Ernie was the other. I LOVED THOSE SHOES!!!! I wore them with everything, and never wanted to wear anything else. EVER.

One day, at the trailer, there was a knock at the door. It was the neighbor's daughters. They hadn't seen their father or heard from him in a bit and wanted to know if my mother had seen him; she hadn't. They left their contact number and were on their way.

There was a smell. It was so bad. My mother and the roommate thought we might have rats. But, the smell got worse and worse. A bunch of the neighbors could smell it. My mother was a nurse. One morning, she walked over to the old man's house. He had a bad drinking problem, I'd heard them say. I walked with her. I remember my mother gasping as she looked in the window. She bent down and took my Bert shoe off, and threw it at the window. When it broke, there was this wave of smell that hit me like a ton of bricks. I got sick, and light headed and threw up on my Ernie shoe and my other sock foot. My mother grabbed me, and ran back to the house and called the police. Turned out that the old man was dead, and had been for days. he was drunk and threw up and drowned on his own vomit. I cried and cried. And everyone thought I was so sad about the old man's death. But, I wasn't. It was the loss of my favorite shoes. I never said anything about it, but I was so mad at my mother, probably for years. They were my favorite shoes.

That's all I remember. So, now it's to paper. Yes, there were people there, not famous, but they lived, and they had stories.

Still sitting facing the corner, In the Quiet Chair.

2011-09-09T11:12:00.003-05:00

I haven't been writing. What most people don't get about me, maybe some do, when I'm not talking/writing it's because whatever I'm not wanting to talk about is a secret to myself. Ok, Ok, now having put it on page, out on the Internet, everyone is going to know. I don't talk when I'm thinking of personal, secret things....the things I keep to myself. That's when I'm the most quiet. So, want to know when I'm keeping my secrets? Watch for when I'm not talking.

I talked to an ex-coworker yesterday. He read my blog. And he wanted to know why I never told him that I was a stripper. I didn't tell him because first of all, I never thought it very interesting. I was a horrible stripper, and only did it for a bit, before becoming a successful waitress - that's where the real money is at. And people like to pretend that there's something different about working in a strip club vs. working in an office. It's not different, same plots and politics. So, I didn't think it made for entertaining stories. I don't really talk much about working in an office either. Neither are the particularly interesting parts about myself; aside from the occasional memory of a instance at either place. To me, the stories where never in the jobs themselves, maybe not even me in the stories, but the people or the events I witnessed to regale later. Hard to say.

The past couple of years have been hard. Maybe harder than I wanted to admit. My MS has started to take my brain and strength...as it's supposed to. And time and fate have taken some friends and family, as it too is supposed to. Well, the MS has also taken people from me...You really do find out who's in it for the long hall when you turn gimp, sure do. I had to quit working, a couple of people died, I've gained weight, etc., etc., etc. My doctor thinks I need counseling. Oh, that old thing again. I've been enough times in my life to know what they're going to say. I actually know already what to do. So, given my current state of finances, I don't really see the need to spend the money on things I already know. I just need to be quiet a little while longer, that's all. Quiet and distracted by things unimportant. There's been a lot of grief there, these past couple of years. So, is it the depression acting up again? Is it the MS, playing with my brain. Maybe. Or maybe, I've just needed to be quiet. Quiet thought and the grief process go hand in hand.

I was always loud and funny, and an ace at deflection. I'm not sure just how many people I've encountered actually know just how very sensitive I actually am.

I'm not ready to write yet about all the things that are mine, that I'm grieving about. I will, just not yet. I'm close, but just not yet. And even if I wrote it all done, would it really be that interesting? Would it make me feel better?

And these past couple of years, I'm not the only one who's been grieving. I've been watching a dear friend in the process of loosing his mother. I love this man, very much, such a good friend. And I'm only just able to watch and talk. But, I'm not magic, I can't wash this pain away for him. So, I find that there are certain unfair inadequacies in friendships. I've watched as my father lost his sister, his mother, and now is brother - the last of his nuclear family go. And no really concrete words exchange between us, because we're just not that close. I watched another friend take care of her ex-husband, who had a stroke after o.d.ing on drugs. She did it so her children, who are still busy growing up, didn't have to do it. (This one story was super admirable, and amazing.) I bought BBQ sauce from New Jersey because a gaming friend needed the money, and what doing what he could to survive. I watched neighborhoods flood and the burn, people loosing friends, family members, pets, homes. I even watched the Government argue over the most ridiculous items for what?....the betterment of what?...the moral structure of the nation?, the world? Yeah, good luck with that. I'm not sure we truly ever had morals per say. Just awesome oneupmanship.

Boy, I do sound depressed...all doom and gloom. But, that's not all of it. It's really not. There have been babies born. And some neighbors helping neighbors. My hair actually grew out a bit. My home is good, my man is good, my child is good. So, not it's not all doom and gloom. I'm not at my whits end or anything. I'm just quiet about the secret stuff. And when I'm done being quiet, I will talk about it. But, not today.

Today, well, I wrote this. And today, I'm going to gather some items for the people who recently lost their stuff in a fire. Today, I've got some stuff to do. And when I feel like talking, I'll let you know.

I have the flu...the story of the gingy amputee

2010-09-30T09:40:00.005-05:00

I've had the flu for about a week now. It feels like a month. I can't keep track of the days vs. the nights. What time is it now? Did I take a bath today? Did I eat? Should I bathe? Should I eat? The boredom of it all...listless, feeling like shit....not caring too much that I'm bored, but then completely overwhelmed by being bored. Thankfully, I have TiVo to remind me what day it actually is by my recorded series manager and reality shows. Yes, thank God for that.

Being high on fever, my mind wanders. I opened a thing of applesauce, and almost put it in my cup of Miso soup. In my head that seemed normal, completely normal....catching myself at the last minute...feeling like I needed to check myself and realizing that I just needed a spoon for the apple sauce....and, rebelling completely against the feeling that it was still the right action to put it in the soup. Yeah, I'd better not drive anywhere right now. Better not....but, jesus, I feel like shit and am so bored. I don't have anywhere to go, but my own sick head. I want to smoke, can't. I want to eat pie, can't. I can't do anything. Even the cats are yelling at my blank stare. No, kitties, I can't change your cat box right now. Yeah, just go on the floor. The guys won't help me with you, because I'm the one that brought you all home. And you can't just go outside, you all took off your collars, remember? Just a few days. I feel like shit.

I saw a gingy on the television. I've never been a fan of the redhaired. Not really, at all. Yuck. White pasty skin with bright read hair....seems so wrong. Like the color wheel of human evolution got offended by something we did, or somewhere we went....yep, got pissed off and made the gingies. Oh, don't get so made at me....it's just a personal preference. And of course, there are exceptions to every group, even the gingies. It's just super rare that there's a hot gingy....I didn't make the fucking rules. The color orange doesn't look good anywhere but on a fucking orange, and maybe the sun....but, that's it. I didn't make the rules, sad gingy.

I knew a gingy once, when I was homeless. I chose some pretty bad places to be...anywhere but some place that used to be home. I don't remember his name. He was a drug dealer, and had been in prison. Not a high level dealer....not hanging with the likes of me. A bit white trash, and he was an amputee. His right arm just didn't have a hand. He was short and thin. And his one arm was just a bit smaller than the other, and it just stopped, no hand. It was slightly rounded around the edges of the nub, and normal pallor. It just looked like it was normal that way, all short and nubby, but your brain knew it wasn't normal and something seriously wrong had happened there. I did stare sometimes, wondering things like how the blood flowed in less time. I never wanted to touch it, like I might catch the nubbiness of it. And watching him move around with it. Yeah, he could move around with it, but he couldn't write with it....let's be reasonable....thumbs just do come in handy for some things.

I think it was some farm accident. Which is kind of funny in itself....all the accidents with farm equipment. You'd think we'd learn to turn things off before we put our hands in.

We got along alright. He told me once, when he was drunk and making a pass at me, about his sexual prowess with his amputated stump. I was a bit drunk, too. He told me how he would put his stump inside of the chick, and how much they loved it. I just blew it off....guys always like to tell stories of all the "awesome" stuff they can do. Blah, blah, blah.....That ole story again, like a broken record.

Years later, I was working at a bar. It was dark, and late, and I had my tray full of shots and beers. Holy shit. There was the gingy amputee, right there....the night lights passing back and forth over him. Even though it didn't seem like it, I was along way away from where I was when we knew each other back then. Yeah, I could be a little more picky about the company I kept. I had some things to loose now. I didn't want to have the reunion. I didn't want to have the so what are you doing now talk. Jesus, he still had a nub and red hair. The crowd was growing anyway, and it was dark, and I was busy. I could avoid it. I kept an eye on him, off and on, to see where he was, to adjust my space to not be in his.

Behind the wait station, I watched him wave his god damned nub in the air for service. Wow, another thing a nub was good for. I remembered what he said about women and his nub. Nub fucking.

I never saw him again. But, seeing the gingy on TV brought it all back. I used to work at a pretty sleazy porn shop for a bit. But, I couldn't remember any amputee porn. There had to be some, given all the other complete craziness I've seen....there had to be, right?!?!!

I called a trusted friend. This friend is trusted because I could call up and ask questions about things like amputee porn, and he would still love me, and not hang up the phone.....now, that's a friend.

I told him about the gingy amputee guy I knew. And what he had said. My friend searched for me, and sent me a couple of links to view.

And there it all was, all laid out, people with nubs having sex...using their nubs to have sex....nubby projectiles. I watched all the links a few times each...my mind turning them over and over.

I wasn't turned on. Maybe because of the harshness of all these examples of nub sex. I had to wonder if there was some kind of softcore nub porn with a back story of love that might get to me. Maybe, but, I doubted it. If someone I loved suddenly had a nub, could I do it? I'm not sure I could. And then how sad is that?....What kind of asshole am I that I couldn't even had nub sex with someone I loved? I would just be grossed out and tell them no. What kid of asshole was I?

On the other hand, what kind of pervert are you to want to fuck a nub? Do you have to put everything weird in every orifice just because there's a hole there? We are really stupid when it comes to sex. Now, I can't get all holier than thou.....but, we are ALL pretty stupid when it comes to sex.

I was horrified and fascinated and giggled. Stupid fever. Stupid nub fuckers.

I'm so glad I was never drunk enough to have sex with that gingy amputee. Still got a few things I can look down on.

The thread that binds.

2010-08-30T08:47:00.004-05:00

There are some details that I will share with you, and some that I will only keep for myself. Some are truths, some are embellishments, not on purpose, maybe just for flair or just my own brain fooling both of us.

What do I have of my own personal history. Really only my own thoughts and examinations. It is not clouded by what others have shared or told me. There are not many records or pictures. It is only my thoughts and my words.

I do have a picture of my Grandfather. I took is when I went back home before he passed. It is one of my favorites. It is exactly how I remember him. Yes, that one snapshot embodies almost everything that I defined him by.

He is standing tall, even though I do not suppose he was really that tall. He is standing tall in front of his garage with his red hair fading to white in his coveralls. He worked on cars, and that was his shop. One of the first buildings to be built in this small town. He built his home, too.

I remember being at his shop with him when I was so small. He would pick me up, and his red chest hair would just be peaking out of the top of his coveralls where the zipper stopped. Not much for fashion, but comfortable, purposeful, determined, ready wear.

My grandmother would hem the pants of these coveralls for him. And when the zipper broke, she would put in a new one. She did a lot of sewing.

My grandparents are both past now. My grandmother the last to go. The chore of going through the things of the dead. That chore is such a strange chore. It brings out the greed in some, the sadness in some, the joy in others....all the while, the dead don't care - they are beyond material things. All the items we amass left to beggars, robbers, hoarders.

I was of the later, a hoarder. A hoarder of memories, and scents, and touches. Yes, I am a hoarder of such things.

In one box, was a pile of my grandfather's coveralls. I took several pairs. No, I did not have a plan for these items. There is no reasoning in hording, only shame - the shame that I wouldn't have a purpose for them. These items would lay waste in my own boxes, in my own closest and I would die and any memory of their purpose would cease with me.

But, there they were. The two pairs of coveralls, these particular pair - in bright colors - Colors that I was familiar with. And my hording shame turned to laughter and glee - so, much that I almost cried from laughter. These coveralls were in the colors of my own man's football team.

I would make him a gift. This gift would be funny and cause celebration and laughter. This gift would be from my family history of past, to my family history of the present. The coveralls would live and start a new tradition. I was so excited.

I never cared for sports. But, my man does. I supported him before, by making pigs in a blanket, and getting beer, and a large TV, and even a tattoo. We were good to each other like that. Both of us different and supportive.

When I got home with all of my things, I went straight away for the bag containing the coveralls. I showed my man the bag, and told him that it was a surprise for him. I made him promise to try them on as soon as he took them out of the bag. And not to argue with me, because it was important.

I shouldn't have worried that he wouldn't like them. Once he saw what they were, he stripped and donned the first pair immediately. He's a bit taller than my grandfather was, I would have to let out the hem. I showed him the picture of my grandfather. He understood the importance and hugged me; however, not without hiding his own delight with the gift. Although, their purpose would change, the history of past and future would remain and begin - A fantastic collision.

He went to get a patch of his football team to put on one of the pair of coveralls. But, he couldn't sew, not to say he didn't try. I awoke the next morning with the plea of help and a crudely placed patch.

I had not sewn for years. Although, I had been taught by my grandmother. It wasn't a skill that I particularly concentrated on. It didn't hold an interest for me, in the least. So, slow and boring. But, now, my man and the coveralls depended on me. In good conscious, I could not let my man go to his fantasy football draft in his fantastic coveralls with some half-assed patch. It was my blood that depended on this moment.

I still had the sewing kit my grandmother gave me. The coveralls were so cumbersome to work with, already sewn and divided into their folds. I couldn't find a place to put them, to lay them out straight to line of the patch with the pocket. I searched my home in vain for hours.

Then I found it, my eyes fell on it. Within the boxes of my grandparents things was my Great-Grandmother's sewing kit. Actually, it was right on top of the box that I hadn't put away yet. My Great-Grandmother had really been the super star of sewing - so, it's been mentioned. I found her old embroidery hoop and some thicker thread. I worked beautifully in holding the fabric still.

I squinted to thread the needle, just as I remembered my grandmother doing. I tacked the patch down with the stick pens from my kit. I knotted the thread at one end. And recalled the stitch my grandmother taught me to do.

As it would turn out, I had estimated the thread to be the exact amount that I needed to do the entire patch and only pricked my finger once... It was just a tiny drop of blood on the inside, no one would see. It was finished and secure. My man would be ready. He would look good. He would look proper.

I sat eyeing my work with some degree of pride. It was such a small thing. Such a small thing that represented three generations of the making. I was suddenly connected to so many threads. The thread that was the women in my family. The thread that was the men in my family. The thread that was my family now.

I took a picture.

Fight Club and 1st Cup of Coffee

2010-07-10T09:55:00.004-05:00

My mind is fragmented this morning. That's is not unusual. I've really been a person who doesn't complete any one thing, completely unreliable and well meaning, filled with ideas, and distracted by shiny baubles.

Today I was thinking about the words: Respect, Non-Discrimination and Compassion.

Then my thoughts were were clouded with other words like: Control, Fear, Adrenaline, Greed.

This week I watched the news and an old man's first thought about his small town gasoline spill, and it was a VERY small town, was Terrorists. I thought how the words Control and Fear played a roll in this man's life, and how the word rebel has been replaced by the word terrorist. How the word accident has been replaced by terrorist. And in the same talk he used the word God.

I watched famous people fighting for control of government power seats talking about getting back to were our country was founded on. Really?!? We were drunk, ignorant, and full of hate for women and any race not white. I must be exhausting to be that needy for power, and ALWAYS having to be working. I was so tired just watching it all, and watching the destruction of the human spirit and free thought, right in front of me. ALL the Repetition over and over and over - not even new, it had all been said before. Fuck, that's boring. They all, also used the word God.

Then I have watched the building of other churches, and people rose to claim their evil...and all I could think of was people on racks being stretched until they broke, screaming in pain and fear, soiling themselves for God, in a prior time. How we all forget that history.

So, this morning I'm still waking up, and I'm still a bit sleepy. I thought of my own favorite fight lines, from my own history.

"I don't have to take this shit from a cross-eyed mother fucker."

"Eat dirty clothes, you bitch."

"Are we really going to fight over a burrito? How do you know I don't have a gun in my Honda?"

"Well, fuck you, you fucking fuck."

"Just shut-up, you scrotum-faced only hag."

Yeah, I have known the art of a fight or two. And fights are fun. But, then coming down after the adrenaline has stopped flowing, and the shame of hurting someone else, and the self badges of honor for hurting someone else....yeah, all that. Only to really gain much of nothing permanent.

So, this morning, I'm not positive if I want to join the fights for good, like education reform, etc. OR, do I just want to stock up on bullets for myself and the day when it all crashes because of the lack of those other three words.

I just don't know if I have it in me for either....let me finish my coffee first.

Silver Spiders

2010-07-06T18:09:00.004-05:00

If there is truly order in chaos, than that does negate the very thing. Maybe there is ONLY chaos, or maybe there is ONLY order.

I am supposed to be watching my son perform his movie, he did make us tickets, but sometimes he pretends the same...and it is so hot, and my clothes are sticking to me, my brain is a bit foggy. I am distracted by the giant spider web to my right, hanging from my three story tree. The tree was so damaged in the storm, gnarled up, I'm glad to see the spider has some use for it. I watch the spider go around and around making the web, so fast, so busy, in the humidity. She finally sits in the center and waits; her body reflecting the light, making her completely silver, as though she was her own welcoming beacon for the suicidal insects....a whisper of comfort. I was torn. I wanted to strum my finger just once or shoo a bug into her web - but the nagging fear that I would upset something halfway across the world, those theories written by madmen with OCD. Did they see the silver spider, too? And then the oil spilled for them as well?

My son fired off his gun against the insurmountable foes of our backyard. I turned my head, never seeing the spider capture anything. And the web was gone by morning. I never tested one theory, or by the nature of it, had I.

Red

2010-04-08T15:29:00.003-05:00

That color red. Colors varying in hues...red to pink....red to brick...red to heart. That color red that says innocence, blood, ground, anger, flowers, heat, stop...All those things under one small, three letter word. I bought some red jasper stones to send to a friend that I was thinking of. These rocks were shiny and different reds, deep in color and cool to my touch. I wrapped them carefully and put them in the box of small wind chimes that I had also gotten for her. Soon to send off.

My heart has jumped a few extra times over the last few days. My past and dreams collide with my natural beat. That color red. I saved some of the rocks I bought. I won't send them all off.

Maybe someday.

Will you still respect me in the morning?...No, no I will not.

2010-04-07T12:32:00.003-05:00

I'm feeling hot and constipated lately. Usually a sign that I'm holding something in, and the lack of dookie is only a symptom of the larger picture.

I have always been running with scissors, for as long as I can remember. Now, not so much. But, lately, I have needed to run, run, run, chomping at the bit run.

I got the email from my father that my grandmother was in the hospital...she has cancer and is too weak to go through the treatments, she has jaundice. Is she dying? My father angry and chocked up said, he didn't know, but it was bad. I don't talk to my father. Oh, he's been in therapy, but, it didn't help him with me, even after almost forty years...but this was my grandmother. I would call my brother, who dad hadn't called yet, and tell him the news and let him know that I was going.

My father's sister recently died. She had cancer. My brother and I were not allowed to go the my Aunt's death bed, and we weren't allowed to go and be with the family...we were told not to go. Then right after her death, my father sold my grandmother's house without telling either of us, and moved her to live in San Antonio with him. My brother and I would each make our own trek back to the house before it was demolished to visit and say our piece, without telling our father.

I had the most history with my grandmother, who had not been nice to my brother, because he was my half-brother. Oh, how I wanted my brother to go, how I needed his support, but I needed it to be his decision - I was not going to manipulate him like our family had done to both of us so many times.

I slammed stuff into a suitcase and sped to San Antonio. I hated the traffic and wished that I had a sign that said my grandmother is dying, get the fuck out of my way or a battering ram. I finally found the hospital and my father. He looked like crap - his eyes were all red and swollen. He had gotten so much older. I never visit...it's not good for either of us.

My grandmother was awake and yellow. I told her how yellow she looked and how much I had missed her, and that I would be staying with her, I would have them move a cot right in. We held hands and hugged. I teared up....all those times, all those memories, from the earliest of my existence. She had always been there...always. I suddenly remembered sitting in the big Ford stationwagon in front of the PigglyWiggly's before they opened. Mamaw liked to be early...every Wednesday morning. I would get animal crackers to keep me quiet in the store, and I always felt bad about eating their heads, but, since I had already taken a very uncomfortable bite out of them, I should finish them off. Right back to being knee-high to a grasshopper.

I couldn't be there with her after I grew up and ran from my past...not too many time, it would be too much, and grandmother was getting old and mean and a bit crazy. She accused me once of trying to steal her towels. I didn't, but if I had, I'm not sure it would have mattered...she grew up in the depression and in her old age had bags and bags and roomfuls of towels she had gotten on sale. But, I would be there for her death. I could do that.

My father and his wife didn't want me to stay at the hospital...I could go to their house and stay. No thank you, I'll take the cot. I didn't want anything to do with them. This would be so much, too much, my heart breaking, but for my grandmother, yes, for my grandmother. He hair was still long and done up. I loved her long hair, she always dyed it, but not now, just long and white with the bobbiepins. I would miss her hair. I would always die my hair, my whole life, but never would have the patience to grow it so long and beautiful.

The first night she cried out. I moved the chair by her bed and held her hands I slept there crumpled up. I would miss her hands. I was suddenly aware of her hands. Her hands that had made me clothes, fried chickens, picked apples, spanked me....I would miss those perfect hands that had done so much for me. Her hands knotted in pain from hard work and age...that time she was putting cream on them, and I ask her what that was, and she said BenGay, and I said how long? I didn't even know what the joke meant. She scowled and had eyes laughing.

At some point during the night she woke up and was lucid. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her beautiful blue eyes that had looked at me forever. I told her how much I loved her, more than my words could say. I thanked her for taking care of me and teaching me, and making me. I told her that she had done such a good job, and it would carry though my blood line. I told her that she was beautiful and we were all ok. She had done her job and we were all ok. She saw me, and she told me she loved me. We sat together, holding hands, until she went back to sleep.

She would only get worse over the next days. Crying out in pain, and not completely there anymore. My father was there...he never held mamaw's hands or stroked her hair....They had a horrible relationship. Funny, she was great to me, shitty to him, he was shitty to me, and I never introduced him to my son...so, we'll never know if there was to be a pattern emerging.

My father would take his usual digs at me, the way I looked, the opinions I have, all things that made be different. And then spend his time talking about all the stuff he knew or the stuff he amassed. He ran away from his upbringing too. Our difference was I was never ashamed of mine. I never had to prove that I made it. I made it, that's it.

I smoked a lot when my father was there. I talked with the other smokers. Smokers are a social group. We supported each other. The woman who's mother was in the hospital and being cantankerous. The woman who's child was in the hospital with cancer. The man who's nephew was in the hospital with a brain tumor. We bonded and shared our stories and grief in the ordained smoking area. We would never see each other again, or even remember our names...but, I remember their stories and I felt a great comfort there, at the trashcan with them.

The food was shitty and my strength was low....caffeine and nicotine, and calls to friends and my brother. I wanted my grandmother to go. She was ready, I hated the pain she was in. I hated that the hospital staff had to move her to change her diaper when she wasn't going to the bathroom anymore. I hated that they called it a diaper. Stop with the poking at her, please stop....but, hospitals are to try and keep you alive to experience those last few painful moments. We have made a mockery of death, I think. I wish that we had saved more of our Indian heritage. She would have gone better. I took a shower in my grandmother's room, much to the dismay of my father. "We don't usually use the patients rooms for that." Well, dad, I asked if I could, and other people do this and I'm not leaving. Always with the appearances. Appearances mean so much to people, which is impossible for me to keep up with, the billions of people on the planet, most who I'll never see again, what's all the effort for?

My father and his wife worked in the medical field. All the clinical answers you could want, but none of the emotional ones. My father loved rules...I, on the other hand, never gave much thought to them, rather, I pick and choose the ones that I think are important. And taking a shower in my grandmother's room wasn't that important. I didn't feel that much better after the shower...I guess I could have kept up that appearance...but, I smelled better.

Mamaw was finally moved into hospice. While they were getting her transferred, the family went to lunch. My father handed me a wad of cash to pay for parking. I used what I needed and gave the rest back. He insisted that I keep it...I insisted he take it back. My uncle and cousins had arrived. As we sat that the table in some "family-style" restaurant, I ordered my salad with ranch dressing. My cousin's wife didn't know much about our family. I started to give her the lowdown, including my Uncle Fred, and the fact that he'd been married several times, and probably had lots of illegitimate children that we didn't know about, we laughed. My father gave me the look and the angry voice, and stated that I shouldn't talk about that in front of his wife's family because they were very conservative. I shot back. The table was silenced for a moment. I'm not ashamed of my Uncle. And I don't care who doesn't like me, that's never important. I loved my Uncle. He's crazy and dying of cancer, but he had a ride...he had a ride with his life. You have to respect that.

We got back to the hospice and mamaw had been bathed and medicated. She was a little uncomfortable. I said, it helps if you hold her hands, she has comfort in that. A few minutes later, my father's wife would come in a make the speech that these people who worked here knew what that were doing and so we didn't need to tell them anything. Since I was the only one who said anything, I can defer that she was speaking to me....broadly.

My father's wife's family came to visit. They had children. The children loved my grandmother. They were all very sad, this was their loss, too. I was so proud and happy that they had gotten to see the grandmother that I had, that she had made that impression on them, too. How wonderful and magical is that. There were suddenly five generations at her bed. All that work, and love....we can only hope that we die that well.

Everyone left. My brother was on his way. My father had given him the wrong address to the hospice. I went to get the bad from my car to sleep there. The nurses came in. My grandmother was already gone. It was that fast, and quiet. She had been so tired. She stayed to say as many good-byes as she could. She was gone. I had missed it, but I had been there until the end. I had made it for her.

My face that had only teared up began flooding. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open and her skin smooth. I asked if I could stay a minute more. Yes.

I held her hands. I held her hands as though I wanted to just absorb that little bit more of her super powers. Oh, Mamaw. I love you so much. I didn't feel just a loss, I felt lost. I was lost somewhere, alone.

My brother arrived. He was angry that he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. I told him that she was really already gone, and he should go in there now and say what he need to say. I was so happy to see him. He's grown up and strong now. His hug for me was like a wave of relief...I was suddenly tired and hungry. My brother...

I told him how I had needed him for this, and thanked him for being my brother. We were only beginning our relationship recently because of the parents troubles. And we stood out in front of the hospice talking in the dark. A little comedy, I suppose...both of us not from there, lost, and smoking, crying in the dark....what a strange pair.

The van for the transport of my grandmother's body arrived. I saw them taking her out. I ask them to please take care of her, she is my grandmother.I know it's just a body, but it was raw and new and I couldn't quit crying.

I stole my grandmother's hairbrush with some of her white hairs in it before leaving. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it, and if you ask my father, I always steal things. I did steal a lot in my life, but not recently, or even within a few decades...but, I stole the brush. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

We decided to go to my father's house to stay the night. I really wanted to go home, but I knew that I was physically not able, and what of my brother...he had come for me, and what I was to leave him alone with my father? I owed him.

The house is in a gated community. It's very well put together. I was to stay in Mamaw's room. I went around touching everything in her room, smelling it. My father's wife offered me some things, as though they were now her's to offer. I didn't really care about the things, I just wanted to look and touch and smell. It would all be gone soon...gone.

Her dresser was the same and the one in the old house. Memories of my childhood and that dresser with all the lipsticks, powders, costume jewelry stacked high. The fake flower in a vase to the side. All the things that I was NEVER allowed to touch when I was little and it was nap time, and we would pass on our way to the big bed. I would fall asleep to my Mamaw's soft skin and snores. This dresser was so neat and tidy now, a product of moving in with my father and his wife. Not the beautiful clutter that she had stacked when she lived in the house....the beautiful clutter. I remembered the creak in the floor paneling of the gas floor heater, so I could never sneak a peak at anything. Now, I opened her drawers and saw the scarfs...she always had her hair done, and wore a scarf in the windy small town she lived in. I asked for some of the scarves.

I found her jewelry box in one of the drawers. I asked if I could look inside and hold it for a moment. It was the jewelry box. My father came in and took it from my hands, so quickly that it shocked my brother and even his wife. I grabbed it back, and stated that I didn't want anything, I just wanted to look and touch. He relented.

The box was old fake leather, with hinges, so when you opened it, there would be the first tier and then the deeper, larger second tier. It was faded pink. Inside was the jewelry. I started to look through it. I finally asked if I could have a few costume pieces. My grandmother loved her fake jewelry; large giant rings, beads, pens, always clip on earrings because her ears were never pierced.

We all sat around in a foursome. My father, his wife, my brother, and I, going through the box. My father made several comments about what I was not to get. How expensive this or that piece was worth. I didn't need any of that, and he was missing the point. I never cared about money or riches. My grandparents were not rich....fucking take it already have all of it...pile it up already. I only wanted to remember the costume jewelry that she wore. She was such a lady, something that I never really became. And she did it on a dime, buying remnants and fakes....bobbie pins and powders all that I will never be but will forever carry with me.

I remembered how mad my father was that my grandmother had started to give away her stuff to other family members before he was in charge. And how he got the lawyer and straighten it all out so he could take care of Mamaw and Uncle Fred. Always the same old shit with my father, and always the pointing fingers that never pointed back. Whatever, take it all.

It was almost bedtime, and my father mentioned the box of stuff that he had of mine up in the attic. I would finally need to take that, so he could start getting rid of stuff. I said fine, we'd get it in the morning.

Everyone left mamaw's room. I sat there looking around and touching things. I went to the bathroom and smelled her soap. I was exhausted and couldn't sleep. What does one do now? I wanted to be home. I wanted my mamaw. I wanted dinner. I tiptoed out, into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. Everything needed to be made or have a companion to make a meal. I grabbed some expensive, healthy chips and went and ate them on my grandmother's bed, laying there sad and crunching in the dark room that had a smell I couldn't forget, never wanted to forget. I breathed heavily and eventually dosed off.

I awoke, way to early to the sound of everyone in the kitchen. I would only ask for coffee and let everyone know that I was going to smoke. My father was already making some crazy huge breakfast, chattering away.

I stayed outside on the phone and smoking until I gained some of my senses. My brother brought his dog out and we huge out and talked and played. My father and his wife would be going to the funeral home to identify the body. I didn't know about that part...yes, I guess it would be sad if they burned up the wrong body. And there would be a quick memorial later that evening.

I told my father that my brother and I could got and finally get my box out of his way, while he and his wife were out. My father's face turned red, and his face angry, and he yelled that NOONE would be getting any box from the attic today!!!!!

What a shocker. My father has had the box for years, I have told him to mail it, I've tried to make arrangements to pick it up, I've tried to get him to toss it. It never ever seems to happen....like a carrot in front of the horse. I don't even know what's in the damn box.

I told all of that above, and he screamed at me that I was a bitch and a liar, A LIAR and if I thought holding mamaw's hands while she died made up for all the other times, that I didn't come and see her, well that just meant that I didn't love her.

So, there he was...the father that I had always heard from my entire life. The real father, the one that I never told his new wife about, the one that I kept my son and man hidden from...there he was.

I started crying and leaving. My father's wife came in and tried to get me not to leave...saying our family never did handle anger well. I said, I had come for my grandmother and now she's dead, and I am tired and sad, and I love people and they love me and I want to be around those people now. AND keep the box, I don't know what's in it, keep it, throw it away it didn't matter, I wouldn't miss it.

I packed my car and sat with my brother. I was leaving him with my father again.....that's what I did to him, his whole life. I didn't want him to be the peacemaker between us. I didn't want to have anything to do with my father. I didn't want to go to the memorial. I wanted to go home, and I was so sorry that I am so weak.

