Life is rough...I have to write it out.
I start blogs.....I neglect blogs....I abandon blogs.|
I start blogs.....I neglect blogs....I abandon blogs.
I started this blog....I loved this blog....I abandoned this blog.
I started this blog....I loved this blog....I abandoned this blog.
I guess it is a good thing I didn't actually hold my breath.
|Fuck. Wanna know what fucking sucks? Every fucking thing. It is just that simple. Every. Fucking. Thing.
But let’s talk about a tiny slice of joy that blasted through two hours of my current darkness. I was an eighties child. Like …. Child. However, I was also a child with unfettered access to media consumption. Something considerably safer in 1983...I mean we are talking what….parental advisory stickers on CDs and printed books? Although I have quite a few friends who will recall being able to blast Lodi Dodi from my new CD player while my mom made us a snack in the kitchen, so clearly my unrestricted access evolved with both my age and technology.
But I remain an eighties child. I would drown in the media/entertainment from that decade if I could. I had my favorites. I reference them in this blog often, albeit by name so that the youngins have to look something up...but still. I had my favorites back then and many remain the same.
Enter American Utopia into my current dark, dank, depressing existence. Re-enter David Byrne who has somehow retained the ability to simply BE the eighties. In sound, lyrics, movement, atmosphere. The visual joy that I received from this show was at such a level that even Husband A was caught looking at me in surprise, later mentioning that it was a realization that I can be that happy still. A move that both saddened me and fucking pissed me off. The whole of my existence is not only that which he can see after all.
A younger person would have watched the two hours of music and not have been able to differentiate with certainty which songs came from 2018 and which were from 40 years ago. And that is fucking amazing.
Kid B also enjoyed it. Kid A is my fellow eighties kid musically but Kid B is my fellow mean song kid and she has a version of Burning Down the House about Kid A keeping all the fries to herself all of the time. She took my one verse I crafted on the fly to piss Kid A off and developed it into a much prettier, sharper weapon.
****Okay I TRIED, I swear I tried to refrain. I went to post this and had to come back and say…. Kid B has a version of Burning Down the House she uses to Byrne Kid A. (if you didn’t smile just now then go away)
My idiot town is currently trying to block a neighborhood of “high-density housing” from being built on the edge of town. Like…..THE EDGE. And while I can logically recognize that many legitimate arguments against this neighborhood exist….for example….141 new homes? We just built two new school buildings that we didn’t fit in on day one…..where are these kids going to go? Or even the inevitable increase in traffic at the corner right there where people already love to run the light. The problem is that I can’t even get behind these sorts of logical arguments. Not just because I could care less about class size. My kids are smart and they are fine, and if they were not then I would recognize my responsibility as a parent to assist them. Teacher to student ratio is not a thing I find important. And after being in our schools so much I can promise you that if you think that it is important for the kids who require extra teacher attention…..that’s not how it works. They don’t get extra attention as they should...they get grouped with others who need attention and then given different assignments. Or they are grouped and then singled out as a “helper” comes in to teach them quietly in the back of regular class….a path making the TEACHER part of your ratio irrelevant. And not even because I think people run red lights at every stoplight everywhere.
Anyway, all of that is pointless because these are not my town’s arguments. Not privately in the swampy corners of their bigot mansions and not publicly in the paper, Facebook, or petition sites either. They are so gross. They are commenting regarding the ability of homes that cheap to fit into the atmosphere of our town. They are worried about the income level of people who live in vinyl villages changing the value of the “poor neighborhoods who will butt up next to it”. They are worried about the crime that comes with the “sort of people” who can’t live closer into town. It is enraging me. For many reasons.
I am a person who can afford to live in a vinyl village. And while I have already been told to leave town for other reasons (even had an offer of assistance from a realtor) I currently live in one of the brick ranches that have been here longer than some of these babies having babies to pass on their thumping have been alive. Not because I could afford to buy this house in the heart of cross burning town but because a convergence of circumstances dictated that I do so. If I didn’t tell you that I was one of those lower-income mother fuckers you would never know.
People who live eight miles away are protesting this shit outside of city council meetings. Think about that. 8 fucking miles. That is closer to one of the surrounding towns than ours, considering our actual town limits are approximately 6 miles from end to end. THEY LIVE FURTHER AWAY THAN THE SIZE OF THE TOWN. What the fuck do those people care about who lives 8.3 miles away? Oh, wait...lemme check those comments….that’s right...for them, it seems to be about the “sort of people” which from the rest of their comments has become clear they mean people who don’t glow under a black light. That’s okay - they need not confirm nor deny - “sort of people” is code here in my town.
This vinyl village is cutting the zoned property from 1 acre lots with homes starting in the 400’s to ½ acre lots and double the number of homes. This vinyl village is also within walking distance of my house. These dumb assholes think we should be fearful. Fearful. Get alarms. Possibly relocate to a place where the property values aren’t going to fall. My neighbor right now is an A&E level hoarder who digs up weeds and plants them in rows like corn. She has three layers of fences like a fucking chalupa and shit. Property values my ass.
I’d like it if a pot dealer moved in….it is just so so so close to me. Maybe they can move in on Child Molester Court or down Theivery Lane. The town would love that.
Also - even after all of that story, I would like to say that the biggest thing that has pissed me off this week is being crack-free.
|And so begins yet another post of sunshine and optimism.
A handful of days ago I was in a gas station in a less than desirable part of downtown. I say that and to some people this is true but if I am being honest I didn’t realize that until people wouldn’t shut their traps about it. Wondering why I was even in this part of town. Seriously? My inability to notice belies my comfort level here on this side of town. And also….fuck off.
Anyway - I was in this gas station overburdened by handfuls of junk food. My friend is in front of me in line asking the poor kid behind the bulletproof glass (you’d think would indicate what kind of area I was in but it does not) why they never have her Vuse refills and why she would want this one he found in the back that expired months ago. I am behind her and there is a guy behind me. A shifty dude. I do not mean the sly trickery of a shiester, I mean he was shifting about like the floor was lava. Whatever - dance dude I don’t give a fuck - I just don’t like all this movement behind me. Things are taking a long time because of my friend.
A woman comes in talking about “Damn this line is long” and about how bad she has to pee. She offers me and the shifty dude money to let her cut in line. Actually, her offer was, “I will give you a dollar...five dollars if you let me cut.” Except you are about to buy a fucking Now ‘n Later with that debit card in your hand to get the restroom key and you got a dollar to give me???
I am confident in saying I am certain it has come up in this blog before that I do not do these things. I am not nice like that. You don’t cut me in line, you don’t get in front of me in traffic, and god forbid you to try to get out of a parking lot and need me to stop further back so you can get out - not ever going to happen. I am walking your same path today and I got here first. Suck it up.
So...she isn’t gonna cut me but I do not feel the urge to tell her so...yet. The shifty dude tells her no but you know...girl who practically has piss running down her leg flirting with guy who has meth feet always equals good results. I step forward to pay and my friend leaves the gas station. I pay - make fun of my friend with the poor kid behind the glass and then I am done. Done with that - the fun was just beginning.
