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 |   Life is rough...I have to write it out. |
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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. |
Music Monday! Is there a particular song that usually energizes you or adds to your motivation? Tell us what it is. Nope. Sorry to say. There are some very musically inclined people around here. I feel so…musically foolish. Not that I don’t possess the knowledge, or the facts; I just don’t have the overwhelming desire to fill my life with music. It seems strange. Normally I can answer these song questions. But not in a practical way…quite like the prompt about music influencing my blog. I do not currently have any practical applications for music in my life. Kid A though, she lives for music. When asked a song that really hypes her up she answered the following, and I suppose I am inclined to agree (and in case you were wondering, it’s from “The Yellow Album”… [Embed For Use By Upgraded+]
The image I chose was: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** My mind was once endlessly clear, My glass half full, my smiles sincere. Life showed up in poisonous drops, Tinting my voice with vivid slop. Purple sadness, yellow despair. Deep blues of joy, though very rare. Giant green anger trickling down, Light pinks of disapproving frowns. I hold my nose and drink it up, Colorful shots, vile and corrupt. |
This week the company that makes bubble wrap announced they'll be making a type of wrap that no longer pops. How do you feel about this? (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/07/02/new-bubble-wrap_n_7711274.html?ncid=fcb...) Bubble wrap is awesome. I love to pop bubble wrap. Kid A loves bubble wrap. We buy rolls of it in pretty colors at Walmart for $4.97 and then we pop it. We buy a five dollar roll of trash. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t say I am overly upset by the thought of bubble wrap becoming a thing of the past though. It strikes me as a definite waste and not something I will long for. 47 truckloads worth into one truck…that is a very hard to argue with logistical advantage. It does piss me off when I order something and it comes in a huge box of 90% bubble wrap, and I cannot even remember the last time I ordered something fragile. I find myself stuck on the prompt’s question….how do I feel about it? Ha ha. I can’t get my mind to go past it. I don’t feel about it. No feels.
The image I chose was this: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** We said our vows, Exchanged our rings. We didn’t see, The end of things. He couldn’t know, In all that time, My anger grew, I planned the crime. So on that night, Fifteen years in, I took that knife, And ended him. |
Well, life fucking sucks…what can I say? It sucks a dirty shithole. No point in even giving out any excuses or explanations for days of absence and commitment neglect, because if I did that then what cynical fodder would I draw from for all my prompt (but not timely) responses? Nah, I’d prefer to let it seep through while I play catch up, it will be so much more satisfying.
Creation Saturday! July 4th is Independence Day in the United States. What does it mean to you to have freedom? How do you celebrate freedom throughout the year? Ahhh, the Fourth of July. One of the holidays I loved before I had children. And no there is no nonsense about seeing the fireworks through the eyes of a child again…unbridled joy or any other such bullshit. In fact, while eternally grateful for the freedoms I have, freedoms I did not personally fight for, I spent the day …shackled. Shackled to a mother who is ten days post surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff. Easily one of the biggest babies I have ever met before surgery, this has certainly upped the “skeason is my slave” side of our relationship. She wanted us all to get together but she wasn’t able to do the work. She certainly could direct though. Shackled to a younger sister who has developed the philosophy that the early stages of her surprise pregnancy are equitable to a handicap. And, thinking I know not a single fucking thing about having a baby, she simply must ask me questions so she can state that she neither believes nor will follow anything I have just said. Shackled to a husband that cannot keep his eyes open no matter what he does. It is apparently beyond his control. Forge the fact that our children as a whole are half his. Half HIM. Fuck it. Responsible parenting is not at all important. Shackled to a seven year old suffering from separation anxiety STILL. Separation anxiety that I fear is turning into real anxiety. Everything is Scarlett O’Hara style drama. Trust me….she’ll nevah go hungray again. Shackled to a one year old whose father was seemingly a shark, because if she stops moving she will surely die and I know she didn’t get that from Husband A. He is more from the… sloth family. Not free to sit for more than 96 seconds at a time. Not free to smoke an entire cigarette. Not free to consume more than one bite of anything every ten minutes. None of these things are that big of a deal. Well some are. And even all added together it isn’t life or death or anything. But sadly it was. It was life. It was every fucking day life.
