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

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.

Armadillos and beer....the story of my own life

Why did it not surprise me to see you handing out underwear on tv?

The sentence above was a true email that I received from a friend. Later, I would also find out, that a t-shirt that I made with my own face on it, had been in a garage sale, and another friend, in Arizona had picked it up, and wore my face a lot. The t-shirt was his favorite.

Things come back. Are secrets even real?

This past weekend, I went to a friend's wedding. It was to be a camp out as well. I didn't know about that part, and showed up unprepared in my nicest clothes. The kind of shit that I'd wear to work. It was very uncomfortable, actually. But, it's the kind of thing that you do for a friend.

Everyone was happy and drinking. I wasn't going to at first. But, I changed my mind. I am so easily sucked into anything that I think might be an adventure.

I had a beer and asked a hippie if he would go to the Wal-Mart with me to get some more beer and some camping clothes. The hippies don't like the Wal-Mart, and frankly neither do I. However, it was dark, I had already gotten lost once in the tiny town, and didn't want to do that again. So, the Wal-Mart it was.

We went and I picked out cheap clothes from the rack. He started to direct me to the Junior's section. I commented that I had a big ass, so we would have to go to the "Women's" section. I found a cheap jacket from the Just My Size Collection. I started laughing about the label. The hippie trying to share my feelings asked me if that was how I dealt with things, by laughing it off. I already had a buzz, and didn't really want to get into this with a hippie. I did say that sure, I would agree that I dealt with things with humor, but, I would also state that, what else could I do, when they label things like Just My Size?!? It wasn't very clever, nor was it necessary. I know my own size. But, just to make sure that I wasn't ever confused, I had my own very special label. The hippie got some McDonalds to snack on before we returned to camp.

We left the store. Upon arriving, some other hippies really gave my hippie a ton of shit for going with me, and on top of that, eating McDonalds. I went on about my business. Part of me wanted to stay and point out that they were all wearing these wonderfully dyed patterned clothing from places like India, etc. And those were some of the world's biggest oppressed groups, and unless they fucking dyed that shit themselves, they might be worse than the McDonalds. They were supporting the exploitation just as much, if not more, by donning clothing they knew nothing about, but bought because it was colorful and exotic...not that they actually went there and learned anything. I could have said all that. But, I didn't want to ruin my buzz, and you can't change people in a group very easily, and I had only bought a case of beer...it would have taken much longer than a case of beer. Also, they had already judged me, not knowing much about me, which is completely against that whole hippie thing. I would have liked to say, at least the Right Wing side never pretends their going to like you, or let you in...and there's some honesty in that. Yep, there's some honesty in McDonalds. But, again, not enough beer. I left him working it out on his own.

I could tell you everything that happened on that trip, but, I'm just not ready to tell that complete story yet. And it's not the point of this one, really.

Later in the evening, I was drunk. I hadn't been drunk in quite some time. And it was glorious. I felt alive again. I had to piss. And the bathrooms (yes, the hippies/campers had actual bathrooms and everything) were so far away. I was content to be drunk were I was. I went behind a tree.

The problem with being a female, and a drunk female, at that, is that we can't just take our dicks out and have a pee. It's an entire process. The pants, the underwear, the squatting, the holding the pants and underwear forward, the balancing, and the aiming. Not to mention the getting back up, without stepping in you're own mud pee. It's an entire process.

Well, I got most of it. I found that I had grabbed most of my clothes out of the way, but not the back edge of the underwear. But, luckily, I had a handful of toilet paper (because I had bought a package at Wal-Mart, thinking that we were in fact camping, not that we had cheater bathrooms), and I used a bit to soak up my pants tinkle. And I will say that I was more like the hippies than they thought. I didn't litter. I put my soggy toilet paper in the pocket of my Just My Size Pants, until I could find the appropriate receptacle to dispose of it.

Needless to say, it was a long piss. And under the stars, hoping nothing would bite my ass, drunk....I had a few moments to think.