I turn to walk away and there he is - shifty dude. But not like behind me in line and certainly not socially distanced. In fact, I tasted this mother fucker’s breath. He was just that close to me. And he was fucking mad. Enraged. Hulking the fuck out. He grabs my arms and while saying, “excuse me,” tosses me approximately four feet into a display of 2/$1.00 chips, fish bowls of zigzags and $0.99 JOBs, and a hanging display of colorful folding fans. My sunglasses fly off the top of my head, my real glasses fly off my face, and my mother fucking mask flies back to the counter.
I stand up and shifty dude is charging piss girl saying, “I ain’t playin withcu bitch.” To which she replies, “Damn man you ain’t gotta touch though.” Well - no chick, he doesn’t but as far as I can see - motherfucker didn’t even touch you.
I can’t be too mad about some of this. I would have had my own version of, I ain’t playin witchu bitch if she had tried to get in front of me after I said no.
But here is the problem….I am unexpectedly triggered like a mother fucker. Twenty-four years ago I was raped and held captive. Hahahaha. Yes. Like some stupid television show - held captive. Stupid but true. However. The last time someone touched me in an...unsafe or even remotely bad way...was twenty-four years ago. My bitchiness is multiplied by three, I started having the nightmare I haven’t had or even thought about in at least fifteen years….I am annihilating all progress ever made and calling it okay because of all the other shit going on in my life right now.
So that was fun.
Now for someone who really pissed me off today.
The woman I wrote about recently who called me so I could witness her break with reality. You know….the Tom Hanks woman who wanted me to remember that Africa was a continent. She texted me this morning asking if my phone was still my phone. I said yes because the bipolar in me can’t just write off the fact that Kid A’s friend is alone over there with this woman. She asks if I can talk uninterrupted. Fuck! Are you kidding me? I suddenly feel certain she is calling to give me a new conspiracy theory about Trump’s diagnosis. So I say no.
She then texts back to say that when I get a chance I should call her. That she wants to talk to me about something very serious regarding Kid A. That Kid A is not in trouble she promises but she wants to get it all out without having to be interrupted.
What the fuck. Great. Now I have to call this woman. So I wait. I get home and call this woman mid-mind alteration. She proceeds to tell me a story that she has a disclaimer for. Great. She wants me to remember that she hates Kid A’s friend, Friend K. This is well known and it is because her daughter and Friend K hate each other. She has some bias here. Plus she is whackadoo.
She says Friend K (who by the way is gay) has been touching Kid A’s ass and tits. He has been following Kid A into the bathroom and refusing to leave. She has a ton of evidence she has compiled to show that this kid is evolving from bully to sexual predator. She has even gone to Kid A’s other friend’s house and sat down with him and his parent to get screenshots of conversations and to discuss the meaning of sexual assault. She thinks I should maybe even have him arrested. This entire situation has nothing to do with her and her daughter. Perhaps less than nothing. What is she doing going around doing some private dick bullshit?
**Let me insert here that not only does she have only about 10% of the information correct, but it has also been a year and dealt with over here. And so this part of the story ends. No worries - my twelve-year-old is not getting assaulted by her gay friend.
I listen and say yes and no when it is appropriate. And wait for this to end. However. This is where it takes a turn. This is where she decided to inform me WHY this is happening. And here is why….
Kid A has been taught to be a people pleaser and perhaps if she had been taught ways to deal with boys who touch her tits or even maybe taught that boys are not allowed to touch her if she doesn’t want them to then she would have had the tools to stop this.
Listen to me bitch.
Oh and one more thing. This would never happen to her daughter because her daughter has been taught to point and laugh at a dick that is coming at her. But Kid A has been taught to be a people pleaser.
Another thing I know I have droned on and on about since the very beginning of this blog is Kid A. Her struggles and my battle with the town, the school, the parents. Anyone. Everyone. I have been clear about my assistance in whatever way needed when it came to her being whatever she chose, looking however she feels, believing whatever she wants. Anything. Everything. That the level of honesty we do in this house borders on obscene and that it works so very fucking well for us.
I do not think anyone who even is exposed to me slightly would begin to believe that I have not told Kid A that no one can touch her without her permission. Nor should it be believed that I have not told her things to do or say in a variety of situations. This is not something I would ever neglect. Not as a woman, not as a mother, and not as a rape victim.
She ended her monologue with this bullshit, “I know you agree...a mother is a mother is a mother and I look out for all of them.”
And to that I say, A mother is a mother is a mother but only one of us is a mother to Kid A and it is not you. And this should not be something I am having to say so many times.
I fucking have lube if life would just ask.
|I need to praise Mt Olympus for a moment. To slay a goat...a virgin...whatever. To leave a pot...my firstborn….whatever. Please someone join me in the delight that is the Cap’n Crunch pancake syrup. Shhhh. Shhh. Speak to me NOT of the deceptive let down that is the pancake mix...put that out of your head. Focus instead on the glory of the syrup.
Few things make me happy. Fuck that….tons and tons of shit makes me happy, even if that might be hard to believe. But so so few things make me….internally delighted. The happiness that need not be shared, nor understood. Blue is one of these things. Blue. Blue. All. The. Things need to be blue. And in my world, 70 - 80% of all the things are indeed blue. My environment, my personal belongings, my wardrobe, my car. Not in a...roll me to the juicer Mr. Wonka way, but more like an….um….you can like all my subtle and all my unsubtle blue or you can not, fuck you either way...sort of way.
French toast is another of these things. (4 of the 7 are food or food adjacent) Waffles are an acceptable substitution but at the same time, they can never be french toast no matter how Belgian they are. Regardless, these things require copious amounts of scalding hot syrup avalanched upon four heart attacks worth of butter.
Cap’n Crunch maple syrup is blue as fuck. An organic shade of neon blue that screams its real maple origins by retaining its fluorescence no matter what the fuck it goes on, goes in, soaks into. It pleases me to no end. I love it. It is blue but tastes like regular maple syrup, cuz ...you know….it comes from regular trees, they are just sad. I will continue to buy it in quantities more than I need, and my need is more than I care to admit until they take it away from me. At which point, the other members of my household will resume receiving regular stupid brown syrup while only I receive the blue gold.
And to round this praisey bullshit out with some of the rest of these syrupy thoughts….
Right this second I am reveling in this syrup. However, I have had to pour it on fucking pancakes. Delicious, yes, of course, pancakes are more than delicious. OF COURSE, they are. But also….of course, they earn the bronze in the syrup race. And who drapes a bronze medalist in gold?! I can see the Cap’n shaking his head now. Dishonorable discharge bitch.
And then to make this an actual post about actual life….
I did a bad thing. I did the bad thing everyone is thinking. I did a bad thing to do said bad thing and then I did that bad thing again. And again. And then some more.