Lucky me….just last Thursday (which is where the lucky part comes in since this should have been written on Saturday) I mentioned to my husband I might like to burn my house down rather than allow something again. Soooo….the image I chose was: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** A letter to all our “baby daddy” friends… To all our male friends with one or more children from one or more women, because apparently upon self-reflection we have a great many, if we are to go forth in our relationship then I have some new conditions that must be met. Because if not, I will burn my fucking house to the ground before you step foot in it again. Let’s just get it out of the way now that I am indeed most impressed by your subtle display of the depths of your fatherhood. Awwww, aren’t you cute, you can leave the house with your child. Just like…oh I dunno…all fathers. I get it, yours doesn’t live with you except two days a week and so you are not USED to doing things like, driving somewhere with the product of your penis, but telling me that you got a happy meal from a drive thru without getting the fucking kid out of the car while beaming with pride is…well… pointless. I don’t care if you discovered he eats peas, or if he is saying ball. Here’s the thing dickhole, I just contemplated Plato with the mother fucker so my guess is that ball is pretty far from his first word. And yes, I actually do feel bad that you miss so much of your child’s life, I promise I do. But we have known each other for anywhere from 10-30 years and I have known these bitches popping out your babies for the same amount of time and I find you gross. If you don’t like what I said or am gonna say then see me later for a lesson on how to keep your fucking dick in your pants. When you come to my house and you bring your child or children, what in the fuck makes you think I am here to watch them? To care for them? To make sure they are doing only safe fucking shit? Is it because I am a woman? Is it because I am a mother? I know that it isn’t because of my personality…like I said 10-30 years motherfucker, if you don’t know me by now…ummmm… you will never never never know me, whoooaaa. I care for, keep safe, and love my children and only my children. Let me make sure you understand. I am here to parent MY children. Not yours, no matter where we are. This may be my house, and if you will notice there are no knives or open flames lying about. I have put away all crazy dangers because well….I care for MY OWN children. You may find it appropriate to tell your children to play inside while you spend your time outside and then to never check on them but I am fucking sick of it. I do not want your devil spawn pulling all the books off my bookshelf one more mother fucking time. My children only rank slightly higher than my books as far as my love goes and so your child…well, I would advise you to stop the shithead from doing that Every. Single. Time. See those posters on Kid A’s wall? See her doorbell and mailbox outside her door? Stop your kid from ripping that shit off. Just do it. It isn’t funny, no one is laughing except you and every time you draw a breath to laugh again I wish it to be your last. Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean the knives aren’t there. And to you one special asshole, I know that yesterday may have in fact sealed the deal on whether you want to come to my home ever again, and I am okay with that. Your child is 18 months old. 18 months. When my child comes around the corner to tell you that right over there your kid won’t keep his fucking wild ass on the deck and you speak to her as if she is stupid, well then NO I am not going to reprimand her for telling you that the fence is open, no matter how clear you make it that you wish I would. Then when my kid again comes around the corner to tell you that your kid has left, fuck you for suddenly springing into action like Super Dad and blame my kid for not stopping him as you throw on your cape. Yep, your 18 month old son was across the street on my neighbor’s front porch. What in the fucking world makes you think that you can justifiably say to my kid, “He’s just a baby, how he did he get so far? I mean what took you so long to come get me?” Excuse me? Are you kidding? She goddamn warned you, and so did I. And her answer, that she tried to stop him but he wouldn’t come with her, then she came for ME, well that answer is good enough so take a step back. Remember three hours ago when you had already started this nonstop bullshit avalanche? Remember when you were talking about how fucking big and strong he is and how you joke all the time about how he might be able to kick your ass when he gets mad? Well fuck you – she tried. And yes, I suppose you are right, maybe it is time for you to go the fuck home. Don’t let the door hit your kid in the ass on the way out….oh wait….where is your kid? |
Prompt: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Around and around the shadowed wheel spins, Hiding all manner of terrors within. Radiance twinkles and laughs will be heard, Yet below horror expands, undeterred. Bobbing horses on a final descent, A depraved transformation underwent. Tiny souls devoured at each moon set, Forming the carousel’s silhouette.
