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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. |
| Just as expected ...I publicly declared some accountability and I knew deep down that was the kiss of death. It always is. Perhaps that is why I did it because while my soul has screamed for me to write for the past week, I do not think my brain was functioning in that way. For two reasons….one specific, one vague. So, to dig all up in the specificity and point out someone who fucking pissed me off this week…. Cakes. I know that as a baker, there are most certainly some facts about cakes I take for granted. Things I assume are, or perhaps just think should be, common knowledge. But I also know that as a person there are most certainly some facts about cakes that are fucking common sense. And it cannot be explained as localized cases of “every warning label has an idiot” because I refuse to dumb people down that fucking far. No! And here’s why…. Fill in this mother fucking blank…. I never turn my _______ sideways because that shit would spill. Take your pick. Make a choice. I couldn’t care less because something can fill in that fucking blank to make it apply to anyone...everyone. I never turn my beer sideways because that shit is a party foul. I never turn my plate sideways because I wanna eat that fucking food. I never turn the bong sideways because smoking out of a bong is a waste of time. I never turn the gas can sideways because I am way too tempted to burn the shit down. And you guessed it...right along those same fucking lines... I never turn my three-tiered unicorn cake sideways because that shit will make me an ignorant fuckwad. I am so tired of making unicorns. Single tier unicorns. Three-tiered unicorns. Silly unicorns. Glamorous unicorns. Never anything fun happening with those horns, but hey, that’s just me. It doesn’t fucking matter. A unicorn by any other name still shits glitter. And this bitch is tired of making them. I am not tired of taking the money for them so I keep going. Rainbow unicorns. Pink unicorns. Blue unicorns. Gold unicorns. This stupid fucking shade of cream like I goddamn Home Depot color match and shit unicorns. And no matter how many of them are baked with rage and iced with resentful contempt, they all look absolutely fabulous. Lacroix, darling Lacroix. And every time I get someone’s text that they are on their way to pick up their cake, you know...that text that really means expect the pick up to happen no earlier than two hours from now. Every time I get that text I respond the same. The same. Don’t fuck with me on this. IT IS THE SAME. It even begins with the goddamn line, “my standard cake shit/stuff (depends on who you are)”. So yes, it is always the same. Number one became number one because every warning label has an idiot and that’s as far as this one is gonna allow. “This cake is many times heavier than you are imagining so please support the entire bottom of the box and do not allow it to shift or lean from side to side.” OR “Now, remember this shit is heavy and keep it straight up, not on the floor of your car like that shit last time.” (depends who you are) Regardless, both seem pretty easy to understand. If you are a first-timer I will go slow and gentle and lube you up before I slide that cake over. Telling you verbally to hold it straight, to support the bottom, not to bounce it…..etc. Please, who I am kidding, I dirty talk my way through every cake coitus, virgin or not. Hold it right damnit. (See….works for cakes and coitus) If you are a fucking dumbass then I cannot help you, but I can promise you that you are now the idiot behind my new number two. 2. If I hand you this motherfucking three-tiered unicorn cake and I tell you as I slip it into your hands to keep it straight up and then …..oh asshole….and then I see you bend down to get back into your stupid motherfucking 1980’s sports car that sits two inches from the ground and simultaneously turn a box that weighs 25 plus pounds and is at least 25 inches tall COMPLETELY HORIZONTAL before dropping it INTO THE BUCKET SEAT you use to hide your tiny dick you are NOT allowed to call me six hours later in tears. Possible new number three…..fucking call someone else to bake a cake for you to destroy because I am not your girl. Now I am no fool. I do things well and I do not share credit. It is not in my makeup. I did that glorious cake in there and whatever you have just done is NOT gonna be put out there as some kind of shit I produced. So mother fucker you do not get to turn that box on its side without me freaking the fuck out. I imagine if you think back to when I said, “Oh my god! What the hell, turn it back, turn it back!” Then the text that is going to follow will be a much easier pill to swallow. Because… Are you fucking kidding me? You do not send me pictures of my cake absolutely collapsed to one side and then try to blame me. Nope. Nope. Nope. First of all….here is the picture I took of the cake in its box right before I put the lid on...check that time step bitch. Check it. Yes yes, it does say less than five minutes before you juggled it. Second. I told you more than one time how to carry that box. I pointed it out the moment you fucked