I blogged the version of drunk texting and then decided to...veer in an unexpected direction. HAHAHAHA. Drinks on the house if anyone finds it unexpected.
***Here is where I have spent three days filling in the rest of the post with varied explanations and recountings of why I am here now ...having done a weirdo reset. But I write and write and ramble and ramble and then it can’t end. So I erase and begin yet again only to find that the post has no end no matter what. Which is obvious since...I am only at the beginning of this particular experience.
So fuck it. I did some bad things and THEY WERE FUCKING GREAT. It used to be great. It is still great. And it will be great next time I do it. Because rocks rock and I fucking love them.
Fucking final refusal to keep deleting addition….
I had to unlock my WDC shit cuz it’s been that long. And in the interim (less than 48 hours), I have wondered two things and experienced one. First...why can’t I finish that paragraph up there? It should be easy to fill that shit in with some positively modified AA nonsense. It should be easy if it were true….eeek. And second….According to Fivesixer Spice Latte I miss every anniversary. My self-actualized junkie is telling me that if I had access to my true love any of these years, at this time of year, then I would have already had to post this very post….. Why is that? It’s not winter and all that bullshit. That’s laughable up in here. It is something though.
As for the experience….I was thrown against the wall in a gas station. Fodder for tomorrow. For now, be proud that I was thrown against the wall in a gas station and am sitting here right now sober. Hahahahaha. Come on now. Sober?! For now, be proud that I was thrown against the wall in a gas station and I am sitting here crack free.
|Welcome, everyone. We are gathered here today to witness the unraveling of a soul….and by the power vested in me...
I have actual things to say. Actual points to make that are important and even life-altering. Well, they alter my life in monstrously huge ways. But I am torn because while I have things to say they are not easy things to say and I have been imbibing. Copious amounts. So ...what will I do? Will I do these oh so important things justice? Will they have the weight and gravitas they deserve?
I did not write yesterday despite wanting to respond to the 30DBC prompt with my righteous indignation regarding Chick-Fil-A and The Salvation Army. But I didn’t for the EXACT SAME REASON. Copious amounts of self-medication.
However, I am a very self-aware bipolar addict. I know myself and I tend to own myself since there are many things I cannot change about myself. So I know as nothing short of fact that if I begin a pattern of choosing to drink over writing….well it won’t be good for the drunk ass writer in me. She will wither and die on the vine.
So let’s give it the good ole college try. And if I wake up in the morning and reread this and think….Well, fuck if that isn’t simply one long drunk text….then fuck it. We all know there are a zillion things going to fucking hell in my little sphere of life right now so.... fuck it.
I was going to explain my ten-day absence slowly so I was guaranteed something to write about every day and have some motivation following feeling some deep life unmotivation. But fuck it. Fuck all that. That is a shadow of a dream now. Including the crack, I rubbed all over my gums.
Wait, no. Let’s take a moment and give the good part of this post the attention it deserves. I watched a show about the eighties with Husband A one day and they were highlighting the rise of crack. I, besides drooling, found myself extolling the virtues of all things crack. And then. Whew. Then came the close-up. The fucking 8ball money shot. And so I speak aloud to Husband A….”Look at it sitting there all pretty and buttery.” The look he gave me….I say shit like that a lot. A LOT. Maybe he heard something in my voice….I dunno...he looked at me like I was doing a trick for rock right there in his lap. And I knew. I KNEW. That the very next time the opportunity presented itself, I was not going to be a good girl
As luck would have it…..
But listen….listen Linda listen… and I am going to say this while being under no illusions that it makes one bit of fucking difference…..all I did was rub it on my gums. I didn’t even smoke it. Not straight….not in a primo….I didn’t even beg to be the one to chop it. No no….I only rubbed it on my gums. …..a couple of times.
It was some satisfaction without full satisfaction. I was not so foolish as to think it would be enough. In fact, I, OF COURSE, knew it would not be. But GODDAMN.
Aaaaaaaaaaaand I am like the new girl at the meeting. Hi, my name is Skeason and I’m an addict. I have one day sober.
But I don’t want it. Fuck that one day. What’s one day? Nothing, fuck it. Right?! Awwww come on…..
Maaaaaaan. Now that I got all warm and fuzzy on top of the boozy I don’t really want to type any nonsense about the bad news. Must I? Yes, I think I must because if I spend any more page space on the wonders of crack cocaine then the next thing we know I will be doing crack cocaine.
So..here we go and please don’t be all overly sympathetic, I don’t really do and/or enjoy that.
I have had two episodes of AON. Acute Optic Neuritis. In general, that is a common indicator of MS. Despite having so so so so many CT’s during each episode, there were never any brain lesions on my images. Whoo Hoo and all that. Ha ha….buzzed skeason skips explanations...this is probably just the first of many times that will be played out here in this blog now.
(Also for the record --- it might just be the last time drunk skeason types any posts at all because I am uber aware that I just might type my real name)
AON involves going blind in one eye as your body eats your eye. That’s pretty simplified, but also accurate. The last of the two times it happened was approximately….a drunk skeason 17 or 18 years ago. (my guess would be that is right by about two years in either direction...but that’s just because I have a kid as a gauge). No wait….that was the last official time. It has happened two times in the years since that I told no one about. Not a single soul, including Husband A. I have a thing about this that I probably won’t explain yet because….booze. But know that I will without question leave Husband A no matter the circumstances the moment I were to find out I was sick in any serious way. Done. Period. Gone like the Wind….and frankly not giving a damn.
As of today, we are on day two of...being sightless in one eye. It brings with it the uncomfortable sensation that my eye is too big for my face. Not quite bulging, but kinda like bulging. Husband A who is of course, in the middle of an occasionally mutual break up with me is now aware of it and the previous times because …. I am a whackadoo and a bitch.
I told him yesterday because for some fucking reason I freaked the fuck out about mowing with no depth perception on that side because the mower has no hood. Don’t ask me. It was a combination of sadness and worry and the irrationality that is ruling my life right now. Plus I AM A HUGE BITCH. So it felt fucking great to say to him in the middle of his holier than though monologue that I was going to mow but maybe someone should know that I can’t exactly see.
Do I dare tell you that the satisfaction I received from the look on his face reserves me a seat in hell? Boozy skeason does I think. Fuck it, sober skeason probably would too. I was so pleased to see that behind the murder lasers that constantly shoot from this man’s eyes was a moment of…..the same level of fear I felt because it was something we had faced together a decade ago.
I want to stop for a moment and say that while I am about 89% sure this will make a semblance of sense when I am done….I am only 11% sure I will proofread it with any accuracy at all. Forgive me. Laugh at me. Shake your head. I will do these things as well. Especially because I have yet to cease the spirits. I wish you could see all the red lines on my screen right now.