I used to be and adventurer. I used to do things. Why had that stopped? Also, the few back-dated adventures that had come to surface this week, were just that...stunts of the past. And I was drunk, and had peed on myself, and I suppose this was an epiphany of some sorts. What had I become and why?

I suppose it was because I had a child. And I suppose it was because, I know that stunts come to surface, and I had more at stake now...the corporate job, the money, the house.

I was sad. I had fallen into the trap that most people fall into. Know wonder I had gained weight. Know wonder I slept. Know wonder I'm so grouchy.

I've been thinking about this married man that I slept with once. I knew that he was going to be beautiful naked. I knew that. So, I made it so that I would see him naked. We talked about what this was to be. And I explained, very clearly, that this wasn't going to be a relationship. That I did, just want to sleep with him.

Well, short story, we did do it. And he was beautiful naked. His penis was a masterpiece of humanity. Dicks like that don't come around very often in a lifetime. But, then were the calls from him. Sneaking out of his house to call me. Driving around in his car, masturbating to the sound of my voice. I do give fabulous blow jobs, I know that. But, I cut the relationship off, right then and there.

Whereas, I would agree that I can be fun in bed, it's hardly worth breaking up a marriage for. I told him to go home to his wife. Fix that, just fix that. I wasn't sorry that I slept with him...but, I didn't want to deal with breaking up a marriage, and being a step-mother, which is what he would have wanted to happen...only, later to realize, that it wasn't what he really wanted to happen. For both of our own goods, I made him go. I only saw the wiener that one time. (Yes, you did hear a sigh.)

Did I want to become that guy?

No.

I came back with a bit of renewed energy. And all it took was pissing on myself.

The consequences of being me are perhaps a bit scary and maybe even self-centered. Is it the disapproval I fear? Is the influence that I fear?

Hard to say. But, fear can be a complete immobilizer. That's just not good enough for me.

I had a wonderful dream, sleeping on the toiletpaper roll pillows....

Thoroughbred Smoke Signals and Seeing the Light

The funny thing about doublespeak is it is definitely hard to listen to and much harder to decipher. I have discovered that I am not long for the powerbottom world. I get it why secretaries and artists are drunk, alike. It would be easier if people were just honest and hard working. I laugh out loud, at that sentence. As if such a place existed. We grow up to be such assholes.

This week, we had a meeting of the minds, at work. I laugh outlouad at that sentence, too. We were all fed the party line of how we are a team. A Team, the A Team, the best darn tootin' team ever! We are just a little, bitty, cutey, booty team, right now...but, soon, we're going to be a big boy team...just like other teams in our field...why, yes, we are!

The part that I noticed, during this ever too long speech, was that the power ups, never asked us about ourselves. We were told that the team would make use of everyone's special talents, but we were never asked about what we thought our special talents might be. We were told that the team would make use of us in areas that we liked to progress in, yet, we were never asked what we would like to progress in. As a team, we must not really know eachother. We must not talk about such things.

Example: I learned that it was in all confidence, that a man at our job and his wife had lost their baby...it was in all confidence, but everyone knew, so keep it very hush-hush. The appropriated "Oh that's so sads, and that's just awfuls" were said. That part was discussed with great fake passion, over lattes. I almost choked on my free latte. Oh, the horror. I don't want to spit up in my free latte.

We were, however, enlightened about thoroughbred horses, and who owned one, and all the funny quips that come from owning one. And wine country...we all talked about wine country. I said that I didn't really drink wine, I have an allergy. And I, instead, told the story, about how, most recently, at a marketing dinner, my companion, did the whole thing about tasting the wine, and smelling the cork, over a twenty dollar table wine...and it made me giggle. "Oh this is awful!!! This fucking twenty dollar bottle of table wine. I send it back! I send it back, I tell you! And don't you dare serve me another bottle of cheap wine like this again!!! We'll go with the TEN DOLLAR BOTTLE!!!!"