up. It does not help for you to send me the picture from a different angle to tell me that it “blew out” the side. Uhhhhh…..okay. Your honor, I present the assholes’ own exhibits as my evidence. First of all….do you see how the whole thing has collapsed to that one side? Let me explain to you like this is Kitchen CSI and shit. They turned that shit sideways and these top two smaller layers they immediately shifted onto the layer below them, and what used to be the tops have hit the side of the box. Also. If the middle layer had blown out the back like you are saying (by the way, send a pic from the back fucker) then why is the front of the horn covered in the icing from the flowers and not the back of the horn with the icing from the mane? Because I can see your GODDAMN FINGERPRINTS IN MY FUCKING FONDANT and I can see where you have picked the goddamn top half of its face up and put it back. Sorry, your THIRTY-year-old daughter is in tears but it is not my fault and not mine to fix. The world’s smartest girl did this to me once, argued with me about whether or not her fingerprint was on the face of the dog on the cake. She claimed she had not touched it at all, saw it was “smashed” before she opened the box. Wrongo bitch. I don’t use window boxes. You cannot see inside my cake boxes. And we argued and argued until I finally said to bring it the fuck back and I was going to dust it for prints. I spend two days with most of these cakes. I fondle some of them more than I fondle myself and bitch, you smashed his face. She thought I was kidding. Suffice it to say, cornstarch for the motherfucking win. I can admit a mistake but I am not admitting one I didn’t make. I am just not that big of a person. Now...the very vague yet infinitely more important and impactful reason I decided to flake on accountability…. This has literally been the saddest week of my entire life. And you can trust me when I tell you that means something big. Not only have I had some sad ass things happen, but I also love to be sad. I am comfortable in my sadness. It is where I do my best at….everything. Not despair, not hopelessness, not any of the other things I frequently feel, and gods know not happiness. Sadness. It is where I live. This week, this day, it is crushing my….me. It is crushing my me. Sometimes validation of the truth can be leveling. It doesn’t matter what you thought you knew. It doesn’t matter how prepared you thought you were. It doesn’t matter what walls and defenses you prepared. You come out leveled. You come out, but just a thin little layer of yourself. This is that. Times ten. I am still here but so thin, practically transparent. Might as well be dust, which is just so fucking hard to reassemble. And this is not ...that post. This is not that ‘how will I ever be the same’ post. Because I won’t. I will never be the same. And, not just me, many things in my immediate vicinity will never be the same. It is not undeserved, but this is also not that post. I never deny my responsibility in a situation. I am horrid. I am mean as fuck. I am sharp-tongued and short-tempered. Patience and empathy are not in my repertoire. I have good qualities. I have fucking amazing qualities. And I have qualities that make me very valuable in many ways. They are just not the ones I present. I am okay with that. I start fights knowing I may be starting the end of something . Trust me when I say that’s okay. There really are only a few things in my life I wouldn’t willingly scoff and walk away from. And now there is one less. |
| Listen. I have some STRONG opinions on the riots etc. I’m not going to be saying them up on here but I do want to say this….. If anyone has read any of the things I have said about where I live in the past then this little info bite is just for you….. Earlier today a Facebook post was made naming my town as a racist town that needs to lock its doors and windows tonight. No arguments here, trust me when I tell you that these mother fuckers in this town are exactly the type that should be worried about unrest that is any shade other than lilly. My town did not disappoint as they lit their torches and banded together to be sure that social media understands they are armed and ready to shoot. Not just now...but it was made clear that they have always been ready to shoot. It was heavily implied that they have been ready to shoot other races. Not heavily implied...you would have to be clinically brain dead to not have caught the references. Disgusting. There was another child at my house this afternoon and I had to keep the revulsion from my face as a fourteen-year-old looked at me with a vile smile and said, “It’s okay, we are armed.” Fuck her parents. She is fourteen. There is no “we” to being armed. All that kept me from sending this child home with some things to repeat from this parent, was the fact that Kid A did not even attempt to hide the fact that she found this horrifying. She turned it into a lesson on the KKK, the Black Panthers, historical racial injustices, and the differences between rioting and protesting along with the significance of all of these things in this town built on sheets whitewashing the blood of others. Kid A rocks my socks over and over again.