Anyway…. I do not plan on going to the doctor. My eye, my brain, my reasons, my decision. And because I have a thing to be explained later regarding all of this….none of the things that can be said by any people will make any difference. I have a thing that supersedes all other things. Not to mention...my eye, my decision. Husband A is FUCKING FURIOUS. Really? Divorce much? Fuck off with this “keep a weak ass girl on the hook” bullshit. Concern noted (I guess) and concern also is blown off (tit for tat mother fucker…. that's the world I live in now).
This probably comes off as belligerent, especially because I mention many times that I have been drinking. But the truth is, I have known since I was about 11 years old that skeason getting sick in any serious way means the death of her relationship. At any point in time and under any circumstances. This fact preceded Husband A and he hasn’t changed it with his very presence. Which says quite a bit since I have allowed his very presence to alter much of my life, every other aspect of it to be truthful.
And now - to take the post in more of a usual direction - there is a motherfucking moth flying around the garage right now. He is attracted to this computer screen and therefore way way too close to my ears. I suppose I could turn on the lights but how would that play to the pre-teen emo girl I have apparently become?!?!
And here we go - I will give it a shot.
I do lots of other things. But mostly I bake.
I bake anything but I sell cakes. And it was an accident that I discovered I could do that. I have always thought….no, had the instinct, that I would be a great sculptor. Like….give me a lump of clay and I will move mountains type of shit. Did you hear about skeason? She parted the sea with a staff she sculpted from bigoted KKKlay.
Regardless. I am good at it. Lump of clay is to lump of fondant like a perfect score on the SATs. I make some beautiful shit. And I also make tons and tons and tons of kids’ shit. Not to mention unicorns.
I still think I would be a good sculptor.
It wasn’t. When I first joined the site and Charlie was the first person I interacted with...we actually talked about this very thing. He couldn’t quite understand that I just didn’t “enjoy” music the way people tend to. I don’t know why. It always had a role in my life of course. But it was literally background noise. Not like a life soundtrack...not background music...noise.
Things are not the same. Two things happened. I did some Soundtrackers challenges which are my very very favorite. And in doing so, I realized that perhaps I did have more emotional ties to music than I was … seeing.
Number two… I got sadder. It became important to listen to many many sad songs that would induce some form of catharsis, be it crying or raging. I needed more isolation and started using my headphones. This changed writing for me.
Not in some amazing way. Nothing got better or any cool shit like that. But with these headphones and an enormous playlist, I am able to occupy the sad part of my mind and let the rest write.
I also discovered that there are certain songs that seem to inspire me to type along with the beat. It does no favors for speed but it is quite enjoyable. I have made a playlist of these songs alone and fucking adore when I find another one. It takes a ton of restraint not to pull my own version of someone beating on their stomach and thinking you, too, hear Jingle Bells.
You guys. I had prepared myself to tell about the next step in my shattering which involved deception and a jump off the wagon but instead, I am sitting here switching between rage and despair. Like a rapid cycler in the middle of a freakout, it is changing by the quarter-hour. And so instead of what I was going to write, I am going to tell you why...and since Husband A has released the Krakken and she must be fed... I am going to put my petty to paper and let it be as skeasony as I am fucking feeling.
I’m not good with constant interaction. Not because I mentally or physically can’t but because I don’t fucking want to. And I am just not that good at not getting what I want that I would be willing to give this one up. My people have been in my face 24 hours a day for months. And while my big giant caring heart overfloweth with love for them...apparently it still doesn’t equal 24 hours worth. Sometimes I want to breathe air that someone has not just exhaled. Sometimes I want everyone to just simply shut the fuck up. Don’t care what you need. Don’t care what you want. Don’t care what I said I would do. Don’t care if you eat, sleep, or bathe. All I care about is that you shut the fuck up.
Since they have been here nonstop I have had a zillion projects. Almost every room in my house has been redone completely. I have refinished my kitchen table and hand-painted a design on top with a fucking Crayola watercolor paintbrush. I have created projects where there were none to get the fuck away from my family. I put on my headphones and after screaming at everyone about how I don’t know why they don’t understand how headphones work….I am able to “be alone”.
I want to feel bad but I don’t. Ge the fuck out of my face. And sometimes that means for hours. Well...it means that now ...so get the fuck out of my face.
My friend had a cabinet she took out of someone’s trash over a decade ago. She gave it to her brother who then did an ugly latex crackle paint on it in white and teal. He then used the glue that holds the world together to put some weirdo shapes all over the door. He must have been pretty proud I guess. But then he died right after. Overdosed. She took the cabinet that now had huge emotional baggage inside of it. It sat in her garage for years upon years. It was dirty as fuck. It had water damage on one end. It needed a piece of wood replaced because something had taken bites out of it. It had literally returned to its original state of garbage. She was moving and couldn’t bring herself to throw away this piece of her brother so I said I would take it and use it. I did not plan on using it. It was ugly as fuck. But she didn’t want to throw it away and as I mentioned earlier...I’m all kind like that and shit.
It sat here in my garage getting dirtier and falling apart more. And then I was out of projects. So I started this cabinet. It has taken a very long time. But I have not been rushing. It has been sanded by my arthritic hands, stained, I painted tree trunks on the sides and the doors, the inside is so dark green it is almost black...and then I decided to put little greenblack leaves sporadically throughout the trunks to mitigate a slight bamboo appearance.
Today I put the last of the greenblack shit on the door. I sat the door on the roof of my car to dry in the sun because patience is not in my virtue repertoire.
Now, before I insert any emotion into this post I will factually tell the end. Husband A took my car and did not remove the door first. He lost it somewhere on his journey and when this fact was discovered he went looking for it. He found it...having been run over by at least one car.
Now, my end to the story.
Since I didn’t wrap my life up before Husband A got home and hide anything I wanted to remain mine, I had not removed it from my car yet. I wasn’t done. The sun was still out. Who the fuck cares why ...I had not removed it yet.
Because stopping for cigarettes is not something that occurred to him today on the way home from work...you know on the drive home which had him pass no less than FIVE gas stations...he hopped in my car and went to the gas station. Since you cannot be observant of the world around you with your head glued to a phone screen nor up your ass, he walked straight out the door without seeing the piece of wood that was half hanging off my car directly in his line of sight. It speaks to his skill as a carpenter I suppose.
So after arriving back home with the sought after door and having to tell my flipping out ass that it had clearly been run over, I found that I had some questions for him. Starting with…
Are you fucking kidding me? Is this just a cabinet door? No, my friend, it is the straw that broke the fucking camel’s back. Was this just a piece of wood? Nope cock sucker it was my current coping mechanism. The current barrier between this lovely piece of shit existence we are living together and slitting my fucking wrists. This goddamn cabinet. This fucking cabinet that isn’t even turning out all that goddamn pretty was saving all of our lives.
Do I fucking give any shits at all that it was an accident? Gonna be a high hard no on that one. I do not. Toooooooooooo much of the sweet-smelling bullshit that you feed me involves the following things….I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to, it was an accident...but they all end with me getting a dry dick up the ass. Somehow it is always me who is like...oh okay please please let me sacrifice this fucking piece of goddamn garbage I was loving on so you don’t feel bad for paying little to no attention to fuck all. Wait wait...I forgot to put on my smile and bow before returning to my invisible maid slaving. I cannot apologize enough.