And I also, stated that I just liked Lancer's in the Green bottle. Man was I in trouble. Despite any other obvious work related talents that I may contain.....Guess who's not moving up...go ahead, make that guess. Perhaps, I should not put forth my grand recipe for Halloween punch that's made in part with the green version of MadDog 20/20....I'm just saying, that perhaps, I keep that one to myself.

And what I've discovered, the more smoke that you blow up someone's ass, the more that you are respected, and the more you get to move up. There is one person, who just flat out lies about stuff, and is currently the office favorite. I'm not kidding...flat out lies....makes shit up....completely fabricates entire conversations - like they are the God's honest truth.

Example: I took this said person to a marketing event. I am still quite nervous about meeting people, but for the good of the company, I force my own hand to make the introductions. There was a woman, at this event, who is a national person..SHE IS A FED. She is a mammoth of a woman, in both, body shape and reputation. But, here went nothing. I marched right up, smoozed and got the lunch. I conquered the Mammouth!!!

LiarPants was outside smoking...not even in the room. Other women, in my low paid group, at the event, celebrated with me, my accomplishment of getting the lunch with this very high up, nationalized woman. Did I say that she's a FED? I need to make sure that everyone gets that. It's a very important detail to my self promotion.

When, I was back at the office, gleaming of my triumph, and pushing forth the woman's card, LiarPants said that this woman was someone's ex-assistant who had just gotten lucky and moved up the ranks. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD!!!

I believe that this Fed-woman's education was from and Ivy League, and I can assure you, that just in talking to this woman, she was never an assistant. And LiarPants NEVER TALKED TO HER. The lunch, that I had set forth with sweaty palm and everything, was accepted by others in the office, and a nice attempt on my part, but really their hopes were to get the top dogs. I'm not sure that getting a lunch with anyone past the feds, for us, without going through the feds, is possible. Go ahead, LiarPants, call up the Prez, and see if he has time to golf with us.

I just about fell right out of my ergonomically, correctly adjusted office chair. Fell, right there, on the carpet, in front of the big color printer and everything. I only caught myself by the edge of the putty grey file cabinet, I tell you. A near miss.

I'm not the only one, who knows this is going on. However, being so low in the eyes of the PowerBottoms, we are powerless to say anything or stop it. And what's worse, is LiarPants not only tries to do the work that was assigned, but tries to do the rest of our work, too. It is out of control. Reading other people's faxes before delivering, and the like. Thank you, I say, but yes, I can seal that FedEx by myself. I do appreciate the offer, but after I seal it, I can hopefully find the Outbox, by myself...but, I do feel better knowing that you're there, just in case. THANKSSSSSSSSS!

I get it, that LiarPants is insecure, and just needs love, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. But, how do you tell someone that they would get the love they grave, if they weren't trying to hard. Basing love on lies never works....haven't you read and learned anything from Danielle Steel?!?

And my word on that wouldn't hold water, when the bad behavior is being rewarded by a bunch of other similar sick fucks. The needy hang out in unbelievable numbers! See the popularity of Benny Hinn...not Benny Hill, Benny Hinn.

The rest of us are left with those quiet complaint whisper times. Jeez, those are so boring, and really do not offer any relief. Did you see how LiarPants did that? I DID!!! I can't believe it! I would certainly never do that!!! Me neither!!! (Secret handshake, and pinky swear.)

And the one-upmanship is a constant. I can't keep up. There are two of us, that no matter what we say, we are wrong. And how can I compete with the fact that LiarPants went to school with Bush's Cousin!!!!?!!? How can I compete with the likes of that? I dare point out that going to school with anyone, has yet to help LiarPants...we are at the same pay rate. But, who am I? I once met Clint Eastwood in a downtown elevator. He was nice, but I didn't get anything other that a handshake out of the whole entire ride. Please don't tell me that I have to suck someone's dick. I just don't think that I can. If I have to go that route, than I'm going solo, and starting my own business. Those ladies bank! Look at Monica...she did quite well. She sucked the prize wiener, and got national attention for it! If you're going to suck dick, that is definitely the way to go!