I’m all for social distancing at the grocery store. I’m all for keeping it after the threat is gone. Stay the fuck out of my space. Unfortunately...all the people that could not function at the store already are really having trouble now. So let’s talk about it for a just a fucking second, shall we? Take the cart. The man is wiping the carts. The man is counting them and setting them out in groups. Take the cart. I don’t give a shit if it is the one you want. Let me tell you a secret….none of them is the one you fucking want. They all suck. I can see that you think that you are going to find the one magical cart here that glides from aisle to aisle like a figure skater. Just grabbing up boxes of fucking noodles during a triple salchow and shit. I can see in your eyes you think you see it. That there is a cart from all the unwiped, uncounted carts behind the man you must have. I can see you think you need the one that is 23 deep in a line of 50. You are not going to get it. You don’t even have the balls to try. You just are standing here drooling over some random fucking cart like you haven’t had your pipes cleaned since the plumbing was put in. But...but...BUT...you cannot have it. And while you sit here dripping precum you are also holding up the rest of us who just want the goddamn cart the man is trying to hand us. MOVE. Go jerk your shit over this cart in the dark corner by the Redbox. Fuck it, stand right the fuck up by the handwipes and moan but get out of my way. Oh, no no, please don’t cry...we will see each other later when you are still doing everything wrong. All the products on the shelf are the same. Do you understand this? There is not suddenly a brand of peanut butter on the shelf that is Corona Approved. The farmer that used to wipe his ass then milk the cows is still waking up every morning and lovingly stroking a teat. It wasn’t a thing then and it isn’t now. Do NOT stand at the shelf and compare every brand of everything. None of them are certified covid free because unless you are going to eat it chewed up out of someone’s mouth then your prepackaged food is still just gonna spend one minute on the lips and a lifetime on the hips. CHOOSE YOUR GODDAMN LITTLE DEBBIES. I have told more than a few people that I am about to get all up within six feet of them because they won’t get out of the way and you seem to be next. That shit they said about closing off non-essential parts of stores was fucking for real because we are not here to have a reunion. I do not give a shit if this salad dressing tastes just like your dead grandma’s and by the look on her face neither does this chick you are with. It’s already in your cart, vacate the fucking space in front of the salad dressing. See the brightly colored arrows on the floor? Shut the fuck up, yes you do. I hate them too. They are literally going against the grain I have worn into the linoleum here. I hate that the goddamn popcorn is on my right now, I hate it more than you think. But guess what...when Kids AB need popcorn, I grab it from the right. What is it that you are proving by bucking the system in this instance? Wait, I know...no one tells you how you are allowed to shop right? No one tells you to wear your seatbelt and no one tells you where to park and no one tells you how to scream at your kids in public etc? No worries, I got you. Lemme put it like this then….I INVITE you to walk the way we are asked. I INVITE you to shut your fucking mouth when you pass me and don’t like that I want you to get the fuck out of my way. I INVITE you to remember me from the breezeway when I didn’t want to count strokes over the shopping carts. Doing so will make it easier when we pass again in the next aisle and instead of a shitty look I will actually respond to your shit faced giggling sing-song voice taunting us with an “Oh heheheheheh sorry, I guess I’m going the wrong way.” And after I confirm this for you I INVITE you to avoid me like the plague in the next aisle because it’s gonna be like a game of chicken between the Sharks and the Jets baby. (In my head I see Kid A swag snapping and Kid B being the Oh Shit hype man). Now all I want to do is pay for my soda and Doritos and this booze I circled back for after laying you out in aisle 12. That’s it. Ring it up bitches, I have kids to put to bed and mind-altering to commence. Remember the old days when you would unload your selections on to the belt, pull up to the “this is where you pay shelf” everyone leans on (yep the corona shelf), and grab the bags as they were filled and load them back into your cart? Sigh….I do. I remember fondly the days of bitching because of how slowly you unloaded. I look back with longing at the times I verbalized exasperation at your choice of chit chat over checking out. I lust for those moments when I could move my cart up, having ALREADY unloaded my shit, and nudge you out of the fucking way by bouncing into your personal bubble. Because now all I want you to do it pull your fucking cart up. This barrier you have erected by leaving your cart back here by the beginning of the belt...useless I tell you, useless. Not because of germ transmission, because I will most definitely climb over this fucking cart to shove that goddamn mask down your throat. Do you see how the poor cashier has nowhere to put your shit? That’s because you are not taking the bags off of the carousel. I mean fuck...why would you? You have nowhere to put them! Oh shit, did you hear that? It’s