My brother would tell me later that my father held mamaw's hands and told everyone how sorry he was that he ran me away. Well, neither mamaw or I really heard anything.

I would go home, and I wouldn't unpack for weeks. I didn't bathe either. I would get a random email from my father about another memorial service for my grandmother in the little town she was from.

I'm not going. I didn't respond. I still don't know what I'm going to do with her hairbrush.

Does the past follow you...OR, do you follow the past?

2009-12-08T14:04:00.003-06:00

That is the question. Do I follow the past, or does it follow me?

Is it just one continuous circle of life. What about those among us who have simply disappeared, reemerged anew, some place else. Surely, even they didn't completely escape the past...the thoughts, the feelings, the smells that turn the senses and kick start the memories. Is it personal history that deems us to be exactly what we are? Or can our past lie there only as experiences to draw from, but not dictate.

And my personal history, as I know it, is mostly certainly clouded by selection and imagination.

Oh, how many people have covered this subject? And the answers? No answers, just opinions....that's what we have, only opinions.

And we do form our opinions, don't we? Yeah, guilty.

I have an upcoming show. I haven't wanted to write about the past, and I haven't wanted to write about the future.

When I talk, people always ask me if I was ever scared. I was never scared doing anything, or at least not enough to matter. I've only been scared of stopping.

Chase Bales is Dead.

2009-10-24T12:15:00.003-05:00

I was a horrible stripper. That's what I told my childhood friend after twenty five years or so. And every word was true.

I wanted to be good at it. I wanted to be super sexy, super appealing, super seductive. Really the only thing of notice was my piercings and my big ass...they made me some money, filled somebody's fantasy. But, true be told, even if I took the normal stripper drugs, picked my favorite song, drank some...I was still a horrible stripper. I'm just way to goofy to be. But, I did make rent a couple of times. I made more money when I sold drugs and waitressed.

This morning I was thinking about that, and all the things that I've done. There's not enough blog space to cover it all. And in the grand scheme of things, I'm just a drop really. I try not to carry much of it around...it's just stories.

My childhood friend total me that a bully had died. He died? Yes, he was involved in shooting his girlfriend's parents than he and his girlfriend shot them selves in some hotel. Just a normal story for where we grew up. It hit me. I needed to confirm the story. I talked to another childhood friend. Yes, he was dead, he put his hand through a plate glass window and hit an artery - then bled out before the paramedics go there. Another friend, yes, he's dead, and it's a shame, don't you think.

All the stories, and the it's a shames. This guy who butchered me on a constant basis. He had a doctor for a father. He won the science far with the project his father did for him. I didn't even place because I couldn't be that smart - someone had to have done my work for me. I worked so hard on the project, only to loose to a bully faker. And the day when he stood up in class when the teacher was gone and made an announcement that made the whole class laugh at me and hate me. The days when he beat people up with fists and words - scared and us running. I didn't know that I could step up to anyone then.

I secretly meant to go back and check him out. I secretly meant to go back and tell him Fuck You. Fuck You and You didn't break me - My Life Rocked. And I do know how childish that is. I do know how stupid I sound. I do know that I shouldn't have cared. I didn't keep it close or anything, it was just there, sometimes.

And now he's dead. And his legend is still growing with all the people who can't get it straight how he offed himself. And I'm writing it down, too. Jesus, he won't just die already.

People said that I could go and piss on his grave. What?!? That's not the same and telling him Fuck You. I don't need to desecrate a grave or anything. I needed him alive.

People said, you didn't know what went on in his house that could have made him do those things. Yeah?!? Well, he didn't know what went on in my house either - so, that's a lame excuse.

I'm just pissed off that even in death, he still beat me. His death stories seem to rock. He went down in flames and a legend. Shit!!! Fuck!!! Shit!!!

We all paint our histories differently. Maybe it's accurate maybe it's completely inaccurate. In my mind we never actually grew up. That picture of him, taller than me, richer than me, more popular than me, more in control than me...winning the science fair by cheating. Yeah that's when my picture of him stopped.

I'm sure some people loved him. There were the "It's still a shames. Is it? What did I think about that? I thought if I were a good person, I would probably be mourning him, and saying some prayer. I just get zapped for not telling the truth. But, all I kept thinking wasn't it a shame that I didn't tell him Fuck You when I had the chance. Death doesn't mean you get a pass....who made up that rule? They were a douchebag, then, for making up that rule.

Would people tsk-tsk me or hate me for not being the bigger person here. For not have the mental capacity to just let things go. I resided to the fact that I will go to my grave with this piece of unfinished business, and the longing for the afterlife where I might run into him, and then getting to say Fuck You.

Shame. Hate. Embarrassment. Longing. Mourning Myself. All the turning in my head.

Then -My childhood friend fessed up and has a secret Fuck You list, too.

The Stinkhole

2009-10-17T09:12:00.002-05:00

I've been sitting in the same pj bottoms off and on for the last month straight. They finally stink too much for me to bare. And well all know the rule that your own armpits, farts, puss, dick, and poop (whatever), don't bother yourself. So, if the pj's are at the level that's botherin' me, well, it probably is that stinky. I suppose some people would call it depression. I think I am calling it freedom.

I've always been the fat stinky girl. I was teased about it in school. Murphy and Scott, the "it" boys would never kiss a girl like me. They would never help a girl like me. They would never love a girl like me. Yet, years later, Scott and I would make out in the back of someones pick-up truck from a party. We were fucked up. I don't think we actually fucked, but I was really drunk - hard to recall. I do recall that he wasn't that great, and I was learned that valuable lesson about crushes not equaling in real life to what to had in you imagination. Not at all. He was drunk, and he made out with the fat stinky chick. I'm laughing right now. You, Scott, did probably hit that, and you will have to live with that secret shame, unless someone saw us, then it's the public shame you will have to live with.

My stepmother was very conservative. Weirdly conservative. She wouldn't let me shave, or have deodorant or tampons like the other girls my age. As I developed, that only added to the problem of being teased. The day I started my period, I was in gym class. I thought that I had the stomach flu, or something was wrong with my appendix. It was painful, confusing and awkward.

It would turn out that I was just having cramps.

As I sat in the cold, concrete and plywood bathroom stall in that darkened fake light of the gym bathroom, with my light blue polyester gym pants and plain cotton underwear around my ankles....I saw the blood smears. I yelled to my friend to go get the coach. Why? Just go get the fuckin coach!!!!!!!!

The coach leaned over the stall door, and I pointed. She was tall and super tan with a super blond Dorothy cut and probably a lesbian. We didn't know that word yet. And if I had, I probably wouldn't have cared, even despite my small town upbringing. She said it, like it was so simple, that it was my period. Jesus, are you kidding me?!?!!!

I responded that I knew that, what the fuck was I supposed to do with it? She didn't even flinch at the f work, and asked, didn't I have anything with me, like pads or tampons. No, why would I? Ohhhhhh, it's your first time, she responded with a sweet smile. I hated that sweet smile, of knowing that I was now in some club, I was growing up. All I was feeling was the shame of not being prepared. The shame of not having a mother who would have helped me. The secret club that I didn't know the rules of. The shame. Damn, everyone's going to know that I'm not normal, yet again. Nice.

Coach brought me a pad. I took the crinkly paper of the sticky part of the pad. It sounded so loud, everyone would know what I was doing. The crinkly sound was unmistakable. Hey!!! Someone's putting a pad on!!!! Someone is bleeding!!!!! Someone is not cool enough to have big girl tampons!!!!!! Someone is a fat bleeding stinky dork with giant pads!!!! Look!!! Look!!!!

I put it on, the big bulky old school diaper thing. It was going to show. God, I hope I put it on right and I don't bleed through my pants. Please god not that. I got dressed and was going to lunch. As I walked down the hall the coach walked with me, trying to give me the "speech", some speech. I just wanted to take my diaper wearing self to lunch. As she talked she was completely unaware that my boyfriend was only walking a few steps ahead of us. I couldn't shut her up. In all fairness, it probably was a chance for her to connect, to be important to someone for something, but I couldn't be concerned with that. Other people in the hall where listening, too. Just another thing to add to the reasons to tease me. I was now a breeder and bleeder.

My stepmother and father didn't know what to do with it either. They both gave me some talk, that I tuned out. They were both so uncomfortable talking to me, and in my mind, it was my fault, my body's fault. I still didn't get deodorant, razors, and tampons. I began to steal them from the Albertson's and the Piggly Wiggly. Luckily, I never got caught. I can't even imagine trying to explain that. Or, maybe someone saw me, and took pity on the fat, stinky girl stealing sanitary items.

I already had a theft problem due to some other stuff, which I will not include in this story, so what was stealing necessities? I wouldn't get rid of the stealing habit till years later. And it took me forever to get the courage and comfort to buy those items without turning red in the face...no matter how many other items went across the conveyor belt of the check out line. I would choke up and get red in the face.

Try working and using a tampon from the instructions that are included in the box with their lovely pink ink and badly drawn renditions of the female body in complete isolation. I was smart, but it was painful. No,it's not that hard of a contraption to work, but sitting on the toilet seat, hoping no one will walk in you're while balancing the instructions on your legs and working the said stolen contraption....well, it's hard the first couple of times. You are putting something that is cottony but looks huge into an orphus of your body, where stuff didn't go before. And thus began my no pain no gain beauty tactics/regimen. I'm sure there is some girl out there who stuck the damn thing up her ass, I wasn't one of those, but it still wasn't pleasant.

I prayed for boobs and smooth legs and even my period. I read "Oh God, It's Me Margaret." I wanted to be a woman. As, a woman I could do anything I wanted. What a joke that can be. That's what we do...we pray and hope, then we get them, and realize that it sucks. All three things suck. That begins the eternal confused mind of being a woman. We learn from that moment how to be completely indecisive. So, you want to know where it comes from, it's that fucking bleeding moment. We learned to always second guess ourselves right from that one moment, because we totally got screwed on our wishes then.

I've been skinny and smelly goody. It's just not me. It got me a lot of attention that I didn't want from stuff that wasn't important to me. I guess both sides of the coin have their drawbacks. It wasn't until I grew up, really grew up, that I was comfortable in my own skin - even when it stinks. I put importants on other matters. Don't get me wrong there are times I smell good, I'm cool with it, I'm just not uncomfortable when I stink - and I'm not a total stinkhole....just sometimes.

Freedom smells just like me.

Nothing can bring you back from the edge like a good tawny port.

2009-10-15T21:31:00.003-05:00

Today a little boy almost made cross country on a silver balloon. That would have been the coolest day ever!!!! I'm not going to go out into my yard a copycat it, but it is really fucking tempting. Instead he was hiding in the attic, with helicopters buzzing around just trying to get a glimpse of the boy who flew.

Tonight I am self medicating with a 10 year tawny port. Not to worry,I'm not going to over do it. I don't want to waste the delicious tawny port on such a sour mood. I love this port...how it hugs the side of the glass when I swirl it around. It makes these inviting rolling layered streaks. The smell like candied, homeade baked goods, alcohol. It tells you that everything will be so much better once ingested. And it's right.

You might have to use your extra good Indian tracking skills to read this and absorb knowledge through the context clues. It will be the MS and the port talking at the same time. I'm not going to be in any state to apologize for it either.

I supposed it would hit me, that I really am disabled and I really will not be working anymore. And this disease is real, and costly. Most people are so excited for me about not working, I can work on my painting and my writing, and bettering my health. I wasn't worried or scared ----until today.

I'm not sure what it is that makes people freak out. I had so many people tell me their horror stories about Social Security, being disabled, being broke. All the what are you going to do's? and How are you going to make it's? Well, I don't truly have an answer for that. I suppose I'm going to make it the same way I've made if for all of my life. I suppose I'm just going to have to do that. Or, maybe it will all go away, my average life that I work so hard to get, and I die, dirty and homeless in pee stained clothes on some concrete somewhere. I sometimes think about saying it. But, the comments from the peanut gallery. Jesus.

And my mother who's mentally ill has been completely out of control since I told her that my life would be changing. The calls with her delusions...they are constant. I get it, she's afraid that I won't be there, and who would listen and what would happen. My father decided to send an email, that was about him, and grandma and how bad it is for them, together. And they'll never get that they both behave the same way, and how I hoped that I won't be like them. I can't help them right now. Truth be told, you're not who I want to help right now. It's been years, and I just need a break. I'll come back later, I promise, but now, I need a break.

The morning didn't start off too bad. The day was so nice. I wanted to be outside. To watch outside.

I met with the producer for my show. Did I say that I was planning a show? Yes, yes I am. He had to check me out. To make sure that I was serious. I had to check him out, to make sure that he was serious.

We talked about the level of commitment and work that this would take. And how I would have to be pushed and reach. I know.

This is something that I want. This is something that I think I could commit to. This is something that I could do. I want to do it.

Do I think that I have that much to say that would be of any merit to someone else. Well, that is a scary point isn't it. I kinda' figure that as much as I've seen and continue to see, I think I've got a thing or to that might be interesting. Other than that, I suppose it's completely selfish. I want to be talking to people and saying a few things before it's too late for me to say them. We spend so much of our life not saying anything, not even telling each other the truth. I've done that a lot.

Recalling conversations that I've had over the years- working, there are so many things I wanted to say differently, but couldn't because of constraints. That idea of being free, my mind free, my words free, even for just an hour or two. Can you imagine the release of that? That is what I want to accomplish.

There was a old man, he was woken up from his coma, just to watch a football game. His team won, he saw it, then he died three days later.

I'm not saying that I'm dying. I'm just closer than some people. And probably not as close as others. But, what I do need is a break from the crap that's bringing me down, man.

Thank you Tawny Port. You are my saviour.

I'll try to write something not so bumbed out tomorrow. But, true to my other blog entries, you should see all of me. That good, the bad, and the self medicated winer....would you expect anything less?

The Color of Children

2009-10-05T23:53:00.002-05:00

I'm still stuck at home reeling from my current flair up. I did go to an open mic last night and read. It was fun. There were lots of other fantastic, prophetic artists there. If I return, I will have to bring my A game. It might have been a bit much for me, the going out, but shit, this sitting at home is soooooo boring. Today, I did not make it to work. And my one big thing for the day?.... I finally filled that prescription for Valium. I took just one pill and in about twenty minutes the dizziness did seem to subside. I was quite amazed. My Doctor does really know what's she's talking out. I should have never doubted her. But, then I did go to sleep. And then woke up to an unusual hour again. Perhaps normal sleep will come later, but for now it escapes me.

I've been watching TruTV some, and the news. It seems to me that all of the kidnapped or brutally murdered children are mostly white girls. Well, save that horribly beat boy up North. Great parenting. You don't get to hold the Olympics in a town where children get beaten to death by other children. However, given the statistics on children, surely they can't all be white. What is it that captures our American hearts so much about white girls over all of the other victims? This is a rhetorical question, I don't want to know the answer. In my current state, I could not take the answer to that question. But, we should take pause and ponder our responses.

I suppose I should be thankful that any child crime gets any recognition from the media.

My thought today was my hope, maybe my prayer, that at some point we understand the precious spirits of our most important investments, and see them not with color blind eyes, but as equals in every vast molecule of their lives. Even though I did read Lord of the Flies, I have my secret wishes, my dreams, my rose color glasses that we can be better.

The melancholy of what could be.

Scrombie

2009-10-04T00:58:00.004-05:00

It is about one in the morning, as I write this. I wouldn't normally be up at this time; however, sense I am currently experiencing difficulty with my MS, and just finished a round of steroids, my sleep schedule is a bit out of whack. Just as it goes with a probably terminal at some point disease. What are you going to do? What is some people's horror, is my normal.

It's so quiet. The rain has finally come, and when I let the dogs out to pee, I could smell the new wet grass. It's been sleeping all summer during the drought, and now, here, at one in the morning, I could imagine that this new grass is very busy during the middle of the night...all that stretching.

I heard sirens earlier. They lasted a while. Reminding me that it is Saturday night for some people, that it's not quiet somewhere. There's probably a party I missing, with loud people and music, lipstick and maybe punch drunk love. But, since I'm not really up to attending a party, I suppose I'm not really missing anything.

I've been stuck in my house for about a month now. MS is famous for making one completely fatigued and foggy headed. A few people have called and feel sorry for me, but again, if I'm not missing the days and time, can I really be felt sorry for? I know that it's temporary so, I wait.

I went to the doctor on Friday. We'll be filling out the long term disability paperwork now. It's time. This particular doctor is really good at what she does. I trust her and her nurse completely. Yes, there are a few of the good ones left. One of the things that I enjoy most about our visits together, is she doesn't try to over-medicate me. I know that I'm going down hill, but the idea of so many pills, one reacting with another in my system...it's really not necessary. Not when I can practice yoga and drink veggie juice, etc.

However, this episode with my MS, I am experiencing a great deal of dizziness...that I do not enjoy. Doctor prescribed me a low dose of Valium. She also made note that since it was highly addictive, she would only be prescribing this for the short term, but it should help. I honestly didn't know that it would help with the dizziness, and frankly when she handed me the prescription, all I could think about was cracking the joke about slipping on my highheels, popping a couple of Valium and having a cocktail or two with my gay friends. Yes, I refrained from asking if that would also help my dizziness. As though she could read my mind, she smiled that sheepish kind of smile at me, and put her hand on my back and patted it, actually patting me, telling me not to drive on the pills. Damn, ok. So much for tripping the light fantastic. I don't think I could face her if I acted irresponsibly. I was too tired after my appointment to fill the prescription. Maybe today, later, I'll take care of it. I don't really want to take more medication, but the dizziness really is a pain in the ass.

With the steroids, there's a period of being high...but, due to Newton's Law of Gravity, what goes up, must come down. That Newton, sitting under a tree, discovering stuff...for his time, that was quite a discovery. He would totally shit his little pleated knickers now, don't you think?!? I mean really shit his pants. Or maybe not, maybe he would be super cool. Since I didn't know him personally, I suppose I cannot truly make that call. But, I've spent the greater part of this week coming down and still being high, and being a bit agro. The steroids really do make you aggressive and quite full of yourself. I've been keeping it under wraps for the most part.

While at the doctor's office, I had to sit in the waiting room, and watched several, and I mean more that four, well dressed drug reps coming in to visit the doctors with snacks and lattes and such. Yes, I refrained from getting up from my chair and just taking one of the Starbuck's coffees right out of the four pack cardboard container this particular drug rep was holding. I really did want one, and I'm fixing to be on disability, so I won't be having the luxury of Starbucks. And besides, since I would be one of the people asking for whatever she was selling, why do I just have to be subjected to the horrible feelgood commercials, why am I not entitled to one of the delicious, frothy, caffeined, free, Starbucks lattes? I almost did it, but I was dizzy, so, I let everyone down, I let myself down. I didn't take one. But, it would have been funny. If I had hurried and put my mouth on it, there would have been no take backizzes.

My second aggressive action came at the movie theater. I saved all of my energy to go to the movies with my son. We were going to see Zombieland. I will say that it is one of the best Zombie movies of all time. It's funny, violent, has great one liners and zombie make-up and music. I must simply buy this movie to watch over and over again. It was nice to see other parents there with their children. I wouldn't have to put up with the looks about taking my young son to such an R-rated movie. Yes, I do not have a problem with him seeing zombies. Some people let their kid drink around their house, some men take their sons to whorehouses, or let them shoot guns at such a early age. As parents we all have our vices with our kids. I don't do any of that other stuff, but I will take him to an R-rated Zombie movie, and probably not feel that bad about it.

It was exciting, just the two of us at the movies together. Since I hadn't been out of the house in such a long time, we went for broke on the snacks. We had popcorn with extra butter, nachos, an extra large Dr. Pepper and three candies. What the hell, right? Zombies and awesome snacks. This day was going to totally rock!

We walked with our hands overflowing with goodness, maybe a slight popcorn trail to our seats. Not too close, but not to far, almost right in the middle, for full violent zombie smashing. We arranged all of our snacks for maximum vantage and stretched our legs to rest our feet on the seats in front of us. My son reminded me to turn of the cell phone. Then we both sighed and waited. We watched the commercials and soon the previews. We love the previews, those mini movies before the movie...holding all the promises of future entertainment days, just like today. It was almost perfect.

It would have been perfect. But, then came the noise. The noise came from our right. I turned my head to look. It was three nerds...three very loud nerds. I call them nerds, because this is exactly what they were. I'm not saying that I'm this great fucking person, maybe I'm a nerd, but I don't actually like to live up to the stereotype. What do you say about people who actually live up to their stereotype. What would anyone actually do that? But, there they were in all of their stereotypical gloryholiness.

There was the fat nerd, with his I just went to the sci-fi festival t-shirt, and his I'm smarter than you because I know every detail from the entire series I bought/collected to jack up the price and sell to other nerds on Ebay tone, then the Jewish nerd with his glasses and his jeans belted high and his clumsy I know I'm not cool but I'm really going to have a good life I promise because I did well in school movements, and the girl nerd, who snuck in her own drink in some Tupperware drinking contraption and excited because she had two boys, be they total geeks, still two boy, vying for her attention so she can totally boss them around for no reason voice booming. Oh they were loud, and they just kept talking, I don't even know about what, but it was that loud, we're safe because were in numbers voices. And right after the commercial about not talking in theaters. You know the one with the dancing cats, dumbed down so even the stupid people could get the lesson....Jesus Christ Almighty they were fucking loud.

The white conservative couple turned around and gave the nerds the look. I was hoping Conservative Man would step up the the plate, but there were just too many nerds for him to handle. The gangsters beside us gave them the look and made some whispered comment, but again to much nerdiness, even for them. The snorkels and nerd talk was gaining steam. It was almost unbearable to the regular human ear. My son looked at me and frowned. I told him that I was going to say something. I asked his if he would mind. He's almost a tween, so I didn't want him to be embarrassed by his own mother. He shrugged his tiny shoulders said fine.

I said loudly, excuse me. No response. I said it again, ExCUSE ME. All three nerds stopped and looked at me. I wanted to be nicer and not make a big scene, but I am on steroids. I didn't want to have to call my man and tell him that my steroids got us in trouble and I wasn't feeling well, and please come get us, etc. I really didn't want to do that.

I said, Are you going to talk this much during the whole movie? They looked at me, and then got mad. And girl nerd got defensive, and told me that I didn't have to be so rude about it. I didn't think that I was being THAT rude about it, but now, I started to get a little steroid mad. Me rude? How about you rude? You're the one being fucking rude....R-U-D-E, RUDE.

I just said that my son and I paid our money too, and I liked to watch the whole thing, so could you please be quiet? Then fat nerd said, Even the commercials? AHHHH, This was a trick question, of course, because if I said that yes, even the commercials, I looked like a complete douche bag, and if I said no, then that would give them license to keep talking about whatever Dungeons and Dragons crap they were talking about, and my son was watching, so I had that pressure. And girl nerd kept saying that I didn't have to be so rude. So, I compromised. With all eyes on me, I compromised.

I said that yes, I would even like to watch the commercials, and I'm sorry, I could have been nicer when asking them to be quiet, so,

Would you Please Shut the Fuck UP?

The entire rest of the theater got deadly quiet, then the gangsters started to snicker, and the conservative couple even with their dislike for my language gave a satisfied, that's right nod. The three nerds looked shocked. I didn't want to have to destroy their safety in numbers racket. I didn't want to show them up for being the wimps and nerds that they were. I really didn't. I'm not that mean. But, come on, you have to hold some responsibility to people to live in their stereotype. I didn't make them be nerds, and I didn't make them be nerds with shitty manners. I just wanted to have a nice day at the movies with my son. They didn't say anything...which is typical of the nerds. Once attacked about anything, they don't really have the guts to stand up for themselves. I'm don't know what I would have done if they had continued. I'm frankly to sick to fight with anyone about anything. But, they're too nerdy to recognize that they could have won if they hadn't been too nerdy to back down. Lucky for me. They were quiet after that. I asked my son if he was ok with what I did. Yeah, mom, they were being rude. He squeezed my hand and gave me a couple of M&M's. Nothing beats the love and acceptance of your own child. Nothing beats that.

We went to the store after the movie. We just needed a few things and even though I knew that I was pushing it, I had to try. I wanted just for a couple of hours to be normal and get things done. It was the first pang of longing I had experienced during this whole month. Worst case, I would over do it and have to call in my man. I decided to go for it.

It was raining and the store was packed. There were only two carts left and they were the ones that no one else wanted. Filled with trash and wet with those one broken wheels. This kind of fat old guy pushed around us to hurry and grab one of their awesome specimens of carts. I didn't really want to battle over the carts, just didn't really seem worth it, so I let him go ahead a choose, since it was so important to him. I took the second selection cart and started to remove the trashed and move towards the trashcan to dispose of the leftover samples/snacks and soaked store circulars. Fat man grabbed at his trash, and looked at the trashcan, then looked right at me and my son, and then threw his basket trash right on the wet ground. Fat man wasn't the least embarrassed about being a litterbug. He felt totally comfortable making the statement that he was an angry, fat, mean, slob. And I found myself wondering if there had ever been a time, maybe before now, like maybe in the 1950's, where people had to actually hide that behavior or risk being pointed out publicly. If there was a time like that maybe I would want it back? I was honestly shocked that someone would be such a jackass. Especially when it was something so small. Why be a jackass about that one small thing? Wouldn't you want to save your jackessness for something worthy of being a jackass about? He wasn't crazy or mentally challenged, that I could see. He was just a jackass. A real life, in the flesh, living and breathing, jackass. Amazing. One really gets to see one in the wild that close up without getting bit.

Has our society come to this? We're all just a bunch of spoiled rotten, no manner having, overweight, undereducated morons? No wonder our world is in the state that it's in. Bunch of lazy fucks. My son and I picked up his trash, too, and put it in the trashcan. But, I didn't want to. I didn't want to be sick and take care of jackass. Mother fucker. I hope that when the bombs go off, you're not one of the people who lives to repopulate the planet. OR, if you are, then I'm actually under the bomb, so I don't have to come back and deal with you. Oy vey. Jackass.

I don't enjoy this part of the steroids. The agro part. Come Monday, I'll be going to work to clean out my desk and saying goodbye to work for a bit, maybe forever. I liked work fine enough. It's going to be costly and weird to stay home now. It's been a long time in coming though. The Doctor and I have talked about this before. I hope we make it. I'm having some nervous thoughts on that, but I have to trust that we can do it, so, I'm not completely scared about this decision.

However, since I am feeling agro, and more apt to reveal my secret inside thoughts in a very loud way, I'm hoping that I can just get in and right back out at work. There are quite a few people that I really liked working with, who I actually see value in as humans. Then there's the other side of the coin, there are a few people that if they disappeared, or if something happened to them, I wouldn't really have a thought about it. I'm hoping that I can keep that professional, oh yes, I'm fine, oh, yes, I'm going to miss you all terribly tone through out the whole process. Otherwise, I suspect that I will be writing about it all come Tuesday morning around one. I've tried practicing in my head, but that brings anxiety and planned sentences of doom. I forget what the Doctor calls it, pseudo something or other....it's part of my MS. It's where I have trouble controlling my feelings. And given that I was always dramatic before the MS, I'm sure this only intensifies my winning personality. I could take another drug to control it, but I'm not going to. The people who love and know me, will put up with it, and I'm pretty ok with this going on. There is a part of me that thinks honesty, true honesty is an ok thing, despite what we've all been taught. How we've all been taught to behave. Would it really hurt anyone to know that I did like them that much and will miss them. Will it really hurt those other anyones to know that I didn't like them and am super awesomely glad that I don't ever, EVER, have to see them again? I am smiling right now just thinking about it all. We'll see, I guess.

I've been writing for over an hour now. I'm finally tired again. I'm going to go and grab one of the Stouffer's microwave meals that I bought at the store, eat and go back to bed. I don't really like to cook, but I do like to eat. As far as microwave meals go Stouffer's really is the best. I've also been eating Bertolli skillet meals in a bag from the frozen food section. They're not too bad either. Plus, my man bought me a juicer...which has been fantastic. The colors and flavors are cool, even if you're not on drugs. I haven't looked up recipes yet, I'm too lazy, I've been winging it. I will say broccoli juice is not that good. And when I say not that good, I mean it's that kind of I dare you to drink it and you can't pinch your nose shut because that's cheating, not that good. If you haven't ever bought a juicer, it's a lazy person's dream. I'm sure that the frozen meals aren't the best nutritionally, but Stouffer's mac and cheese is pretty hard to resist. I wonder if they would give me some money for promoting their food like this. Gimps around the country would probably buy their stuff just based on the convenience alone. Maybe I'll send a letter....later.

Do I have Zionist Friends? Can I get one at the Mall?

2009-07-04T12:06:00.002-05:00

North Korea. They have their own big bombs now. In a statement, from the news, Americans have been called Imperialists and apparently we have Zionist friends. How I do hate it when everyone is lumped all in together. Sitting here in my dirty underwear in the heat from the current drought, without any extra money, shitloads of extra work problems, and the doctors wanting me to take even more drugs for my MS....I'm not positive that I feel very much like an Imperialist. When I look over my day to day...no, I'm not sure that anyone would lump me in with the Imperialist crowd. I did do the first load of dishes today...I put them in the dishwasher. Yes, I do have a dishwasher. It's not a human, it's machine. Does owning that make me an Imperialist? Maybe it does. However, I'm not a dictator. I don't take stuff for free from people who can't give it. Maybe leaders should look inside before pointing the finger. I'm not sure an world dictator would have that much fun in my life. Since I have not had the experience of hanging out with my dictator's or world leaders, I can't really say for sure. But, it would be so much cooler if people would actually use names, specific names, instead of releasing broad, general statements.

And my thoughts on bombs. Shit, we only have one planet. Even if we could evacuate, I'm not positive that we would actually make it anywhere else in space. At least, not very quickly. I don't want to fight. I don't need anything terribly big, just to make sure that everyone is extra dead. But, we have spent tons of money on that point. Yes, we spend tons of money on stuff we don't need. Classy.

I am surprised every day with regards to what people say....outloud. There's too much, and I can't even keep up with it all. I've been wrapped up in it. It is distracting. Then I don't have to look inward. What would I find if I look in there? Am I being the best that I can be? Probably not. So, I took this weekend to be quiet...still...think about all the things that I've been avoiding while watching world politics, listening to gossip at work and watching reality T.V.

I've been in limbo for a bit. I've been wanting to get rid of all my external shit. Maybe have a big garage sale. But, I've been dawdling. I've left stuff in piles around the house, avoiding it with my eyes - with my efforts. I finally realized that I just didn't want to look at it. I didn't want memories to flood my senses. I didn't want to remember things that I missed, things that were gone, things that were changed. I also didn't want to carry it around with me anymore either. I have felt like I just wanted to open the house and tell me to come in and just make me a fucking offer for whatever they wanted. That's not really a great idea, strangers in the house, not a good idea. I should be more organized about it. Box it up, tag it, move it to the front....then call in the people. That's it, too....add in more people....just another thing that I didn't want.

It was a few months ago that my aunt died of cancer. My father told me and my brother not to come. My aunt didn't want a ceremony. She didn't want to be recognized. My brother and I weren't allowed to go. We couldn't grieve. We were always standing on the outside. I wasn't shocked, this is the way it's always been. Just fucked up. At some point, she had gone from the funny, beautiful, bright red haired single woman in a fast 1965 Mustang taking me as a little girl, up and down the highways fast, so fast, with the music loud to dying in secret of cancer shrouded in bitterness. We did not got. It's easier to avoid your feelings if you're just not there.

I don't know my lineage. I've heard rumors, but there's not a family bible, or records, or anything. And given the way I was raised, I have always stated that my true escape, my true shot at happiness would be when everyone that I might have to answer to, or carry feelings about is dead. Free space to breath. History just bogs us all down. It continues to repeat itself, and no one ever takes the lessons. So, maybe if I just didn't really know any of the history, well, I'd have a decent shot. Maybe. It has been my secret hope. But, sometimes I find myself jealous of others with close ties and history, even though it's almost always turned my individual opinions. Which to choose, which to choose? Both a double edged sword. Always doulbe edged when there's people, yes, always that.