As I am not a meek person, this has been very unsettling for my bowels. Having to behave myself, and keep quite, it the hardest thing ever. I've wanted to say, quite loudly, that I have constipation everyday, and it's your fault...in fact, I have constipation right now. Let me check, yes, yes, I'm constipated right now. Perhaps, if I bend over, spread my cheeks, and you could just blow smoke up my ass, it will help loosen things up a bit. Would you mind? Just a minute, this belt is stuck. AAAAHHHH, smoke up my ass...the heavenly scent of the sweet perfumed incense of big business. Could you kiss it a little, too? THANKSSSSSSSS!!! You're a peach, yes, you are!

I have brought my Feng Sui egg to work, my calming teas, and silver amulets, my perfume herbs, and let me tell you...nothing works. The force is stong in these people. I am hoping next week to announce that I am moving my desk to the other room, in guise that I need more space for my obviously developing workload. But, I'm hoping the change of rooms will force these two, to just communicate with me by email, and thus calming the air waves that have been disturbed by the constant clatter of agreement of nonsense, and one-upmanship.

I almost got lost in the swill again, like at other jobs, the same as this one. But, today, with the idea of moving rooms that came to me in a guided meditation, from what I believe might just be my spirit guide...there is promise, there is hope, that I, too, might find a tiny sliver of peace in earning a paycheck from whoring my soul out to the boggy mudpit that is big business.

Let us all pray.

Chairman of the Bored, and other clever quips from the pantyhose lockeroom

I have nothing to say. I haven't had much to say for weeks. In the past, when I got to this point, I would take off to Mexico, or go on a drinking binge...but, I have responsibilities now, and am not likely to do either. Which, frankly, hurts my feelings. I have hurt my own feeling. Iggy Pop may have said it best..."I'm bored. I'm Chairman of the Board."

The highlight of this weekend, I suspect, is going to getting some new clothes. And not just any new clothes, no, not just any old thing. I will be buying respectable, boring, professional clothes. These are to make me appear to be the professional, that every sick fuck in my office thinks I can be, if only I had on the right clothes. Our President of the company is coming for a visit next week...we must look like we're doing something.

It doesn't matter that I'm tired from marketing my ass off. It doesn't matter that the people she's meeting are the meetings that I cultivated and set up. Nope, I gotta' look like a powerhouse. I'm feeling itchy already.

I hated to point out that I got these contacts, etc., just with my dirty crap on, and my winning personality. I hated to make that point. I hated to make the point that perhaps part of my charm was that I wasn't intimidating in my own clothes, that people thought they might want to work with me/our company because I wasn't a bulldozer in pantyhose. Just maybe, just maybe, just maybe, I was on to something. No, we don't say those things.

I also didn't point out that a talk, that my boss was going to present, that I had to label, was from a list of corporate words that I had found online. This was a list of corporate words that a website was making fun of, and I just pulled some of them off the list and labeled the talk. Everyone cheered at my clever wording...no one knew, that I had it in me, to use the big words. Everyone was so impressed. I thanked everyone, and turned to stare blankly at my computer screen, I just stared blankly...not really knowing what to say to them the rest of the day. Where to you go after such a spoof on the English language?

I do sometimes get a bit passive aggressive. Perhaps it's my only saving grace.

When we were all trying to think of a place to have our "team" powerlunch with the bigwig, some place that was uniquely Texas, everyone picked this fancy-smancy Mexican food restaurant. Everyone, stated how it was really Mexican, very authentic, from the interior of Mexico and everything. I piped up that it was crap. Oh, how everyone disagreed with me. And one person, stated that she had been in Mexico, and it was in fact, very, the most, authentic, that we had here. She was just a vacationer, a person who only went to the fancy, well guarded spots of any country. I replied that she was just a tourist, and I had lived there for about two years, so, I knew more than she did, and I was the winner. Yes, that's what I called myself, the winner. I said outloud, that I was the winner and I win. I also said that our President wasn't going to know the difference, just as she didn't know the difference, and it was a very nice restaurant, so what the hell. We weren't doing it for the authentic flavor, we where doing it for the shiny silverware and the service. Then I did realize that I might be sounding a little on the bitter side, so I pulled back the attitude a bit, and went back to smiling and nodding. Good monkey, good puppy, good girl.