like a voice from the heavens whispering the solution to us in the form of common sense....pull your cart up...pull your cart up... You stupid fucking asshole...move up and get your shit. That’s all. There is no clever way to tell you how to do this. I want to put my shit on the belt….all of your shit is piled up down there like Mt. Everest. For fuck’s sake GO GET IT. We need a cure for more than Corona. Ohhhhhhhhh…...It’s an off month for 30DBC. Historically...off months for me since somehow that has become my...touchstone on this site. I am gonna keep on posting this shit in the forum no matter what it is about Elle - on hiatus   because...self-accountability is bullshit up in my house. At least this is some publicly declared self-accountability. (Hence the tag) I’m gonna allow myself the illusion that there is a difference. It seems like a safe option since not one entry is gonna go by without some fucking jaded shit. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I have always wanted a hobbit hole. Always. I would have a hobbit hole that was indistinguishable from the hills around it. It would blend right into the lush greenery and rolling landscape. Everyone would simply walk by, and that wouldn’t matter because I do not answer the door anyway. Once inside there are only four rooms. The kitchen of course. Because despite looking like Skeletor with cancer, I eat like a linebacker. Life has taught me a valuable lesson. There are never enough kitchen cabinets. Cabinets galore in my kitchen. Cabinets for endless cake supplies and cabinets for the countless piles of money I would most certainly net if I had a hobbit hole kitchen. Cabinets filled with unhealthy processed food that fuels my existence. All of these cabinets replenish themselves regularly. No table. No table because I won’t be having guests. Guests aren’t a thing at my dream home. But...but... where will Husband A and Kids AB eat dinner then? I dunno. Probably at their house. The bathroom obviously. I know a guy who has a condo in downtown Indianapolis. A 3 million dollar condo. I know this because he has such a case of little man’s syndrome that he leaves that sort of dick print laying around on the counters and shit. His shower. It is simply awe-inspiring. Wide enough for what I will call ...many people... the ceiling panel is specially made and is an entire square ceiling shower head. That’s the only way I can explain it. It’s not like oh the ceiling rains down a gentle shower. No. It’s a goddamn shower head with all the accompanying settings. Go go gadget ceiling. My dream bathroom has that shower. Because truly...no one can get shampoo out in a gentle rain. My hobbit hole has a room that I will call a family room. It’s not actually a family room because...well...Husband A and the kids probably have a family room at their house. But the truth of it all is that I will need to get laid and I will need to get high. Those things generally involve another person at some point. They will be allowed in that room. I don’t care what it looks like, I care that they stay in that room. Listen to your mommy and pee before you leave the house because this is where you stay. Then the final room. My room. It is small because I like that. And it is dark because I like that. It has revolving bookshelves lining three of the walls. A very big television because I don’t sleep. And an enormous bed with many pillows (pillow pillows not dumbass throw pillows) because even though I don’t sleep I still lay the fuck down and give it the good ole pharmaceutical try. There would be a desk on the unshelved wall because the controlled chaos of a desk makes me as happy as cleaning and organizing one. Add in my computer, some paper, pens, and crayons and I’m set. All the rooms are blue. Not solid blue, smurfs don’t live there. But definitely mostly blue. Filled in with some green black and gray. There is silence when I want silence but the hobbit hole can pound when it needs to. I mean...I guess I basically just said my dream was for someone to bury a tiny home inside a hill. And...yeah. That would definitely work.
A list huh….. 1. Alonetogether 2. Alonetogether 3. Alonetogether 4. Alonetogether 5. Alonetogether 6. Alonetogether 7. Alonetogether 8. Alonetogether 9. Alonetogether 10. It’s okay to not be okay And now, not in answer to any prompt but in... Honor of my inability to get laid... A monument to Husband A’s fortitude. Apparent memory of my fucking sex life... ...A revised sex poem ...cuz somewhere in my life someone needs to be getting some dick, but no dick is great the first time. There once was a bustling little place known as Labiaville, And a hardened dick whose desire to enter was unfulfilled. While he felt he was a perfect fit, his timing super-prime, He had been refused entry to the fold one too many times. Indeed, he was more strapping and stood taller than all the rest, But he simply wasn't doing the work needed to pass the test. He tried getting in and out both late at night and early morn, Yet instead of warm acceptance, the town's lips spit only scorn. Taking a step back, deciding to start in the northern hills, He loitered around the peaks til his courage threatened to spill. As he made his way down he could smell his goal around the bend, So he steeled himself, grabbed his two bags, and began to descend. When the forest was in sight he lunged forth, his head held up high, Despite the excitement building, things started to go awry. All bets were off, he lost his grip, slipped in the ooze on the ground, Blindly poking here and there ...not the right spot… but all around. Trying to maintain composure, he was sucked through the front door, And began to drool at the first glimpse of all he had longed for. His purpose grew in pulses as he ran up and down the halls, Peaking in a gush of pent up shit that brought down those tight walls. Aftershocks led to weakness and he collapsed right where he stood, Snaking backward out of town, having conquered with his manhood. Victory left him feeling empty, limp, and completely down, Until he saw that cherry sign pointing him to Hymentown. |