My father sold my grandmother's house, threw all of her stuff out, and moved her with whatever she wanted to keep with him.

I did have a reaction to this. I cried for days. I couldn't stop. It was the weirdest feeling. I couldn't even define what I was feeling. I just cried. I cried when I was awake. I cried when I was sleeping. There wasn't particular feelings or memories that came up...just this physical reaction of my body.

I decided to go back to the house. I told my father that I just couldn't speak to him anymore. I was done. It wasn't mean. It was just a finality. My brother hasn't called me since then.

I called the church that my grandmother attended. They were rude and hadn't bought it. No wonder she had stopped going there after so many lifetimes. I called the only other church in town. They were very nice, and they had bought it. This was the church that my grandmother spoke ill of....that point was funny. Who ever has the money can buy the goods, it's the way of the world. No one would be at the house, but yes, I could come and see it, the voice said. It was Easter weekend. I left on Good Friday.

The house is in a tiny town in north Texas, just outside of Lubbock. The land is flat with dark red dirt, and winds. I drove towards the house. My car was quiet. So many people had asked me if I was going alone. Yes. They were all surprised by my yes. Why would I take anyone? This was just my visit. How would get it, besides me? My car was quiet.

The trip is a long eight hours. The moon was so full that night. You could almost turn your headlights off and continue to drive. As it came up over the horizon it was a beautiful, giant, orange orb. You do not get to see that living in the city. I passed acres and acres of trees and bushes. There were cows and goats, dead armadillos and deer. There were two dead deer, a fawn and her baby, dead, under the big moon. I wondered if whoever hit them could have just picked them up and used them for food. That would have been more appropriate than to let them die in vane, bloating and rotting on the highway cutting through their home. I drove on.

The smell of smoke and burned land became overwhelming for a few miles. The State had been having giant wild fires. The news didn't really cover the picture well. In the dark I could not see the devastation, but I could smell it, my lungs could feel it, my car lights could see the smoke I was driving through.

I finally couldn't drive any more. I just stopped at a hotel that looked acceptable, that had a brand name. It was down the highway from a truck stop and a giant nudie bar. Funny how those things go hand in hand. I no longer look like someone from around there. I went in and asked if there were any rooms. The guy behind the counter replied yes, and how long I was staying. Just the one night. In his polite, Texas manner, he asked if I needed any maps of the area, etc. He was really just checking me out to see what I was doing there. I told him that I had grown up around there, and was going home to visit my grandmother's house for the last time. His manners changed, and he gave me a big discount, and told me that if I was hungry the closest thing to eat was fast food or the truck stop, since it was so late. He also told me how he had been in the Army, and so he understood that coming home could be hard. I just nodded and took my room key with a thanks for the discount and his service.

The room was fine. I was hungry. I put my suitcase down, and got back into my car and drove to the truck stop. The clientele when I walked in was mostly truckers and locals. This was a full service truck stop so, there was quite a few locals taking advantage of the family style restaurant. You could still smoke inside. There were no yuppies here. I felt at home and not at home, at the same time. That was a feeling that I had been used to my entire life. I didn't stay in the little town and get pregnant and marry some classmate. It was a comforting feeling of familiarity.

All of the waitresses were old, well older that retirement, but I knew times were tough, and so, I'm sure that they all still had to work for their families or themselves. If you weren't married, there wasn't a lot of security for single older women that they could create for themselves. I was being stared at...because I was no longer from around there. I sat at the counter, on a bar stool. One of the waitresses decided that she would put out her cigarette and brave waiting on me. Two bar stools down was this trucker, he was smoking an having all the free refills on his coffee that his one fucking dollar tip could get him. He sideways glanced at me...trying to figure out if I was going to me trouble of some sort, if he was going to have to teach me a lesson. Dude, seriously, I just want a to go dinner. That's it. I took the sticky menu, everything smelled like old grease and stale smoke...a toddler was running around without a shirt on trying to beg for quarters to play the machine where it might when a plush toy from China out of.

I put my cigarettes on the counter, they were Camels. That would signify that I might be ok. The waitress coughed, pointed at the menu, her hard lines not even mustering up a smile for service. I didn't blame her. I said that I was on my way home, and was just staying for the night, and hadn't eaten anything one the road today. I ordered a chicken fried steak with french fries and white gravy. I added a salad and a piece of pie. All to go. That was an acceptable meal for the crowd staring. She gave me a togo box, and pointed me toward the salad bar. The salad bar would have grossed out most people I live around now. The salad wilted, some random ranch dressing spilling over into the cottage cheese. The carrots all dried out with white lines on them and the skim on the canned peaches. I picked out what I could. I saw some pudding. I started to get some, and another old lady waitress stopped me, and told me that the pudding went with the all you can eat buffet, that I hadn't ordered that. I said ok, I didn't know. She sighed, hard. She said that she was sorry that she had snapped at me. I didn't really realized that she had actually snapped at me. I told her that it was no big deal. She said that she just felt terrible and I could get some pudding if I wanted. I think she was expecting me to tell on her or something. I told her that I really didn't need it...I was getting pie....so thanks for watching out for my big ass that sometimes speaks for my mouth. She coughed and laughed. We were ok.

My food was ready. It was shitty food, greasy and boxed up in plastic. When I got the check, it was only seven dollars. I looked at the old waitress that was helping me. Had I been at home, I would have spent four times that amount if I had gone out to eat. I left her a twenty dollar tip. She looked at the total, and said this thank you, that was extended and shocked. I was already out the door by the time she had started to point and show it around to the other staff and the trucker.

I picked though the food and turned on the t.v. back at the hotel. It was all Jesus, local news, pay for porn, and sports. I turned it off and slept.

The next morning I got up, quickly showered and packed up. I went into drop off the key and was given my ticket to my free breakfast. I went into the dinning room. It was basic eggs, bacon, sausage links, and giant biscuits. There was an old man eating his breakfast. He stared at me eating. He finally lit his cigarette and asked me where I was going. I told him. He was surprised that I knew so much of the area, and I had grown up there. Had I changed that much? or, was it that I never wanted to stay there to begin with? I still knew the language, the foods, the smells. And why did it matter if I wasn't from around there? What would the response have been? Hard to say. It's a rough part of the State. I downed my made from condensed, orange juice, and said goodbye. I was back on the highway.

The devistation from the fires was more apparent in the daylight. One could see where people had tried to backburn the fires away from their houses and barns. It would be hard to get back to norm for a bit. But, people in this area didn't really ask for help. They would take care of themselves. I suppose I got some of that.

The area had changed. More giant windmills had been put up on the Edward's Plateau. They looked offensive, finally erasing the last of the frontier. The last of the wild horses, buffalo, Indians and Cowboys. There were more prefab houses...which made me laugh. People had already bought them up. One good tornado and they would all be gone. Would a big tornado do anything to the giant turbines? Not sure. I hoped so.

I pulled into the small town, I had arrived. Things never really change here. The railroad stops were the same, the combines, the diners...they were all there. Rusty, older, but still there. All of it. I turned the corner to my grandmother's house. There is was. My grandfather had built it. I was almost forty, my father older than that, and my grandmother older still, but there was the house. The rose bushes, the line of pine trees, the giant century plant, the porch, the railroad ties....all there. I stopped the car, and the tears began...they had a mind of their own. As I stood out of the car, the dry heat hit me...it was the same, too.

A man came out of the backyard. He simply stated that he was the preacher of the church, and the Mayor of the town, and I must be the young lady who wanted to see the house. I said yes though the tears, and apologized for them. I asked if I could just look around. He said yes, and to take anything that I wanted. I asked what was going to happen to the house. He said that it would be scrapped for what could be reused, then mowed over to make a giant gymnasium for the church. I nodded my approval, but really I was thinking that's just what Jesus needs, a basketball court. Fucking Christians with their small town sports.

I walked forward. He kept saying that the house wasn't the same...that it wouldn't be what I remembered. He followed me, after I thought he was leaving. I cried more. Finally, I said fuck it. I didn't live here anymore, and I would never see this man again, so what did I care if he saw me upset. I toured the house. I looked at this man through my tears and told him that it was exactly what I remembered. Every shelf, every smell, I could see exactly where everything was...there had been life here...there had been lots of life here. And I could see it all. I began to take random things that my father either missed or didn't give a shit about. I walked around taking things in. I suppose saying goodbye to the old granny smith apple tree we used to all sit under in the swing on weekend visits. The giant garden long dried up, but the memories of all he plants that fed us, the long overgrown grapevines that I would sneak grapes off up to tide me over till dinner. The phone shelf, the flower aplicays, the creak in the floor, my grandmother's and grandfather's separate rooms and bathrooms, the rollout windows. The mirrors, the furniture, the organ, the painting the shelf of memories past. I could see it all. The garage, the tub outside, the playhouse, my grandmother's powder and hair dye. I could see it all. And it was time to say goodbye.

I no longer even talked to any family. But it wasn't all bad. I stuffed my car with all these random things. And I stood there in the heat, in the sun, in the wind, and said goodbye.

I drove back on the highway, for what I knew would be the last time of that drive. I no longer have business going there. I no longer need to be seen there. There is nothing for me. I'm not sure that I even have a good reason to visit the memories. I was alone in this. It was only my history. And even if I said it outloud, in the grand scheme of the world's history, it wouldn't matter. And where I though I would feel relief when people started to die off, when things would start to fade, I only began the realization that perhaps I was wrong in that. In fact, I was left with a hole in my heart, no past to tie it too, and an unknowing of how to tie the past with my present.

The only thing that I had to listen to on the way home was talk radio. There's not much radio out there. Jesus, latio and cowboy shows...that's just about it. I listened to the story of the Roman Centurian that put the nails in Jesus. I found myself saying to Jesus how sorry I was. I was deeply sorry that we hadn't learned anything from his death. Right now, in the dimming light of the day, there was someone getting off of work. Getting off of work at a job that required tourchering someone else. No, Jesus, we hadn't learned anything from your history, from the nails that were driven into your hands by another man, just doing his job. I thought about fights that I had been in. I fought, but I never thought that I wanted to drive nails into someone else's body. Yet, our history and our present showed that we have people who go to work, and that's their job. I drove along the highway, listening to the radio show, and apolgizing to Jesus, on his special weekend, until the signal from the radio station mixed with some heavy metal music and some talk sports and the sunlight was dimming. I turned the radio off and drove home. I was driving to my home that was my home now.

The pile of things from my grandmother's house has sat in my floor since that day. I just don't know what to do with it. And the garage sale piles haven't started yet. I am in limbo, and so are my memories. What would I find in there, if I looked? Am I being the best that I can be? Probably not.

But, I'm not an Imperialist. No, no one can call me that.

Your shit affects other people. Your shit.

2008-12-28T17:22:00.003-06:00

A dear friend once told me that my shit affected other people. It was the key phrase, the magic phrase that saved my life once. And sometimes it saves me over and over. Just those words: "Your shit affects other people."

I've struggled with my shit. I've struggled with other peoples' shit. This December was not different. For whatever reason I take more in than I need to. I've grown to accept for the most part that I do see things differently than most people. Oh, I'm fun to be around...in small doses.

I talk about change. Sometimes I make the small effort. But, I don't really make the big effort. I just haven't made the big effort.

Why? I'm not sure really. It's like I'm holding my breath. Waiting and holding my breath. Some people just label it depression. So people label it apathy. Blah, blah, blah.

I started giving my shit away. I started throwing my shit away. Is there some significance in that? Maybe.

This year by birthday came around. I didn't really want to celebrate it. I didn't want anyone to give me more shit. Shit that I would have to use. Or, more shit that I wouldn't use, and it would just sit around collecting dust. Man, people don't like it when you don't want to celebrate your birthday. It's a big fucking deal. Well, sometimes it's not.

And Christmas came around. I heard the phase Employee Pricing so much that I wanted to load my handgun and blow a giant hole in the T.V. set. Holy Cow!!! It was everywhere. It wouldn't stop. I don't want to bale anyone out, and I don't want to buy a pile of shit that's supposedly been cut down....it's still a pile of shit.

Come on....If we really wanted to bale people out we'd have better programs for the elderly, the homeless, the forgotten children, and the mentally disabled. That would be a bale out. But, we don't do that. So, those of you who have to get another job besides making shit cars...well, fuck you. Most of us have had to do it. Humans can learn to do more than one thing. Seriously, fuck you. You could have started making better cars in the 70's when the first big gas shortage happened, but you didn't take the clue then. So, really fuck you.

I also didn't feel sorry for the French guy who killed himself after loosing all his money. He had a hellofa' ride before he slit his wrists in his office. We'll probably loose a few more just like him. We've been top heavy for quite a while now. It won't get better until then.

I suppose this year, I realized how much stuff I buy and don't need. Christmas doesn't even feel like Christmas. It feels like a giant sale of employee prices shit. How did we go from Jesus to here. I don't want to ask myself what would Jesus do. The question should be what am I going to do. We all know what Jesus would do. Or the idea of Jesus would do. It doesn't even have to be Jesus. Pick another really super example and use that. Yes, we have come to mass produced pieces of plastic shit to remind us.

I was glad that it was the worst holiday season in thirty years. Good. Good for us. Maybe there is a ray of hope for our souls yet. Maybe there's a ray of hope for my soul yet.

Frankly, I'm embarrassed. I have embarrassed myself. Buying, collecting, having so much shit. I am truly embarrassed.

A couple of weeks ago, after this guy at work showed me an email picture that he got...It was a boob. Just a boob. He finally got an offer. Well, good for you. That was his shit, and it did effect me. Stupid. We have the Internet, and people gotta' send titties and wieners. Yep, titties and wieners. Nice.

Anyway, I went outside. It was dark, the moon was out. It was cold. I stood there and took it in. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep outside, in the cold. I could build a fire. I've got dogs. I've got blankets. I could make my food right there on the fire. I wanted to sleep. Maybe my dreams would take me on better adventures than my current life would.

Then I went back inside. I went back inside to my pile of shit. I don't think that I want shit anymore.

The words of my friend ring in my ear. My other friend asked me what I was waiting for. I can do anything...so what was I waiting for. Yeah. What am I waiting for?

It's going to take me a bit to get rid of it all. But, maybe this is the year. Maybe this is the year.

Maybe this is the year.

Noteworthy

2008-10-11T10:31:00.004-05:00

Another "virgin" birth occurred in the shark world. Simplified, it's the process of the egg splitting, and reforming, without the addition of any male sperm, and then forming a new viable being. Several species do this normally, some do this only in times of duress. I'm sure I'm going to get in trouble, but, given the duress that women have been under for so many eons (need we really bring up the words such as Clitorectomy or Palin?)....one might point to Mary and wonder if she was the first woman recorded to have a "virgin" birth in the human species. Perhaps woman have done this before, and could maybe do this again. Hard to say, but I did find the point noteworthy; and perhaps hopeful, on so many levels.

The Very Essence of Dark Matter...Big and Small

2008-09-21T09:16:00.003-05:00

Somewhere there's a list of things that we're not supposed to touch. I'm not just thinking about things like the burner on the stove or the fork in the light socket...not those obvious things... somewhere there's a list. We could probably ask Stephen Hawkins. He may know of the list, or have it buried on his desk with all of Einstein's notes and predictions. I'm pretty sure someone has it.

No, I do not think that there's a secret society of some sort. I've long given up that theory. We're just not smart enough to have one. We're smart enough to hang out with like people and keep some secrets, just not smart enough to have an actual secret society of some sort. Someone always talks, or breaks ranks, or leaves clues. We're just not that smart. So, someone has the list. I vote go ahead and give it up.

Most of us, including me, are too busy to be thinking about the list....or, just thinking at all. At some point, we just don't think. There's a certain comfort in this. Comfort in the daily grind. Comfort in all things non-imaginary. Most things we just take for granted, like they're just there, and that's that.

Example: Who was the first person to think about dark matter? That's really using the ole noodle. Instead of just assuming that there was dark and light. That there were just things floating about....there is a matter, a physical thing that is holding the light or pushing and pulling with the light. Fantastic. So obvious. I'm just sorry that I didn't think of it first.

I thought this week about space, dark matter and aliens, a bit. An astronaut of high rank came forward to tell us all that there are most definitely aliens. It was in the news. I don't disbelieve this. Why not?!? What can't there be aliens?!? I'm not ready to assume that they are all smarter than we are. I'm sure that their are some, but probably not all. What are the odds that they are ALL smarter? That would really suck, if that were the case. Just look what we do to our own not smart people....if it us against the entire universe, well, we're screwed. Let the probing begin...bottoms up people...bottoms up.

Also, I'm not positive why the government or governments would keep this a secret. Is it that these aliens really are that cool, and we would pounce on them like we do the likes of Marilyn Monroe, and they just don't want to deal with it...all that fame? Is it that all the churches would fall because we would find out that what we thought was a God is really just a short grey female/male from a distant planet and there would be just a downfall in the economy from the churches no longer having money or maybe there would be such a mass suicide that we wouldn't have any workers left to tend to the crops? Or, everyone would want to leave and vacation party like it's the Florida Coast, and the aliens just don't want their shrubbery and lawns tainted with smoke, vomit, beer cans, and the smells of teenagers fucking? Hard to say.

Maybe they don't even have things like Males and Females. Maybe they don't even have sex. That would be a shame to not have that. And desserts, like snow cones. Sex and Snow Cones. Yeah, there are somethings that we have that are cool.

I don't think that I would freak out that much. Go ahead, make the announcement. Maybe it would finally rid all of our overpopulated planet from so many dumbasses and we could start again. We are a planet of weak minded people sometimes. Just see the American Library Associations list of Banned Books and the reasons the books were even tried for banning. Every year there's a new list. Really, even now, there's a list EVERY YEAR. I personally have yet to read a book, any book, that has swayed me to do this or that. And if someone is that easily swayed...well, we do have to question. Please do not respond with the Bible. Please.

Back to the aliens. My other thought was, since they probably exist, who did we entrust to sign the Inter-Galactic Peace Treaty? We obviously have one. I wanted to know to signed away some of our asses for probing for a few advances in technology. Who did that? And if you have been one of the chosen ones, who has been probed, could you get a copy of the IGPT, and find a loophole to get yourself out of the probing? Or, if you have not been chosen, and would like to sign up for probing, how does one go about signing up for that? It seems a little like a draft, no questions, no background checks. I feel quite sure that we would have had enough volunteers, had we been asked. Yes, quite sure. There wasn't a need to be so pushy about it.

Also, which of our lawyers is certified in Inter-Galactic Law? There has to be lawyers...there's always lawyers. Or is there a branch of the ACLU or some international group, that is educated to deal with these highly sensitive matters? Yes, I was just wondering. I haven't seen any news or commercials. Where are the suits? There's always suits. Am I just not looking in the right place? Instead of a black or grey suit, I suppose it should be a space suit. Is there a toll-free number? or a toll-free laser of some sort that we should have access to?

I was told my a dear friend, that the rumor around NASA, at the time that he worked there, was that there were lots of different kinds of aliens. And that we were a sort of amusement for them. Well, I can believe that. We're a source of amusement for me, too. Constantly. I find myself a source of amusement. And that there are even rumors...that's just like us. Most of our daily existence is speculation, concoction, and rumor. I'm not shocked.

But, if they do have some advanced thinking that would help us not just mill around daily, I sure would like that self-help book. They could just beam it into my head, I'd be ok with that. Well, given that it wouldn't break my mind....maybe just a few key chapters. Surely if they can speed around the universe, they can offer up a Self-Help Book with some actual relevance.

And what in the Sam Hell does this have to do with me. Nothing really, I suppose. I was just mulling it over, that we really don't know dick about the ways of the universe, and even less about our own existence day to day. At least, I don't seem to.

In the last month, I have had a series of serious dreams, vivid and shaking - often staying with me way past dawn and sometimes for days. In the last month, I've seen my past, my way - way past creeping up on me from the long buried cracks and crevices of my mind and my soul. People, actual people coming alive again from the dusty boxes I had neatly stacked for storage. I've been in shock about it really. Mostly shock. I have been quiet and staring blankly. Absorbing, dreaming, breathing - taking not a lot of action. Shock.

I am a separatist of sorts. I've kept things in control and non-linked most of my entire life. If you were to see the state of my car floor bed, it would be hard to believe this. But, it's true, I do not like to connect things and people. Then what would happen?!? Then what?!?

I suppose it's due to my upbringing- all the rules of a small town. The person that I am that has continually been told by family, leaders, friends, society - that I cannot act a certain way - that I cannot think a certain way - that I cannot be a certain way - Well, it's led to being a separatist. I have been able to make sure people, for the most part, feel safe (because we do like to feel safe), and I have been able to exist, for the most part, very happily.

Evidently, there are people out there who have been thinking about me. Can you believe this? Frankly, I'm shocked. Who would look for me? Who would hunt for me? Who would give me a second thought? And Why? I am so unbelievably ordinary. Who would bother? Seriously, what impression could I have left that would make people think of me? And do I even want to be responsible for that impression.

AND, of course, I wondered, what did they need from me? I am usually very busy, have a full life, tons of great people around me...would I even have the space to give? Holy shit, that's a lot of stuff. And if it's money...well, good luck with that. Part of being ordinary is being ordinarily broke. Seriously, good luck with that.

I have managed to be buried, to be unknown for somewhere around be past twenty-five years. That's a pretty good run. Not as good as D.B. Cooper or the Mayans, but still, pretty fucking cool run. I believe that I may still have the option of continuing my hiatus, somewhat...I just need the cash to buy a small spot on foreign soil - preferably an island. I don't need that much.

My friend Paul, who I haven't seen for a few very stupid reasons for about eight years, my dear friend Paul, who I finally saw the other night. He told me that it was just the planet Saturn moving around in the Universe. That Saturn was the planet that brought up new things that you haven't started, and old things that you haven't finished - yes, Saturn - hanging there making us do things whether we wanted to or not. And my dear friend Paul, who I do not think that he realized how much of an impact he made in my life, and he was standing there giving me the most comforting advice about this crazy month, that I had heard. And my dear friend Paul, who I didn't realize just how much I had missed him, until he stood there. I have been a fool to not check on him, all this time. I'm not being dramatic, Paul really is that fucking cool. We'd all be lucky to be around him more.

Which circles round to the list of things that we shouldn't touch and dark matter and aliens. I have begun to open the past. I have begun to dust off the boxes and throw all of the stuff out on the floor of my mind. This giant pile of papers, and knickknacks, and widgets, and the copies or copies, the scribbles on notepads, and the pictures...piles and piles of dusty papers falling to the floor, covering my neatly arranged desk - fluttering about, touching the ceiling, crunching and crinkling under my feet as I walk.

It has felt exhilarating and overwhelming. In my mind I am sweaty and out of breath from pulling out the drawers and papers - looking desperately and vividly for the list of things that I shouldn't touch. I am filled with energy and exhausted - all at the same time. All of those different things, not always good, I was not always good, that made me what I am today. I'm not sure that I want to deal with all the good because it is wrapped up with all of the bad. Not everything was good - not everything was good. And I'm not sure that I want the responsibility of forgiveness - whether I am giving or receiving it. I'm not sure that I want the responsibility of responding. I'm not sure that I was the laughing and the crying. I'm not sure that I want any of it. What do I personally owe? I did not come looking. I did not ask. Do I owe if I didn't start it? Reasonably, probably so...just a bit. I should probably check in a bit. It might actually be worth while.

Twenty-five years of quiet...it may just not be enough. All these piles....

Stephen Hawking are you there? Do you have the list?

Do you feel like making a bet?

Soul Vomit

2008-04-12T11:41:00.002-05:00

A man was convicted this week of sticking his baby in a microwave. It was a small article buried with the other shit. The baby has had several skin grafts, and will bare these scares for the rest of her adopted life. It was in a hotel room, near a beach, the baby was crying. We've seen the hotels near the Texas coast, they're not pretty or fancy. Hand-me-down bedding, the smells of cleaning supplies and sand and stale smoke and booze. He just stuck the baby in the microwave. Took the time to decide how many seconds he could get away with, set it, pushed the buttons, and without a pause pushed Start. He later took the baby to the hospital, and tried to pass the third degree burns off as a really bad sunburn. The mother was at the hospital supporting the man.

Now we're having a trial, because we're fair, and sometimes it's because of God, or he's crazy and we should care.

My first thought about this story was simply fuck you people. This story has stuck with me. How can it not touch you? Even though I don't know them. I'll never meet the little girl. I'll never see how she's going to dress, or who she's going to hang out with, or what scars she'll bare. Her life began with surgery and hate.

I'll take the wrap with God for all of us. Seriously, I will. I don't have so much hate for people like this guy that I need to make it painful for them. However, I don't seem to feel a real super warm fuzzy about keeping them alive anywhere. I'm ok with the death penalty. I do not think that you can do such a horrible thing to anything, and somehow through punishment or shitloads of counseling suddenly become a viable member of society. Aren't we just kidding ourselves if we think that we would want this guy for a neighbor. Every time I put my food in my own microwave, the thoughts came. It stuck with me. I couldn't eat.

The anger of the story stayed with me. It mulled over and over in my brain. I suppose it's these kind of stories that effect people enough to take action of some sort. Ok, I support the legal killing of another human being.

In the same week, a chimp escaped from a research facility here. It's not the same climate I'm sure that the chimp came from. But, if I were the chimp, I'd take my chances on the outside with the weather and food and stick around there.

I imagined just how scared the chimp must have been. How determined the chimp must have been. The amount of careful thought and spirit it must have taken to take flight and fucking run for it's life. Saying goodbye to the others. Passed the walls of confinement to air, plants, dirt of freedom. The chimp got caught. It was without a name, or an in depth worry news. That life just became a blurb. As though it's life was not as worthy of notice as the traffic we've been having.

I hate the way we torture animals. It makes my heart and soul hurt. I don't know how those humans justify looking into their eyes and do what they do. What work is that important? Nothing. I have a disease that's going to kill me. I take that as mine. But it's part of nature, part of life, I'm not supposed to work or give influence, or breath forever. I am supposed to die.

I couldn't find anyone to talk about my feeling with. My heart hurt. I was sad. And these things on the T.V. said to inform me. No way to act on the information that I received. I was somehow just supposed to take it in, and then what? Then what? For your information only is a crock of shit.

I wanted to see the man and woman, with what they did to their baby, dead. I wanted to make sure that I voted correctly. I know that some countries world wide have gotten ride of the death penalty. I don't care why, there isn't a reason that's good enough for me. It's not good to just keep people here. We have too many people here already. Some people just draw short on the DNA lottery, their brain or soul doesn't work right, something is defiantly wrong, we can all agree on that. And it is sad, more sad than most things, but I have no misgivings about getting rid of them. I could sleep just fine knowing that their life was wasted and we ended it. Sleep just fine.

And the chimp, I wanted to get in my car and find the chimp. Yes, I know the chimp would have been violent, and could have hurt me. I would have brought it home and found a refuge for it; away from testing. Yep, I would have taken my chances with the animal. I couldn't do it, it had already been caught and taken back. But, I would have. Fuck it, I would have done it. Stuff like that is that important. I don't even like zoos. I don't even like to kill bugs.

So, I thought we could just free the animals and test on the bad humans. Not like history has done in the past, to just any old human that's not liked. But, the child molesters, the people who abuse or murder, I don't have a problem with that.

I'm just saying what we're all thinking, so don't' yell. It's just a blog. But, the older I get, the more horror that I see, I have no problem with experimenting on bad people. Let the mice and the monkeys go. Go ahead and put the man and woman in the microwave. I'll take the wrap with God, and hell, I'll even push the Start Button.

I laid near my new flower garden, so sad, nothing of the tiny petals that could dissuade me from the mood, and cried.

Sinkies better than Floaties, or is it the other way around....

2008-04-12T09:16:00.003-05:00

I guess I didn't have anything that I wanted to read in the bathroom. I have lots of things that I should be reading. Sometimes I don't want to have that kind of committment to my poop. Just having to pay attention to my shit is committment enough.

I'm trying to get healthier. How can we not? We've fucked up the food system big enough that some of us get too much, and lots of people don't get enough. So, here I am. I've been trying to keep up with what's ok to eat, what's not ok to eat. If my shit is good enough. If my poop signifys a change for the better. I sometimes feel quilty about putting anything in my mouth, as though taking a bite of the genetically engineered food is taking from someone else. The guilt is so big and stressful that I either have gotten tired, indigestion, or constipated from it all. That can't be healthy. Thus, my poop on those days are no good. And what about the methane that I'm contributing to the planet's atmosphere? God help us, our existance is almost unworthy. I cannot produce good poop to honor your creation.

Shit, shitty, McShit, Shit.

Fighting for your own space in this world is a bit oppressive when you have to worry about your poop. Sometimes I just vision us, all of us, as this giant swirling mass and I'm constantly amazed that we haven't been flushed all together. How can one not believe in the Chaos Theory these days? I eat, I poop, and somewhere on the planet something dies, is born, etc. Being a part of the swirling mass has it vantages. Do I simply ebb and flow? Do I swim upstream? Having to pick what my responsbilities to the mass are, as oppossed to which ones I can just let go, just let go to the swirl. Do I have responsibilities to the living micro-organisms in the poop? OR, just the bigger picture? Shit, shitty, McShit, Shit.

Today I had floaties. Yesterday I had sinkies. There are articles about which kind of poop are better than the others. I think that they flip-flopped opinions at some time. There are poop experts. I do find this funny. Shit doctors, shit disectors, the Poop People. Some of the CSI units even have them. Your poop can tell quite a story. Even poop fossils. Even that. But, do we even trust the poop experts? There are, after all, only humans, just making guesses. After all, nothing in this world is permanent...it just ebbs and flows.

I put a big glass vase outside my house in the garden I created. Glass is only solid to those of us that can't see it moving into mush. It's not that solid. I wondered if I would live to see any of the glass move downward, melty, even just make lines that it was moving downward with the force of gravity that I can't see. It gets sun everyday, and it's hot here, so maybe. I've made a habit for now to hold my head sideways and look everyday. Maybe. Just maybe.

I took the family to see a comedy show. We all went downtown. The energy is different in a downtown. The air is different. The people are different. It's faster, it's slower, it's brighter and darker. Things colide in a downtown. We walked and held hands. We had pizza in a little cafe; as though that pizza was so special from other pizza, and it is. I gave my son two quarters. He gave one to some kid's jar for support with some disease. Then he bought a gumball with the other. Sometimes we're so busy we all don't even get to really look at eachother. My son that was so tiny once. He's tall and thin, and expressive. My family is cool. I thought to myself that I didn't know how people with children could be mean to eachother, or divorced or anything. I just don't know about that. I tried to stare as much as possible, I wanted to absorb these times into my memories, my blood, my DNA. It was more than love and wonder. More than awe. We don't have a word for that energy.

We went into the theater, past the swirling masses of cool people. I didn't want to consentrate on them, or make room for them. We only had money for one t-shirt. I bought it for our son.

I wanted to get our son backstage to meet the famous people. I played the handi-capped card for him. It got to be good for something. I told everyone about my disease, and how it has affected our family life, and this was a big night for all of us to be together. so if they could just get his shirt signed or something, that would be so nice. How nice would that be? At first, there was no hope of getting him backstage. But, I was patient. I had done this before when I wasn't diseased. I knew that it would work, given time and hitting up the right number of people. I looked really sad and hurt, and showed my pleading eyes. Smile. Finally, they all told me what to do...but that it might not work, we might get kicked out. I said thank you, I said the right tone of wispy, grateful, heartfelt tone of thank you and that was ok too. If we all got kicked out, then my kid would have that experience, too.....getting kicked out of something cool. That was fine, too.