And this week, I went to a marketing function for women and minorities. And everyone was so happy and gaining strength from eachother for being a woman or a minority. It was so awful. There is was, listening to this gobblity goo. And I smiled and shook hands. And at lunch there was even a rep from the Governor's office. It's an election year. His whole entire speal was just: Governor, Governor, Governor...Governor, Governor...Governor, Governor, Governor. I made a side be with the man next to me, on how long he was going to talk, and how many times he would say Governor in the talk. I'm not sure the many even took a breath or said anything else. Luckily, I was distracted by my the many layers of my giant piece of chocolate cake, so I don't think that I was brainwashed too much. Only time will tell.

I thought to myself, I wondered to myself, if there would be a time, in my lifetime, where I was just paid for doing a good job...just that. Not for my clothes, not for my gender, not for my color. I wondered if people would get that for themselves, so I would have to stop dealing with it. Not likely. It will not happen in my lifetime. Even now, around me, I watch people cultivating crap in their children. We, in this county send our kids in flag suits to war, a war that they didn't even start and know nothing of the history of. Just great. Just fucking great. Here's a gun, go get 'em tiger. All of this technology and science around us, and we are no better than where we were centuries ago. We still have people believing in ghosts, goblins, and fairytales.

You can look at the face of Mars. That belief changed just in our life. It has been determined to be just a rock formation...not alien art afterall. Well, unless you are of the group the believes that our trip to Mars isn't real, that's it's just computer generated art, and until you go to Mars yourself to see it, you're still going to believe that Mayan Aliens did it, to watch us from outer space.

And what about me. I'm bored. And I'm going to buy my powerbottom clothes for next week, to get my paycheck. But the lure of drinking until I puke, snorting cocaine out of the end of a straw in some dirty bathroom, and spilling shit on my powerbottom clothes, and screwing some guy, who's name I'm too screwed up to pronounce, is looming in my mind and in my heart. I'm not that special, or that smart, I do just truely think out of the box that we all put ourselves in. And that's sometimes a lonely place to party. Enjoy the freedom of childhood, because growing up sucks.

signed,
Chairman of the Bored

Death Becomes Us

I chewed off all of my finger nails last night. I knew when I was doing it, and somehow just couldn't stop myself...all but two survived. I'm mulling stuff over in my head. It won't stop.

I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I mean that I REALLY don't want to go to work tomorrow.

I feel asleep going back and forth between a murder show and a terrorist show. Such great choices to view, and I pay for this privilege each month, out of my own pocket. I find it so tasteless, the hollywood version of things that I watched myself happen. As if these actors could really capture these moments. Well they can't.

These days, I find myself not even wanting to eat any meat. A dear friend pointed out, that you can associate killing meat for food, or you can associate killing meat for sport. I believe that I have begun to associate eating meat with the latter, as it's so prevalent in our neighborhoods. It grosses me out, the little arms and legs, the flesh, and fat, and bones of something that used to be living. On occasion, with me, this has come up. I'm not a vegetarian, I just automatically associate the meat with carnage...without really even thinking much about it.

We pay more money to watch football, than discover new ideas. I have witnessed this excess, just this weekend. With the flyby of the jets before the big event. The jet flew right by my house. With the loud noise that usually is supposed to signal a tragic event, that death and destruction is forthcoming, it flew right over my house, and gave me chills. We've sent these jets to kill people, to kill other people's children, using our own children to drive them. Maybe some would find me unpatriotic, but that is not the case. I just believe that items such as fighter jets should be recognized for what they are...killing machines, not toys to show off before a game of sport. Death should not be hailed as a sport. A fear driving machine should not be seen as a cheering toy.