Day 3 Prompt: According to http://www.factslides.com/s-Cars, when Adolf Hitler was in prison he once wrote to a Mercedes dealership, begging for a car loan. What was the first car you ever owned, and do you have any interesting stories about it? I was lucky. My first car was a new car. My dad is a car guy. And not a rebuild a car kind of car guy…though he does that too…no I mean more of a…buy cars kind of guy. He works hard; he can buy what he wants. Now this has meant that since I turned 16, my cars have all been given to me by him so he can get a new one or because he got a new one. He had gotten my mom a 1994 Grand Am and she ended up not liking it all that well. We were supposedly “sharing” it for a while but in reality I took it and she ended up getting a different one. I sound like I was given everything. I guess it sounds that way because I WAS given everything, I kind of still am. If you want to know the difference between having been given anything/everything and being spoiled then let me introduce you to my sister. Anyway, this little red car did a great many things with me. He raced sports cars, going over 100 miles an hour edging out another onto the one-lane, blind-turn, wooden bridge behind the high school. He got me my first ticket…a 111 in a 40, reckless driving. Husband A, while only in the role of Stay Away From My Future Husband A, threw up in the backseat. I flew hiiiigh while his wheels were firmly planted. I slept in him a few times, I got lost with him, and I gave my first hand job in him. And he finally went to his death while being driven by my controlling boyfriend, though as agreed upon by the driver of the other car; I was the murderer of my car. However, his biggest impact on my life was getting me kicked out of high school. Yeah, yeah, guns don’t kill people…blah blah blah. We drove around in our cars smoking weed back then. All of the time. No wait, I mean, All. Of. The. Time. So you know….things collect in the crevices. It isn’t difficult to break pot up in a moving vehicle, but still…crevices. Say you break up, roll, and smoke approximately two ounces a week inside your car. Say there is that much crevice collection. Say there is also a pinner’s worth of shake in a baggie in the glovebox. Now say the new trend for drug control in schools is drug sniffing dogs. That the rights regarding these types of searches had not yet been….refined. The first time the dogs are brought to my high school was a surprise search and seizure and despite having smoked before school, as we did every day, my person and locker were like roses to dogs’ noses…not what they were looking for. I was in the only classroom in the school with a wall of windows. The only one. That is when they took the dogs to the parking lot. That is when they pulled me from class. That is when the class watched me be taken to the parking lot to confer with the police. Ha ha ha ha. The police told my parents that “even had there not been marijuana in the glove compartment, the Cheech and Chong car was enough to alert the dogs.” Oh my. Not the end to high school my parents thought their straight-A, honors diploma little girl was heading for. My car. My lovely little car that, if set on fire, would please the entire town. I have missed him from the day I lost him. I have had better cars, I have had cars for longer, but I did the most awesome fucking shit in my little red Grand Am. |
Day 2 Prompt: Pick three people here on WDC who inspire you, and write a couple sentences about them. I am in this mode where I don’t write much. I respond to prompts and….well….I respond to prompts. I suppose that is better than nothing. I suppose. I am constantly trying to organize my thoughts regarding the bazillion things I want to write, yet sitting down produces no results or simply more procrastination organization. Charts and lists and the like. Sometimes this upsets me…as if all those ideas are bulging out of my brain and the pressure of not letting them out is simply too much. Other times I am very apathetic about it. This is one of those times. For some reason I just don’t give a fuck. Write... don’t write…..fuck it. Sometimes I guess I am content to live within a story inside me and not make it come to paper. One day I will realize that this is due to it all being one really big idea that just isn’t ready. But for now….fuck it. I had however decided that I wanted someone on here to know my real name. Someone. Not everyone really….I enjoy the fact that no one can know who I am more than I should, but still, someone needs to know who to throw the life preserver to when I am drowning. I have had many people ask me in their review or an email….or more to the point make a guess. Many incorrect guesses and a conversation with Husband A have led me to believe that the username I use (on EVERY. SINGLE. SITE. I. VISIT.) is not even being interpreted in the way I interpret it. I am curious now. So very curious. Curious enough that I am no longer sure that I want to tell anyone. And P.S. You don’t need to turn into Carly Simon here….my hubris, though