The show had a lot of adult humor. When we got backstage to the famous people, one of them looked surprised and maybe a bit judgemental about having my small child there. I told him that most of the humor when over his head, and he'd already heard his own mother cuss, and he didn't like it, so, he wasn't going to say that stuff. Our child was more conservative then me, he had made that decision for himself, and I didn't need to interfer. Also, there's so much violence, ugly sex, hate, war on T.V., in school, around him in his day to day world that I can't protect him from, and this show was funny....why wouldn't I want to take him to the things that are witty and funny and full of good? He was surprised with my answer, met my cool kid, and helped get his shirt signed by everyone, with pictures, too. My kid thought of himself as King Shit. Why wouldn't I want to do that? How many times to we get to feel that? I have no heartburn about that. My poop was ok.

Work.

The ebb and flow of that. People always think that there work is the most important. It's hard for me to feel that, or take any of it that seriously. I try to make my yawning and lack of interest as masked as possible. Some days are better than others. After five, one of the ladies saw a tiny bit of a tatoo of mine sneaking out of the top of my shirt. She told me that she didn't know that I was that kind of person. I smiled. I'm not sure what kind of person she had thought I was before, or now, but I'm some kind of person. Yes. I guess my cover was blown. The next day the gossip train hit. What can one do? Not much. Well, the jig is up.

I am due to get my biggest tatoo endeveor colored this weekend. Standing in the elevator after five the next day, everyone asked what I was doing this weekend. I guess I got this look of panic on my face. Not panic exactly, just caught, without my work mask on. Shit, it was after five. It was a weird feeling for me. One smart German said that I didn't have to say, and he smiled. He made me smile, and smile big. Ok, fuck it. I told everyone that I was having some tatoo work done, then perhaps some gardening, and hanging with the family and a friend. German smiled. The others just looked at me in shock. Where are we? !!!?!#$!$. People world wide have tatoos. It's pretty popular now. No so much for natives in National Geo, gansters, and the Navy anymore. For real. We just didn't think that you were that kind of person.

We'll see how that works out on Monday.

I'm not sure if they're all feeling like somehow they let something into their sactuary. I'm not sure if they're going to be ok. There's others that have tatoos, in the office. I'm not sure what's so special or shocking about me. I could have done without the extra attention, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I couldn't let the group get away with the egos, the gossip, the straight up meaness from the job. On the other hand, who appointed me Savior? Self-Appointed...then isn't that the ego of the self? Then I'm no better than the rest of them. The elevator could have crashed, and we wouldn't have been missed in world history, that's for sure. However, when we talked about nothing did a bomb go off in someone's hand somewhere else? Hard to call.

In the meantime, I went to sleep at six PM in the chair, as people of my kind often do. I didn't sleep well. I woke up to coffee and the worry of my shit being good enough.

I pray and smoke, and wait for that.

2008-03-29T08:07:00.004-05:00

I logged on to see that it was January since my last post. Wow, months ago. I've been stuck in the bog.

It used to be that when I was bogged down, I just left. I left and went somewhere no one could find me. I would return with gifts and stories, but I when I was gone, I was really gone. Now having a family, a big machine job, I have responsibilities, duties, to make people aware that I am leaving and leave numbers for emergencies. Those things that bind us. They do take a toll on the art of disappearing. One has to admire the likes of Mr. Cooper. I'm not saying so much about the theft part....but he did manage to grab some money and completely disappear. We are still spending money on this unsolved case. You do have to say that's fucking brilliant.

I did just leave. I went to visit a friend in a State that was far away. I only had a weekend, but, whatever....something was better than nothing. I hung out with wonderful strange people, ate delicious food, drank....bought silly things. I breathed in air that was not my same air. I felt as though this precious foreign air would heal my soul, reforge my heart's forces, all of those things. And the secrets that I brought back with me of my experiences would just be mine, to share or not to share. That's what leaving does for me. Being in a place that doesn't know you allows you to choose your experiences; rather than, having situations presented or laid upon you that you have to have a reaction or some action taken. Jesus, I was in desperate need of leaving. I'm sure that you would love for me to tell you about Amanda, Dancing Bruce, or the surly grandson of a famous actress you owns a small shop who treated me like crap until I stood there and sold a ton of stuff for him just to get what I wanted out of another shopper's hands. Yes, everyone wants to hear those stories. But, not yet. I'm still sitting with them, in secret.

I came back.

I came back to what I've decided is just crap. Crap that I must make a plan to completely leave for good.

I think that I want to own a cafe or maybe an earthworm farm or maybe both. Earthworms do not talk, and boy would that be nice. A cafe would allow me to visit with people a short bit, but if I owned the cafe, I could just kick them out if I liked. I wouldn't have to serve or deal with anyone that I didn't care for. How nice would that be?!?

I have noticed that there are just about three kinds of people, just three. The first group does whatever they fucking feel like, to whoever they feel like, whenever they feel like. The second group does very little that they like; and more often than not, they try to impose their rules on the first group, or they try to impose so much of their rules on themselves that they crack and have secret first group lives. The third group cannot help, seriously cannot help doing things that the first and second group do, and the first two groups rarely make space for this group to live at all, this third group is the most tragic of all the groups.

Now, there is a smaller fourth group. This group can't even be called a group, there is no organization about it, these people do not form. They are by far the best that humanity has to offer, but are because they cannot form, they cannot rule they other three groups. The other three may be the distruction of humanity in it's complete existance, but because of this four gray area, those people will have taken full advantage of all that has been offered, created a wonderful, fantastic ride, before it's all said and done.

I broke out into hives this week. Not just once, three times. I itched, I was red, and then the tiny, raised red circles began to show all over. I tried to find the root cause of them, as I scratched and medicated myself. Nothing was different. I've only have hives two other times in my life, both were external causes. Causes that could easily be pointed to, and fixed. But, not this week. I finally realized that I was having hives from stress. Stress hives. I couldn't even believe that there was such a thing. There is. I was allergic to my life. Holy fucking shit. I had to pinpoint the stresser to get rid of the itchy situation. Ok, well, which fucking thing was making me itch? I have so many things, everyone has so many things, how can a person pick out the trigger point. I thought, What?!? Are you fucking kidding me?!?

I took some time to consider all of my angles. Was it the first group in me? Was it the second group in me? Was it the third group in me? Or was it the lack of the fourth group in me?

By Thursday, I was to the stress level that I just couldn't think about it. It has been work, work, work, what did you say? I can't think right now, I'm working. I have hives, and I can't think about it, I'm working. And then when I'm done working there's some more work and stuff to do. I know that I'm scratching my tits and ass, but not to worry the work will be done.

I've been secretly laying plans, longterm plans for the worms and the cafe. So, if I can just hang on, I can itch, what the fuck do I care, if in the end, I get worms and a cafe.

Thursday. Itchy and working. The young girl at work, very pretty. Everyone knows that she's the favorite. She's the favorite to the client of redneck men, and really many of the people in the office. She's can be very smart, and she is very pretty. The only problem, is she does know that she is protected and she gets and takes the free stuff. She's currently only a group one. At times, because this is her first real job, she lacks the experience with people. She doesn't know that as long as she stays right were she's at, everything will be good for her, but she's very locked in. Once she ventures out, the responses may not always be as welcoming. That's just the way it is.

We had a situation. One that me and my hives could have done without. Pretty Girl had a lot of work. But, truth be told we all did. Once she came back from lunch, she began to pawn some off on me. She didn't ask me, she just told me. She told me in a very not nice tone. I recognized that she really did feel like that was alright for her to do. It wasn't that big of a deal. Fuck it. I'd just do the work. And we could just set the boundry later, I was too busy. Just my luck that wasn't how it was to go.

I tried to point out that I would need more information from her to complete what she had so kindly given me. Very snidely, she asked if I need her to just do the work for me. This was loud, and mean, and rang over the cubicle bay. The white glove had been slapped. The pitch fork grabbed. I knew the towel was raised to see who would throw it in first. I sighed. Well, shit.

Oh, the surly girl. The demeaning tone. I wasn't that irritated with her, I just saw if for what it was. This was not my first rodeo. I knew that I would have to bite back. I would have to establish my cubicle bounderies. Seriously, I would have to basically pee on something to define my six square foot territory. I would have to beat my hivey chest to make the understanding known which highlighter was mine. That I had my computer chair set exactly where I liked it. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I wasn't annoyed, just tired. And I wanted to tell there that what she said was stupid. That I knew what was going to occurr from here, I knew how this was going to play out, and it was stupid, we had work to do.

But, one has to define themselves in the office. We really do a bunch of really stupid stuff. So, Okay, let's just take care of it already.

I explained to her that No, I did not need her to help me do her work. I said this as equally as loud, and with a more disturbing, but still professional, polite and courteous tone. I pee'd.

The whole area was very quite. One could have heard a paperclip drop.

I began to go back to work, now I had my work, and part of her work, I had no time to think any further on the matter. So, I found another avenue to gather the information that I needed to get from her, completed her stuff very quickly, and dispensed of the matter. And as I was printing her part to take to her, she came around the corner with the sticky note of information I had asked for. One sticky note. In the time it took her to write it down; I had finished. I knew this would also make a point.

And now, I would have to complete the lesson that I had begun to teach her. Shit.

She almost started to talk. I looked at her and explained the "in the time she took to gather the stickie note, I had completed her part of the work". So, thanks, but I found it, and if she wanted to stand at the printer, she could just take her work back to her cublicle with her. She looked stunned, and started to say something. I held up my hand, and told her to stop, I didn't need it, and was going back to my own work now. I turned around and walked off. Again, I wasn't angry, just proficient about it.

The cubicle bay was in recovery. It was quiet. It wasn't as though we had a full on brawl, just tow people not seeing eye to eye. I was just as happy to have the silence. I cleared off most of my work....very nice. I didn't think that it was that big of a deal. I know that I would eventually get annoyed though because it was going to continue to be a big deal for a bit. And that would lead to something that I would have to pay attention to, and maybe take away time from the work I had to actually work at.

Me and my hives got to work on Friday in a slightly drug induced hazed. Coffee only sliced a bit of the cloudy fog.

I was waiting. I had a sneeking suspicion that there would be fall out from the incident. Why? Because the girl is still wrapped up in her own, because she would just think that it was about her, this tiny thing, "the incident" wouldn't just pass, there would be further, annoying discussion. And we had stuff to do, that I equally cared less about, but at least that shit paid me. So, of the two, one could deduce where I wanted to spend my thought power.

We had a staff meeting.

We covered business stuff. Then the girl said to everyone that she had another issue that she would like to bring up. It was now an issue worthy of a discussion at a staff meeting. Girl said that she had gotten a bit snippy with me yesterday and she wanted to say that she was sorry. It was not about saying that she was sorry to me, if she really had gotten it, she would have come to me in private. I might have taken notice of that, sure, why not.

However, She was defending her good name by publicly saying something. She was announcing that it was about her. By saying this outloud, she would be able to show everyone how sensitive she was and how much she really cared. Please note that there was no mention of the extra work of her's that I did in record time, and how helpful that was, no mention. Oh Jesus. Please can I just have a break already.

I was also aware that these people thought that I had a direct line to the President of the Company. Pretty Girl thought that. So, upset me, and well, you might hear about it from the President Herself. Yes, indeed, you might just.

People thought that I had direct lines to a great many important people. And it's true, I do have that direct line. I have this direct line because these important people know that I would never use the red button line for something like this. NEVER PUSH THE RED BUTTON!!!! However, I noted that that's cool if people think that. How awesome it that?!? People would probably be apt to do less fucking stupid stuff in the long run. So, that was pretty cool. But, I would never bother anyone about this. I wasn't talking about it now, so no red button pushing later....

Aware that I was going to have to put on my public face quickly. I was going to have to have a response. I did. I'm not positive that I had it on quick enough, but, whatever. When I have hives you just get what I can give.

The boss said how nice that was of her to come forward and say outloud. Everyone was waiting, looking at me. Oh brother.....

I said, yes, that was very nice, thank you. And people were still staring at me. I just continued to sit there. Yes, I knew what was expected, what was supposed to happen next, and I wasn't trying to be an ass, I wasn't holding any great grudge; however, I knew we were still in Lessonville, and I knew better than to feed into the situation, or next time she would still be an office bully.

The boundry had to be set in final. I was not showing any signs of anger, there wasn't any, I was just setting the boundry. I think that in the stand off, I could actually feel the addition of several more hives. There itchy development, red, strong. The thought of stopping just for a few seconds to scratch. Oh the scratchingly relief. Shit.

The boss asked if I had been sassy back. What are we?, fucking little kids. I said matterafactly, that yep, I did. (Would anyone have expected less of me? Really, come-on. Everyone should be sassy back. And if they choose not to, well they will regret it later. Why do that to yourself? We're not at some big battle royal....we're in an office.)

Since there was no I'm sorry following that. I was asked why? Really, why? I was asked that.

Ok, ok, ok.

I said that when we all come to work, it's not just act however you want time, when we all come to work there are actual rules. I wished that I could just come to work and act and do as I please, but that wouldn't take into account everyone else's space. So, therefore, when people come to work and wear their Ugly Buttons, they shouldn't be surprised when someone else dawns theirs.

There was a situation here, right now, that I knew that we could only move through by hearing me say that I was sorry, too. Well, ok, than I'm sorry, too. Even though I was being funny, I shared with the girl my deadpan eyes. People laughed because I said the word Ugly Buttons, and we did move on, and the point was made to the girl where the line was. She backed down a bit; her body language told me so. I'm not sure that she had encounter someone like me. She couldn't use anything on me. I just didn't care to go down this path with her, and I wasn't threaten by anything she did. Even if she made it hard for me to work with her with others by pulling the pretty girl gossipy helplessness, I still wouldn't care. What to do, what to do. I was a good lesson for her. Really. I was just annoyed and itchy that we had to talk about this. I didn't want to be a lesson from someone. Can't you just lesson with someone else? I was annoyed that I had to make believe that it was something I was upset about and needed some sort of fixing. I couldn't pretend about it. It was just stupid.

I went to lunch. I had hives. I longed for another trip to somewhere no one knew me. I longed for the plan for worms and cafe customers. But, what I had where my vacation memories and hives. I lit a cigarette. I won't quite smoking. I know that every drag brings be closer to death, but every drag offers some break from the loudness of living. Who would want to give that up just because group two told you that you have to.

Sometimes, I feel like Piggy and have to run before people take my glasses and try to start small fires to warm their breakroom coffee. And we all know what happed to Piggy.

D.B. if only you could hear my prayers to be a good as you. It was only the parachute they found, dirty, old and nowhere near where you are right now.

Bring back the Flaming Beavers....A Quest for Action

2008-01-06T07:25:00.000-06:00

I have resurrected an old habit.

My love for silly underwear. No, it's not the kind you can jackoff to later. (i.e. a man wearing a lacy red thong with an even racier, silkier read top, under his suit. Not like that.) Just silly underwear.

My favorite underwear was a pair of plain white cotton briefs that had red, orange and yellow flames around the top, with a crudely drawn beaver with a chainsaw in a big circle, at the crotch. I bought those at a fundraiser for a local radio station that needed money to survive. Eons before satellite radio. I do hate space junk radio. It freaks me out, and makes me think that I need a aluminum hat to protect myself, or something. Plus, I just don't like the idea that we're going to be seen by our space neighbors as the planet with our cars up on blocks in the front yard of weeds with all our satellites, etc. But, the underwear, the beaver, they were very special. When I put them on, the cotton always felt so clean and refreshing. Of course, we all know that cotton is so cottony absorbant; which is important when you're running and hopping fences, and important when your hot with lust and you know you shouldn't sleep with them, or aren't drunk enough to sleep with them, but you're still hot for and need to just go to the bathroom, wipe and get back to drinking your beer. Yes, our bodies place cruel messy tricks on us sometimes.

The beaver drawing, somehow made me feel like my body, my soul, my personal space was completely my own; that it was in lockdown, and if anyone neared me without permission, they would get the chainsaw. Ahhh, the chainsaw.

It was just very nice, at the grocery store, in the big giant lines. At the DMV, the big giant lines. At the frigging bar, just trying to get my drink on, the big giant lines. Or, the people fucking with me at work because they were bored, stupid, didn't have a life. But, simply no bother, I had the flamming beaver panties on. Safe, secure, tough.

Those underwear have bit the dust. I think that I still have them, but they are at the bottom of the underwear drawer, in a dark corner, by themselves, only to be seen in the awe of memories, so worn out with holes and stains to really don them. But, to fucking awesome to every throw away. Maybe to be found, once I'm dead, and someone would scratch their head in wonder, and never know they had just touched greatness.

I was also partial to a silver lame thong that I once had, when my ass was perky and smooth. Oh, how I loved to put those on, and do my hair and make-up, put on my silver velvet six inch heals, turn on some kickass music, make myself a drink, and clean the house. And no one, I mean no one was in the house for that. It wasn't about the sexiness of it, so put your hands where I can see them for the duration of this blog. It was about looking and feeling good while doing something that was boring and stupid, but simply had to be done. I would dance with the mop. I would sing with my drink in one hand. I would scrub with my cigarette in my mouth, and my rag in the other hand. It was so much fucking fun. It was awesome. I highly recommend it. Even for the guys. And if your a guy who doesn't wear heels, that's fine, just put on your going to church shoes, the really nice ones, with the fancy socks.

I can remember a time with the flaming beaver and my friend Chanda. She's very tall and has big boobs and long, flowing blond hair. She wasn't single, but I was. I drawfed in comparison to her beauty. Men would come to her with numbers in hand, weiners out, eyed glazed. It was costly going out with her if my intent was to get laid. I had to buy the guy I had my sights on, way more drinks to get him refocused on me; rather than her. Focus, I'm buying the drinks here....and if you're a good monkey, I'll buy you a drive dinner after I'm done with you. Focus!!!!

She's a looker for sure. And I love her. She's my friend. I could tell you all about her personality, but after the discription above; what's the point, you've already lost your focus, too. I'm sure.

Chanda and I would go out to the bar order drinks, and keep them coming. We would get twenty dollars worth of quarters, maybe each. We would position ourselves in front of this gun game, usually in some darkly lite corner with the smell of old spilled, rotten drinks and carpet/floor burns from cigarettes stamped out in a hurry. We would proceed to masacare aliens and get our drunk on. We would laugh, kill and drink. So good, so wholesome, so fun.

Ocassionly there would be some guy, with an attitude, who would try to show us up at the game by placing his two quarters on the plastic of the game consol, next to the start buttons, signaling that he would be next. Oh, two quarters? That's it? Do you not see the fucking fourty some odd dollars worth of silver next to us? The humongous pile of silvery promises that we're here to stay forever?!? And you come over here with two?!? You walk over here with that cocky attitude, slamming down hard, what?!?, TWO?!? What exactly do you think your two quarters are going to do?!? How far do you think your 1999 and 1776-1976 are going to get you?!? Are you fucking kidding us?!?!! Just look at our score, our empty shot glasses....do you not feel the flurry and fury of sweaty underwear, smeared lipgloss, and booze?!? And you walk over here with that?!?

We would always just look at eachother and laugh and laugh. With big grins on our faces, ok, one of us would step aside for the next round and let the poor sucker put in his two, tiny, dull quarters in the slots, and try to have a go. Okay, okay. He wouldn't make it very long. It was over once he heard the clink, clink of the machine taking in the money.

We were never sure if the guys who tried and failed were really just that bad, or if it was the silly, violent, loud female energy that just overpowered them and sent them packing. We're not your sister. We're not your mother. We're not your ex-wife or ex-girlfriend. We're not here to fuck you. We're not even here to hear you fucking name said by anyone. We're not your fucking friend. We are here to kick ass...be it alien or man....just here to kick some ass.

They would always leave with their pee-pee tucked between their legs. Nope not sure if they were really that bad, or the girls just sent them packing. Hard to make that call, we were never sober enough for that. And didn't really care. Just bra wearing, video game junkies out for the thrill of the hunt. For hours we would commandeer that game murdering the evil species and drinking deliciously intoxicating drinks.

I could try to redraw the design on a new pair, or spend a ton of money getting a shiny new one; though, but it wouldn't be the same. One has to seek new pairs, and retire the old ones once their service of duty has been completed. That's just how it is. You cannot reclaim the feeling of memories or a time past. We all know what a person going through a mid-life crisis looks like....I shudder at the foolishness of it. Eek, Yuck, Icky. Yes, one just has to find new ones.

I did find one new pair. They are cotton briefs, and their very loud hot pink and royal purple strips, with silver lame lettering on them. I wore them. The feeling on just having them on and if I needed their super powers, I could just run to the bathroom and stand in the stall with my pants down for an extra moment. I have taken great comfort in them, their cottony comfort absorbing all the bad. Everyone noticed my new look, my new confidence....some even commented, asked what I had been doing. I didn't tell them about my secret weapon underwear. It would be highly inappropriate and totally ruin my underwear high. It is secret underwear after all.

I'm not quite ready to clean my house in them. Not quite ready to go out and drink in them. I have to create new meaning for my new underwear. I am sure that whatever it is, it's going to be simply fantastic. I may even tell soemone about, minus the fact that I was wearing my super strength fun britches.

Yes. It's a new dawn and it smells like fresh new cotton briefs.

I wish THEY would come here and see me.

2008-01-04T07:19:00.000-06:00

This may be a short transmission. I'm not even dressed for work yet. Seriously.

I've been seriously detoxing. The new diet that I've been on, well, it's not a diet at all. It's just eating the foods that I should be eating anyway. Man oh man, does it make me shit. And I have begun to shit on time, every time, on time. I have a friend that really monitors her colon activities, and when I tell her about this, she's going to be so happy for me. My energy is starting to be up, and my mood swings are starting to be down. Maybe it's this time for real. Hard to say. I'm not very good with any kind of follow through. Frankly, that maybe one of my charms. As least, I find it charming. Not so much for other people. But, I feel better, so whatever.

In the office this week, I screwed up on my timesheet. In an email to office headquarters, which is located in some topsecret state, maybe run by robots, I did confess to that screw up. I confessed to it all. And even asked for help in fixing it. I received notice back in the form of an email (which I totally wish has music or at least the Whah, whah whah whah song), repeating to me, the exact way that I screwed up (which I had already confessed to), and that this indiscretion would be let go, THIS TIME, but, THEY frowned upon this kind of action.

THEY. I had heard that word quite a bit lately. THEY. I don't even know who THEY are. So, I'm note sure why I would need to care so much that THEY are frowning at me about anything. I don't see THEY. I don't talk to THEY. I'm not even sure that THEY know who I am, or where I am. (or do THEY?) I'm note even sure that THEY are human. Maybe THEY are robots. Or, maybe THEY are monkeys, or hippos. Or, maybe it's just one guy named THEY. I just don't know.

However, it should be noted that THEY are obviously very important. And THEY can frown upon us all for everything. THEY frowned upon me. I was maybe a bit sad that I had made anyone unhappy enough to frown. I'm sorry THEY. I'm very sorry.

I've decided to make it up to THEY. And hold THEY in my dearest of dearest spots in my daily activities at the office. If I do not like the way some work has turned out, I plainly state that I do not think THEY would be very proud of us. Or, if someone has a bad attitude towards another, I remind that person that THEY would not think that was a way to work with others. Even if I just don't like the office coffee, I state that THEY wouldn't like this at all.

I have become a champion of THEY. And perhaps they will bestow on me many blessings in the next year. I honor you, THEY. Yes, I honor you, THEY. Since I do not have a picture of THEY to set us an office shrine to THEY, I have had to make do with a fancy stapler and some hole-punch confetti, and a necklace made of paperclips. I cannot light incense or candles at my alter to THEY, so I substitute with a pleasant, spray odor remover instead. (Not anything that really smells that might upset another office member. Most certainly not. THEY would not like that one bit. THEY do have rules, of which I can review on the confusingly laid out online intranet or my handy, bulky, hard to decipher employee manual that I was given at the beginning, which I think I've lost a few pages in the back of my car.)

Once when I said THEY to another worker, the worker asked me who THEY were. I was shocked. Then, I stated that if she was supposed to know who THEY were, then THEY would have told her. I felt like I had said to much already, and made my escape to another task, like filing....very busy. I realized that she really may not even know the secret of THEY at all. Even though I screwed up on my timesheet, I realized that this had made me a little special. I had been allowed to even know of the existence of THEY. Oh, the breath escaped me, and I hurried to my shrine to don my paperclip necklace and give thanks and prayers. Oh THEY, thank you THEY, praise THEY, Amen.

This has been a clip from my daily inner monologue to myself that helps me make it through the nonsense of the corporate world.

This is my horoscope from Rob Brezney's site www.realastrolgy.com for the week of January 3, 2008.

In my dream, I was addressing a crowd of Sagittarians in a festively decorated hall. It was the first week of 2008. "You are not yet ready for the wonderful things you think you want," I told them. "To actually get them, you will have to change yourself in the coming months; you will have to shed some old conditioning that is interfering with your quest for success. Do you know what that old conditioning is? Find out NOW! Figure out how you need to transform yourself in order for the world to give you what you yearn for."

I think he's hit the nail on the head. If I am going to reach success in my life, I am going to have to shed quite a bit of nonsense that has been ingrained in me. Prime example, determining my security level at a job where I am threatened by THEY. Yep, all the silliness that we instill in ourselves. Yep, has to go. I have to poop.

End Transmission.

It was supposed to be my Year of the Pig. Instead it was Monkeys.

2007-12-29T09:14:00.000-06:00

As I have read through by last Year's blogs, I can see the depression. Not so vague, am I. I am simply Hemingway, without my great novel. Ahhh, to live on an island, far away from people. He was very smart, smarter than most of us, smarter than me.

I've taken this last week off from work. Maybe to think about getting my shit together... the older I get, it's harder to recover from the lasting affects of the rages of depression that I go through. I am mindful of the last time I let this go to far...I fuckin' broke my leg. That was the universe telling me to stop, and it really hurt like hell. And still having the recent surgery to remove the metal that was in my leg, that didn't seem to stop me. One really cannot get a bigger fucking hint than that.

The fact of the matter is that I have no place to be the weirdo that I am. I feel restraint all the time. I once found myself with purple hair and tattoos. But, there isn't a place for me in the world of corporate culture looking like that. And I need the insurance. No wonder the country is messed up. I cannot be the only lost soul. I'm thinking that I need to get back to myself. It's going to be a long haul. I've gained a ton of weight, I'm trapped in a dead end job. Oh, there's room for promotion, but if you could see the likes of the people that I'm working with, well, I'm not sure that Up is really the New Down.

What this lack of behavior problems has left me with is an obsession with buying made for T.V. exercise equipment, a credit card to Lane Bryant, big flabby boobies, a lack of sex drive, a need for cookies (all the time), and a huge cable Movie Channel bill. Yes, I have been rolling around in my self pity for a long, long time.

I am; however, very fortunate. I didn't do one god damned thing for any of my friends this year, and yet, they still produce. They still come through.

My birthday was upon us. And my friends gathered for drinks at the usual spot. I brought Christmas Gifts for everyone....just silly things. Maybe my favorite was the tiny plastic monkeys I included in everyone's packet. I like monkeys and gorillas. Frankly, they have gotten the hole thing exactly right. And we're going to kill them all for it. They stayed in the forest, naked, with the green food and the rain. Very nice, indeed. So smart, smarter than us. Humans can't sit still. We we're given this great green planet, and we can't wait to fuck it up, and move to the next one. There's not an antibiotic to cure the planet of us.

Once having dispersed this packets, I opened my own. There was lots of silly things, which, I loved. Then there were two small packets of chocolate covered candies. Nice, I thought, but weird. They just looked weird, sitting there all by themselves. Not to worry, I was told, I would see.

Then came the biggest, best present of all times. The cake. And not just any cake, mind you, the fucking most awesome cake that anyone has ever gotten in the history of cakes. Even better than "let them eat cake" cake.

The cake stood about two feet tall. Delicately, and personally decorated. The eyes of the character seemed to beckon me, and the little toes and fingers made of icing did not want to be eaten, they wanted to jump and scream, and make a scene. One arm of the character stood straight up in the air, as if to ask, "Does this armpit smell bad to you?". Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bad Monkey. It was a Holy Monkey. A Holy Monkey Cake. But, it didn't stop there. Much to my delight, the arm gently rocked backwards, and was to be armed with the chocolate covered nuggets, that I had received earlier. Once the hand of the monkey was armed, one had to let go, to watch the choco nuggets fling through the air like a hail of bullets on one's unsuspecting prey or target, if you prefer. This cake was a Poo-Flinging Holy Monkey Cake.

Can you imagine? No, you can't. No, you can't. Or there would be thousands of these cakes made. Everyone would have one. And even if you get one for yourself, which you totally should, my friend Raina would have thought of it first, and given it to me first.

Raina had to find the specs on the Internet. Then she took it to a wedding cake bakery. I would have put their website in this blog...but they didn't seem it fitting to put my cake on their website, so, no go. They did agree to make the cake, and she kept getting delightful calls at work concerning the cake status. When the gearman was there, they called her to ask just how far she wanted the poo to fling. What a wonderful call to have at work. Raina's face lite up with such glee as she recanted to story. She works with lawyers.

The tables around us were filled with the norms. The norms of people in their bedazzled, holiday wear. Their sweaters, their baseball caps, all in boring normal colors. Jesus, the norms. I couldn't even get away from them at a fucking bar. But, as we all took turns flinging poo, something awakened in me. Something that I had kept to quiet, and held in the dark for too long. That need to be silly. That need to have the weird hair, and the weird dress, and to eat lovely weird things. Why have I let myself stray so far?

The Norms stared first in curiosity, then in envy. Then some of those Norms made the face. You know the face. It's the face that every God Fearing American makes when a Muslim walks into the room. That repressed face of anger with a twinge of "I just masturbated to Super Porn in the church bathroom, before I got here, but me and Jesus hate you.", face. We've all seen it. Hell, most people seem to live by it; their faces contorted permanently. We should have listened when our mothers told us if we made that face, it would stick like that. But, we just shot a few poo pieces their way. Awesome poop.

I also received a fantastic piece of art from my friend Ric Williams. www.ricwilliams.com

I now have been blessed with two pieces of art from this man. And I own his book. Which is signed. Oh, you say, signed. Well, if I know him than why did have to have him sign it, you say. I'm no fool. I have watched for years as Ric has blossomed into his own, as he's blossomed into our own. He has the balls to share this with the rest of the world. And once I'm long gone, my child with know that his mother once stood in the presence of, and hung out with, human greatness. That's the purpose of having the book signed. And of course, should my child ever get in desperate need of money, due to bad gambling debts, or medical bills, practically the same thing, he can sell it. Ric would understand that.

He's the top dog when it comes to scanner art. Oh, you haven't hear of that? Yes, it's new.

This year, the bar and the cake, and the friends, was really less about me. I'm not sure that I made that point clear. I'm always a show. But, it wasn't about me. It was about all of the people that were at that table. The finest of humans humbled me. Their knowledge, their thoughtfulness, their badassness....it humbled me. The drinks were shit. We all agreed on that. I think that the Po-Po's got to the bar, maybe they were fined or something, but the drinks were shit. We'll have to move places next year, for sure. But, I'm one lucky son of a bitch.

This time of year really does stick it to me. My birthday, the birth of Christ, the New Year. All of them periods of reflection, and it all happens within a month. It can be powerful, I suppose; or crushing. I sleep a lot. Perhaps, at some point, I will awaken from my long hibernation to seize the power of it all, maybe. Maybe.

I also watch a ton of T.V. Reminded me finally of that Welcome to the Jungle song and video. Just sitting in front of all of those T.V.'s gathering shit. I did notice that Comedy Central has a ton of wonderful stand up comics. All of them seem to be men, though. I'm not sure that we have gotten to the point that women can be that crude and still respected in the comedy world. That's a real shame. I'm very crude, and very funny, but not sure that I could make the kind of money that the boys do. I had to wonder if this was Comedy Central's way of paying back for the lack in pay that all those Male Models get. It's widely know that beautiful women make more money that beautiful men. I think it may just be that type of conspiracy. If you're not pretty, Guy, than you can be funny. We'll help you. If I really thought they'd give a girl a fair shake, I could think about sharing some funny shit with them.