Can we dive into realistic bullshit for a few moments? Hahaha, my fucking bad dude, we already know that isn’t something you are capable of so let me do it for you. There are lots and lots of things about me that are horrible. Absolutely disgusting human behavior. And as extreme as these things are, the good things about me are just as extreme. There is no middle for people. You are or you aren’t. So let us take a close look at how that has ALWAYS and will continue to play out in my life because for some reason you seem to think you can act like you haven’t been here for it. There has only been one person in all of the history of skeason that has qualified as “you are” - that would be you, Husband A. Everyone else is not. It is that simple. Everyone else is, at all times, expendable. I had kids and they joined you in that club. No one else. Expendable. You fucking switched positions and you did it by choice because you were goddamn cemented in there as far as this looney tune was concerned. You began acting as my acquaintance and so you are now afforded only the benefits of being my acquaintance. And you fucking know full well there are not very many of those.
Do you understand how tired I am of the newly sainted Martyr formerly known as Husband A? Choices. No one forced you to be with me. No one forces you still. Every tiny little thing that you bitch and moan and whine about with regularity are all things that have existed since the beginning of me and most certainly since the beginning of us. NO ONE, an actual zero people, including me, would blame you if you were tired of all of these things. What makes me want to puke though is that you constantly need to dry your eyes and wipe your pussy over this shit. Poor Husband A. His wife is so fucking mean she is flipping out over a cabinet door. Poor Husband A, his wife is a fucking lunatic. Poor Husband A, poor Husband A, poor Husband A. Please. Stick it up your ass and cry about that. You sought out a ticket to the ride. Get off or ride to the end but don’t cry the whole time about the tracks. And stop acting like I tweak my villainous moustache while tying you to them. You know this is about more than the cabinet door.
Drive your own car.
Drive your own car.
Drive your own car.
P.S. Elle - on hiatus I find myself curious...how does this 2x4 get the chest to pin a medal on? What about the bitch slap? Don't be offering these things willy nilly now....
Oh you guys. You guys. I don’t know how to describe what I have been doing. Yes, yes I do. I have been experiencing a fragility freefall. A descent through the shattered tinkling notes of my destruction. I want to say it has been all bad but that would be a lie. And while I am certain many will know what that probably means...fodder for another day. It has been mostly bad though and in the interests of a blog post that is not ten pages long, I am gonna tell you what started it all.
I have two things I classify as phobias... spiders and bridges. It is more fine-tuned than all that simplicity but that is good enough. I call them phobias because I have experienced these items invoking behaviors and responses in and from me that were beyond my control. I have literally been brought to my knees by a spider and unable to cross a bridge. Phobias.
I have two things that I fear. And these get to be called fears because they require some thought. Some construction. They are layered and complex and not going to bring me to tears by the sheer utterance. These would be; bugs crawling into my ear and laying eggs and being trapped in between two stones in a cave. One totally beyond my control and one would never happen ever.
I logged on here whatever the fuck day it was and I was all stoked. New prompts from Charlie ~ thx anon } and then he tagged me in the group to show support. It was amazing. In that very moment of that very day, I needed to be seen right where I was and the combination of those things was mighty. I logged off ready to write about the only fucking thing that had happened on my birthday being that Sid Vicious died. It was a good post. Sid Vicious for fuck's sake. Overdose for fuck's sake. It was a love letter of admiration. It was crude and perfect.
Cooked dinner for my people for the first time in.... an extremely shameful amount of time...got to shower before three other people had used all the water and time in the day...got high...got laid...and then...AND THEN….
On a good day, no no, on an amazing day my anxiety really fucks with my ability to handle certain things. This is just for now, I know this. I ebb, I flow, I crash against the shore. For right now my anxiety has a resting bitch face and is on high alert. Things that fall into this category this time around are things like...dirty dishes...bugs...showering after anyone else...brushing someone’s hair...dunno, this time it seems to be about all things unclean.
Sitting there, right here actually (picture me paranoid), ready to grab my laptop and post my post all post-coital, my world experienced a time slow down. We have these little moths. I don’t know if they are everywhere, I mean they are fucking moths, probably so. However, just in case...they are a tan cream color and very small. Maybe half inch wingspan. They flutter those bitches like meth moths. They are annoying as fuck under any circumstance since they do not seem to understand...well...anything.
Happy. I was...my version of happiness. Someone had acknowledged my actual existence, not a generic one, no matter how small. I had maintained a battle free buzz. Almost ready to go to bed and pretend I am a person who sleeps. Then a moth flew into my ear.
Not like right there in the cup of your ear. No. And I have had to fight people on this. As if I don’t understand the difference between IN my ear and not. So I reach up to brush it away because I don’t fucking know…. A MOTH IS IN MY FUCKING EAR.
I whip my ear toward Husband A and frantically ask him if it is there. He says no, then says, “well…”, and then I hear it. Again I have had to reassure people that just like they know the difference between someone else chewing and themselves chewing, I heard the moth in my head. Buzzing inside my ear. Husband A can’t hear it he says and that would be because it isn’t in his fucking ear. I start to sanitarium level freak out. I reach up and feel its wings motoring against my fingertip BUT IN MY EAR.
Everything is now over.
I begin to become incoherent. It is buzzing in my head and I reach up to where my ear meets my head like I could …. I don’t fucking know...close off its path or some shit. Husband A has raced into the house to get something. I am freaking out like I may never have before...I dunno. What I do know is that I was nonstop repeating for him to hurry, I was bawling, I was almost fetal on the garage floor when he got back and every single time it began to buzz in my head my response is amplified by ten.
He tried to look in my ear and hold a flashlight and keep me from apparently clawing at my ear. He looks...I don’t actually know what he did. I know that it seemed to be gone by the time he had gotten me back to the bathroom and flushed my ear. Maybe fifteen minutes of adrenaline rushing had by all.
I thought I felt …. enough like it wasn’t actually there still to choose not to go anywhere to find out. To go to sleep. I mean it was like two-thirty am by this point.
I was so wrong.
I spent the next five hours switching between bawling and freaking out. The outside of my ear was bleeding. Every time I was able to combine bawling and getting high into falling asleep I would wake up almost immediately because I was turning onto my right side and that meant that if the fucking thing was in there and if he tried to get out he was trapped against my pillow and might go back. It was a night of irrationalities that took over my soul and played out afterward.
I ended up going and having someone look at eight o’clock the next morning. No moth. 37 micro-cuts from my fingernails. I don’t have fingernails. And not just bitten off nails, I bite the skin that is where the nail was before I ate it off. The kind where I can’t always type the next day because of how sore they are. I FUCKING NUBBED 37 MICROCUTS INTO MY EAR.