vast, does not extend to the thought that the WDC members in their entirety are wondering what my name is. I have no idea why people are trying to guess. I was fine in my self-imposed virtual hermithood. I still am and will be…. Which I suppose leads me to today’s actual prompt….. Since I am not the girl who creates situations where she is inundated with friends and conversations, today’s prompt is not one where the answer is so obvious. Or maybe more like….just as inspiration normally is, my choices are mostly one-sided. Like these people may not really know that I even stalk their shit and read it. Come now though, is any Peeping Tom worth her salt out there advertising her activities? There is no measure of fun to be taken from that. Sooooo….let me see. Which of the two people that I have carried on a conversation with will make the list? Which two, which two….if only there was room on the list for them both. The first person to “speak” to me outside of a blog or forum comment was…. Charlie ~   . I don’t remember why if I am being honest and it wasn’t even that long ago. He eventually inspired a poem about tits that wasn’t really about tits….but it was a blog entry and …I don’t remember when. I need that in my life. I need someone to say…”hey, you, write this and do it now.”I am not a blogger who gives a bunch of personal details. I may give info but details….ehhhh. And so when I wanted the blog to have more personal information, well wanting is not doing and desire is not ability. There was a moment…when Elle - on hiatus  ended up asking three personal questions in a row on three separate blog entries. She was all….answer if you want…show if you want…don’t if you don’t. I didn’t. Finally I emerged from a depression cocoon, was literally prompted to write by Fivesixer  , and for some reason shared more personal true information than before, knowing that Elle - on hiatus had already asked for that information. Way to go Elle – I blame you. And then for the third person I have no idea how I could not choose Prosperous Snow celebrating  when her fucking blog is all light and airy and full of smiles. Every single time I read an entry – whether it was meant to be happy or not – I find myself filled with the desire to be less cunty on my own blog….which is basically a pen to paper version of my life…so less cunty in real life. What better inspiration could I ask for?I read Fivesixer and Brother Nature  ’s blogs a lot too. I just don’t branch out much. If you come to my attention, then there you are and I will be glad, but do I seek others out? To my detriment I do not. And even faced with the longing to do so….well, wanting is not doing and desire is not ability.
Begrudgingly I admit that already on day two I am faced with two images that provoke nothing but a blank stare from me. My bat is getting no wood. Can’t even get anything out to far left of Prompt Field. And while this is probably the prompt I need most – something that is not quick to come to fruition – it is pissing me off because my brain wants to write a poem for one of them but doesn’t wanna be part of the creative process. No part of me wants to write anything storyish and yet some tiny part of me DOES know that is the way I would get it done. So, it has been a while. I left the computer, I came back. I left the computer, I came back. I yelled at some kids, I came back (my own kids though). I picked a frustration fight with Husband A, I came back. I wiped Kid A’s Nintendo screen, I wiped Kid B’s ass, I came back. I sucked the shit off the floor with the vacuum, I sucked the air out of a bag of Barbie clothes with a straw, and then I came back and sucked at this. My lack of creativity is showing – my writer’s whale tale if you will…peeking out when it shouldn’t. And since creation seems to be out of my reach…well I guess we shall take what we can get. A skill I am most acquainted with. Ha! It has now been four more hours and I have eaten pizza, altered my mental state and have gone a direction I wasn’t expecting. The Prompt I chose was: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And what I ended up with was the following: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I am not really a prompt follower. In fact I tend to twist a prompt to its boundaries in order to fit what I want. I remain within the boundaries but I can walk the line. Image prompts are so wide open with me…. and so here we go… ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Down on the quiet beach I placed my brain, For freezing waves to wash it clean. I made available heartache and pain, Condemning all aside from dreams. Inside myself were darkened swampy bogs, Flowing with black and thickened time. Gently struggling through moist repentant fog, Memory's shadow made of grime. Dangerous areas seeming pristine, Weighing profoundly on my heart, Leaving behind an essence most unclean, Sticky, unable to depart. The voids, caverns, forests, and my abyss, The wilderness washed out to sea. Leaving me drawn and quartered, painful bliss Forced to see the remaining me.