This weekend, I learned of a friend's death. She had been poor and in pain for some time. She was basically alone, and no one to take her in, she was in pain and still had to do odd jobs to cover the rent, as her social security just didn't cover everything. She took so many pills. And in the end, she took too many pills and died. She didn't leave a note, so it probably was an accident. I always meant to spend more time with her, and I was busy, so I didn't. Now there is no more time with her. And the building where we met has been mowed over to make room for a new highrise. I failed her. And I didn't take the time. And I wasn't helpful. And I didn't share.

And the jets flew over yesterday. I am ashamed of my people, and I am ashamed of myself.

All the fucking things we choose not to become.

miraculous phenomenon

The thing about doing major drugs, be they legally induced or not, you can have epiphany or two.

The whole time that I've been taking these steroids I've been thinking...lots. A bit of a side effect of the medication itself. And I've gotten to take a good look around, being a bit out of the scene. I mean to say that I'm physically there, somewhat, but it's really more like I'm watching rather than participating.

I spent the week in observance, and in commentary. When I've been bored I've been leaving phone messages on a friend of mine's ole school answering machine. He is so kind to allow me that. Little fucked up nuggets of wisdom that I incurred during my trip. He says that their brilliant. Maybe they are...but maybe I'm just leaving a piece of myself to be retold later. The best way to live forever is have other people tell stories about you. I'm not without ego.

I found out this week how ordinary I am. How ordinary everyone is. I sometimes get fooled. I'm terribly insecure...at what age to do begin to shake that? Maybe now...hard to say if once the drugs leave my system I will still think this way.

A few years ago, it was my birthday. There was a party and I was completely smashed. I was in my CP-30 pj set wrestling for beers against my friend who was wearing my Mexican wrestlers mask. My landlady came over and said there had been some complaints about the noise. I told her to come back at six, then there would be something to complain about. I always wondered why she didn't just call the cops. She could have, but she didn't. I was drunk and horny. I slept with one of the guys at my party. I didn't really think that I would have much to do with him after that. I didn't count on it. He was just some guy...he didn't even look like one of the guys that I normally attached myself to...just some guy.

Two weeks later, I was taking the pregnancy test. And me, the dog and the cat, all sitting in the bathroom watching for the double pink line. I already knew...maybe, I knew right when it happened, the jizz and the egg, swirling...micro changes that come from that to be so huge it can take your breath away.

I was to be somebody's mother. It's a weird feeling. Sure it's one of awesome weight...but, then there's just this sense of being ok with it...it's just nature...it's what is supposed to happen.

I didn't have insurance. The doctor at the free clinic told me that people like me shouldn't be having children. I asked him if he had been to Wal-Mart lately. He fucked off.

My own father and his new wife told me they thought it was best if I had an abortion. I quit speaking to them...it was only logical.

During my pregnancy, I wasn't like other mothers. I didn't feel like my son was a part of me, in the traditional sense. I felt this other human. I felt like he was just renting space in me. He was already making his own decisions. I was only to guide, support, and bare witness. He was his own human. There would be things that I would get to see, and just as much that I would never get to know, because he was a different person than me, only connected by some blood lines and some tissue for a bit of time.

Tomorrow by son is starting school. His first day. We've met the teacher. My son thinks that she is pretty.

We bought him school clothes, and supplies. He has his lunch money ready, all ready...in his new velcro superhero wallet. He does not want to take his lunch. My son is handsome. And he's funny, really funny. He's smart, and has feelings, and generally likes most things. He is prepared. He's now going out of the house to start the next phase. It's a big deal. I am proud and my heart aches. He is not just a little baby anymore...whispers of the man that he will become have started. Be they whispers, I can still hear them.

We have a family. The three of us, have a family.

I stood by while he picked out his first day outfit. I watched his small hand lay the socks next to his pants with care. Then changing his mind, and changing what pants he was going to wear, and laying the socks back down again.

If we are such fuck ups, and weirdos, and the kind of people who could have been contenders, etc. How could I have been so fucking lucky to end up with such a big man who helped me bare such wonderful moments with this tiny human as these? Not luck...no not luck.