It was beyond terrible. The timing was awful. Feeling any kind of good made me so very delicate. This brought the whole mother fucking shebang down. Finito. Over. Fin. It was like I no longer knew what the point of literally everything was and didn’t even care either way. If, while I am face down on the fucking ground, the universe can send a moth to kamikaze into my ear then I fucking give up.
I proceeded to behave in such a manner.
Ooooh. An easy one. Which is good because hardly anything is easy right now.
When I need ideas or inspiration I read. And not just anything. I read hardcore chick lit. I let my mind get taken away by someone’s foolishly unbelievable romance. Or by someone getting pounded in the heather. Or by the utter weirdness of a shapeshifter with a corkscrew penis. And not just one. I consume them like a bulimic. I binge on ….12 or 15 of them and I come away wanting to write. I will not know what tiny line from which book sparked some tiny flame in the tiny backroom of my brain, but it will have happened. Recently I was sad (SHOCK!) and I read a series of 28 for the seventh time! Took about ten days (goddamn kids slowing shit down). When I finished I filled a spiral notebook with handwritten shit for my story in two evenings.
Also … for some reason I write so so much more when I do the 30DBC. From day one. Somehow I joined the site all that time ago and the 30DBC became like my AA sponsor. It convinces me to do the right thing. (fuck I wanted to put, “do the write thing”)
YOU KNOW WHAT??? ME. STILL FUCKING ME.
I am functioning solely on the Carpenters Gospel because breaking up is fucking hard to do. Not to mention I am like a walking skeleton...weighing in at a lovely 5’6” and 104 pounds. Not too far from her 5’4” and 108. If I go though, it will be a much safer bet to go with Mama Cass’s ham sandwich than not eating. Not eating??? Come on now. Ludicrous. Doctor’s advice? Be less stressed or stroke out. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Skeason’s advice for the doctor...kick rocks mother fucker.
I don’t have much break up experience. I have done it before. I have had it done to me before. I am the type of person who ….responds to you breaking up with her with a big ol’ “get gone then”, but the only other time I have been the ….initiator...of a break up it was super easy. Easy because I was leaving that boy for Husband A. I was leaving a shitty relationship for a better one. Everyone knew it and it was one of the easiest decisions I have ever made.
This one sucks dirty balls.
I don’t want to be the person who does what is right. I don’t want to give up what I want in favor of the right decision. I don’t even want to give up what I want in favor of mental survival. Fuck it. Sanity would be the least difficult habit I have cold turkeyed for this man. He goes away, wherever...work...the gas station….it doesn’t matter if it is a short trip or a long one….he goes away and I become convinced that this is all based on my insane inclinations. My imbalances.
And that is not fully false.
Which makes it so fucking hard when he gets home and I am confronted with evidence that it is not WHOLLY my whack-a-do mental state. Evidence that flies in the face of what I have just spent any amount of time convincing myself. And fuck all that. Both things are true. He is lacking. I am fucked up.
But why can we not find a balance….because I’m fucked up? That would not surprise me at all. It would not surprise me if his... being measured and found wanting was …. overplayed in my moments of extremity. However, it would also not surprise me for me to take on all of that responsibility and then remain in a situation that has proven itself to have evolved into less than stellar for my mental health.
And then…..what the fuck if all this IS JUST ME? What the fuck if I am literally flipping out right now (other evidence not to be mentioned in this post at least) and ruining something I fought for? And how can that even be the case when my needs don’t change with levels of lucidity? I, myself, cannot completely discount this though.
Not to mention, how the fuck am I finally gonna get laid again after deciding to get divorced? What the fuck is that? COME ON. When we were younger... people used to say they were going to go fuck the bitchy out of their chick. I AM THAT CHICK. You can literally screw me into niceness and maintain it with steady doses of dick. You have to be kidding me that I have done some shit so fucking bad that you have lost the desire to stick your dick in something. You can’t even try to save your relationship by blinding me with the dick?
I currently have….booze. I had the opportunity to get what I really want. I had the chance to spike my joint or to go all in and lose it all for a rock sized piece of happiness. But even I am not so naive or self-denying that I don’t’ understand the nature of my own addiction. Four months ago I was juuuuuuuuust sad enough to be able to get what I wanted and slowly fall into crumbling disrepair. Currently, the trip from dance mom to crack whore would be one glass dick. I’m excited just typing about the possibility. I want the rock. I want the rock. I want the rock.
I have booze. I made a choice. I didn’t make the most excellent choice of sobriety. I didn’t choose to just smoke another joint. But I also didn’t choose to get an 8 ball. I chose to throw a fit and drive to the store and come home with some point proving booze. You know...proving that I am not the bitch to present a big dicked challenge to….all of those good kind of relationship saving things.
So then there is that too.... How much play did my addictions get in this game of marriage destruction? Cuz..they got some I assure you. As I got sadder I amped up that shit with a vengeance. And how sad is it that I am not sure I ever would have chosen Husband A over the addictions. Not because I am an addict and that is definite addict behavior. Nope. Because I did that once. I gave up my favorite thing ever for him and here we are. It won’t be the first time I have wondered about having made that choice and having done so with the only result being not ending up with Husband A. Despite it flying in the face of credulity, in the thick of those really addicty moments it feels like… I gave up my everything for him and he replaced it with less.
I know that had I not given it up when he ultimatumed young ass me I would not be here writing this. And this is not some flowery voice-over type narration. I would not be here writing this because still to this day I would leave it all to be a crack whore. I would be dead because I would have made it so out of a desire to let it all go and just be high.
Okay well...who knew I would turn my “I am not so sure I want what is happening” post into a love letter to crack. Me, maybe. I should go up and delete some of that. Make crack less of a star in this story. I’m not gonna though since currently, this is the only place I am me.
Post post note...during my proofreading, which inevitably misses two fucking things every single time, I realized. I am very dick thirsty in this entire post. Need me to write? Have a highlander stick it to a maiden. Need me to be nice? Have a high hard one to stick to me. I promise everyone I have a much higher level of intelligence than the stereotype of a literal crack whore I presented myself as. Who are we kidding, that I seem to present myself as on the regular. I guess I don’t see any reason I can’t quote you Thucydides in one breath and blow on a dick with another. Why I can’t inhale a primo in one breath and give you the etymology of any word in the next.
Professor Crackhead here. Office hours when no one is under my desk.
Whew. I would love to say I would go with something in between. So much of me even wants to attempt to write it that way, but I know better.
I already believe we have an aura of sorts. A vibe. And when someone is giving off a bad vibe you know that shit. I do that. My fucking aura gives off some bad vibes. I don’t hide things and I don’t like things. I can be so very unapproachable.
That fucking swirl of black and blue poisonous sadness and anger is already visible. It is not in technicolor but that shit can be seen a mile away. So if it were to make the jump from black and white console to HD flat screen then I don’t think I’d be able to mask it even slightly.
In fact, I think it would be like one of those glowing alien substances that clings and erodes as you panic and fail to get it off you.