Day 1 Prompt: Do you have a plan? Do you need a plan? Of course I have a plan. Doesn’t every self-respectable anal-retentive weirdo have a plan? It starts with a discreetly hidden “go bag” containing all the fixins for a new identity dinner. Oh shit….I think I got confused. That’s my DREAM not my PLAN. Look at me….delusions of MLKhood and shit. So I do have a plan. It starts with a discreetly hidden “go bag”….wait….well, would’ya look at that…. I plan on having an in-depth sex talk with my 7 year old due to the intervention of someone else’s grandmother and a misguided little boy. Not a normal dick and pussy talk. NO NO. We are now addressing blow jobs and ass play and I want to die. I plan on obliterating the immediate memory of discussing anal sex and "it doesn’t mean blow" with my child by becoming extremely inebriated. I plan on rocking the fuck out of a Maleficent cake for my friend’s daughter. I plan on doing this as a spiteful moment of sheer pettiness that will please me to an infinite degree. I plan on having a better goddamn July than I did June. I plan on being a better person – or at least a better actress - here at home. I plan on abandoning the previous two plans. |
| Today I discovered that the costumicons extend beyond their unjustly imposed briefcase boundaries. Not all of them...and none I had previously chosen. However, I had recently switched to one of the daisies and then when I logged on via my phone I saw that the costumicon is actually a daisy on a stem with leaves and a fucking flower pot. A completely different image. My briefcase decided to cut out the dirt and effort of the image and I think that blows. And the only place I can view these full size costumicons seems to be my phone. Even on the tablet they are stuffed in those briefcases. What the hell? There are over 300 costumicons. How the hell am I to stop myself from checking every single goddamn one to see if it is more than meets the eye? Shit. |
Day 26 Bonus Prompt: What is your favorite mis-heard or misunderstood song lyric? When you hear it now when you're with your friends do you purposefully sing it the wrong way just for the fun of it? This is hard. In fact I don’t know any off the top of my head other than… “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.” And everyone knows that one. It holds no specific significance to me. I can’t call it my favorite; I can’t say it makes me laugh or that I purposefully use these incorrect lyrics. Fuck…I don’t even know what is meant by “...when you're with your friends” sooooo…….. I am a child of rap. There are more misheard lyrics in a rap song than correctly heard ones. That's why I am always the hype-man, less pressure. |
Day 26 Prompt: What song makes you think of a particularly fond memory? My grandma taught me a million songs when I was a little girl. We would swing on a rickety swing set in her backyard and sing and sing and sing. All kinds of nursery rhyme songs. And she fancied herself a pretty good singer. I don’t know if it was true or not. I didn’t know the difference or care. There are two songs, both of which are no longer even taught to children…do kids even know nursery rhymes anymore? Mine probably don’t know as many as they should. Anyway….there are two songs that instantly take me back to that swing set, right back to one of the few moments of untainted happiness that I can recall. “How Much is That Doggie in the Window?” And “Sing A Song of Sixpence.” They are like hugs from my grandma, and everyone can always benefit from a grandmotherly hug. |
Day 25 Prompt:Can you describe a well-known song (from any era) for us, without quoting the lyrics or using any of the words in the title (besides "a", "and", "the", etc.)? There is this extremely consistent ball of fire. We see it all of the time. There is not more of a sure bet than this ball of fire. You can throw down the farm on it, you will win. When you are lost in hopelessness and are not at all certain what is around the corner, you can power through knowing that this ball of fire will always be there. And since it was not specified to reveal the song (no matter how easy)…. |
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