Ugh. There is no prompt in the history of prompts that I hate in the ways I hate these asking me to make up prompts. And that’s a lot because for a while there Fivesixer had some damn happy day of the week and shit. I’m making a face just thinking about it. So I have decided to turn to my kids. My amazing kids. They have rocked from day one but Kid A is like some fine ass wine at age 12. She has aged to a smoothness that sneaks up on you. Kid B is 6. It will be clear who has asked what. ………. What comes out of your closet if your skeletons become real? What would actually happen if Grandma was killed by a reindeer? Interview someone who is about to end the world. Tell me why pink is the best color ever. ……. And I must add to number two because I am being told that I didn’t phrase it the way she wanted…...that what she wants to know is what ACTUALLY happens. Is she squished? Are there hoofprints? Is it a driveby? Who would you call anyway? Is it Santa’s reindeer because if so ...why wouldn’t she have seen the red light coming and not stand like a deer in a headlight? ( I swear on all my mind-altering substances that my six year old just made that deer joke. That’s how we know she’s mine.) Also that she really hopes if I answer this one that I include grandma’s eyes being little black x’s like dead people in cartoons. Doesn’t that mean the real question of the day should be what the fuck kind of cartoons is my six-year-old watching? My heart sings out in companionship at this list. Kid B...daring someone to tell her pink sucks and then making sure we all understand that she has the mythology of the situation in the bag. But mostly because Kid A knew what I’d choose and put it in there just for me. And then admitting that she knew she’d not be allowed to read the answer but it was still the best thing to ask. Ohhhhh little mama….someone is gonna get drunk as fuck off your vintage one day. So let’s talk about what the fuck would come slithering out of my closet. I know what kind of answer she is hoping for so she’s gonna get it. The door need not open far, the monster coming out of my closet has expanded exponentially until just opening the door would allow her to spill out and overtake you. She bulges at the seams of her many times reattached limbs...the attempts to dismantle herself veiled in violent outbursts….only held together by sloppy stitches hastily done to silence the voices demanding she become whole once again. The goo oozing out of soul holes leading to weirdly vivid darkness smells of salty tears, spent rage, and terror made real. Menacing fangs drip with unwelcome semen bullets once shot into her and the blood left behind on her very being while her claws scrape and tear at bindings put there by a man, by police, by her. Broken ribs jut through the paper-thin skin, jagged from beatings her heart has taken, real and imagined. Earned and undeserved. Her eyes seethe with rage felt on levels unexpressible while her cheeks burn red with the fire of many failed attempts. She has no ears, having fallen deaf to the sounds of self-judgment, choosing to let them echo internally forever. She opens her mouth to let loose the cry of anguish choking her but instead projects the cries she has caused from those around her.
You wanna know what the fuck well meaning bullshit is pissing me off right now? “It’s okay to not be okay.” What in the actual fuck? I get that there is a level of….awareness you can sit at and say that and mean well. It IS okay to not be 100% cool with the world right now. With your world right now. But let me tell you something…. Fuck you. That was not a common attitude prior to the world donning their masks. Do people think that putting a layer of fabric over their mouths makes them unrecognizable? Do people think it is a compassion shield? Well look at that, Miss All You Have to Do Is Stop Being Sad, you have picked up your compassion shield and suddenly we forget that what you mean is that it is okay for some people to not be okay. Ahhh, I see Mr. Why Don’t You Just Try Smiling. You have donned the C of Corona compassion and suddenly it doesn’t matter that what you mean is it’s okay to not be okay if it looks just like your not okay. That stupid fucking commercial where they are saying stupid fucking shit like...it’s okay to talk to your cat. It’s okay to want to be alone. Blah blah blah and then….and then….she fucking says, “It’s okay to weep for hours in the middle of the day.” WHAT?!?!?!?!?! It is never okay to weep in the middle of the day for hours. It is always indicative of something more. Always. Corona or not. I frequently weep for hours at all times of the day and that shit was never okay. Never. Corona or not. No one has ever turned their dewy eyes to me and with an understanding head tilt said that it is just okay to be on hour five