Dude. ME. I am driving myself up the fucking wall. I am filled with self-disgust and hatred and am making a face about myself as I type this.
I guess I decided to tempt the fucking fates with my last few entries. I pretended I was accountable, I pretended I wasn’t losing my mind, and I mentioned being the saddest I had ever been to that point.
And the universe responded.
I stopped writing totally. I said I’d be good and write. I made myself responsible to something. It didn’t matter. I let something annihilate my will to type and then let that fact annihilate my will to type. I do that, no point in pretending otherwise.
I said that I was so fearful of the state of my mental health while all my people were forced to be at home with me. I was even confronted with an example of the worst case. I was a fool to think I was not already pretty far gone. I was a fool to think that it was avoidable at all. I was able to be blinded to the fact that my mental health had become entwined in another issue and it allowed me to think all was fine. All is never fine. I know that, no point in pretending otherwise.
And just like thinking that’s the biggest dick you have ever seen, the world likes to prove you wrong. That week was the saddest I had ever been. Had. Now we can call Guinness because new records have been set, then crushed. I like to complain about Husband A. There is a lot to legit complain about. We have been together for 24 years. He has just as much to complain about. I suck. I have always sucked, right from go. Something happened. I don’t know when, but it was subtle. We entered this stupid fucking quarantine on shaky ground. Richter scale ground really. And while I was so worried that I would not come out of the Corona circus, it wasn’t me, it was us. We will not be coming out the other side of Covid-19. Maybe we would have fixed things under normal circumstances. Maybe. The version of me that had to surface to make it through being surrounded by fucking needy ass talking people 24 hours a day, she can’t do it. She can’t devote any energy to staying married because she is devoting her energy to each day. I’m sad. So so sad because what I want doesn’t line up with the right thing to do and for some reason, it has become impossible to ignore. My relationship became something that constantly made me feel foolish for thinking one thing, made me feel stupid. I don’t tolerate that well, no point in pretending otherwise.
Fuck it. That’s just it. Fuck it.
Oh, future parents,
I’ve called an Uber and will be picked up by the stork soon so I thought a little advice might come in handy.
I know you have some idea in your mind about what good parents do and do not allow but I have a recommendation for you. Do not keep all television and candy from me, I promise you that in the long run, I will behave as stereotypically as you can imagine and dive so deep into both things that I will never come back out.
All those other ideas you have about making a well-rounded, strong, intelligent daughter work out relatively well and despite your future misgivings, I will be grateful beyond words for the ways in which you reinforce my fortitude and the ways you revel in academia.
Mom - for all the gods’ sakes, get fucking medicated now, not later.
There will come a point in the future where your morals and values shift and they will no longer line up with the way you are going to raise me. The hippie that is going to teach me to sing I Am Woman, and the names of the women vital to the female struggle, who will teach me about burning my bra, about what having an opinion means and what expressing it can do, who will teach me to speak up for others regardless of consequences, the woman who taught me that silence is not an agent of change…. She will shift into another realm and that will be okay with me. Annoying as fuck, but still okay. Please, please….I beg you….stay off of my ass for being the way you taught me to be. Do not still be trying to punish me at age 41 for not making the same societal slide you will.
By the time I am an adult, you will have watched me slip through layers of mental decline that I do not believe could have been prevented in any way. It would be nice for you to remember that while it is not your fault, it is also not my shame. It is not ever going to be yours to cure and it is not ever going to get better. Acceptance will be key.
I am going to be trouble. Both kinds. I will be smart enough to plague your existence with questions beyond my age, incessant seven-year-old tears because you can’t teach me Latin and German, boredom at school, and the application of intelligence to sly rulebreaking. I will manipulate, compete, and slay people with words starting in elementary school. Then later I will be the other kind of trouble. I will be on drugs, I will get arrested, I will not come home, I will come home drunk, I will come home on hallucinogenics, I will lie, I will steal, I will cheat, I will get expelled from school. I will have horrible boyfriends, I will be held captive, and I will drop out of college more than once. More than twice. At one point the town will turn on you slightly because you will have raised a child that is not a thumper and a bigot.
But it will be okay. I will have enough credits to have graduated years before I get expelled. I will study Classical Antiquities after using silver-tongued half-truths to remain in school. No actual jail time will be served. The boy that you will become convinced is the one for me….he will be, for some time and even though it will be in ways that will never be shared with you, he will save me time and time again in situations beyond your imagination. And as for the town, you will stand up and speak out and be a shining example of solitary strength in the face of prejudice from the multitudes...an example I will play out in my own life countless times, to the benefit of myself and many many others.
And it will be okay because running through all of it is a level of ass coverage that you will have taught me to employ from the beginning. This kid will deeply understand not walking into a room with her dick out.
You will be good parents, right from the beginning. You will make mistakes and you will have glorious wins. You will raise good parents who make their own mistakes and have their own glorious wins.
Now on a petty childish note… I cannot end this without making sure it is known that Sister A…. she is only the spotless child, the golden girl, the one who got it right... BECAUSE I KEEP HER SECRETS. I will eat the shit you would have given her, and then I will eat my share from you constantly about being a better big sister…..clear into adulthood. What is it they say….you are only as successful as your least successful child? That if one kid is a brain surgeon and the other a hooker…..
I’m not the hooker in this metaphor, promise.
P.S. Do not ever EVER ever stop linking arms and swaying back and forth while singing about being Frito Banditos. Ever. As happy as you think it makes me….it will remain one of the clearest memories I keep.
NOW on a nonletter note...what the hell happened to hallucinogenics? I was such a fan of dropping acid, too much of a fan, and I miss it. I was the reckless kind...got some? Sure I will take it. Got some more? Sure why not. Wanna go out in public on four hits of acid? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I have three days to totally devote to drugs? Nope, but fuck it. What’s that? You have more? Sure, why not.
Dude! Just today I was confronted with what my worst fears realized would look like. It was fucking crazy.
Kid A had/has this friend. She, like Kid A, is only twelve. But she is an absolute cliche. Every word out of her mouth is either coming straight from her mother’s mouth or it is some weird-ass generalization of lesbians that she has picked up somewhere and thinks makes her authentically gay. Granted...twelve. She isn’t supposed to have decided who she is yet. And not the lesbian part, no one cares about that. But the presentation of what she thinks makes a lesbian gets tiring, even at twelve.
Her mom is...slightly off-kilter. Actually Friend A’s mother’s mother is simply a raging head case and always has been. Friend A’s mom thinks she has escaped the genetics on that one through sheer will and ability to work a pole. She, however, IS medicated.
I have not spoken to this woman in at least ten months. Possibly quite a bit more. Kid A and Friend A have been….in and out for a while now due to Friend A’s inability to take the heat or get out of the kitchen. OthaMotha A taught her this.
About six months ago OthaMotha A sent out a mass text telling everyone on her contacts list that due to trying to keep herself secret from some people she had changed her number and if we were receiving the text we had made the cut. Nothing really struck me as too strange about this since I have changed my number in the past to avoid certain people. Hindsight my friends.