This is only a point because I'm thinking about breaking out. Really breaking out. I've got to get my butt in gear though. I can't decide if I should quite my job or not. Usually, I'm good for about two years at any given job. It's been two years. And since the company got bought out by an even bigger, stupider company, it's a tough call. The new people that I work with are very ignorant, and quite lazy. Two things that seriously make my skin crawl, and I do think that I have received brain damage just from the staff meetings alone, already. Seriously, they are mind numbing. The bosses come in with their lists of things to talk about, and it does drag on, and they could have just sent a fucking email. We have that now...some people use it.

I was ready to quit. Then, I thought, perhaps I could use this to my advantage. Maybe I could slow it down a bit. Not be some dedicated to things that I don't care about. Even if I took it easy, I would still be light years ahead of the fucking rest of them. But, I'm not positive that I can stick it out though. I'm really going to have to buckle down.

What I mean by this is I'm going to have to introduce small facets of myself into their world. Maybe just secretly. Well, it would have to be secretly. They can't handle the truth. I didn't want to be on the office birthday list, and this woman wouldn't let it go. It just stopped her completely. Why wouldn't anyone want cake with a bunch of people who don't give a shit about you in the first place? Why or Why?!? She really did try to talk me into it, too. It was about a ten minute conversation. Then she finally resided herself to having a cake with everyone without me. Now you're getting it. Great. No problem. Awesome. When I didn't relent, you could see the face. (see above for the "face" description.) Frankly, had I known about the Holy Poo-Flinging Monkey Cake, perhaps I could have suggested that. She really did get so bad that I almost told her that I was Muslim, just to get her off my back. I think that might have excused me from a ton of office crap. But, in clear mind and heart, I couldn't do that to my Muslim friends of the world. I could have told her that I was raised Southern Baptist and if she let me out of this, let me break the rules and behave badly, I would just give her some money to make it all go away. But, I didn't think of that until later. I was slow from the brain damage the meeting had inflicted.

Yes, Little things. Must bring in tiny things, like smelling of foreign cigarettes and incense. Taking breaks were they can't get to me, find me, reading in the bathroom; without having to poop. I'll have to find a coffee shop and maybe buy a new laptop where I can keep my secrets and blog about them publicly. I wonder if I can Sage Stick my cubicle based on my religion. They would have to let me, right? I should get Raina to ask her lawyers.

Oh yes, can you feel it? The New Year's Resolution List is forthcoming.

1. Clean House.

2. Buy laptop.

3. Get Comedy Central.

4. Eat better food. (Throw Out Cookies.)

5. Finish bigass art project, that's been sitting on the porch for a full year.

6. Exercise. (Use at least one if not two things bought off T.V.)

7. Loose Weight. (By combining all of the above.)

8. Combat work related brain damage with humor and foreign smokes. (Maybe fling poo.)

9. Dye hair respectable funny color. (Respectable to me.)

10. Get out in the Public Eye. (Maybe an Open Mic or just the Grocery Store.)

Yeah, shit like that.

Beauty and the Beast...Not Completely Sure Which Beast

2007-12-08T09:20:00.000-06:00

Thankfully I received a bunch of painkillers after my surgery on my leg. And the Doctor used the same scar to cut into me. I thought that was pretty thoughtful. My body is already riddled with the scars of my personal history. Sometimes making me proud, sometimes making me embarrassed...just depends. The past few weeks have been a ride. Oh hell yeah. I have enjoyed the clarity that the pills have offered me. The need and the time for them is almost over. But, I can understand why people get hooked. Yep, I can see that....with the special clarity that I currently have. So, despite the pain in my leg and healing they have helped me with, they did offer a slight vacation. Oh sweet legal drugs....and their blessed, convenient, euphoric powers.

The vacation wasn't without costs though. My car smells...it smells bad. I currently have junk stacked inside of it that competes with any trashfield. The sweaters, the food tins, the notes, the coffee mugs...you name it. And I haven't done my laundry either. I've been using sprays made for the couch and drapes to fight of the B.O. and washed underwear out in the bathroom sink or in the shower (if I've taken one), and put them in the dryer with the spayed outfit. I fear that it's really starting to show. I haven't worn make-up and I have had some pretty creative hairstyles, and stopped wearing anything open-toed. I have a pack rat nature anyway, but bad health and good painkillers do help to magnify this attribute. Maybe this weekend, I think this weekend, I'll start on the mountain of shit that is me. I'm going to need more smokes and way more coffee, but I think I can make it happen. Like I said the pills are just about out, and I might want to save them for another occasion of real need. My real need is just about over. Oh, the sadness.

I'm not sure that I have taken a breath in the last couple of months. I went and did a charity golf tournament. The likes of which the women are scantily clad, the men drunk and stupid, and the charity that's picked is usually politically motivated. I met a man before the tournament. I still needed players, and stupid goodie bag items. I asked him if he would play. There was amazingly no hesitation. There would be marketing benefits for him. He told me the story of his daughter that died of cancer, early in life. They had a charity. I made him no promises. I was a peon, but he was so nice. And I know that I couldn't do that kind of work if my child died. I would just die, too. I would. It would be slow, but I would die.

I suggested his charity. Not so much response at first. I told him if the committee selected him, he would probably get a tiny amount. We most of the committee did select him. One of the committee members had lost a child, as well. Do you call that luck, fate...what's the word?

The golf tournament came. The BBQ afterwards came. I hated all of it. The man in charge, when I pointed out my charity man, told me that the charities hadn't been formally announced.

I spoke to the committee member who had lost his own child. He told me, fuck that. He teared up, and publicly announced my charity guy and his story. There was NO WAY to politically back out now. I smiled, a real smile, maybe for the first time in weeks.

Not only did they select my charity guy, but, they gave him an unprecedented amount of money for the tournament. I saw the check and the letter. Everyone's name was listed on this, but mine. Sure, at first I was angry...then I realized the opportunity. Doing something well, it should look like you've done nothing at all. The little secrets that sometimes I can keep to myself, I found one. And most of you don't know me, so the secret is still safe. And, the man was so thankful. I stopped him. I explained to him, how I did the stupid golf tournament every fucking year. I did it, and never got anything out of it, other than it helped the corporation that I worked for be seen. But, not this year. This year, he and more importantly his daughter had tied me to the work that I was doing. It gave this work meaning. Meaning that was meaningful. I had really needed that. So, did he understand the gift that he gave me?, I asked. Do you understand that? Your work gave me purpose. That's not something he needed to thank me for, I was truly the honored one. We smiled, that's what we did. We just smiled.

Then, the company I work for was bought out. The craziness has ensued. All the training, all the conflicting personalities. All the pay changes. Just so you know, I made and 86% on the test regarding Sexual Harassment. How did I even pass with my pottie mouth. Really, only God and the Fates know that. They guided my fingers to the answers, because it certainly was my fucking idea to pass that dirty-brown butthole of a fucking your sister test.

Everyday it's a new political ego mess that I have had to sooth, navigate, stop in it's tracks. We never leave the playground. We never stop not sharing or dominate that need to over-dominate, or that need to extra kill, make sure things are extra dead. I'm not sure there are prayers that can answer this. Look around, it's on a bigger scale. As if there are just fucking huge waves of selfishness, giant waves, to and fro, back and forth. Can't you feel it? If you said no, I don't believe you. Only tiny incidents of goodness or happiness, seemingly unrecognizable because we all run out of breath and time. And not those fake ones they show on any of the news channels between the murders, the economy and the wars...not those, those don't count...they're only there to make sure you stay awake and stay tuned to their chatter. If we count those then we're in bigger trouble than any of us can imagine.

At the office, I had to make sure that a phone list didn't go out. Everyone was mislabeled. Oh the feelings that would have been hurt. And frankly, this one woman should just stop using the spreadsheet program for anything. Too many squares and too many colors a blatant misuse, and not was this program was designed for...they have classes online, they're free...stop the killing of my eyes, my smarts, and the egos of the wrongly labeled people...fucking stop that. It's a program that's supposed to help up, not hurt us. How can anyone know that many ways to jack something up? Please, please, please stop sending stuff out. She's my counter-part in the buyout. During the Non-Agenda'd Staff Meeting, she's repeatedly offered me lessons on Memos and usage of Letterhead. The first time I couldn't reply, I just didn't have it in me to find a response that wouldn't hurt her feelings and probably get me fired. I just announced that I had to go to the bathroom, right then, and would she be so kind to tell me where it was. Currently being a gimp, well, the "got to go to the bathroom right now" excuse has super powers. NO ONE wants to help clean up that mess. I am going to miss that.

Now, I just tell her sure, sure, when things get settled.

Next, we all had to ride together in vans to a lunch meeting halfway between all of our offices. A get to know you meeting. I couldn't smoke. Everyone complained...We arrived. Everyone was sitting by their best friends forever. I don't have those at work. Are you kidding me?!? I was a meeting co-leader. We made everyone move, until they we're sitting by someone they didn't know. I smiled a secret smile. Sometimes being a little mean, passive aggressive, just sits right in my soul.

I had organized a White Elephant gift exchange. White Elephant always being crap around your house, the stuff you mean to get rid of, but just can't seem to. We hang onto so much shit. White Elephant always brings out the best and the worst in people. Another smile. It did. Oh, how it did. Some people really get mad that they get the shittiest of the shit. The shittiest of the shit. How can you get mad about that. The super fat guy, and I mean super fat, got the great abs in ten minutes video. Boy was he mad. People laughed. Well, you're fat, and not to worry it didn't work for the person who brought it either. No worries. I stole the lottery tickets, they got stolen from me. I'm not super mean, the guy who stole them from me, wrote me a check for half, and I wrote a check for half of that to the guy that I stole them from. That was nice...we didn't win enough to be shitasses about it. I ended up with a Cowboy Boot Flower Arrangement. It had a Texas Flag and a Mexican Flag in it. Later, I paid the mailclerk at my office to put it in the men's bathroom. A couple of days later, someone stole it. We asked the janitor, he didn't take it. He thought it was funny, he had left it there. We thought it was funnier that someone stole it. It probably had fecal spray on it....we've all seen the news programs with the black lights...yep, probably had shit on it. Shit on shit, stolen.

Back to the lunch, what I did notice though, when I sat down to eat...was that even though we had all switched places, people ended up sitting exactly by their personality counterparts between the companies, between the same offices. What?!!? I blinked. Crap, it's hard to get one over on human nature...it's very complicated, and even my super powers of passive aggressive goodness was no match.

And, who did I sit by? Oh, let me tell you. I sat by the drunk, name dropping, boobie twins. You know these girls, they can't be saved. They've been ridden hard and put away wet. Big hair, tight shirts, big gold Kal-Mart jewelry, all the important work they did. One of them was my office arch-enemy. Well, she thought she was. Always trying to get one over me. Sometimes she would get to me....then, I had to realize how many light years ahead of her that I actually am. Then I had to put on my I feel sorry for you suit...that usually put her in a quiet spot. Yet, these women always get free stuff. Free stuff from men and women a like. I'm fat, and smart and have glasses, right now. My stint in free stuff land may come back, but I didn't like it there....way too sticky. But, maybe there are times when I could use a little free stuff, not enough to trade places, but sometimes my desire to be a free, pornstar, maybe that gets to me....sometimes.

These two talked and talked and talked. They talked about all the drinking they do, the men they meet, where they meet them. All trendyshit bag places, and all they want to date are rednecks and cowboys. At some point, one of them took notice that my eyes have glazed over, really glazed over. One can only stir the mashed potatoes so many times on the resturant plate without being noticed. She asked me if I liked drinking and cowboys. I replied dryly, nope.

I thought about stopping there, but I didn't. Maybe I didn't stop because, I was really that bored, maybe because I didn't win all the lottory ticket money and I could quit, maybe I just super didn't want to talk to them, and was super sore that since I was a meeting co-leader, I had to sit down last, and all the kindof' good spots were taken. I'm not a fucking saint.

Anyway, I told them that once I dated a peanut farmer named Charley. You should never settle for a cowboy....go for the rancher or the farmer, who have cowboys that work for them. Charley was rich. He was good to sleep with. Not good to stay with. Dumb as a sack of diapers and sometimes mean. Luckily, he was stupid enough not to really recognize how inexperienced I really was, with everything. Also, he had a friend named Todd, who was even stupider and meaner. Me and a friend lied to our parents, and took off with these two to the coast for a weekend getaway. We drank a lot and fucked a lot, all by the ocean. The ocean that had better things to do then pay any attention to the likes of us. It's where I learned the gimmick of microwaving a piece of ordinary soap. It melts from the inside out. When you put it in the soap dish and someone uses it, the soap just crumbles in their hands. It's pretty funny. That's what I got out of Charley and Todd. Well, that and free, occasionally roasted peanuts.

I had already been there, and decided that I wanted more for myself. I had decided I deserved better. And I only drank with dear friends, or bigwigs. Not just random getting fucked up. I just had too much to do.

Their faces weren't used to being told the truth, maybe about anything. They quit talking to me. Ok, good stuff, good stuff. Back to the potatoes. I pretended to nap on the way back. You know, the leg injury...somethings, all the hard work that I do, just takes it out of me, so thank you for driving, as my eyes closed and my mind wandered.

The funny thing, the quandary is that I have beautiful friends who are so smart. They do not use their beauty for evil. They really do have the same problems that I have. They are treated like idiots because of their beauty, and not recognized for their absolute massive brain power. Later in the week, after another brilliant meeting, without an agenda, a guy asked me about one of my such friends. I patted his arm, and gently explained to him that it would only be for masturbation, the introduction. He just wasn't smart enough to keep up. He thought I was jealous for a minute, and he was angry. I patted his arm again, and told him lovingly as possible, that just wasn't it. Some of us just don't get all the prizes, we just don't. I want a million dollars, I'll never see that. And the closest that he would ever get to her, was his imagination and his hand of preference. And, yes, her giant beautiful breasts weren't real, she had bought them, and they were perfect and as awesome as he could ever imagine, so that was another thing. He just didn't make enough money to cover the fact that he wasn't smart. There was no temptation for her, even if she slipped in a lonely moment of weakness, towards him at all. Sorry buddy. The God's honest truth.

I have to say that I did puff up a little... just in case. Do I know that she could take care of herself? Yeah, I know that. But, there's a little redneck in me. too. Mess with a friend of mine, mess with me, crap. I puffed up, just in case, I needed to make my point clearer to this man. Going this route always ends up that I'm a big fat lesbo but on occasion the point hits the target. Well, either way, if it goes to the next level the target gets some point. We girls have to stick together. Stop what you're thinking, I didn't mean that kind of stuck together. Pervert. See just what I mean?

I suppose watching these two twosomes of boobies yak it up at the luncheon, made me angry for my beautiful friends, not just me. Their actions make it harder on the rest of us that are here now, and the rest of the babies, the children, the teenagers, the unborn. It would be pointless to explain. They were really past any form of education on the matter, I just wanted them away from me, and understanding that it was best for them to stay there, in the far away spot. I'm not without sadness for them though. They were past erasing it all. I'm so thankful that I have never reached that point. Some people just will never have the capabilities to change. And it is a burden. I think it's okay to let people know that sometimes, even though they can't change, and they'll probably still get taken care of, it still really is a burden for them just to be there.

I was at the new work place yesterday. I've worked hard. Everyone was gathered for free cake for someones random birthday that most everyone didn't know. One of those terribly personal office moments. I didn't want the cake. I had already stolen a day old chocolate doughnut from the office kitchen table, and used someone good coffee to make myself a nice cup of coffee to go with my stolen, stale doughnut. I didn't even have to take it to the bathroom, grab a stall and enjoy. I made it, unseen back to the cube. AWESOME. So, I had enough. No need to be greedy.

Out of the blue, someone that I hadn't seen in months, yelled my name though the crowd. I waved. She, out of the blue, announced that she had been keeping up with me, that my name and influence was everywhere in the industry....the pictures, the newsletters...I was famous. I turned red....I'm more of a behind the scenes person. I looked around. There where some people smiling for me...some people where angry and jealous. Maybe because of my life, I took it all too heart. And maybe that's why I'm a behind the scenes person. I was frankly too damn tired to take in the range of egos that flowed over me...and at someone else's birthday cake thingy. I politely told her thank you, and really it wasn't me, if I just didn't like everyone, and the work I saw all these people doing, it wouldn't make me want to be involved. Oh, Sweet Jesus, or Whoever, help that lie work, please, today, just help that lie work.

In my work life, I am mostly selfish. I am mostly conceited, mostly grabby...for the scraps of money for myself, for my family, for my friends, for other random people. I am ultimately no different than any of the people in the crowd, maybe I'm just a better grabber. It's complicated. And I do not deserve recognition for that, it's nothing special. No, that is nothing fucking special....but, one can hardly say a truth like that, now can we? Jesus or Whoever, just help that lie work, and get me safely back to my cubicle...the safety of the grey foam walls lined with papers on tacks, and ergonomically placed plastic. Get me there. I needed to sit down. I needed to ease my breath, and take in the tops of the fake flower arrangement that tops the woman next to me's cubicle. Get me to that sweet quiet place.

At work, my father called. We're not close. He decided to buy my son, who he's never met, and wanted me to abort, an expensive toy. He called to ask me what my married name is. I'm not married dad. We never did that. I tried to protect him from the flatness of my tone. My name is still the same, even after all these years. Oh, okay, then the embarrassed laugh. I didn't say much, no point really. It's just there. Yep, Dad, remember, you gave me a way a long time ago, but it was never at my wedding....never, then. I might have called, maybe I would have called about that. Hard to say. Thanks for the gift. We always talk in money and expensive things. Maybe that's were I got my sense of fairness, and my love for free things, of special moments not tied to any coins or paper. I can say thank you for that. You wouldn't understand it, but maybe I could say it, in my head, and it would transfer through the phone. Yeah, maybe, maybe it would. I wanted it to as I hung up the phone.

At closing time that day, I didn't waste time, I didn't say long goodbyes. I logged off, and ran as fast as my currently with cane ass could get me out of that building. I lit my cigarette even before I locked in my seat belt. Oh, people saw me. I waved goodbye. No worries, the windows of my car were shut and the car was already turned on. A clear signal of no talking. I put my car in reverse, and with the cigarette in my mouth because I just didn't want to miss a single breath of it, I turned my head, and moved fast out of the parking lot. I immeadiately went out and spent money that I didn't have to buy my favorite bums, on my corner, a huge dinner and some supplies, smokes, booze, a blanket, etc. Just to pay penitence. This form is better than flogging in the long run, and certainly less messy. I was feeling a little better standing in the liquor store line with the cheap stuff. But, it wasn't enough. I hurried home, turned on the T.V. and took a couple of my sweet pills on my almost empty stomach, save the stolen doughnut...and waited for the floaty goodness that would wipe away the day, the weeks, the T.V., all of it. It's not really depression, so don't think that. I just get overloaded and need the break from the super highway we live on. I HAVE to pull over and stop.

Everyday...it would be way cooler if I had a sword to slay some of the beasts with. Can you imagine? Oh, I can. For now, I've got pills, and the excuse to use those are just about gone.

Then, I'm just back to the daily grind.

Contemplating the space time continuum

2007-11-17T19:31:00.000-06:00

I tried to get everything done before I went into surgery. As though all of those things really would matter. Not really. Nothing that I do is crucial, clutch cargo happening. I suppose that's what curbed, seriously curbed my enthusiasm about doing any of my work. I couldn't really pull it off the couple of days beforehand. It started to show. Jesus, I would be a shitty actor.

But, I had to have something that distracted me from the heart that I was suddenly aware of pounding in my chest every single fucking moment. All those chances that I don't take. Every single day I am handed so many, and I never just take them. Can you imagine what would happen if we all just took the chances that were freely given to us by the fucking universe....can you fucking imagine that?!? Well, I can, and they called to me, and everyone one of them that I didn't take advantage of seemed to flash before me, they seemed to partially slip though my finger tips, but I felt them, I felt how wonderful they were each supposed to be....all of everyone of those sayings, those sayings repeated with every enlarged heartbeat. Would this be the time that those chances ran out? I've been given more than my fair share, right? The universe is going to call in it's marker sometime. Why not now? Yeah, that's what I thought.

I was alone when I went into surgery. Part of me wanted people that I knew there with me, everyone else in the waiting room had someone. An old lady asked if they could borrow my cell phone. The old man had remembered everything, but forgot the cell phone. His name was Roger. I let the woman make the calls. She told everyone where she was, when she was supposed to be out. And she told everyone that Roger had forgotten the cell phone. We're all quite the same, the same words, the same actions. I had to be there at six o'clock in the morning. I'm sure that I forgot a lot of things. Roger didn't seem to mind that everyone knew that he forgot the phone. He knew she was scared. They gave the phone back to me, and Roger took the woman's hand and let her know that he would be there all day waiting for her to wake up. For a second, I wanted that, too. Someone holding my hand. But, I knew that it was just a load of crap. When I went under, and had the actual surgery, and the machines breathing for me, and the knife cutting me, and the waking up....I would be alone. It's just what it is. It's being alone. And it's scary. And no Roger equal would help her or me through that. It just is what it is.

I kept waiting for the caring or maybe the ceremony to start. But having surgery is really just like going through the drive thru. I'm not just typing that, it really is. A lot of formality, a lot of organization, and lot of impersonal caring, and bright lights with bright smells. Some people complain about that. I'm not so sure that I want to complain about that. The fact that they're impersonal made me rely on myself. I didn't want them wrapped up in any emotional state. I wanted them focused. I wanted them precise. I didn't need for them to like me, or to fucking care about me, I needed them to do their fucking job, and do it right. I needed that. I wanted them to please do their fucking job right. And I just needed the I don't care drugs to get myself started. When it was over I had been moved. Just like that, without even knowing, just moved. Yes, they did their fucking job.

People came by. I got some gifts. That was all the ceremony. I really liked it, but it also made me tired. In the end, it really is your body and your mind and your soul, and you just have to take care of most of it yourself. Of course, I could have put down the guard, and ask for the help that I needed taking a bath. Instead I just made a mess, got pissed off, and pretty sure that I broke something I wouldn't want broken if I was sober. But, I'll worry about that tomorrow.

I was in quickly and out quickly. Someone had to clean up my blood and piss when I pulled out my IV, and missed the toilet a bit. Can you believe that kind of job? The girl seemed okay with it. It's a big deal doing that kind of work...being able to go into someones intimate space like that, and not make it a big deal. I gave her all the chocolates out of my fruit basket, and told her not to share them.

I have some pain. But I have more relief right now. I'm on the drugs right now, and the pain isn't so bad. But, just now, when I thought to write my feelings down. Everything is quite here now. I can think. I have some water, I'm fairly clean, I can smoke, and take the pills, and yes, I might have a glass of wine, as well. How immoral and devilish that seems. But, I made need to curb the feelings a bit, and being messed up it the poor man's way. And I am not a rich man.

If I were to say it out loud, I was scared. I'm not ready to die. But, most times, I'm not terribly ready to live either. I don't take the advantages. I do and act as I'm supposed to mostly for my paycheck. How sad that makes me today. I could have coded on the table. Someone could have nicked an artery. I could have gotten an infection. Every heartbeat....all that blood circling around in my body. All the cells trying to repair. How soon before they just give up on me.

Jesus, it's scary to trust in people that they'll do the right thing by you, especially when you don't do it by yourself.

And the sight of my son, I got home. He was in such a bad mood because of his day at school. I loved his bad day more than anything in our entire universe. The smell of my dirty house. My man's forgetful way of remembering that I'm not that tough. The sight of my dogs. My car has a flat tire. I will go to work on Monday. I will be able to walk better. I can cry because I really am safe. I really did make it.

Jesus.

I have at least one more chance.

Scheduling a much needed surgury to buck the Man

2007-10-06T09:04:00.000-05:00

Writing down my thoughts today is a small attempt to get back to some sort of normality of my personal being. We have created quite an oppressive world. One of which, and I am not alone, that I am perticularily subject to, if I'm not careful. I've never been one to be careful.

Oh yes, the greatest of pitfalls in being human is often being around humans. Lately, I have found my only escape to be one of sitting in my car, in traffic. If there's an errand, I'll do it. If there's a trip, I'll do it. Whatever I can do, that involves being in the car, incased in the car, with my music and cigarettes. Incased in metal and glass. But, I've let things run amuck so much, that I didn't even want to hear the music.....just the metal and glass, and the engine running. I thought about running. Where would I go? I am busy. And the masses with their needs and wants just keep coming...in droves of bodies and noise...they just keep coming. And my creativity, my sense of myself, those things that make me just me, and happy with me, have become secondary to the constent noise of the needs and wants of the masses.

This morning I tried to recall what event started is all. When I let it in. This time, the stacks are so high, I couldn't exactly pinpoint anything. And in trying to release the mountain of garbage I've been accumulating, I thought, if I moved one piece it would completely collapse on me. Then I thought about how I'm not much of a person to shirk away from a challenge.

I think when it really hit me, that I was out of control, when I had completely moved away from myself, is when my current boss, a high level executive said this:

"Do you realize how much you've grown? Do you realize how much you're beginning to think like a business person?"

There is was....the sentence that began to crumble the tower of crap that I had been collecting. Jesus, Sweet Jesus, could it be true. Had all of those trips to the mall, the carwash, the cellphone calls, and the watching of the national news really started to sink in? Oh God, what have I become? Oh God, what have I done?

You have to understand, I know that I could think like this, but it wasn't what I wanted. Never. I have purposely fought my entire life to have substandard jobs, with low pay, and crappy benefits, and lack of stimulation to be able to protect all that I hold sacred. Oh God.

I felt the loss, in my very core. But I didn't cry. I couldn't cry because I did it. I let it happen. I was responsible for the entire mess. And everyone and everything that I hold most dear was suffering.

And if I were to tell the truth, all of this nonsense didn't get me anything. I regained all of the weight I had lost, my house and car are a complete mess, I've lost touch with my dear friends, I sleep a lot, and I do nothing funny. AND, after all of the best, most professional behavior I could muster, I was rewarded with a shitty bonus, and watched the other jackasses, and I do mean very stupid people, get rewarded beyond my wildest dreams and still find the hot air to complain about it. Oh the money flowed; how it flowed...just not towards me. And wasn't that the main goal? The dollars? I could achieve something for my family? Something for me?

So, yesterday, I yelled. I did. It was a release. And could get me in a bad spot I suppose. But, I've been in very, very bad spots before...and this bad spot won't be that bad. Secondly, I scheduled a much needed surgury that I had been putting off, absorbing the pain for, due to project contraints. Oh yes, I'll be out of work and on a walker for a bit. And I scheduled it right when I was due to make a company appearance. Oops, what? I have to have it, doctor's orders and short term disability rules and all of that...said smiling. Oh, yes, the little things, coming back to knock down the wall of shit. I went and got my hair cut at a cheap salon. I like this cheap salon. The woman that cuts my hair is funny, she does a great job, and she has the longest getto nails that I've ever seen. She's fantastic. And we sit in the salon and chicken sqwak. It's loud and funny and chair to chair goodness. I told an officemate, who always puts me down, because I'm younger, and what could I possible know....well, I told him yesterday, that I wasn't going to talk to him anymore. He thought that I was kidding. But, I didn't talk to him. He backed off, at first, saying ok, tell my story. I told the other old officemate to go ahead and explain that I wasn't talking. They both said what a baby thing for me to do. Yes, I said, yes it is. Yes, it is a baby thing for me to do.

Somewhere inside of me is a small pool of warmth...a tiny glimmer of good. It's the hope...that completely wonderful, and mostly useless emotion contained in humans. Can I do it? Is it possible? Lance Armstrong has one ball and look how well he's doing. I don't have any balls at all, so there must be hope...Great Hope....The Great White Hope.

Fucking Awesome.

I always have had a desire for the finer things in life...

2007-08-12T12:35:00.000-05:00

There were so many things to do this week. By the week's end, I had worked a considerably large amount of overtime. I worked so fast and furiously that I wasn't even sure that I had done anything at all. My head was fuzzy from storing too much...it was on overload. It was the kind of week that my arms and brain and fingers all seemed to work outside of myself...they were on some sort of other plain...it was as though they just ran by themselves...and me the soul of me was locked up somewhere else. I dreamed when I slept, but mostly of work and nothing of any consequence worth mentioning. Yeah, it was a long week.

I had dinner with a friend, one evening, at least. She asked for my advice on a couple of points. That always seems a bit funny to me. Me, giving advice. Is that a sound idea? Hard to say. I've seen a lot that's for sure. I done more than I seen, that's for sure, too. But, since I hardly see things as the majority does...is that such a good idea to be asking me about anything? Hard to say. What I did know is that the time we spent together was hardly enough.

I had friends that I should have called this week, but I didn't. Instead, I took cigarette breaks and talked way too much to people that I don't give a shit about. And I really can't say what I'm thinking to them anyway. It would just be bad for them. It would be just too damn hard for them to think outside of the safety of their box.

Finally, Friday did roll around. I was late getting out of work. And if I were to tell the truth, I was still on the phone with work, as I was driving home. It was not until I was actually in my house I shut the phone off and was sort of done for the week. We had a family dinner. After which, while everyone was still there, I feel asleep on the couch. The next morning my child and man left for another town to see a museum exhibit. I had the entire house to myself for about twenty-four hours.

I slept. I slept for most of the entire twenty-four hours. I did get up a couple of times to eat. Mostly whatever was a leftover that I could stick in the microwave. And when those options ran out, I started on anything that was in a box. I let the dogs out when they needed to go. I pissed when I need to go. But, I hardly moved from the couch at all. The television stayed on to keep me company. I only dreamed of the television shows. I did watch a bit of television and smoke most of my boxed cigarettes. Then I started in on the roll your own kind, that I had bought. I was almost too tired to do that. I felt aggravated at having to roll my own cigarettes. And maybe aggravated that I was too tired to drive to the store and buy anything else. I was probably just mad that I wouldn't be using my off time for anything productive for myself. This time that was so precious I would be using to sleep....to regain my energy...just to give it away to a bunch of stuff that wasn't that important to me. What a fucking surprise. Isn't that what we all do? We get up, go to work, do a bunch of bullshit that makes someone else money, then sleep, only to repeat. Yeah, maybe I'm feeling a bit crabby.

And now that's it's Sunday... I'll be getting a move on to do my house stuff that prepares me for the next pile of bullshit. Yep. It's a very exciting life that I lead sometimes.

My friend at dinner reminded me of a letter that I once wrote to Hunter S. Thompson.

It was funny. She had told her friends about it. I never expected an answer from him, and I didn't get one. She was a bit curious if I was going to write someone else.

I thought to myself that I might. Since SpareUs Hilton is on the MS bandwagon and I have MS...maybe I'll write her a note. I thought the other day, as I was in the tobacco shop, I wished she been there to help me. This must have been Tuesday or Wednesday or this week...I can't really recall.

The shop was out of my favorite kind of rolling tobacco. I was standing there in my work clothes, so I wasn't very convincing as a prime customer of a head shop. They weren't taking me very seriously. And I was tired from work, I wanted a smoke, and was annoyed that this was one of the only places that I could go to get a deal. No, I didn't want a small packet of tobacco. I wanted a full tin. I didn't want to have to come back in a few days after my packet ran out...I was just too busy for that nonsense. I asked the boy behind the counter what he would recommend. He tried to give me something that I knew was crap. It was complete crap. Jesus, was it crap.

How did I know it was crap?

Well, I'll explain. I don't really have that much experience with being jailed. I did go once, to city jail for traffic tickets, but that hardly counts as hard time. However, there was a time earlier on, when I was homeless, I did stay in a house full of ex-convicts. I know what you're thinking, they're not supposed to hang out together. But, they did. In fact, they all worked together at the same car wash. No one else wants to hang out with them, and no one wants to hire them. The system is way more flawed than we all suspect.