We are that cool. We are just that cool. My family is just that cool.

All of those stages of dying...short for some, not for me

So, here we go again. Another flair up of the MS. I missed my friend's art opening, and I didn't even publicize about it much. That's when I knew that I was loosing it. I didn't want to miss that. He's badass...and I missed it. Fucking disease bullshit.

AND: Right after a rather shitty work review, by a person perhaps stepping off the deep end a bit...but, nonetheless, it stung. I knew it was the MS. I've been trying to fake it a bunch, as my thoughtfulness goes down the tub.

What stung about the review, was the lack of being able to talk back. Jeez, for those that know me....that really fucking kills me. I was told that I wasn't living up to my potential. So, I will write my response here:

Who in the hell ever said that I wanted to live up to my potential in the first place? And who around me is doing it? The Prez? That bike guy? Who? There seems to be a fair amount of cheating and improvised potential....enough to go around. And who said that I was going to live up my potential at a job like the one that I have? Are you kidding me? Seriously. I am smarter than that. That is perhaps the part that makes it hardest for me to live up my potential in some job that I know, if I completely applied myself and did every this just shiny, fucking perfect, I would knitted buttlint for and have to seriously flog myself into oblivion for doing such a good job at, in the first place. Are you kidding me?

I did not have a golden family, nor do I have anyone that can slip me creamy testos for my nads. I hate to say it outloud, but I come from the hardknock, passive/aggressive, school of hard time, that allows me sometime the opinion that I should be getting lots of stuff for free. And cut...scene fade.

So, I've been dragging my tail about going to the neurologist. I waited until it really was beginning to hurt and show. It's the same thing every time. And I hate it. AND to make it worse, I watched an episode of some cold case TV show. And do you want to guess what it was about? Well, I'll tell you. There was a serial killer, and he was catching people and making them write out their will, and pick out their death spot, before he killed them...and the kicker was that he had MS. He was having trouble dealing with dying.

It was kinda' fucked up. I mean, I sometimes get in the mood to be reflective in not the most positive of ways...but, jeez, dude, I never want to take people with me. It was a downer to watch...I didn't want that to be representative of "my people". I almost wrote a letter, but my hands are numb, and I can't think on cue, and the Family Guy was on...I got distracted.

I went to the doctor, and I knew the answer, I would start the chemo drugs. I hate them. I never thought that I would say that I hated drugs, but I do. I hate them with all my heart. I hate the stinging needle. I hate the warm goo that runs into my veins so much that my mouth can taste it and I vomit. I hate it. I left the doctor's office and went to sit in my car...in the ever so cool handicapped parking space. The label sucks, but the parking is cool. I just cried. I wasn't mad, or sad...I just hated it...not the angry hate, just the here we go again hate. I cried. There wasn't anyone to need to call or anything like that. I just need to cry...it wasn't really even that dramatic...it was just a cry...an it made me feel better. And then went back to work until injection time.

I went at my prescribed time. Sometimes, there's no clocks in the waiting room. I get it, but everyone has cell phones now that tell the time. It's kind of just stupid. We all sighed. The only decent thing about this place, the infusion lab, it that you're not alone. We're all fucked up. We can all agree with that. Not matter what, being in a room full of other fucked up people has it's privileges .

My eyes met with the guy. His neck was swollen. He has hotchkins lymphoma. He looked like he had swallowed a chicken bone, but bigger. He was worried. He was newly married and they had a baby on the way. He asked if this was my first time. Oh God no, I'm old hat at this. He looked scared. It felt weird to have something consoling to say, but I did. I told him that it seemed like a big deal, and it was a big deal, but people had strength in them that no one knew they had. He was worried about his job. Me, too. But, it's just a fucking job, and you can get another one. It's easy to concentrate on that, but really, you can just get another one. I, also told him that it was boring. It was really fucking boring. And the second time wasn't nearly as bad as the first. It's the first time that's the kick in the pants, but you can get the routine down. And I told him to eat whatever he wanted and buy lotto tickets if he wanted...whatever was fun was an absolute must.