of weeping. (By the way, who are we kidding. I don’t weep, the very word feels so passive to me. Weeping. Like my emotions are neither strong enough to fully come out or I am too much of a pussy to allow them to. I fucking bawl with the best of them.) When this is all done and the mentally healthy people who have converted Corona into creative play schedules and pine cone creations….when the stable people have returned to their stability...will it still be okay that I am not okay? Will my problems once again be relegated to the back with the rest of the “bullshit” because they are NOT caused by COVID-19 and therefore were not the actual problems they had co-opted for their media campaigns? Will the resources people are extending to their peers out of the goodness of their hearts (also not present before corona) be retracted because these people are no longer forced to look at what they have been ignoring with trips to golf courses and spas and lunches and strip clubs? Because someone’s pain is no longer in their face revealing their unwillingness to empathize? Not people I know because I am taking “It’s okay to not be okay” as permission. The go-ahead to forge ahead at not being okay. I am taking it as an opening to let you know I am not okay and that you were the one who shut that door before. I am going to use that phrase to show you that I didn’t need you to tell me that was okay. To show you that you are nothing but a hypocrite who uses snakey smiles to pretend you are there for the people in your life in ways that do not accurately represent those relationships. People around me are no longer getting away with patting people on the head and sending them to their rooms to journal about being happy. You said it asshole….It’s okay to not be okay….now look at it. |
First... Elle - on hiatus shut your fucking face right up with this shit. This. THIS. And all of this. Welcome the fuck home skeason.  Second...I dunno how people in this group are formatting answers to these prompts. I don't care. This is how I am doing it. Blog prompt. Blog post. Fuck it. Listen…..the playlist to this fucking quasi-quarantine is some sort of death knell. Some shit that a composer so meticulously pours over to make sure we get just the right feeling as someone is led down death row. It is whatever sound rage makes. Each of these songs is a good song...not just an appropriately sarcastic title. And each one applies to my life in one or more ways other than the specified line but….those reasons aren’t what she fucking asked for. My Boy by Billie Eilish “Alright dude, go trip over a knife.” Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash “But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.” Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day “...on the borderline of the edge and where I walk alone” Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes “Don’t wanna hear about it” Chain Gang by Sam Cooke “That’s the sound of the men working on the chain gang.” Isolate by Sub Urban “Please, please fucking leave me be” Descending by The Black Crowes “‘Cause this time it’s sink or it’s swim.” Like a Virgin by Madonna THERE’S NO QUOTED LINE...I THINK MY HYMEN HAS REGENERATED Dearly Departed by Shakey Graves “And you and I both know that the ghost is me” She Hates Me by Puddle of Mudd “She fucking hates me” Fuck This Shit I’m Out - by Youngblaze “Imma get the fuck up outta here” The Ballad of Minnie Dean - by Marlon Williams “Minnie you’re accused of a serious crime: infanticide.” Mary Jane - by Scarface “Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Happy just to hear your name” Breezeblocks - by Alt-J “She may contain the urge to run away but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks” Go Fuck Yourself - by Two Feet “Cast me far away” And P.fucking.S…. If you don’t know who Shakey Graves is then do yourself a favor and look up his cover of Kiss the Girl. If Shakey wants to pop my regained cherry then I am open for business. In with Shakey and out with Husband A. (No wait - that’s not right...I want Shakey to go in AND out.) Poor Mrs. Graves is gonna roll over in hers when word of what I have done to her son reaches the afterlife. (Is she dead? I don't know. If not she's gonna wish she was.)
If my life was a song right now? The answer to that question would be different based on the day. Like most people I’m sure. What’s a song about not being special? But the real truth is that it changes by the hour with me, along with my mood. Being unmedicated is a fun thrill ride for everyone, not just me. HAHAHAHA. PUH-LEASE. I’m not unmedicated, I’m self-medicated and other people be damned. So that means that when I read the prompt this morning and then let it take over my brain for the day I had one song spring instantly to mind. And even a singer. Not but mere moments later when the Hulk made her first appearance….that selection changed. I have had silly songs, serious songs, soul-crushing epic songs. It has since been a literal 14 hours and 53 minutes since my insomniac ass read the prompt and I have made and changed my mind so many times that I now sit here before a blank screen unable to choose any shit to represent my life. Here is what I do know at this point in the evening. My sister is in town as of noon today. More on that with regularity I am certain. She doesn’t have a name yet. I managed to dump The Sperm Cleaner and The World’s Smartest Girl. In my absence, I picked up a new one...Princess Entitled and then got rid of her as well. Whew. It has only been about 8 hours since her plane landed...since the temperature 100 miles in any direction from the airport changed and anything living dropped dead. Which leads me to my choice… [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] No one need sing it. A cackle will suffice. Genre? Easy. The "If I don't find some cover my sister is gonna get my little dog too" genre Of course it won't be a hit. Hi, my name is skeason, that's not how it works. |