Anyway, the point is, I learned what they smoke in prison, and what they smoked out of prison, and I knew what this guy was giving me was prison swag. In prison you're poor and take what you can get or steal, and out of prison you're were poor, and you take what you can get or steal. I had worked too long and too hard to smoke prison swag. Once I made that point to him...another helper came up and moved him out of the way to offer his assistance. I wasn't being loud or rude, just making a point. But, it was as though I had said some magic words to make the understanding that I was a connoisseur of tobacco that should be handled with some thought and discretion. Or, maybe, I said the magic words, that scared them into thinking that I was some bad mother fucker, and I should be handled with discretion and care. I didn't care, either way, I just didn't want crappy tobacco. So, whatever works. The new guy brought out something else, and explained to me that if I hated it, I could bring it back, no problems. Great, I said, and I bought it.

How I did wish SpareUs was there. Her recent incarceration might have given her some incite into which tobacco product I should have bought. Could have saved me some time. I might include that in my letter. Hard to say. I don't really think that I would like her as a person, so what if she responded? Then I just be stuck talking to another person I didn't really care about. I'm going to put this on the back burner for more thought.

I got in my nice car, cranked up the AC, rolled my cigarette and lit it. I took a long drag before putting my car in reverse to turn to make my drive home. A brain will recall things, long forgotten, at the strangest moments. It's not exactly the transport back to that moment, just the passing thoughts of how I react to certain things from other things I learned and stored.

I paused to wonder how it was that I survived that period of my life. Those men, in that house, were hardened beyond belief. I can't recall everything that all of them had been in prison for. And it is a long story how I ended up there in the first place, and an even longer story as to how I got out. I can't even recall most of their names.

I did have my own bedroom at the house. And I was more of a little sister, and more of a mother to them. I was never really in any danger. Which should surprise you, it surprises me. To be a female around those men, in such close quarters, one would think that something horrible would happen. But, it didn't, not to me. Later in life, it would be a rich, frat boy that would rape me in a drunken blur. He wouldn't see any prison, and would go on to lead a gifted life. Funny the different levels of respect that come from different subsections of humanity.

Some people were in danger in this house though. Mostly it was dangerous when the guys were drunk together and playing Spades. It's so odd that a card game should mean so much, but it did.

I remember one young guy that had just gotten out of prison came over to play Spades. He had too much of a ego. You didn't want to have too much bravado around the guys that had done more time or had done bigger crimes. It wasn't a smart move on his part. He messed up playing Spades, he ruined the hand for his partner. He talked to much. And even though his partner was the friend who brought him over to the game in the first place, it was his friend that would help in teaching him a lesson about being to much of a loudmouth.

The entire group ended up taking him outside and beating the shit out of him. It was a circle that he was in. The closed fists and knuckles that collided with his body to bruise it and make it bleed. He was, at first, ready to take them all on, then at some point he realized that this was what had gotten him in trouble in the first place. You could see the idea resonated in his head, he understood, but it was too late to put that experience into action.

He resided to take his beating, it would be over faster that way. Everything like this goes in slow motion. Maybe due to the shock. Eventually, it looked as though he seemed to only be held up by the fists that continuously hitting his body. When the men were exhausted or thought he had enough, they stopped. I'm not sure what the signal is that someones had enough. They all stopped hitting him at the same time. The guy with his eyes bruised shut, on the ground on all fours, was puking and spitting up blood. Then they picked him up, like brothers would, and brought him into the house and cleaned him up and got him ice and a drink. He wasn't completely scorned, just had to be taught a lesson. They all raised shots of crappy whiskey and drank. They mocked the blood that had soaked the front of his face, shirt and pants like it was an honor. They played Spades without him. He just sat on the couch recovering and keeping his head down.

He survived, but didn't come around so much after that. Maybe he was scared straight. I hoped so. He did have a big mouth.

There was another guy, his name I remember, Johnnie. He was small, and quick, and had been in prison for stealing cars. He had been made someones bitch in prison. He only talked to me about it in small doses. That experience did make him not steal cars anymore...but, that experience also made him feel like he wasn't worth anything to anyone either. He felt like he was damaged goods, so to speak. Rape in any form does that to women, but to men, too. Maybe worse for men, since women have been dealing with that issue since the beginning of time, it's at least more open and the options for help are greater. For men, I'm not convinced we've done such a good job.

There came a time for him when the guy who had been raping him, pimped Johnny out to cover some drugs that he hadn't been able to pay for. Johnny knew that it was coming, he just did know when and how. The marker took weeks to call in. And he was teased everyday about it.

Johnnie almost had to kill a man to prevent being gang raped in prison. He was on mop duty when the men he'd been promised to, surrounded him. They teased him as they were closing in. Johnnie raised the mop and put his back against a cool tiled wall. He told me that he closed his eyes and swung the mop with everything he had for fear of his life.

Luckily, if one can say luckily, Johnnie's aim was true. He hit one of the men in the head so hard that the mop broke. The man fell to the floor unconcious. As a second man came closer to grab him, Johnnie ran him through with the splintery, broken mop base. At this time, before Johnnie could make a run for it, or grab the other part of the broken mop, the guards came in and the crowd dissipated. Johnnie was put in solitary. And, since this was in self defense, he was not given any extra time for the stabbing and assault. He finished his sentence in solitaire. So, even though he wasn't given extra time...he was in solitare, which is like a slow death, but he wasn't having any guy's dick up his ass anymore.

Johnnie hung out with me quite a bit. He talked to me quite a bit. He was so young to have been put in prison. And he reminded me of an ally cat. He flinched and ran if you got too close. He looked down a lot, but his senses were always on...as though, at any minute the sky would be falling and he have to hide or would make his move for a weapon that would just be made of anything that he could grab.

If you were to look at him on the street, maybe you would miss all of this. Maybe he would look like any other young man that had hopes and dreams about the life in front of him. But, he wasn't that young man. I wasn't sure how a person comes back from that experience.

The time came when I had to leave that house very quickly. The house was owned by this elderly woman. She had given it to her son, the ex-convict, and his friends to stay there, in exchange for the free rent, they were supposed to be fixing up the house. They never did.

The son wasn't very bright. He was kind of stupid really. Not just uneducated, but clumsy with his brain. Maybe it was damaged, or too many drugs, I don't know. I didn't really care. But, it was the son decided at some point that he fancied me. It was clumsy and with plastic flowers when he shared his feeling with me, and I was smarter than he was, and was able to get out of the situation without any major incident. Whoa to the woman he wooed with the plastic flowers, and a prayer for all of us if they reproduced. I can't even think of that.

However, when I didn't respond the way he wanted I was told that I had to get out of the house. Ok, whatever, it was ok. The other men put of a big fuss about it...they would have to cook and clean for themselves. And it was the other men that protected me from incident from the loverboy. I knew that he was afraid of them all, so I used them to cover my own hide while trying to move on. I had picked up a thing or to from living with them... much like Jane Goodall did with the chimpanzees. But, the chimps were way cooler, I'm sure.

It was Johnnie that would help me find a new and better squat to live in.

I didn't see Johnnie much after that. I hoped that he didn't go back to jail. I didn't really think he had it in him. I did not think he would make it. But, I wasn't sure he had it in him or would make it on the outside either. Both ways seemed to have a doom of some sort for him.

Our system isn't all that it's cracked up to be. It doesn't always serve it's purpose. And it certainly doesn't always protect us by teaching people a lesson. They do not come out with less baggage and more desire to become better citizens. We have created a machine that pumps out more dangerous people that when they went in.

The brain remembers. I knew that I didn't want to smoke prison swag. And that I needed to sleep and not think about anything for at least twenty-four hours straight before putting my suit on and going back to the same old shit. I was a long way from that place now, sitting in my underwear, rolling my fine tobacco, the t.v. on, with empty potato chip wrappers around me. Yep, a long way away from there.

Another day, another dollar...Playing a Double Agent Is Hard When You Have To Piss

2007-07-29T09:05:00.000-05:00

I stopped to buy cigarettes the other night. It had been a long week, and a long day, and an even longer drive home down the highway to my house. I had been in a day of training, taken a tour of a city site, was wearing a suit, had on my big fake diamond ring that everyone thought was real.

I can't even recall what was playing on my car stereo. I can recall that I was so tired that my head was spinning with trying to organize my thoughts about all the things that I had learned that day and seen that day, and what was left to do...and how to put all of this in time with my home life, etc.

I was mulling over how much the lot guys we had met had made faces and jokes about the "suits" that were touring the city site. One of them was a large man, with massive shoulders, and a giant beer gut. He looked rather menacing in his overalls. I behaved myself, so as not to get tackled by him. But, that was hard for me to do. It would have made for a better story if I'd caused a scene and been tackled by the overalled, redneck, lot guy. However, I've done that before, already. I did find it funny that this man considered me a "suit". Yes, I was wearing one. But, I only have a limited supply of these, as I do not wear them everyday. And if he had looked closely, he would have noticed the slight ill-fit of it, the slight off-color of it. That certain something that says that I do not actually belong in the "suit" family. I was in disguise. And he and I probably would have more in common that the people I was on the tour with. He would never know of the struggle it took for me to put the outfit together, since I hate them, and don't really knows what goes with what. He would never know how hard it was for me to try to speak their language, and keep my own language out of any conversation.

The thought crossed my mind of my hard hat falling, and my hand dropping the plastic safety goggles falling from my hand, shedding my suit, letting my tattoos and piercings out, my hair flowing in the wind that came from something related to watching a scene from a movie about a Phoenix rising, rays of strong light, and some angels singing....very dramatic. And everyone would be in awe of the real me. I would be respected and appreciated, and we all could be just who we are without overalls and high heels. I could fulfill my destiny as the being who sparked that change.

Yeah, right. I just tried to keep my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets safely away from all the shiny big buttons that I totally wanted to push, that would start some sort of alarm and giant disaster, and get me tackled and probably jailed.

Right now, though, I was in the car and had to piss so bad. I hadn't wanted to go to another public bathroom. I don't like them. They generally smell of other people and their shit. People are quite filthy. They pee on the seat and can't wipe it up. They crap and don't courtesy flush. I don't want to smell the fish fry and taco hell they ate all week...Fuck No!

I'd actually rather piss outside. The fresh air, and the lack of concrete and tile with poop germs on it, much nicer when you think about it. In our world now, well, you just can't piss outside, their are big laws against that...such a shame.

I was also out of cigarettes. And it was time for the end of the day smoke. The end of the day is a relaxing, reflective smoke. And if you're an addict, such as I am...it's ever so hard to resist. Starting to de-stress and jones.

I was arriving shortly to my exit for the last convenience store before home. My only thoughts at this point where gauging how much I had to piss and could I stop, get the smokes without having to use their bathroom. Or, how many favors did I have left with my man? Could I make it home, piss in the safety zone of my own precious bathroom, and con my guy into making the trip back out into the rain, after his day of labor, just to buy my smokes. He had quit smoking...so, I couldn't use the You Fly and I'll Buy gig anymore. And he had already bought his favorite ice cream at the grocery store yesterday. I concluded that I had no strategy on the front, and would probably fail. I also knew that we had cleaned the house, and the ashtrays would be empty, so I would find any salvageable butts either. It was do or die time, the exit had arrived. I really had to piss. I was not going to go to the store's bathroom. I had made my decision. I was resolved to make it.

I pulled off the highway, over three lanes, and into the parking lot. I thought that I stood a good chance of not peeing myself. And if it did get that bad, I'd probably be close to home that time, so if I did piss myself, I'd be around family who already knew how weird I am. I got my wallet, got out of the car. As I neared the door, I saw one of the homeless people sitting to the steps. I knew he was going to ask me for some change. My wallet was so empty. He had no idea, but I knew he was going to try. I wasn't completely sure that I wasn't going to bounce something at the bank by giving them my bank card for my cigarettes. It had been a hard month, and the paychecks were small, due to the calender days. I would be back on track the next paycheck, but for now, I was super broke. I had already started digging into my change pile...that's really my man's change pile...as long as you don't take all the quarters, it's unlikely that your theft will get noticed...always take the small stuff....skimming is an art form.

I was stepping closer to the door. I could feel the homeless man's eyes on me...looking for the moment. He did ask if I had any change. He was completely soaked from the rain, and he was smeared with dirt...only his bright red hair seemed untouched by dirt. He was soaked so much that his t-shirt stuck to his body like a wet t-shirt contestant, but his older man boobs probably wouldn't win him any money. I told him that I didn't have any change. Most homeless people just looked at you like you are lying. Not this guy. He nodded at me like he understood. And then he just slumped and looked down. It was a bit uncharacteristic of most of the homeless people that I dealt with...the slump. It wasn't just his shoulders and his head. The slump was like his whole body slumped...so tired and wet and dirty. The door swung open and I felt the cool air of the air-conditioning against my humidity soaked, suity skin. Normally, I would think about that, I wouldn't take notice.

Jesus, I had to piss.

I jumped in the nearest line in the store. I wasn't quite at shifting from one let to the other yet, but it would be soon, it would happen, I would have to hurry. I asked for my smokes. I didn't really want the kind that I asked for, but I didn't have time to check to see if they had the kind that I really wanted. Is my card, debit or credit? Oh, I didn't care....please, just hurry. Well, did I want cash back? What?!? I have no cash...I'm hoping the damn thing just works for the purchase. Then the words fell out of my mouth...Can I get any amount? Yes. Okay, then it's debit and I want five dollars back please. It's a longer process to run debit...the entering of the code, the signing....blah, blah, blah. I don't know why I didn't think about the bank charge that was huge and I might get stuck up my banking ass. Maybe I thought I could pay it, even though I hated it, and I was doing better than some people. I got the cash, I signed, I got the money, I said thank you and have a nice day, and I walked fast outside.

The man was still there. He was in the same slumped position. He hadn't asked anyone else for change. I went over and said excuse me. He looked up and I gave him the five dollars. He said thank you, and just looked very relieved. He put out his dirty, sticky hand to shake mine. I took it and shook his hand. He told me that he didn't do drugs or drink much. He was drunk. He corrected himself, and told me that he did drink, but did not do drugs. I told him that I didn't care about that. He could drink and do drugs, I didn't care. I told him that I was homeless once, too. I knew how hard it was, and I knew about the decisions and/or circumstances that might lead a person to be homeless. He said it wasn't so bad sometimes. He had a tent in the woods and a small T.V. that was hooked up to a car battery, and a blanket or two that covered his cardboard box bed. Yeah, it wasn't too bad sometimes.

I told him how once I slept on top of an apartment building roof. It wasn't too bad up there either...high up, near the breeze and the stars...much better than a lot of places I could have been. I sat down. I still had to piss, so I had to sit down.

I opened my pack of smokes and gave the man one to have with me, and a few to have later, I gave him my extra lighter. We smoke together, on the dirty steps, looking at the traffic.

He said that he had worked hard labor most of his life. He had started work early for his family/his parents, and didn't finish school. Now, he was getting old and he couldn't work hard labor so much. And most lots hired younger and stronger guys, and they were cheaper, too, since they didn't know any better. He didn't feel like there was a job for him using his brain since he didn't read and write so good. He asked me if I thought his life could turn around. I told him yes, that mine had, and I was not that special. He asked if I was going to tell him that he just had to stop drinking and clean himself up and that's what would do it, how easy it would be, since that's what he heard all day from lots of other people. No, I told him that I wasn't going to lie to him, and tell him that shit. It wasn't easy. It would be hard. It could take a long time. I told him that he would have to make the choice if he even wanted to do that. Maybe, I said, you'll find that you like living in your tent more. I don't know. Some people do like I did, and some people don't....and either way was hard...just living is hard. It just is. I also thought to tell him not to be so down on himself. That no matter what decision he made about his life, to at least be proud of himself, try to like himself. That's the important thing over having stuff...and that's the point that took me the longest to get, and was the hardest to get. I also told him that I had to go. I had to get home, and I had to piss. I laughed, too, and then made the face that I really might piss myself and maybe him, too. We laughed some more.

I stood up and shook his hand again. Then I got in my car, waved at him and turned the car, drove home. It was nice to just sit with someone, chat and have a smoke. The simple conversation refreshed my mind a bit. I'm not sure he would know that he had done that for me, this dirty, wet man with bright, fire-red hair.

His name is Henry.

BC's gonna' take you out!!! I loves me the old BC.

2007-07-01T10:16:00.000-05:00

It's morning. I'm thinking that my period is fixing to start...maybe...or it's the drugs that the doctor's have me on for the flare up of the MS, that I'm having now. Hard to say. Sometimes emotions are a tricky thing. One has to wonder if we're ever truly supposed to master them. I have to wonder, since we are a terribly ignorant species, if my dog runs the gambit of emotions that I do, and what he would say about them, to me, if he could. I wonder what if I tried not to box them in, not to file them, not to control them...where would I be. I do say more than most people, I'm comfortable with that. And still sometimes I hold it in, I say nothing. I say nothing because of the social constraints.....the expected, controlled constraints. I have to wonder if those really do any of us any good.

This week are our reviews at work. We have two, one mid-year, one end-year...the sum of both are added, and tied to our money. I've watched people who do not deserve money, get money. And I've watch people who did deserve money, not get enough. It's all opinions, not based in any fact. I'm actually beginning to really in my heart of hearts believe there are no true facts anyway...only opinions. Take history and science as examples....completely changing and evolving as we discover new things. We just made the word fact up, to solidify our opinions....bolster our own egos. We are good about that.

Last year, my first review was complete shit. Then just a few months later my review went up, way up. And everyone noted how much change they had seen in me. I can honestly say, I never changed one bit, not what iota. Could it be that people took a bit of time to discover that I wasn't this complete waste of time? Well, I couldn't say that to them, could I? I just took the money and ran. Good for me that I changed so much....good for me.

I don't want to do this one, this year either. Not unless they're planning on a big monetary surprise for me. Otherwise, I think that I'd just rather be left alone to work. I do my work, when there isn't work, I often find work to do. All signs of a good employee. Just pay me fairly, let me do my time, and then retire. It's hard for me to get excited about this.

I work with a group that are all about twenty years old than I am. Completely different work culture that they come from. And their desire to learn anything else is pretty limited. Sometimes it strangles me.

On occasion they will all sit around and talk about the good old days. Okay, not on occasion, must of the fucking time. It was so bad at last year's holiday season, I wondered if I should get them all shotguns, so that they could just end it all in the breakroom or something like that. Maybe the handi-capped stall of the bathroom...it's big enough. I mean, they really talk about the good old days. Not just a quip or two, but really like old biddies sitting on a porch, rocking and fanning themselves, waiting to die. It's awful. And it sucks moments off of my life, as well. I don't learn anything from it....well, except that maybe I don't ever want to do that to anyone else.

Last time it was about the old neighborhood in Houston, and Green Stamps. I don't have anything to relate about Houston, I don't like the town. And the only thing that I can relate about Green Stamps was that yes, I used to lick and stick them in the books for my Granny and my Stepmother. I got a book for my own for every five books that I completed. And when I had saved enough of my own stupid books, I went to the free stuff center. I turned them all in for a Dungeons and Dragons game set. This game set that was Satanic in the eyes of my small town, and I just wanted to see what it was, and couldn't believe my eyes that it was there on the shelf. I took it home, sat in the closet, opened it up, waited for Satan himself to jump out of the box and tempt me....and then.....NOTHING HAPPENED. It was so boring and stupid. The game is boring and stupid. I don't want to play like I'm a wizard. I would really want to be one...not play one. I was sooooo disappointed. And now I live on occasion by making fun for the D&D cult.

That's what I had to relate. The others stood there looking at me as though I had just farted. Needless to say, I dropped out of the conversation. I am not old. And I know others their age who aren't old. It really is a mind set.

Later in the week, we had a business lunch. They were all discussing something. I made a reference from Thunder Cats. Nothing....the table went dark and quiet. Again, I farted. They had never heard of Thunder Cats...nothing. Okay, I thought, maybe Thunder Cats was a tiny bit off the beaten path...so, I brought up He-Man. Still nothing. Skeletor? Completely blank. I brought up one other example. And then my eyes completely widened, and I let out a laugh. It wasn't on purpose...it escaped me. I had a jailbreak laugh. Maybe I was just surprised that in this office, I was completely alone. Completely and utterly alone, in anything remotely humorous. There was a part of me that was saddened by this revelation. Humor is a big part of what I am. I find humor in everything. And these three must just think that I babble like a crazy person all of the fucking time. I occurred to me, that this really may be the case, they may never get any humorous remark that I make. I am the office babbling idiot.

The third and most horrific example of the old biddies this week, was the Aloha themed business lunch that we had to Pot Luck something to. Jesus, it sucked. I brought ham and Ambrosia Salad. One of the old biddies started telling me that this was not Ambrosia Salad, that it was, in fact, Heavenly Hash. BECAUSE, that was how her mother made it. I noted that I got this recipe out of the Betty Crocker's cookbook, an old Biddie favorite, with tried and true, traditional recipes. She wouldn't let up. I also noted that I looked it up online to see if there was any variations on the recipe that I might like to try. Yep, it was Ambrosia Salad, and definitely not Heavenly Hash, as per the THOUSANDS OF ONLINE RECIPES. She STILL would not let up on me about this, and noted it loudly in the fucking Aloha themed, joke of a business meeting, in order to somehow make herself and her crazy, fucking recipes up, mother, look like the be all and end all of recipes for Ambrosia Salad....as though, this was some delicacy that took some sort of sacred knowledge about to make. It's a fast, easy, white trash short cut to cooking anything of merit, and I took it, only because I wasn't really in the mood to cook for an Aloha themed business meeting. What- are you kidding me?!?!???!!!!

Now, I could have taken the high road. I could have not let it bother me. But, true to my nature, I didn't. The fact that I had to make something, show up, decorate, and all of this had nothing to do with anything business, deeply bothered me. I was not getting paid extra for the effort, I didn't like these people.....there was nothing redeeming about it. I wanted to by this giant, blown-up monkey that I had seen on sale. But was told that this would be inappropriate, and there aren't any monkeys on the islands, anyways. WHAT?!? It's true, I was told that. I was hard not to buy it, and just put it in my passenger seat and drive it to and from work every day. I am still considering this. I digress.

I noted where I got the recipe, that in fact, in Betty's Cookbook, there was no such thing has Heavenly Hash. And the thousands of recipes out there....that all said AMBROSIA SALAD....this was just like them, the crap that I made. AND perhaps, just perhaps, her mother was either a bit off, didn't actually know how to cook, or maybe, just maybe, called it Heavenly Hash to confuse her daughter about food for the rest of her life so much that she would be doomed to bring it up and to the attention of everyone at every time, she felt that there had been a food injustice done. But, whatever. The room went silent for a moment. Then we ate, and the salad was eaten, and the woman only brought up her point about fifty million more times, but it didn't matter, everyone would see her for the sad, pathetic salad lady after that. I had won. Don't mess with me and Betty. Betty will fuckin' take you out!!!! You and your crazy ass mother!

See, that there was the other part of me, that part of me that makes fun of the D&D people and obsessed salad people. The part of me that maybe wants to take back part of the office that should be rightfully mine. I do get tired of the high and mighty thumbing their noses at me, sometimes treating this grown up like a baby...boo-hoo....it's really not me. It's them, they do not understand any reference I make. Can you imagine? Going completely through your entire life never having any reference to anything past your own "glory" time, one's heyday, that only lasted maybe ten or twenty years? Shit, that's less that a person's entire lifespan. Why would one do that to themselves and them pick on someone else for not doing that? Mother fuckers.

So, I started my day off by hitting the office and saying: "What's up, Plisken?!" Oh yes, it's on now. My reference to Snake Plisken from the lovely cult classic, Escape from New York, and its' counterpart, Escape from L.A., fell on deaf ears. Once I explained where this one came from....this was followed by the conversation about how completely crappie these movies were. In which I asked if they like the Terminator series. Oh yes, very much, they said. I noted that those movies had completely ripped off some of the sythenized, dark music, and stunning effects from the Escape from series. And how surprised I was that they hadn't noticed that themselves...what a pitty.

This followed up by a few quips like: "That's a negative Ghost Rider.", and "What you lookin' at Willis", and finally, "DYNOMITE". I ended the day with a "One time at band camp....." All of which, I did not explain. I would be the office idiot and enjoy myself.

After all, my review is this week, and I wouldn't want to disappoint. And I can't die a small death in an office with toner, and files, and staples.....that just can't be the end for me. Holla' if you know what I'm saying....can I get an "AMEN".

The Importance of Well Thought Out News and Jack Daniels

2007-05-20T14:00:00.000-05:00

I promised myself that I wouldn't work so hard. But, it' s weird...I can't really stop myself. Even if I hate it, if I hate it so much that I become obsessed about it, I can't stop. This week I buried myself in a complete waste of time that is my day job. You don't have to put your coffee down and take notes...you don't have to pause to analyze. I know the answer. It's all in the avoidance. I am a hell of an avoider. A voyeur. An observer.

Even right now, I am avoiding at looking at my own words and typing with my eyes closed. The funny thing is, one might think that I'm going to check my thoughts later, but I won't. So, this post could be complete gobblity-gook...like if my hands were just slid over by one key. But, there would just be some nerd who would figure it all out and would then think somehow they broke the code. (Not as good as the American Indians during the war though. Jesus, we didn't really thank them very much for that did we. I don't know, maybe by giving them more land and better care, honoring the treaties or something.) I digress.

But, just like most poor people with depression, I can only play hide and seek in my head so long. Then I get worn out and it bubbles up to the surface like a bad frito pie.

I'm thinking that today it's a curse seeing the bigger picture. I'm feeling overwhelmed by it. And Oh, I do a few good things here and there when I can, but in the grand scheme of things, they're shit. There is big scary ass stuff out there and not enough people thinking it through.

Lance Armstrong, Austin, Texas wants the State of Texas to "invest" in a cancer research center. It's going to be fucking billions that the State just doesn't have, if we do this, our State will be borrowing the money. I cannot agree Lance, I'm sorry, but you cost too much.

Then a read this article in the paper that talks about all of the toxic waste the comes from America and is imported into China. The parts are dipped in something to remove the metals, and then that shit is dumped into the land, and rivers, and sewers. There is a rise in deformities and cancer in children...their entire next generation. I just found out that my Aunt has cancer. We'll know tomorrow if it's the kind where she has a five percent chance of living or a ninety percent chance....it's going to be a long twenty-four hours. Lance himself only has one ball from his cancer. And my MS, they're thinking could be from environmental causes.

So, it's not like this shit doesn't touch us. Like this is something that doesn't happen in our own backyards. And China really isn't that far away anymore. What was that saying about shitting in one's own backyard. All those saying that we get to quote and never learn from.

Keep this place Weird. That's the saying around here. But, don't look weird or act weird. We'll have you arrested if you upset the developers. Those days are gone. And quit having abortions and quit smoking you dirty filthy fucks. Jesus is watching you. And I certainly hope you don't have any Mexican friends right now. Well, you can have them as friends but only after they've been properly tagged. Good enough for our cattle, good enough for our Mexicans.

And the two news stories that shocked me, only because they made the news. The one about the man who died Battle Dancing. It was sad that he died. The news led us all to believe that this was a highly dangerous, new thing, that parents and the nation should be aware of. We used to do this on skates at the roller rink, but I guess that stuff on Dance Fever after the roller skates has influenced people to take it to the next level and we really should be watching out of it. They're going to keep dancing in the dead man's honor, dispite the danger.

And the other story about the couple who found a bag of pot, a lighter, and a pipe in a Happy Meal that some teenage at stashed his stash in, that then went through the drive through to their kid. It was a bit funny to me. I giggled.

They were so scared and tearful, and we still thinking about suing. I would have almost felt sorry for them, except when they told the story, their little girl first brought them the lighter. Then moments later brought them the pipe, then the baggy of pot. Then and only then did they check the meal box. I would have probably checked after the first item. I would not have waited until my child brought be the pin pulled hand grenade. I'm just saying. These were top stories. Right along with SpareUs Hilton. Do you think she knows the word shank yet? Or being someone's bitch? There are lots of gang members in California, maybe her mommy and daddy could afford to get her a tutor or something.

It used to be God Bless America/Texas. Now, I'm thinking it should be I Hope God Doesn't Strike Us Right the Fuck Down for Being an American/Texan. I told you that it's been a long week and I digress yet again. Too much in the news.

So, is it research that we need for the cure? Or, is the cure in not doing screwed up things for convenience sake? How easy would that be? Well it's not easier for those of us who are too broke to buy the good stuff and are being led around the China makes everything ring. That's very similar to Ring Around the Rosie.

I saw a Vice-President of IBM speak the other night. She talked about the "Green Grid". I looked it up. It's a group of big companies "looking" at ways to go green with technology. It's very elite. It cost $5,000 to be a member, that's one's yearly dues. We can't just have anyone vote. I'm broke. Needless to say, I won't be joining.

This woman said that these companies were looking at automobiles, and making them smarter and better. I raised my hand and noted that I was currently working in the transportation field. I asked if they were looking at the transportation field as a whole or just cars, because the transportation field, the projects, used technology from start to finish and beyond finish actually, and the cars were just a one sliver of the entire industry. She couldn't answer my question. And then she stated that recently she had had a dinner with Jacques Cousteau and blah, blah blah....something. No one else seemed to realized that he had been dead since 1997. And no, it wasn't his son, Felipe. Felipe is dead as well. And his grandson was not named Jacques, and was not an explorer. She was a liar. What a shocker. So, this is who we have running the show.

And it is a show, not a show of hands outstretched in help, in honor....no, they are hands showing fists full of money.

You know who I do like. Who I do admire. Who I do think did something? Cindy Sheehan.

A recently read a post were someone called her a traitor, and this person thought we should "Torture the Filthy Bitch". I hope she doesn't take the crazy people too seriously. People who use that kind of violent language aren't very forward thinking. I somehow just get some picture of a God Fearing, Bell-Donalds Eating, Fat Ass in a Big Truck who probably doesn't read much or real good and hasn't been out of the state since never, unless there was a Kal-Mart sale in the next state over that couldn't be resisted. Probably burned the Dixie Chicks album and then thought the smoke was Satan, so put out the fire and took an hour to find a hammer. Now the fire was probably doused with regular water, not Holy Water, because I doubt they thought of or know any Catholics. And all the while, not realizing that Cindy Sheehan used the very rights that our country was founded on. And, she did something with those rights.

Having bought the land right next to George, who really isn't from Texas. (He's a transplant.) It does have to get a reaction out of him. It is not possible not to have a reaction as a human. Now maybe he has a reaction like the above quoted person, or maybe he realizes how badly he has hurt this one person. Either way, it doesn't matter about the reaction....only that he has one. In that, Cindy has made a point, she has caused a reaction, and she has done something. As a mother, I get it. I completely get that. Most of us cannot say the same.

There's a lot going on. And the bigger picture is muddied sometimes. But, I can't always just ignore it. I can't just do that.

Sometimes the best laid plans....

2007-05-05T09:47:00.000-05:00

My Mother In Law died this week. She was old enough for it. However, it was sudden. She fell, and was hurt badly enough not to recover. I learned.

There was such a whirlwind of activity. My man, her youngest son, was up at the hospital with her, every day. This, of course, messed with our son of six. Our son didn't get it, he missed his daddy. My schedule was a mess and I couldn't think. When you become accustomed to running the house with two and one is gone, the world is fucked.

It was up and done all week...maybe she would make it, maybe she wouldn't. The phone never stopped ringing. It felt like one long sustained note of level of intensity that just struck the level of sustained annoyance. My man never ate, or slept, it seemed like. And I was quite without the power to do anything about it.

The family is not fond of me. Maybe it is the distance that I keep. I am not a family type person. My own family being one of crap, I'm just not prone to family type situations. I do understand them, with all of the internal politics and guilt and love...I just don't have it in me to be a part of that situation. I do what I can with the man and son that I have, and everyone else is just "other people's" family. I know that can be bothersome. I'm not completely without feelings, I just do not have that capacity. It's a struggle, I know. There is little acceptance in the world for people such as me. I know, and I take that.