Today she calls. Just in the middle of the day, about 11 am. I was doing a cake and so I had Bluetooth headphones in and it was just about the time for Husband A’s daily call asking me how to function for the remainder of his day, and so I just hit the button on the headphones and answered.
Answering the phone is NOT something I do. No matter who you are. Two people get answered. Husband A and Kid A. Period. You can ask me for my number and I will give it to you along with the warning that I am not going to answer, listen to a voicemail, and never in hell return the one that I accidentally hear.
I answered this fucking call though and might as well have heard Rod Serling on the other end. “You are about to enter another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop—The Twilight Zone.”
Here is what I already knew about OthaMotha A.
She thinks she is psychic. Not in the way that one might feel more in tune with the universe. Not in the way that one might read energy. Not in the way that one might even commune with the dead. Nope. Like foreshadowing knowledge the rest of us are not privy to. I have not asked her how this information comes to her...visions...whispers...who the fuck knows, I am not dipping my toes in that one.
She thinks that having had both a ton of men and a ton of poles between her legs is a point of pride. Not just a point of non-shame, but glowing pride. I’m no slut shamer. I’m pretty clear about my whorish intentions. OthaMotha A is free to open her legs for all of the poles in the immediate area, metal or flesh. But we all know that even if we can accept that this is okay, we also still understand that there is a point where it begins to chip away at the level of self-respect presented. If you have slept with people numbering in the triple digits then I have an honest to gods medal for you. It’s green, the color of jealousy. But if you walk around spouting off at the mouth about how wise you are compared to the rest of us because you are up in triple digits and your pussy has absorbed the knowledge of all that semen…. Well, I begin to doubt just how discerning you may be. I begin to question whether your motivations are sexual or thirsty.
She thinks she is not bipolar but she could not be more of an obvious fellow pendulum. Grow up. You are not even close to as self-actualized as you are pretending if you are still thinking you are balanced.
She is one of those women who think that their uber hands-off parenting philosophy is producing crazily independent and unique kids. However, I get the calls from the twelve-year-old when she won’t get out of bed to let her in the house. My kid is the one who gives her a hairbrush when she says she hasn’t been able to find one at home for five days. And my kid is the one who gets ignored when she goes manic and takes her kids on wild adventures. P.S. My house is where she goes to talk about getting kicked out of her fifth house since she was 8. Bitch, your kid wants you to be her mother not her fucking freaky ass flake of a friend.
Regardless of all that, I assumed she was her own version of stable and was just that type of person that didn’t really fit into my puzzle.
Since we began this Corona hangover my ONLY fear has been the state of my mental health if forced to stay in my home with my people. I feared for that already based on the level of interaction we were already engaging in. It’s a delicate balance on the daily and one derisive snort is enough breeze to push it the wrong way.
I say hello. She says in a crazy screaming voice, “SKEASON” (orrrrrr, well you know) I reply, “OthaMotha A.” Because this woman usually calls to tell me she is about to get litigious on someone’s ass so I always let her begin. And that’s what she did. She began.
I spent an hour falling down some fucked up rabbit hole with this bitch. She has had a break with reality in the middle of this fucking Thursday afternoon as my oven timer goes off and the fucking trash man drives by.
Some highlights from the 67 minutes of paranoia racing from her at meth speeds.
She has been off her meds since October but it’s okay because she’s better. She’s better. Friend A used to say she yelled all of the time. All of the time. Like even so far as Friend A would spill every drink she ever had back when she was 2. (remember..she’s 12 now) and the other day Friend A spilled a glass of milk and OthaMotha A could see the fear on her face that she was gonna yell because she yells all of the time. All of the time. But she didn’t, she didn’t yell this time and Friend A was like damn mom you are so chill now, these are better meds. But there are no meds. THERE’S NO MEDS!!!
Except for the Adderall. Pardon her right now because the Adderall is truly kicking in and she took a break at work and didn’t get her work done because she had just taken the Adderall and she zoned out for a few minutes there. Welllllll, not a few minutes more like forty but when she came to she knew she had to call me and they know her work won’t be on time there anyway.
She needs me to know that Kid A gave their family Corona back in October. Their whole family was sicker than they have ever been in their whole lives. She’s not mad at Kid A but she wants us all to go get tested for the antibody so we can rise up and change the narrative in the school system. We can shine a light on the fact that it ravaged our schools months ago. But she won’t accept a COVID 19 test... no-no because the president of Uganda gave the test to a goat and pawpaw and they both tested positive. I am to call her back after I call my doctor. She knows it was Corona and nothing else because she only smoke kush and she couldn’t even hold her smoke. It was like she had bought some Mexican brick weed.
If we do this, if we rise up and change the narrative we can also show that China has been sowing the seeds of an American civil war since Whitey Bulger. And that it will be okay because the guy who put Whitey Bulger in jail is on the case now and he will not let China do this.
Every non-conservative public figure. Every single one. In every form of media...they are all enemy combatants and she can tell you why trust me. She told me.
When was the last time you saw Tom Hanks? You might have quickly in a flash but that wasn’t him. It was his brother who he regularly uses as his stunt double and you can tell that it is not the real Tom by the shape of his right ear. It is always his brother though because good ole Tom and Rita are actually in a military prison.
She has gone back and researched Donald and Melania’s relationship. She needed to know how strong it was. They met and he was with another woman so when he asked Melania for her number Melania said no way- you are with another woman and that she would take his number and call him when the time was right and that is exactly what she did and then the time was right and she called him and they have been together ever since and she was already established as a person and she can handle his big steel balls clanking together because she has her own money and they have a strong stable marriage that we should all aspire to. And and and and and and
Everything that has happened in the world since last June she predicted psychically after starting to pray to God using the Hebrew name for daddy. (There we go - question asked, question answered)
At one point she started talking about how many people she had fucked in her twenties and asked if I remembered that time in my twenties and I responded with no because I have been with Husband A for 25 years. She says, ‘Who is Husband A?” I say, “my husband…” She says, “What is his last name?” I say “Last name A” and she says, “oh I guess I never knew that was his last name. I knew it was yours and Kid A’s and your husband’s but…”
And so so so so so so so much more. Imagine that she was speaking and making connections (“connections”) at a speed that would have clocked all the above topics in at about 15 minutes. She didn’t let a second of the remaining 52 minutes fall silent. I went into conspiracy overload and ran out of weird things to answer. I ran out of blow her off answers. It didn’t even throw her to answer to something wrong or at the wrong time.
She defined continent for me and told me to keep in mind that Africa is one.
She said it will all be okay because they will have to pry her weed and guns from her cold dead fingers before she will consent. (Who the fuck knows what she isn’t consenting to at this point) What I got from this part was that this bitch is flying around guarding the cuckoo’s nest with a loaded weapon. Excellent.
This bullshit. This bullshit is parallel to my fear.
And in a petty ass skeasony moment ...fuck it made me feel better.