The most valuable skill I have is to power through. Head down, forward motion. Do I do it without bitching? Not always. Do I come out the other side whole? Not always. But I always fucking power through. The most useless skill I have is probably touching my tongue to my nose. Husband A might want to debate the advantages of a long flexible tongue, but in the grand scheme of things...it is a pretty pointless life skill. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
When I was a little girl I spent an inordinate amount of time at my grandparents’ house. An old house I can still remember the interior of like I designed it myself. Outside there was my grandpa’s enormous garden where I, shirtless like the men, followed him around in his wheelchair eating vegetables out of the ground along with most of their dirt placenta. There was a freshly twenty-one year old handyman on whom I had the most enormous “my soul is on fire” crush that an eight-year-old was able to fathom. And there was an old school swing set. Picture the epitome of a metal frame swing set from the seventies….well….because it was a metal frame swing set from the seventies. It had two swings where I would sit with my grandma and sing songs. (Yeah except we didn’t SIT, that would be foolish.) Doggie in The Window was her favorite but damn if this little fatalistic depressed girl didn’t just love to Sing A Song of Sixpence. We would laugh and she would just not understand me and this damn song. Me loving that some mother fucker would bake birds into a pie. But no no no. Not like chicken pie etc. No. Birds. Fucking whole goddamn birds that were baked and still able to sing from that little dainty dish after being placed before the king. Not to mention one bird snips a nose. Who had to do this? Was it hard? I think the saying should not be about herding cats….that shit should be about baking birds. Eight years ago, yet many moons since I left my heart in a Morten Harket look alike’s toolbox, I moved my tiny new family into my grandma’s house with her. A futile attempt to keep her in her home when she was clearly exhibiting signs that made that unrealistic. It was akin to a horror movie. The vile evil bullshit that would ooze out of my tiny little grandma served to reinforce daily that I had come by it honestly. There were times that I had Kid A in the only room left with a locking door and was struggling to keep this hulk of anger from barrel assing her way in to….who the fuck knows what. If it were to be any of the things she was threatening then there would have needed to be a sequel. And that was just on top of the other stuff. The... we know what to expect but you just never really fucking know what it will be like till you do... stuff. Like slices of bologna strategically tucked into all of our dresser drawers. Peeing in the trash cans. The fucking inability to remember how to work the recliner. And then she died. Leaving me sad and with two sets of memories. And….that’s okay because that is life. That is the natural order. Do you know what is not? BIRDS BAKED IN A FUCKING PIE. *post post edit.... the last people I believe I interacted with (with my version of regularity) so long ago were..... Elle - on hiatus Fivesixer  and Brother Nature  . Guys! What should I not miss? Got my WDC dick wet again and just want to be all settled into the .... skeasony stuff. |
If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you choose? Well, this one is so easy because of the wording of the prompt. When I was thirty years old my body already had RA, two episodes of AON, and fucking familial tremors registering on the Richter scale. When I was thirty years old my mind had been my enemy for sixteen years already. It had its own collection of diagnoses and often caused me as much pain as my body. So…my answer to this prompt is simple. I would choose the body of a thirty-year-old. Just not this body when it was thirty-years-old. When I was thirty years old my body weighed 110 pounds and my previously nonexistent tits had begun what I believe is trying to actively sink into my body. But when I was thirty years old my mind was all the aforementioned things as well as…sharp, intelligent, well maintained, and often used. So….once again my answer to this prompt is simple. I would choose the body of a thirty-year-old with some spectacular tits. When I was blogging with regularity before I was pretty clear about how the ideal skeason would slut it up all over town. Clearly….magnificent bouncing beauties would only aid in this pursuit. I don’t need to say...I’d keep my wits about me and would never want to lose my ability to learn and blah blah blah blah blah. Been there. Done that. Never had tits though. |
Ahhh, in today’s edition of third-wheeling the 30DBC…… I have decided to parasite the rest of the May challenge because returning from a third absence, I know only too well that the way to get me jump-started is being accountable to the 30DBC.