I did have feelings about my Mother In Law. Secretly, from my reserved position, I did have feelings. I found myself in the shower last week, quietly observing my thoughts and singing a Buddhist Prayer to God. I had my son get dressed. It was time for he and I to go and see Granny. I gave this quite a bit of thought. At six you are left out of so many grownup things. Did I know that her looks, the beat up, despondent world that she was in now, could have a dramatic effect on my son? Yes, I knew that. I was making a decision to send him right into the headlights of pain. I hoped that I was making the right decision. I would be there for him, but this might be so tough, and he was so small. But, I weighed the other side. What if he didn't get to tell Granny what he wanted to say, what if he needed to see her. Would I want to be the parent that said no to that because he was a small human. Would I want to bare that guilt, or be the one involved in him baring that guilt. No. So, I sang to God and let the water wash over me until it was hot to cold.

We were dressed and in the car. Driving. I had this overwhelming need to stop by a Catholic church. I wasn't Catholic. I'm probably never going to be Catholic. But, Granny was. She was probably more Catholic than the Pope. I knew that Granny was probably one of three to four religious persons that I had any respect and admiration for. She was dedicated to her faith, she lived in her faith, BUT, she was never pushy about her faith. As though she read the books and really got it. She was one of a handful of people that gave me hope that everything I heard about God might be true. I am not a person of faith. I am a person, sometime of hope. And her ideas and lifestyle with regards to God gave me hope. For people who really know me....that's a lot.

She was in pain, in a shitty hospital room. And she didn't have any of her relics. All week she had been messing with her feeding tube, and pulling this out a bit, until it dawned on someone that she was saying her Rosary. This was my pain for her. She didn't have any of her things....those things that brought her comfort. I'm so not Catholic, I couldn't even remember where the Catholic churches were. I thought there might be one downtown. My son was eating doughnuts in the backseat and complaining about this taking to long. I explained what I was doing driving us around like a madman. He was ok with it.

I pulled up to what I thought was a Catholic church. I parked in a no parking zone, and looked up at the sky and thought, I can't afford a ticket, but if you're up there, you know, and are going to help me, right? It was Sunday, and the church was busy...busy with people in their Sunday best. I was in jeans, tugging my son and his doughnut crusted mouth along with me.

It was a Catholic church. I stopped someone who looked official and asked for some Holy Water. We had once taken Granny's car on a trip. When I opened the glove compartment, looking for kleenex, I found a bottle of Holy Water with the kleenex and the maps. I thought about that. What was she going to do with that? Bless the blown tire after? I didn't care. But, she had relics everywhere, and this one time, she was fucking going to have them now. The man looked at me like I was nuts and sent me down to the next building to the gift shop.

The gift shop? People hocked Holy Water? As pissed off as I was about that point, it was small in comparison to the overall mission that I was on. The gift shop was closed. I stopped another official looking person and explained why I needed this, and I was happy to pay, but I was in a hurry. He hurried off, saying that he would be right back. People in their Sunday best looked at me and my son...some with curiosity, some with annoyance. No time for that either.

The man came back, he came back. He had a plastic cup with foil on top, and a Rosary. I teared a bit, and told him thank you. That I knew it was maybe silly, but this was important, and for once, I just needed a church to do what it could, and he did that....thank you. We hugged and my son and I ran to the car and hurried to the hospital.

We hurried, we parked, getting out of the car, I spilled some of the Holy Water on my shirt. Shit! I can't waste this. This I paused, as though I was waiting for something to occur. Wasn't this water magic? There's that hope again. Nothing. Nothing happened. It was as though I expected, just like the vampires, for there to be a hole. Yet, nothing. Well, fuck it. This wasn't about me, or for me, or anything me.

We were in the room. My son looked relieved. My son was ok. He talked to Granny quietly. None of us know what he said. And frankly, it's not our business. He was ok, he was sad, he understood the gravity of situation, but he was ok. I was relieved.

I wanted to talk to Granny, too. The room was full of all the family, all of the children. Ok, I would have to do this publicly. She wasn't my mother, and you cannot, as the outsider, ask people to leave for you. I get that. I put the Rosary under her pillow. She looked like shit. I was angry that her hair was messed up. She had just gotten a new haircut, and it was cool. And this place, and these people couldn't even fix her hair for her. I whispered and I began to cry. I wanted her to know that I knew that she felt like she was the last of her line. I had heard her say that before. I told her that she was wrong. I told her about the hope that she gave me. I asked her to know how important that hope was. Important enough for me to drive to church on Sunday to bring her things. I told her that her line didn't stop. She had a children...she had a son, her son was in my life now, and we had a son. Did she know that gift that she had given me?....a perfect stranger, linked now to her forever, through tiny DNA and blood vessels? Did she know that? And I told her that I had know words for the work that she had done in her life to give me that gift. And there were no words to express it or give thanks for it. All I could do was drive to a shitty church and bring relics for her.

I took the Holy Water and pulled the foil back on the plastic cup. I couldn't even get the gold cup I thought she deserved. I began to realize that other people in the room were staring. They knew that I had brought Holy Water.

They all knew that I was not religious. One commented that she had already been anointed, and in case I didn't know what that was, Granny had been given her last rights. I replied that I knew what that was, and this water wasn't for that. I asked if there could be such a thing as too much Holy Water. Wasn't it supposed to be magic or something? Didn't they have faith in it?

The slightly sarcastic reply was that Granny wasn't suddenly going to be healed. Yes, I knew that, I replied. But, what if God or Jesus, or an Angel or something came to her because of this stupid water. Wasn't it magic? Wasn't it supposed to do something?....Anything?....Didn't they believe?....They were Catholic, and Granny believed....so just for this one fucking moment, couldn't I, too, have the hope and maybe the borrowed faith that something good...no, something great would happen for her while she was waiting in pain?

Granny passed away a couple of days later. I haven't really teared up since. I said what I needed to say that day. I knew that she was prepared for the end. What I learned, truly learned, was that it isn't death that bothers me. Once someone is gone, they are gone, the end for them. It is the act of dying, the days, hours, minutes, seconds towards death that is so awful. People are scared. The body is still reacting. There are still moments of reaction to the old life before crossing to the new. The body takes it's fucking time letting go of the soul. That is the painful part for me.

Watching everyone who knew her be so tired and in pain during the moments before her death, and the human caught in the headlights after her death have been hard. One is completely powerless to help another during this grief. Grief is only for the living and is only for the single, one person. My grief is different from my son's, my man's, the sisters, the brother, the grandchildren. It is single to everyone.

I did learn how I wanted my own after death proceedings to go. I did take notice of that. So, I have to say thank you to Granny for that. She did most of that work before she went. She was not afraid, it wasn't that big of a deal to her, her own death. She had faith, she was comforted and prepared. She gave me hope, she gave me that lesson. I am compelled to write that down in her honor.

I hoped there were angels for her. I somehow imagined that all of her plastic, all of her wood, all of her metal, all of her resin angels came to life, became glowing and life sized, and airy, and singing for her....to guide her to the next place. I hoped more than I have ever hoped that this one thing was true.

The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:He leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul:He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil: For thou art with me;Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

Virtuous man, after Treasure-Sea Brahmana had pondered upon such great compassionate vows, he uncovered his right shoulder, and proceeded to where the Buddha was. At that time, innumerable hundreds of thousands of ten thousands of billions of gods performed heavenly music and rained down myriads of flowers from the sky, and praised together: 'How virtuous, how virtuous! Virtuous great hero, you are now going to where the Buddha is, to make the unique vows, to eliminate the afflictions of the living beings in all worlds, by using the wisdom water.

Naked you came from Earth the Mother.Naked you return to her. May a good wind be your road.

Sure, I wanted to write the rest of the story, but I can't. I would be letting go of some secrets that I know belong to others. I would be selfishly writing about myself. So, this is one story that ends here, right here.

I'll eat cake, you can eat crow

2007-04-15T09:05:00.000-05:00

I've been watching two crows from my office window. I haven't really see very many crows up close. They are large birds, with slick black feathers, and piercing eyes. I've watched them dive from tops of the trees, straight down to gather a smaller bird to eat. It's quite vicious really. I watched as the crows pinned their prey against a tree branch and pecked the smaller bird to death. The pen feathers raining from the tree branch, blowing like white cotton in the wind. Pieces of raw, dead, red meat falling from the sky, too, all the body parts the crows didn't want to eat.

On breaks, I've noticed that they imitate other birds calls. I'm not sure it this is to identify the other birds locations, or if the crows are just fucking mean. They also have a large vocabulary, talking to one another in great detail. The crackles hang out with them. As I read up on the crows, they keep to themselves, the will even fight with other crows who are not part of their flock. This, of course, leads me to believe that the grackles and the crows have some sort of mob relationship. And for as smart as the grackles are, I do think eventually this relationship will end badly for them. There can only be one top bird.

Not unlike people, are the crows. As I was at Fat Camp this week, you can begin to see the personalities of all the fat people. Most everyone is okay; however, it should be noted that by okay, I mean that some people's level of being nuts is more tolorable than others. But, there are some, yes, there are some that you can't be nice to, they will bring you down. I have lost weight, not a lot, but am doing ok. Some people have gained. They gained by eating the diet food AND regular food. If you gain for two weeks in a row, they switch you to the loser fat camp class. I'm not sure if they wisk you away right after weigh in, that I just don't know. But, I do know that for what I'm paying to learn how not to be fat, I do not want to wear the scarlet F.

No one has been pointed out, but we all know who they are. This one woman sat right in class and ate four of the delicious chocolate snack bars. They are 150 calories each, so right there in less than thirty minutes, she consumed 600 calories. She was shoving them in her mouth and crinkling the wrappers loudly. It was an obvious cry for help, for attention. It was really quite sad. My heart did go out to her. But, it's every fattie for themselves, I can't help her, she'd just bring me down. Plus, next week, at weigh in, she'll just disappear, not to disrupts us again, off to that "other class", and I will not have to think about her again.

Also, there are two ladies that sit right in front of the class. They are mean fatties. Whenever some one speaks about something, they always turn and stare, roll their eyes, make faces, and whispers giggle. They have not picked on me, yet. They prey on the more insecure. This week they picked on an old lady. Yes, I know it's their own insecurities...I get that. But, I just don't really care. You can be a jackass in the back of class. It's pretty much a nusance to have them right in front. They give off airs. Fatties with airs...there's a joke or two in that.

Didn't we all have these people in school. I didn't like them then and I don't like them now. If they continue, I will gently remind them that they are fat, too. That they are in the fat camp, just like the rest of us, and if they were any better, they wouldn't be at fat camp. I will also remind them that some people have actual medical problems that led them to being fat, so unless they have one of those things going on, then they're just fat, which is worse. Yes, I will pick back. I don't feel particulary insecure about them, their just disruptive. I was the champion of the picked on in school...it's part of being a Sag, we have a heighten sense of fairness about us. To be a sparrow, a grackle or a crow, yes, that is the question.

I went to a friend's birthday party last night. I got to see my dear friends, Chris, Steve and Billy. They are, by all rights, superstars. As I noted this, at one point in the conversation, some other guy, said that I was just obviously smitten. No...not smitten....in awe. He said asked if I was like that with other famous stars...he was thinking that I was a hangeroner. No, most stars in the public eye were not really stars, but rather, portals to conformity and comfort for the masses, not really stars. However, these guys were actual, live, in the flesh, stars. People who broke the mold, pushed the envelope...didn't he see that? I used the example of Imus vs. Vonnegut. Imus, who has always been a jackass, and did nothing of memory, sure did get a lot of attention. Kirk Vonnegut, who did everything of memory, when dead, just barely made the news. There is a difference between stars, and fucking STARS. He just proclaimed again that I was smitten. I quit talking to him, I wasn't in awe of him, and he was the hangeroner.

I mostly hung out with the men at the party. Women don't like me, I'm not very girly. I can't even try. Now, don't get me wrong, I did try, really I did. I compliment the host on the home she built, and the decorations, and the food spead. Then I went to pee, and in her bathroom for reading material was a bible and a southern comfort magazine. Oh, sweet jesus, fuck. I pulled up my pants and sighed. I hoped I didn't get kicked out of my friend's party. I knew she would hate me. And she did. She and one other girl whispered and pointed a bit, but not too much, because I had strong support from my long time friends. I tried to make a joke. I told one of the girls that if I got too drunk and puked would that please hold my hair back. I laughed. She looked confused. She said, You have short hair. Yes, that's right. Move on quickly, move on.

So, she tried to get me back the rest of the night. I noted that I was in Fat Camp, and would not be having any of the food. And actually, I didn't want it. Trust, that surpised me more that anyone. That's a first, and I thought that was cool. The rest of the night she spent trying to get me to eat. Almost chasing me at times, with olives on sticks, and piece of cheese, and cracker spread. Have you ever been chased with olives before? Holy shit, this woman was relentless. I was being chased...it was insane.

It was all we had to talk about for the evening. She would have a bite, try to feed me a bit, I would say no, but thank you, I would explain that I wasn't hungry. I would move, start a conversation with another person, turn slightly, and there she was with the pita bread and humus spread...we would start again. Over and over and over....for hours. She was on a mission. And later by the fire, she actually pouted about it. I'm not kidding. Lip out and everything.

Now, you would think that it's just me making things up. However, one of my friends noticed it, too, and commented on this squirrly behavior. The only answer that I had was that I made her look stupid, actually I didn't make her, I just made a couple of jokes, that were consquently above her thought level, and now she was out to get me with cheese cubes and the like. However, once challenged by olives and cheese, I couldn't back down. Can you imagine the shame that I would have carried this morning had a slipped off the fat wagon? Can you?!?

To be a sparrow, a grackle or a crow. That is the question.

I loved you Kirk Vonnegut. And I thank you and the other super stars that I know for just being alive to influence and inspire me. How shitty and bored I'd be if you never had existed at all.

Why do I have to worship the Toast Jesus and not the Chocolate Jesus

2007-04-07T08:52:00.000-05:00

As this week was filled with a lifetime of worldly stupidity, I of course, have taken time to reflect.

My comments on politics:

I do not care who can raise the most campaign funds. That is just fucking stupid. They are buying their way into power. Isn't that a direct hit on what we're not supposed to be about? That is why I never check the box to donate to the Federal Campaign Fund. Fuck you! Get you're own fucking money...And, well, they do. With all of the options, most of them very cheap, you'd think we could run a paperless campaign, or something close to it. No, no one gets my $3 per year.

Also, to the guy who walked out of the Muslim held prayer in the Texas Government. You, sir, are a dumbass. He all but accused this man of being a terrorist. It smacks of the years past when a black person, a Communist, a woman, or a Jew had to be beaten, shot, jailed, or burned. You, sir, are a dumbass. And I mean that from the bottom of my ordinary citizen heart. Dumbass.

And, jailing illegal immigrants and their children in Texas, in a specifically designed jailing system in Hutto. What?!!!? What of this makes since? I am paying tax money to jail people, who's only crime is to be on this soil, this dirt. Either let them work, or send them home. At the current cost, of keeping small children in orange jumpsuits, we could have rented a bus or five and driven them in air-conditioning, home. Or, let them work. It's not that big of a deal to make a good decision. Spend my money wisely or give it back to me.

But, it could be to the rest of us. I site the twenty-four year old who just got out of seven months of prison for refusing to testify in front of a grand jury about the footage he shot as a G8 summit. No more vacation pictures and amendment Rights for me...I'm out.

Right now my butt is probably being monitored for top security reasons. Maybe I've even gotten a phone tap. It won't be very interesting, but as long as there's a court order to back it up, I'm cool with it.

Ok, with that out of the way, how is June today?

I have been busy. I'm at leg therapy for an over a year old leg injury. I'm on day four of fat camp. I organized big meetings. I organized a Happy Hour for a bunch of women in a trade organization that I'm not sure I like. I'm even helping with the big Gala for this organization.

I've been a bit grouchy. I like not doing anything. And having to do things is new and difficult. I'm an American for fuck's sake. I've grown use to not doing anything productive. It smacks against my very American Spirit. Oh the horror of it all.

And on top it, I've had to deal with people. I'm good for about two years at any given job. That's it. Once I really get to know people, I'm itching to leave. It's not really anyone's fault...I just don't like people. What's really a fixture in this, is that I'm great with people. But, I don't like them. There is a small select group that I keep near and dear to me, and that's it....that's all I got.

Case in point:

I am not a snazzy dresser. ( I can be when pressed to do it for money...i.e. work) But, if I could look like shit all the time, I'd do it. (However, please note, I love bath products. Sit back and reflect on that.) I do not think that the clothes make the man, or the woman. Nope. Just a clever disguise to fool the weak minded. Are you sitting there in your mall bought house robe? Don't worry I can't really see you. It's just a blog, not video conferencing...or is it?

I was outside smoking yesterday. We all have to smoke outside, lest we kill someone with the second hand smoke. (I don't mean to sound insensitive, but I really do not care if I harm someone with my dirty smoky habit. I know, I'm an asshole. But, I am truly offended by most peoples' habits, and sometimes I feel little pieces of me actually dying. So, we're even. And, I'm smoking right now, just know that. Know that I am comfortable with that, very comfortable with that.)

So, outside, I was not alone. There were three mortgage company women down there with me. All of the mortgage people are salespeople, they all dress to impress every day, even though they are in a call center. They should be more mindful though, call centers are leaving the U.S. at an alarming rate. None of them have any flare for foreign dress at all, nor do they have competitive accents, and I do fear for their worse, but whatever.

One of the girls had gotten in trouble for wearing open toed sandals. She asked me if I had that problem with a dress code in my job. I said, of course. One of the other girls looked me up and down, and noted that obviously I had won that battle.

Oh, I see. I'm being snubbed. My dresswear was crappy. Oh.

Now, I could have taken the highroad. But, a friend of mine just sent me an article from the NYtimes, ScienceTimes about how boredom makes a person cruel. I think that in the end I am no better.

I ignored to snub, so it looked, and started asking them what they did, exactly. Wasn't I interested? Didn't my engaging smile seem interested? Because they were, after all, terribly interesting people, in a call center with their designer clothes on. Oh they talked. I would repeated it, but mostly I just smiled. I can't really recall any one thing a one of them said. Not one of them. I think one of them was wearing something fushia, if that helps you set the stage in your mind. But, that's all I got, sorry.

They asked what I did, exactly. I help build transportation for the world, I said. I explained to them, that in this area they should see a high rate in their business, because transportation fueled the economic development in an area. Didn't they find that to be true?

They didn't know what I was talking about. The words to big, the concepts to hard. I could have stopped picking on them, but I didn't want to. I think if I had seen the Chocolate Jesus, he would have made an impression on me, and my soul. But, we looked him away.

I explained that I wanted to buy land myself near one of the new projects. Only to turn about and sell it to a developer. One of the girls said that she had a house near one of the big highways. She was excited that she might have suddenly struck it big.

Oh, I said. Houses right next to highways usually went getto if they stayed right next to the fast food restaurants and big malls that went in. She might still have a chance though. Could still work if she didn't buy into something that had a big, but restrictive, and all fooling Home Owners Association...then she might be locked into the getto. Oh, she was. Oh, sorry. But, nice try. Really, nice try. Most people don't know. They don't think ahead and read the public information, I understood.

Maybe next time not buy next to a big highway, watch the papers and the public information sights, and try to sell to the developer before big highway went in. She could probably still use it as some kind of rental property and, at least, try to get some of her money back. She looked worried.

Whether I was correct or not, it not the point. I was poorly dressed and had successfully lobed the insecurity ball right back. Now, I know that they will talk about me behind my back, making snippy comments. However, they will not talk TO me and make snippy comments to my face.

That's ultimately why I don't like most people. That gentle tango of small daily battles, that in the grand scope of things, don't have anything to do with anything of any sort of merit and worth. And we have built and entire society around it. It's boring...and it makes me mean. I am not above the science.

Hats off to Hemingway. He left and went to an island. Now that's a smart man.

I saw Barry White at Fat Camp

2007-03-31T10:14:00.000-05:00

Has it been sense February that I updated my blog? An entire month gone without recording anything? Yes, it's true. I should tell you the story about the drunk birds and the screaming computer nerd. I should tell you about seeing and ex-boyfriend and how disappointed he was in seeing me. I should tell you how I had to go to Fort Worth and hang out with white people in boots. But, I'm not going to yet. I will instead tell the story of the Fat Camp.

I've gotten fat. Not huge fat. Yet. But, I'm on my way. I'm busy, I'm a snacker. I take drugs for my disease. I am prone to pie. I drink to much coffee. Frankly, I don't like water, so I don't drink enough of it.

I was feeling more shitty and exhausted than usual. I went to the doctor. I complained about my teetering weight gain. The unstoppable weight gain. We took blood samples. I am low on B-vitamins. So, it not only my crappy eating habits, but also, my drugs that I take for my MS. As it turns out, the damn things mess with your system in so many other ways than controlling a disease. So, I could be eating just fine, and I could be exercising my heart out, and still be fat. Some people go the other way and get really super duper skinny. I, what a shocker, didn't get that set of problems.

The idea of learning nutrition makes me tired just thinking about it. Portion sizing makes me tired. I don't want to have to learn about food. It's such a secondary thing to me. I don't think about breathing. I just do it. BUT, I'm fat. And maybe I miss the badass clothes more than the learning makes me tired. So, I checked around for my options.

I am going to the hospital's Fat Camp. Yes, I will have medical support, but also, delicious meals, and super training in the form of actual classes that I must attend in order to not be kicked out of the "program". You can get kicked out of Fat Camp. Which is amazing to me. Fat people have a hard time committing to stuff....you'd think at the prices, the huge amount of money that I'm fixing to spend, that they would cut me some slack. But, nope, you have to be totally serious about it. Ok, ok, I'll try to be serious, but it's going to be really hard.

Can I just say that I totally hate this? Can I? Well, I am.

I talked about the program to a person that I work with. Our project manager butted into the conversation to give me his fifty cents about my weight. He said that he was German, and his family drilled it into his head about portion size and nutrition. And if my family had done the same, I wouldn't be having this problem. I explained to him, that partly that may be true, but also, I have health issues and medicine issues that contributed to the massive weight gain that I was experiencing. He said that just wasn't true. He stood there looking at me as though I was just another stupid, lazy, fat person. He also noted that I should stop eating fast food, that was a big part of my problem. (I should note here that I don't eat fast food. ) I've gone to McDonalds, maybe once, in the past two years. I didn't bother fixing him. I knew Jesus had already given secret information on my eating habits...so, how can I compete with the Rez?

In all honesty, part of what he said rang true with my own lacking of self confidence in the matter. Now the other more rational part of myself, told me to be careful in listening to a Kevin Bacon hair, checkered shirt donning, German, Super Christian, Right Wing, Idiot. Be very careful. And perhaps I should take into consideration the cold hard medical science that was my own blood tests, and the doctor who had multiple degrees over his stupid ass.

Maybe. The battle between the June Does was to start.

I've had work dreams, health dreams, fat dreams....oh, the dreams....the dreams of dancing pants. My, oh my, this is a big deal.

Aside from my own want to have more energy, and the nice pants that I want to wear, there is the battle of wills. The battle that I will and can control my body. The other stuff is really secondary. I need to kick my body's ass. I need to be the winner. The need is deep rooted, for what ever the reason is. My body just can't get away with this. My mind is stronger than my body. So, if it's Fat Camp that does it, than it's Fat Camp. See how my body likes this! All the pre-planned meals and delicious shakes and snack bars....take that!

So, ok, I signed up for the Fat Camp. I had to go to orientation class. I went.

Upon arrival, I had to sign in. I had to grab the packets of information. One reason for going to Fat Camp is not to have all this information. They will be telling me what to do. So, I picked up the packets, knowing that I wouldn't read them. This is going to be hard for me.

I looked up to find my seat.

I was in an entire room of Fat People. It really struck me. All colors, all ages, a new mother, old people, a couple, a few handi-caps....the class really ran the scale. We were all fat. And we were all fat for different reasons. Some people admitted they were fast food junkies. I don't really eat fast food, but I am a snacker. I hate to cook. I really hate it. I don't want to be creative in the kitchen. I do not want to design the foods. I want to eat and go. I have other stuff to do.

I'm sure somewhere that makes me less of a woman.

The orientation power point didn't really speak to me. I knew that it was a part of their regulations. They had to tell us all about being fat, the food and the program...on and on and on. Oh and the part about exercise. Hell, we all fucking know that part. Who doesn't know that part. Jesus, that part was stupid. I know that I should exercise more, but go ahead, find that time for me, go ahead. I have never like that stuff. And maybe if I wasn't so fat and tired I would consider it more. So, let's save that part for later. I knew the other massively fat people in the room we're thinking the same thing. Right now, right this minute, I am lugging around two of my son's weight all the time. Yeah, I'm going to think about exercise.

The presentation, it was a necessary evil. It did seem to help some people. It also seemed to dissuade others. Too much work, all the monitoring and classes, etc. And the skinny lady giving the presentation was so happy and excited to see us all. That was too weird.

I don't want all the fanfare from someone who doesn't know me. I don't want to be excited that I'm making this big, fantastic change in my life. I'm still annoyed that I have to make the fucking change in the first place. So, let's just have a go. Let's get it started, give me the snack bars and the record keeping book, and let's just go.

Yes, I will note that I'm not to be fat...however, I'm not sure that I'm going to be part of the skinny excited cult. I'm not suddenly going to Jazzercise my way into the office, or done a red dress and show off my sexy legs. I'm not going to suddenly dance and do cartwheels. Are you fucking kidding me?

I already know how much I'm going to hate all the comments about how good I look, and how did I do it, and all of that shit. I know I'm going to hate it because we judge people who are fat, I judge myself for being fat. I'm still the same heart and soul and mind...inside the fat ass body. But,we're not going to think about that, are we? No, we're not. People will whisper how I finally quit going out to eat, and that's what did it. People are going to whisper how I finally got control of myself.

Yes, I finally have control of myself and isn't it just grand.

Going to the Booby Hatch in One's Space Diapers

2007-02-18T10:53:00.000-06:00

One lesson that I firmly think must be learned, seemingly over and over again, it that no human is better than any other human. No person is better than another. You have to believe that in your heart of hearts, your third eye, down in your bones...all that jazz. But, we don't do that. We believe that other people are better than us...or worse we're better than other people. All the roles we place on ourselves and blame others for. Everyone is a genius at something...a fucking brilliant, fantastic, obsolute, no competition, goddamned genius at something. And if you don't see it, then you aren't looking.

Someone recently asked me how I would feel if someone made fun of me the way that I make fun of other people. I looked this person straight in the eyes, and stated that I already make fun of myself, so there's not much for someone else to say that would "get me", and who really thinks that people don't do this or have done this to me already. I'm not worried about other people.

This brings to mind my relationship with Anna Nicole Smith. I didn't really have a relationship with her, but I secretly admired her. Growing up in a small Texas town, there's not much to do...drink, fuck, fight, get knocked up, go to church...that's about it. And for everyone this week that has made fun of her, speculated about her, etc. ...How fucking brilliant is that? She's dead and still keeps living through our society. She didn't really even have to lift a finger, or her legs and people gave her stuff...she died flying back and forth from the Bahamas. Fucking brilliant. Dead and yet still living...all that gossip. Fucking brilliant.

I was surprised to hear all of the negative stuff that came out of people's mouths. Okay, not really, but, having just heard a recent interview with an aging actress, we sure do live in a nosy society. This older actress was smeared in the papers, the collumns, online, T.V., all for being a drunk and on drugs. She never did either. She has Rheumatoid Arthritis, and for years would be fat, then skinny, then drop out of the scene, then reappear. The commentator asked why she never straightened everyone out about this. She said, everyone would hire a drunk, they would hire someone on drugs, but they wouldn't hire someone who's sick. And also, she didn't care what other people thought...they were just bored and sad, and she was too busy getting well to care or get too annoyed.

So, I guess my point is, we do not know the whole story. And people are vicious.

I was also talking with a friend this week who's reading a book by Frank Sinatra. There's a part were he talks about Marilyn Monroe. He talks about how filthy she was, and basically what a whore she was. That she would leave tampons in for days.

This strikes me as funny. Wasn't Frank part of the Brat Pack? Wasn't his image about women, booze, clubbing, etc.? Do you really think he washed his winky every time? That's a little of the whore calling the whore....

My dog and are are both having our periods this week. My other male dog licks it up for the female dog. I, myself, do not have a man that does this for me. In fact, I cannot recall any female friend of mine that has that luxury. But, I'm beginning to think that we should have that service available. A period is a vile, stinky, sticky, bloody mess that happens to a woman once a month, that we have no control over, that we didn't ask for, and would certainly rather give up. The upkeep of it, the control of it, all while feeling like shit...well, that's just an added bonus, isn't it. So, Frank, maybe if you'd lapped it up for Marilyn, after she worked hard on a show, or had to answer to her fans, and all the flashing lights, and on, and on, and on, well, perhaps she wouldn't have been so stinky. As I sit here in my giant diaper pad, with wings, yes, I think Frank should have lapped it up for Marilyn. It's a real loss some of the things that we have given up to walk upright.

So, coming full circle, I was made fun of this week. I was put down. Someone tried to steamroll me with their wits. And it was in an email...which is kind of chicken shit. But, ok, ok. At first I was angry. I wasn't angry that I had been called out. I was angry that I had to waste my time with this nonscense. It wasn't going to be very had to win. And I knew that...it was just a stupid thing to begin with, that had nothing to do with anything.

I sat as my desk and took in the view for a moment. I have an Anna Nicole Smith bobblehead at my desk. In my head a lit a single white candle to place in front of the mini-Anna. She nodded to me and winked. I imagined her having her period, too.

I took comfort and fired back an email. I barked in the most professional, polite and courteous manner. And noted that I would see her at the meeting tomorrow, and if there was still some confusion, to please see me, and we would discuss.

The next day, I wore a suit and heels. I was tall and tailored. I took my cell phone and my black planner and my business cards. The woman was there. I sighed. It was to begin. She gave me just one look and one sentence. I shot back with a direct order. My voice is booming and deeper than most women that I know. I never diverted my stare. I never waivered.

The woman took the order. Now the order had been set between us. I was to be the dominate person. I would advance. She didn't put up much of a fight. She took it. It had to be the stupidist thing ever. It was the tone of my voice and my suit.

I felt sorry for us both. I played right into the very thing that I hate in this world. Dressing for success, after we're taught to judge a book, not by it's cover. And she would spend some time being dominated by a person that didn't want to dominate....I just wanted to work. Why would anyone think I was better than them? I don't really believe that.

I have to go change my pad. Perhaps, sometimes, I can be got.

Social Vomit and Other Fables

2007-02-03T09:36:00.000-06:00

I googled myself today. I found this blog, my words, myself, on various websites. Yes, other people were linking themselves to me. Some I do know, some are just weird, far, pages on the vast network of the internet. And some sites you could even vote on me and my content. Well, that stuck me a bit. Perhaps I should step up my game a bit. Or perhaps I don't give a shit what a bunch of people who don't know me think. In the end you just have yourself. So, vote away. I may never read or never know the results, and ultimately I may never care. However, if it means that much to vote on me, if you think this is a use of your time that is valuable and well spent, go ahead, cast away, I am happy to oblige you in this. Funny stuff.

I wanted to stay asleep this morning. My dreams were far more interesting to me that whatever I was going to create for myself today. I'm a bit worn out. I usually blog about the time I need to regurgitate a bunch of things stored in my head. Today is not different. I'm going to use this tool to vomit out the week. So, if it is your intent to read this entire page, you are the proud recipient of my social vomit. I'm sorry that I didn't have time to wrap it.

It's already February and I haven't made my year's list. I choose not to make resolutions. That's just setting me up for failure. I make a list. It's a long list. It's just a list of goals for the year. Things that I would like to do. Last year's list was about 32 items long, I made it to 27. Not to shabby. I have a bank account for my child, and I have a bird bathe that I welded out of a plow disk. I'm good.

But, this year....it's going to be a doozie.