And that there were tricks, yes, tricks. What tricks, he asked.

I laid it out.

Always try to schedule your shit in the late afternoon...that's when the old people are gone, and you have the bigger chance of getting the remote control, or at least getting something bearable to watch. Otherwise, it was strictly Judge Judy and Oprah. And if bossing healthly old people around was super bad...well, fucking with Sick and Old People just got you a bad needle sticker, and no juice box...it was the death of you in the lab. Not even worth the trouble of trying...straight to hell, my friend, straight to hell.

They have juice boxes and cookies, crackers, and peanut butter crackers. If you were hungry, just ask nicely, and say that you had to fast for your morning labs. They'll totally give you more than one helping.Or, pretend that you're feeling nauseous...then, they break out the spread.

Also, it's ok to sit next to someone who's worse off that you or even dying...they will remind you that you're not, and there's strength in that. There is strength in that. And people have stories...it's important to listen...they gain strength from that.

Also, wear easy on and off pants, cause if you start your drugs and have to go to the bathroom, you can get the pants down, but it's getting them back up that sucks...so, you either have to open the door for help, and everyone sees your business or you stay in the bathroom forever struggling and when you come out everyone thinks you took a big shit.

AND, when in the bathroom, when on drugs, you always need to get some toilet paper pre-grabbed with your good hand...if not, it's a real bitch to be in there alone, high, wet and trying to grab for the squares in the big, plastic cage.

My last trick was to steal something...or ask for it, if you're chicken. I usually take a few extra butt cancer pamphlets, or breast cancer pamphlets...or whatever you can find...and then give them/mail them to friends and co-workers...an preferably anonymously. Face masks, big tongue depressors...whatever. One time, I scored a ton of How to Put On a Condom pamphlets, in Spanish and in English, with pictures of a real wiener. Very high prize...very indeed.

He laughed. I did, too. But, he would learn that I was totally serious. Time was up...we went to the "back".

I was sat in the prime spot. I got lucky this time. I had the chair right in front of the tv, and I was blessed with the remote control. It was just right there. I never had that spot.

I sat next to a woman, who was a dangerously enimec. I started laughing, and asked her if business was so bad she had to drive up to the infusion lab. Everyone laughed. She had really almost died. Her medicine was liquid iron...thick, blood-shit, brown creeping. And to my other side was an old woman who bone marrow quit working and she was having leukemia...her progress might turn out ok...might be remission...or she might die...to soon to tell. We all felt like shit.

As keeper of the remote, I wasn't a tyrant about it. We all agreed that no war, no stocks, no barrels, no deaths, etc. We watched Flava Flav. We had quite a debate about it. There women that fought over him on the show. He a little older now. And so is his wiener. I said that it my look like a beat up mangy pitbull at this stage of the game. Yuck!!! Saggy, too, was the concencious.

And there were women really fighting over it. BITCH!!!! OH IT'S ON NOW!!!

Who is the looser there? Are you the winner because you didn't win the hog slop wiener? OR, are you even a bigger looser because you didn't beat down the hog slop wiener lover? It was a hard call. And how romantic is it to think of Flava Flav going down on you when he has all that metal in his mouth? Lookin' like the also fro lovin' JAWS from the ever so hip 007 James Bond movie. Thoughts of him coming back up with girlie hairs stuck in the bling, and the painful bald patch it might cause.

Don't get me wrong, I like Flava Flav, too. I just have enough sense not to ever want to get me any of that. I'll bet I have to rumble some getto stake who wants to defend his honor now. That's funny. Did he live up to his potential...Yeah, chew on that for a minute.

The man that I spoke with in the waiting room left before me. He had a juice box in his hand, and one in this pocket...he winked...and we both said out good lucks. I think that he will be fine. I really believe that...of course, it could be the drugs, but whatever.

I have two more days of pumping, then a few days of the come down. The drugs keep me up at night. So, I'm sure this is to be continued.