If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are living now? If so, what would you change and why? If I know it is going to happen in one year then how can it be sudden? Nothing about it would be sudden as you would instinctually prepare, physically and mentally. But anyway… If I found out that I was going to die in a year I would change absolutely fucking everything. Buuuuut….not in the usual ways. I would revert. I would put down the joint and pick the pipe back up. I would be the drunk in line at the bookstore in her bathrobe talking about how this goddamn pet store used to stock the pink mice my cat loves. My husband and kids would not wonder where I was, as my foolish and more than likely police laden, antics would be all over the various forms of social media that they cannot seem to tear their attention from. People would fawn all over Kid A and Kid B to show that in the end, this town was right all those years ago and these poor babies have to apologize for their drug-abusing, drunk ass, disturbing the peace, kleptomaniac mother. And, fingers crossed, one of these women still sporting the titties they got from daddy for graduation will remind Husband A why he felt them up in high school. I would try and facilitate that for his lazy ass before leaping off the wagon. Meanwhile….cut to the corner where I am harassing a hooker for proclaiming the value of her wares too loudly while I was trying to smoke a rock in the abandoned building right behind her. No fucking respect. (Yep. Apparently crackhead me channels some Dangerfield. Who knew?) And on an unrelated note..if anyone here does know me from before….point me in my direction. What is new? What things should I be doing after all this time? I mean shit, I barely remembered how to post. This blog should be called "I guess I couldn't...I guess I couldn't." |
Fun Fact Friday! On this day in 1454, Amerigo Vespucci was born in Florence, Italy...Matthias Ringmann, a German mapmaker, named the American continent in his honor. What unexpected places have your personal explorations led you to? Well my physical personal explorations have led me to many unexpected places. To walk in dinosaur footsteps. To jail. To meet Stephen King. To follow a man who offered to trade his sister for the small blonde girl we were with (awe man it’s just a couple hours) up to a small room above a shack in a Mexican market to buy weed. To the house of a rapist. To a Buddhist temple built without nails that required me to bang a gong and wish good for the earth before entering. To the Homeland Security’s no fly list for a period of 5 years. My more introspective personal explorations have led me to other places. The brink of disaster. The depths of the darkest depression. The precipice of divorce. Self-loathing, self-love, self-confidence. In my year of absence though….man my more introspective personal explorations have led to one thing and one thing only. They have led me to the belief that the moms in after school carline wouldn’t know their dicks from their hubands’ pussies. Procedure has not changed in years. Years I fucking tell you. And I have been doing it for years, so I see these bitches. They aren’t NEW bitches, same old entitled ones I have seen in car line for years. Now car line should work like a finely choreographed dance. We line up in three parallel lines and we enter the “Pick up circle” in horizontal order. So to the tune of common sense we dance to the beat of 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. Welllllllll, some of us fucking do. I get it, there are many entitled kids there that also can neither count nor follow simple fucking instructions. I imagine these are your kids. Wait, wait, as a mom who actually goes in the school sometimes I actually KNOW that they are your kids. So let’s go over what we have been told every month for years now. 1.) Scrunch the fuck up. I understand that you have a vehicle that is worth approximately 100 times more than mine. Fuck, yours isn’t even making that nice rattling sound that you hear rumbling from mine.However, I also understand that if you pull up close to my shitty little car, or you allow me to pull up close to your car painted with angel tears, there is nothing communicable that will be happening. I promise. What will happen is that the 15 of us that the teacher has called out will actually be able to fit around the circle. Contrary to your popular belief, my kid is not lesser, she too, deserves to be in the same group as your asshole. 2.) 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. I don't know what else to fucking say. 3.) Do not get out of your car. Really? I mean, I have this look on my face because I am experiencing disgusted disbelief. This is car line. Like a drive thru for our brats. If you have to get out of your car to walk four to five sidewalk squares toward the school, while waving and yelling your kid’s name then CAR LINE IS NOT FOR YOU. And on the same note, if your kid is still in a five point harness seat and you have to get out and buckle them in then CAR LINE IS NOT FOR YOU. Sorry, I remember, it sucks to have to put them and get them out and put them and get them out. But, though shitty, that right there is the very fucking reason you don't get to come to car line yet. 4.)Do not talk on your phone. And honestly here, I know they say it's for the children’s safety. That you need to be paying full attention so you do not run one of those lesser kids down….but fuck. Give me a break. Get off your phone because you need to pay attention and scrunch the fuck up and concentrate on 1, 2, 3. 5.)Do not drive away until the stop sign is a go sign. We drive when we are dismissed. I don’t know about you but I have been sitting here in my parallel line watching what happens on the circle. I have seen that it is the same procedure that we've done for years. Perhaps you didn’t notice what was happening because you were on that motherfucking phone. Yep, I feel the same rage when it is taking forever for us to be dismissed, but hey guess what? If we scrunched together and we didn’t have to get out of our cars, then we’d all be ready to go at the same time. Five rules. FIVE. I doubted this town’s sanity already but now I doubt their ability to wipe their own asses. Ha! Look at me acting like they don’t shit roses. |
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