Every morning has been the same. Get up, let the dogs out, start coffee, pee, drink big glass of water, find my smokes, drink coffee, let the dogs in, wake up the child, kiss the man, more coffee, smoke, bathe, take meds with my liquid breakfast, get dressed, smoke, find something to stick in plastic bag for lunch, start thinking about work day, say good bye to man and child, give hugs and kisses, and love you more than anythings, turn off lights, find my keys, find my togo coffee, get in car, open the garage door, down the driveway, close the garage door, turn on CD, light cigarette, wave to the workmen working on my street, drive to work on the same street, stop at same lights, note that there's a new homeless person, what happened to the other one, arrive at work, get my bags, into the building, good morning to the security guard, punch in security code, round the corner in the hallway, take deep breath, and enter office, say good morning, and begin shit. Rinse

and repeat.

At one point during the week, I did try to sneak off for a nice lunch. I was excited that at the restaurant, I was getting a great table. It was right next to the windows, and hanging were colorful bird feeders. I thought that I had made it. What luck, I was never in this quiet room before.

But, thoughts can be deceiving. There were two men at the table next to me. Average men, nothing spectacular...completely ordinary, completely boring. I wouldn't have even noticed them, and how great would that have been. One of the men was just fine. The other man was a jackass. A loud jackass that completely ruined my sacred dining experience. Motherfucker. If only he had been entertaining. If only he had something of validity to say. If only he was hot. Something, anything. But, no. He was just ordinary and fucking loud. Not just kind of loud. I'm a loud talker myself. This guy was fucking loud. And he used ever business word, every code business buzz saying possible. I would say that he had to have practiced in the mirror. No one that I have ever seen before could have that much useless garbage streaming out of their piehole without practice. He is an avid visitor of the business section of Amazon.com. I was trying to remain calm. I was trying to think of a nice and polite and professional way to tell him to shut it up. But, is there? I think not. And I tried to use all of my super powers to shut him up with a look, a vibe, anything. But, my energy being depleted was doing the trick. And he wasn't even a salesman. He was just a fuck. He was trying to look cool in front of the other guy. I would be so mean to him if I worked with him. He has no idea how lucky he is not to work with me. Then as if he couldn't get anymore ridiculous, he started talking about how he starts his party around eight o'clock at night, and he's been out late, and that's why he's dragging so much. But, yeah, the party really starts then, eight. He goes to the topless bars for some womanizing, if you get his drift. Yes, he did say the words: "If you get my drift."

Having been in that industry for a bit, I wanted to point out that he wasn't even using the term womanizing correctly and if those places were where he had to go to womanize...well, then he was just sad fuck who couldn't do it on his own, he was paying for the opportunity to feel like a man. he was paying for it. And he was loud. And that's probably why he has to pay for it. And even though those places are loud enough to drawn out everything brain cell in a person's body, that he was one louder...and he had to pay for it. I had to wonder if his loudness was over compensating for a small dick. 'Cause we all know that's why. And that was sad in itself, he couldn't even buy the big car to show that he had a small prick. All he had was his voice and his buzz words. Maybe his dick was just fine and he was still compensating for it's size because that's the trap that so many ordinary guys fall into...worrying about weiner. He probably makes it as big as he can get it while he's practicing his buzz words in the mirror. I must, I must, I must increase my....

Must...Then when he startes using all the buzz words, because they're so boring, it really downsizes his penis, and there in lies the need to overcompensate. Why can my dick be big and by words be big at the same time....WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?!? Where in my business journal and my penis pump. What's wrong with me?

But, I wasn't feeling like being nice for the sad fuck. I just wanted a quiet lunch next to the window with colored bird feeders. And he was totally harshing my mellow.

And to top it off, the new waiter took my food to the wrong table. I was powerless to stop it. I had ordered a club sandwich. I watched the old man pick up part my sandwich with his old man hands. He took the toothpick out. He examined the insides of the layers of the sandwich. I could hear him discussing that this what not what he ordered. Well of course it wasn't, old man, it's what I ordered. He put the sandwich down. His old lady picked it up. She looked inside the delicious layers, and confirmed for herself that it was indeed not what he ordered. I was hungry. And there they were taking apart my delicious sandwich as though it wasn't good enough for them. Then I watch as the old man took out a piece of cheese. It was slow motion as I watched him put the cheese, my cheese, my lunch, in his old man mouth. He chewed first on one side then the other. Then he went for the bacon. As though the cheese and the bacon were supposed to be seperate bites. Well, they're not old man. They are supposed to be layered within all of the other delicious layers....the you fucking take a bite. That's why it's a sandwich....not a bunch of seperate shit on a plate.

I wanted to scream at him. Oh the humanity. Next he did, in fact, put the layers back together and began to each my lunch....knowing full well that it was not his lunch. What the hell? Why would anyone do that? Why would you eat something that you know is not yours? It took the waiter discovering his mistake on his own and actually going over to the old people table to get the old man off my fucking sandwich. And even though they deducted some off my bill, I was still pissed that the old man was eating. I wanted him punished, barred from the restaurant. Something, anything. That was my sandwich!!!!! And you took it from me!!!!! Old fuck.

I chewed my food hard. The jackass kept pontificating. Shut up, just shut up. Please shut up. I didn't feel like making a scene, but then on the other hand, right at that moment, had he not paid the check, I was going to make a scene. I only had moments of silence left before returning to work. Mere moments left in my escape from the norm.

Currently, I have a boss that's going through a divorce. It makes for some long days. The boss was at first so happy to have signed the papers, to be free. But, as we all know, those of us on the outside...this is only a short lived phase. A false happiness. Once the papers are signed, and a person is free...then comes the part, the dawning, the recognition that the problems you were having in the relationship...well, some of them might just be your own shit. The boss is slowly pulling into this part. The part where now the other person is gone and now you have to look at your sad, unhappy self, and figure out what the hell your going to do with it. Hard to say if Boss Pants is going to make it. Could go either way. The boss is middle aged as well. And as our society defines it...well, he may be in for a crisis. Things to go terribly topsy turvy. And a dear friend once told my that my shit affected her. And it's true your shit effects other people.

The boss is mostly taking advice from the other divorced person in our office, who, I might add, is not the picture of happiness. So, there's me. I don't really have too much wrong. I know that I must annoy them, just as much as they annoy me. It's made for some delightful and absolutely non-stimulating conversation. All of which has nothing to do with anything work related. And work is busy, it's piling up...we're on the go. It's been distracting me from what I really want to think about.

Those of you in cubicles, be thankful for those walls of fake carpeting and aluminum siding, get done on your hands and knees and pray that you are never in an open office space. Perhaps bring and extra can of compressed air to spruce up your cube, to some how thankful your are to the cube makers of the world...they are guards and gods of our privacy. Go ahead, thumbtack something there for yourself...it's your space. Go ahead, do it.

In fact, yesterday I was so tired of it all, I became the laziest of the lazy. I had a stack of files to be put in the file cabinet across the hall. Maybe about a twenty foot walk, maybe. I was so worn out from this week that I didn't even want to get the key out and walk this span to unlock the door and file. I was using the fact that the door was locked not to do my work. I thought once the other worker was back from lunch, I would go then, the door would be open. The daunting task of unlocking the door would be taken care of. But, asking me to get the key out and just go that tiny extra step, was vastly above my capabilities at the moment. Eventually, I conned someone else into unlocking the door for me, even stand there with the files, so all I had to do was actually put them in the drawer. Now that was company money well spent.

I also lied this week and told people that I had a headache...perhaps a migrane. Sympathetic, everyone let me out of all sorts of obligations. Although, I am not prone to migranes, they are a wonderful excuse. Better than cramps. Everyone knows that you have to be by yourself and in a quiet space when you have a headache. Oh the wonders of migranes. At some point science will find a cure, and I'll be screwed, but for now, I'm golden.

The other thing that I found troublesome this week were the non-smokers of the area. Oh how we're looking to make the US a non-smoking space. With so many pollutants around, I doubt that my smoking is really going to be the death of people. Also, since we just taxed cigarettes, and I have to pay out my ass to enjoy my biggest poor man's tax there is, my thoughts wonder to were the tax is going to come from should we all have to quit. Instead of the non-smokers thanking me and my friends for that extra cash....they are willing to take the taxes upon themselves to insure the health of me and themselves. How kind. Will it be a gas tax? Will it be a house tax? Are you, non-smoker, really willing to take on that extra load after being fed a load about how I'm going to kill you more that Iran will? Just asking. I have switched to rolling my own cigarettes even...with natural, non-chemical tobacco. Once, in my lazy phase, I didn't really want to roll them...I thought about just switching back to the pre-packed kind. I gave it a long pause, then the thought of driving to get the package of cigarettes lost to the work of just rolling one. It is healthier and more cost affective.

So, does my second hand smoke, with this kind of tobacco, say that it's quality second hand smoke? Is it healthier to be around for the others? If we all switched to the natural tobacco, would people get off our backs a bit? I'm not sure. Smoking and abortions are such a touchy and delicate subjects. If only God could come down and use his giant gavel to help us arrive at a solid decision on these very important matters. Perhaps he's just waiting until we build a giant podium for him. We should get on that. Or he could just use Sealand. I would buy Sealand if I could. Unfortunately I my credit rating does not allow me the luxury of buying a big metal piece of shit in the ocean, at the moment. I can, however, finance metal pieces of shit from the local junk yard. Hard to say if I buy in and build on my city lot, if I can declare my own country. In my spare time, I may delve into that. I'm not sure if I would want to join the UN or not. Sounds like a lot of paperwork.

It seems the only escape that I had from the norm was my Sea Monkeys. They are tiny creatures who grow only to about 3/4 of an inch long. And that's top, if they make it. They have black round eyes. I wonder if they watch me as much as I watch them. Probably not. They are busy, fast, and busy. I do have to wonder what my world looks like to them from the inside. I wonder if they recognize me, and know me by the food person or something like that. I'd like to think I was that important in their world, but like I said, I doubt it, they are very busy.

I watched an entire life cycle of a couple of them, in particular. I watched my girl this morning give live birth to the next generation in the tank. Sea Monkeys can give birth or lay eggs. This one gave birth. She looked to be in pain. I gave birth, and I was in pain. She's keeping near the bottom of the tank today, and she's going to die. It was a long process. First came this large ball near her back side, and then some guy Sea Monkey riding her around for a few days. She had to fight with him in tow to get to the top of the tank for air and food. He was very large, twice her size. All that extra weight, must have been a bitch. Normally the Monkey's legs all flow, just flow, in time. However, my girl's legs were out of time with her struggle. It looked like so much extra work. It made whatever I was going through very tiny in comparison. And as I watch her die, the smaller Sea Monkeys, her children don't stop to recognize who she was, they are off...very busy....very fast. I suppose they have to be fast as it's only about three weeks or so before their deaths. Very busy.

Oh the random thoughts this week. See what I mean? Unfocused...layabout that I am. I wanted to stay asleep.

I've been making personal decisions by Magic Eightball. So far it's extremely pleasing. I'm thinking I will continue through next week. Then I may go with my Tarot cards. I will fight the urge to reopen my huge credit card an run off to somewhere no one speaks my language, and no one knows my name.

The song was wrong. It's not always cool when everyone knows your name. And I still need to make my list.

The sanctity of the group activity.

2007-01-21T14:03:00.000-06:00

I've seen a lot. I'm rarely shocked, surprised, embarrassed, whatever, pick the word.

I was watching TV one night, flipping around. One channel runs this sex show sometimes instead of movies. I was hoping for a movie. It was the sex show. I don't watch it normally. I'm pretty ok with sex, I get it. But, this time I paused. This time I watched.

The segment was on a group of grown-ups that get together, get naked, and group masturbate. That's right. They do not have sex. They only help eachother masturbate. There are safe words, in case you get uncomfortable...or, whatever. They have toys. They give the person who's turn it is to masturbate in front of everyone words of encouragement. "Oooh, you're almost there." "You can do it." "You're so sexy."

I personally never need another person egging me on. I think that I would find that distracting. My quite time and my imagination are good enough for me.

I was sad to note that they do not where sweatbands like most people who are getting encouraging words during their work out get to wear. And it didn't appear that this group had nicknames of any sort either...another disappointment.

They said that they found the group because it was an opportunity to be in a group that didn't think masturbation was unnatural or dirty. So, to me, by saying that, they all did in fact think it was unnatural or dirty when they were by themselves. I thought some of them just liked the exibitionism of the group. Although no one would admit it. They also did not like the comparison of pornography that showed group masturbation...they did not feel like it was the same. I would note that they were now on TV, so to me, it's exactly the same. I'm not sure where the fine line is.

I have been perplexed by this. I have laughed....oh, I've laughed. How do you find a group like this? Is there an entrance exam to determine if you're right for the group, or the group is right for you? Can you observe once or twice before joining in? Or, if you do that, are you considered a watching perv, thereby negating your chance to join the group? Do you have to dress up? Can you show up without a shower first? If you like to hear special words being spoken to you, can the group accommodate that? and is there a limit? Is there a nap place afterwards, or do you have to get up, get dressed and get out? Are there snacks?...like a cheese and fruit plate?...petit fours?...sodas, wine? It just looked like a bunch of naked people in someone's living room...it didn't look that sexy. It just looked a little boring. I've never wanted to masturbate in a group just at someone's house. "Sure you can sit by me on the couch...but, FYI, as soon as the recliner becomes available, I'm outty." Also, does the group let you in on who's attending beforehand? What if you run into someone you know? Like maybe someone at your office? Is that sexy or a social transgression? Do you have to supply all of your necessities yourself?...or is there a special trunk or group fund? Is this run on some kind of schedule, like every third Thursday or the month? If you do this at home, have you then cheated on the group? Nagging questions, that were not addressed or undressed in the segment. And I'm not about to go looking for the answers either. I already get enough junk mail without being added to this mailing list. Would their mailouts include coupons and handing tips? Maybe a get to know a new member sections or recognition awards?

There I was, I obviously had the time to watch this segment on the TV. I was glued. It was a little like watching the monkeys at the zoo...what would they say or do next....couldn't predict.

Silly people. I've never been a fan of being a part of any group...too much responsibility. This group seems a lot to bother with just to masturbate. All that work for such a relaxing event.

Who has the time?

Some people have the time.

If I die before I learn to speak.

2007-01-21T13:28:00.000-06:00

There are so many differences in people. And yet we're all the same. Just a puzzle...such a popular puzzle. How many self-help books are there? How many self-help groups are there?

I watched a weightloss commercial this week. The woman was skinny and running on the beach. In ever so tiny letters was the disclaimer that these results demonstrated weren't typical. The commercial was saying it's own product was shit...fucking brilliant.

In December, I finally met, face to face, Helen, from Earth Angel Oils. She's such a wonderful human. There in the big building, where all of the natural healing people where selling their wares, she really stood out. Everyone else was so shiny with their wares...too shiny. Helen's booth was a bit disorganized, and she was disorganized, trying to help everyone, trying to personally talk with and touch each person. There was open food and water containers in her booth...Trying to eat and work. She was the only real person that I saw. She was the only person who wasn't in it for the money. She really loves what she does, she really wants people to be better. I spent a lot of money at her table, because I wanted to be better, and felt that I was really touched by her. As I went to another booth, I was dismissed for another human because I didn't look like I had the money for what the table was offering. Oh, I had the money, but I wasn't going to spend it with people who only wanted to money. People never learn. Never judge a book by it's cover. Who hasn't heard that?

But that Helen, was a real person. A cool person. How fortunate I was to meet her. She works hard so we can enjoy life. Amazing.

I've been making progress. A little better each day. But, who's in it with me?

I woke up this morning to news of dying dolphins and children who's homes are being bombed. People killing eachother because that don't read the book, they look at the cover. At this pace, we will all die. We have a country of rule makers who don't follow the rules. I'm feeling a little pessimistic today. Yes, it's there...like a little hard rock.

I often tell stories of my live in small town Texas. All the violence, all the time. At work, one guy that I work with thinks that I just attract with type of violence. He says that there's no way that this town existed the way I describe it. That it must just be me. He was analyzing me. I thought to myself, how bigger,more educated people had tried this already, and it broke their brain. But, go ahead.

He felt like if this was all true it would be on the news, on one of those spotlight news shows. I told him that it was too spaced out, the fights, the deaths, no one pays attention to that. I used Iraq as an example, we have had enough deaths there to wipe out an entire town in Texas. An entire town, just gone. We would pay attention if a town disappeared, but when it's spread out...it doesn't fade us a bit.

He thought it was only a certain "type" of people that fought. He was raised in the suburbs in Houston. Houston being a violent town...yet, he never saw any of this. Didn't my town have those kind of walls? Nope. To small to have walls. It's bigger now. But, when I was growing up, everyone redneck fought. Rich, poor, white, black, brown....didn't matter. Nothing to do, but fight and drink. I did admit that I used to skip school and go to the museum. I never saw any fights at the museum. However, I did see a fight or two at the old Texas Houses, outside part of the museum. Did that count?

He just couldn't believe that I didn't attract it, make it up. I told him how lucky he was to be sheltered and to shelter himself from the outside.

It's what we do, isn't it. I don't have to leave my neighborhood for anything. Groceries, church, carwash, coffee, movies...whatever I want right here, all the time. I never have to see anything. I never have to work for anything.

My boss is fond of the saying, if you want to play, you have to get in the game.

We spend most of our life never knowing.

I showed this work guy the death statistics of my small town, and the town we live in now. The small town has this town way beat. I showed him the domestic violence statistics. The small town wins again. Last week there were several public shootings....Bonus. God, Guns and Guts.

And today, I'm tired. And staying in. I'm not doing a goddammed thing. How's that for getting in the game?

Dawn of the Dead...the December Sun is Setting, Isn't It.

2006-12-30T12:05:00.000-06:00

I played this game online until I found the phrase that I wanted. Some one on that game had a sense of humor. And what of me? Gaining knowledge from a being an online gamer? Well, you can draw your own conclusions, I suppose.

Never argue with an idiot. They'll just drag you down to their level, and then beat you with their experience.

Oh, yeah, ain't that the truth.

So, we still hang people, do we. We still drag people from the backs of pick-up trucks in my state, sometimes. Everyone so excited to hang someone. The TV was all the rage with violence this weekend. Torture displays to justify the hanging. Torture images to justify a war. It's a fucking place where you want to hurt someone else that bad. It's a weird place to want to hurt an entire nation of people. We just keep repeating that lesson. With the same results. As if the lessons recorded by Piggy, in Lord of the Flies, was a recording of real life, not fiction. We just keep producing people to do this kind of crap.

I was at coffee last night. I spoke about my childhood fights. I grew up in a place where people were so bored that's what they did....drink and fight. I was lucky, I was so scared every time that most times I won. Note that the word won...well, it goes there. That word won.

I can only recall one fight that I had where I was the attacker. No real reason for the attack. It was a fight about being part of the group, about being cool, about being top dog. It was stupid. It was ego. And after I beat this girl up...let the rage in me take over...I stood tall looking at what I had done...and I puked. I puked hard. It was as if my body knew more than myself. My body had the reaction first. My body knew that is was vile and rejected it. My body rejected the evil. I never did that again. I had learned my lesson.

I don't think that it's hard to learn that lesson. I suppose it's a valuable lesson, in some aspects. I don't live in much fear. I know what I'm capable of doing should the occasion call for it.

I had a stalker during my pregnancy. He was a neighbor. He went crazy on drugs and alcohol, and focused on me. He had said outloud that he wanted to cut out my baby and kill me. He banged on the walls separating our apartments. He followed me to my car, the trash can...everywhere. The cops couldn't really do much. The laws are such, that he would have to actually attack, then they could get him. I was asked if I had a gun.

I had a gun.

I sat with that gun one night, when the neighbor was loud and scary. I just started crying. I was asked if I could kill this man if I had to. Yes, I could kill him. Yes, I would if it were him or my baby. But, I cried.

The idea that I would have to do this. The idea that my unborn where hear the blast. The idea that my child would know that as one of his first things to know. Jesus was that just so stupid. I mourned deeply for that idea. I mourned deeply for the sadness and loneliness that my neighbor must have, that was making him act out, that might cost him his life. I thought how stupid we all were for not having a better plan. It wasn't a special circumstance. Lots of women go through this every year...and men too...children, too. We have built hiding places for people. We have had to build hiding places...Pause and think about that.

There are so many against the death penalty. I cannot say that if I had been under the rule of this man, that I wouldn't want to see him hanged. I cannot say that if someone hurt my family, I wouldn't want them dead, that I wouldn't want to do the killing myself. We are all capable of that emotion...even if you say you've not got it...that's a lie...a lie to yourself...it's in all of us. But, I didn't watch the TV...I turned it off. Why?

Well, there's a fine line, the tiniest line, between killing because you have to, and killing because your ignorant, or killing because you feel like it.

And we should all mourn a killing.

We are not connected as a world...there aren't many secrets anymore. We can do better. I have to do better.

You Just Can't Make Some People Cool

2006-12-28T11:13:00.000-06:00

December has always been a hard month. I've never been truly happy. It could be the pressure of the Holidays, the pressure of my birthday, my Season Effective Disorder. How's to say. But, every December rolls around with its crap, and there I am sitting in it.

But, this year....this year, and why this year?, I don't know...but, this year, I've changed. When does a person change? What really makes a person change? Did happen over night? Has it really taken all this time, and now, just now, I'm seeing it? Hard to say.

I didn't really feel that bad this year. Not much at all.

In fact, I might have been over excited about the season. I wanted everyone to be happy. Shit, if I can be happy...then, it's not that fucking hard. I put up decorations. I attended parties. I made cookies. Organized a food drive. Gave gifts to everyone I knew. Made the phone calls. I even mailed out cards. I mailed out fucking Christmas cards. Yes, you may need to sit down.

I have been completely out of control.

I'm a bit tired now...and a bit reflective. I recall a poem that my friend Ric once wrote about giving everyone bags of shit on Christmas, and being nice the rest of the year. He has lofty dreams...that resonate within me. It was a striking story. If we could only follow Ric. He might be the smartest.

I saw one person going through a divorce bonding with another lonely person, who is already bitter and divorced. I took some popshots from these two, about how I just didn't know, wasn't adult enough, hadn't been where they've been, etc. All the pooh-poohing they threw. I did not go to church...however, I knew people who did. I asked them to light a candle for these two. However, I'm not sure if God himself, or even the Pope paid a visit, that it would have any baring on their state of minds. Let's all sit on the self righteous pitty potty. Oh, how they picked on me...how they needed to pick on me. My answer was to buy and hang Christmas ornaments from the dollar store, and hang them around the office. I also organized the holiday lunch, bought them gifts, and made them participate in the White Elephant Gift Exchange! They had fun...don't lie. They didn't even get it, that I had gotten them!

I know of two people in therapy, and one who's suicidal. And, I took some popshots from the family...mostly about how snooty I am with my gifts, and showing how much I have that other people don't, etc. Me? Rich? Me? Snooty? Such a long way from the cotton field that I grew up in. Such a long way from the bad credit, homeless girl, that tried to off herself one year. Didn't the pickled eggs and hogs head cheese show anymore? It's still there. I loves me a good pickled egg...they just don't like anyone else within a five foot radius a few hours later. The thought of me being some classy broad, just cracks me up. I've certainly never been accused of that before.

Normally, I would have taken this all in...into myself...that it was me. Not this year. Not that much. I didn't want to fix anyone...goodbye co-dependence. And I didn't want to hear it either. I just didn't listen. If these people wanted or needed to sit there, that was ok, but, I wasn't going to sit there, too. Not this year. No, not this year.

I found it humorous, and a bit weird about my self image. You know that image, the one that you keep to yourself, about yourself. Versus the one that people project, that people keep of you. So funny. All of the people that talked to me, thought certain things about me, couldn't have been more wrong. And somehow, had I fooled them? Or, was it that I finally felt comfortable with all of me? I can't self analyze to much today. I am laughing right now, as I'm writing. I have a serious case of the giggles.

When did people stop seeing me, like I see me? When did that happen?

Example: I was speaking to a guy about working. He sneered and said, "What could I know about hard labor?" He really thought that I had been on easy street my entire life. I didn't justify to him, no reason, I would never see him again.

Example: I offered some Pimm's, at Christmas. The family, who didn't know what that was, rolled their eyes, as if to say how fancy I was. So, not fancy...cheap at the liquor store.

To combat the work people, and their sadness, I took my bobble head birthday gift. It's Anna Nicole....very cool. They just think it's inappropriate, and I shouldn't worship her. I bought my man some Led Zepplin underwear for Christmas...I suppose that wouldn't be funny either.

Fucking people are just so silly. We all make mountains out of mole hills. This year I got all the gifts that I could have ever wanted. My friends that really know me got me stuff that spoke about them and spoke about me. When did that happen? When did I get that lucky? All of these incredibly special people brought to me, my favorite things...they knew me...they knew the image of myself that I carry with me, and it all came together...the image they have, and the image I have...together...working. Fucking fantastic. That was the true gift. This year, I was not alone. This year, I had stuff to share. This year...this fucking year.

And what of next year? According to my horoscope, I am to repeat what I was doing in 1995, with bigger and better features, and way less hullabaloo. I can't really recall 1995. That's what I'm been thinking about. What the hell was I doing in 1995. Well, if the horoscope is correct, I won't even have to remember it that much...it's already been foretold that I'm going to do it. And I'd better not try to force it anyway. I hope it was good. I do have a really shady past, and wouldn't care to repeat much of that.

My friend stated that you just can't make some people cool. Then again, some of us were just born cool.

To next year.

If You've Never Queefed in a Stranger's Bed...Have You Really Lived?

2006-10-21T11:57:00.000-05:00

What is the purpose of the feeling of embarrassment. It is present in the animal kingdom. Whereas fear keeps us instinctively from harm, ...was it part of the greater design for animals to have embarrassment? What real purpose does it have? Are we to assume that from the Petri dish we came from, that was installed to keep us in line from the very beginning? And it's such a vague emotion...and can be somewhat devastating from some....holding them back from experiences that would be quite ok, normal. I've spent my life in pursuit of discovering the reasons for this emotion. Yes, I have.

Recently, I had a conversation with a man that I barely knew. He revealed that his most embarrassing experience was the time that he was sleeping in a hotel, and slept walked to what he thought was the bathroom, but was, in fact, the door to the hallway of the hotel. He woke to the sound of the door clicking locked behind him, to find that he was in his underwear in the camera laden hallway, with no hope of getting back into his room, without going to the front desk and getting a spare key.

I thought about helping him, consoling him with a story of my own. There were so many to choose from. I decided to forgo the story of staying at a hotel with a one night stand, only to have the maid walk in the next day to find said one night stand sitting on top of me with his dick between my tits. I decided to pick the one that I felt was tame enough not to completely shock the man, and have him stop any further conversation with me...or worse, have the light conversation that we were already having take a turn in a direction where he would have no hope of succeeding in.

When I was about six years old, I had a crush on a college age neighbor. He was so smart and handsome, I thought. He looked just like David Cassidy. I knew he was older, but I still made every excuse to go outside and play; hoping that I would have a chance to see him...have a chance to talk to him. He was always tolerant and polite of my six year old conversation. I had dreams that he would fall in love with me, we would be married.

One day, he was outside, I could see from my yard. I wanted so badly to impress the guy. The feeling in my chest of wanting him to notice me was so big it made my chest flutter. I was playing with my Play-Doh that day. For whatever reason, I told this guy, very coolly, I could eat an entire can of red Play-Doh...I always did it. I thought that would be impressive.

He dared me to do it. (Now, in retrospect, obviously the guy was an asshole. Fucking asshole.)

I smelled the salty, doughy smell of the Play-Doh. I put a big chunks in my mouth and tried to swallow. My body was gagging against it already. But, my love was strong, and I knew that I could do this. I had to do it, it was a dare, and it was for my love. I managed to choke down that entire fucking can of red Play-Doh. The guy started laughing. Not the response that I wanted, not the response that I was expecting. He just told me that I was one dumb kid to do that.

My heart broke into pieces upon pieces. I was horribly embarrassed. My face and the rest of my body that had been flushed with love, was now, flushed from so much embarrassment. I didn't let him see me cry though. Nope, not that. I told him he was stupid because everyone who was cool ate Play-Doh. I was so embarrassed that I had to pee. When you're little every emotion of any worth makes you have to pee, and had to pee bad. I knew that I couldn't make it home, and I knew that it would really be bad if I peed my pants in front of him, so I asked if I could just use his bathroom. He said that I could. (Keep in mind this was before the days of thinking all your neighbors were child molesters.)

I went to his bathroom. I was in his house. The man that I loved, and the man that had broken my heart. I peed. Then I realized that I wasn't feeling so hot. No, I wasn't feeling very good at all.

And before I could even finish that thought, I barfed red Play-Doh, splattered red Play-Doh barf, all over this guy's bathroom. Whatever embarrassment that I had felt before that moment was just intensified by a zillion. And there wasn't enough toiletpaper to clean it up. I panicked and just ran out of his bathroom, out of his house, out of his life...never to see him again. (Again, in hindsite, I'm quite happy that he had to pick up my red Play-Doh vomit...serves him right.)(I also, to this day, cannot smell Play-Doh. I'm scarred.)

I finished my story. The man before me felt comforted that he was not the only one with a story. And he's not.

We parted ways.

I recalled this morning another story that wasn't mine, but damn it's funny.

There was a table in the back room of this bar that I used to go to. It was the "cool" table. I wasn't really that cool, but I knew friends who were, so I always got to sit at the table. It was kind of stupid, really. These people were stupid, really. But, they did have the best cocaine in the area...and there was a time when I could put up with stupid people for free cocaine.

This one particular evening, I found myself alone at the table with this local musician. His band was somewhat famous for about a second...so they did have attitudes of such. It was funny. In my mind, if you were really that cool, your cocaine would be better, and free, and you wouldn't be here with the likes of me, or the rest of us in this bar...but, whatever.

He was pretty fucked up, and like I said, it was just the two of us at the table. All of a sudden, I heard this guy gasp and say, "Damn. It's him. Shit." I looked up just to see a rather ordinary guy walk into the back room. He didn't look gasp worthy to me. So, I asked, "What's so special about him." The guy I was sitting with said he didn't want to tell me. Oh, he couldn't tell me.

But then, he told me.

Not much of a fight about it. And he asked me to promise not to ever tell anyone else. Sure, I said. But, after hearing the story...there is no way on God's green earth that I would keep that promise. Oh Sweet Jesus, I could never keep that promise.

It appears that Music Man and the guy that had walked in, had gotten really fucked up one night. They were alone. They decided to have sex. Out of the blue they decided to have gay sex.

Music Man was the bottom. In case you don't know what that means...he let the other guy stick his dick up his ass. Neither one of them had ever tired it. And as the guy on top stuck his dick in Music Man's ass, Music Man found that this was rather painful. He still wanted to pursue the act, but they both stopped, and took into consideration the need for lubricant. He did not specify if it was painful for the top guy. I don't know that. Just that it hurt like a mother fucker without lubricant.

Since Music Man didn't regularly stick anything up his ass, he didn't have any ass lubricant. So, he went to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing that came to mind...which was the Canola Cooking Oil. Music Man and the other guy lubed their respective parts with the Canola Oil. Music Man did admit that once the guy's dick was in and the pumping started it was nice, he liked it, he was unlike anything he had experienced before. He really lingered a little to long on that point for my own comfort...but whatever. Now, the pumping of the dick in his ass, and the friction, and possibly whatever was in his fecal matter, made the room smell, not of sex, but of popped popcorn.

Right after the sex act was over, the roommates of Music Man came home. They asked where the popcorn was...who had it...the whole house reeked of popped popcorn..only to walk into Music Man's room to see both men trying quite quickly to put their dicks away and pull up their pants. Needless to say, the roomates got it.

And now Music Man had told me. I tried so hard to contain my laughter, but alas, I could not. When I saw him, from that time on, I would always ask, "What's up Jiffy Pop?", or sometimes, I asked "How's it hanging, Orville?" Afterall their fame had died down, and their cocaine wasn't that good anymore. And I didn't feel like comforting this guy.

Embarrassment, the subject of entertainment and power...a human saga. And no, I did not tell you my best story.