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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. |
Do you see what I have done with this shit?!?! Do you see? Nope you don't because that is the point - there is nothing to see. I'm going to fix it. Furiously. A few weeks ago you offered me hand grenades Brother Nature   .... my small world should be thankful I didn't get any. |
Thank you all for comin' out this week! We hope you had a good time, and in appreciation the captain has decided to throw one last major bash. It's not formal, so you're encouraged to cut loose and have the time of your life. Your favorite entertainer(s) are doin' their thing, and so are you and your fellow travelers. As the night and the excitement of the week begins to die down, we're all gathering at the bar to swap stories...what's the wildest party experience of your life you can remember? You do realize that the good kind of wild parties are the ones I cannot remember?!? I have been to a great many parties. I have done a great many wild and bad things. However…..many parties only seem wild to the people who are there and are fucked up. So any of my stories would probably leave you scratching your head wondering what I am even talking about. I can still tell one though…. So much of this story is…..so wrong. Don’t judge young skeason, she wasn’t a nice person….if you can possibly imagine that. Young skeason was a hood rat. Current skeason is a hood rat; she just knows when not to show it. We were at an apartment in a dangerous complex in a shady part of town. We were there a lot. We were shooting a shotgun off the balcony of a second floor apartment. Shamefully, I have no idea in what fashion. Into the air? Maybe. At the ground? Maybe. At inappropriate life altering things? Maybe. We went in and this one guy came. This one guy. He was on pills, taking pills, passing out pills. As a side note, he is the worst kisser in my repertoire. In one room we had formed a circle of about thirteen to fifteen people and were passing three to four joints. In the other room we were sprawled among the room and its one chair passing two joints. I say we for both zones because I got tired of standing and left one room for the other. When I was in the second room, I overheard the pill guy make a comment to Soon-to-be-Husband A (due to something that had just happened) regarding my….honesty. So from the other room I yell “Fuck you Pill Guy A”. (trust me – there is more than one pill guy) From the circle jerk room Pill Guy A comes fucking flying toward me. He flicks his cigarette at my face and misses by …well not much. And then…..and then this fool, while still running at me, punches me twice in the side of the face. The room erupts in…some cries of what the fuck and some ghetto noises like, “ohhhhh shit.” He walks away and back into the circle jerk room. Suddenly Soon-to-be Husband A is coming out of the room, unaware of what has happened. He is told. Everyone springs into action as Pill Guy A’s girlfriend begs Soon-to-be-Husband A to not shoot him and we all realize that Soon-to-be-Husband A still had the gun we were playing with earlier. A small chase scene happens and then we are in Gun Owner A’s truck driving around looking for Pull Guy A to ….kick his ass? Shoot him? I don’t know. We didn’t find him. My face hurt, so we went home. Two reasons this was a good party: A. Every time I think of it I imagine the chase scene sped up with Yakety Sax playing in the background. If you don’t understand that I implore you to look it up. B. Whatever the fuck pills we were on ….let’s just say I want some more. I was angry, was hit, was filled with fear, then was filled with adrenaline….and still maintained a buzz. Still. Maintained. The. Buzz. |
| So many times on my blog I remain reasonable regarding my parenting decisions with Kid A. And it isn’t even that I don’t write about the utter shit decisions I most definitely make, I do that too. But I am a reasonable person as far as decision making goes. I fight and/or pout my way to the rational station but I do end up boarding that train. But for just a moment…a frozen in time moment…I want to be irrational. I want to be petty and childish. This too is nothing new. I often fling myself into the dirt at the playground but it doesn’t usually influence my decisions. My heart is just slightly more untrustworthy than my head. I gave birth to a little fucking shithead. All attitude and sass from first breath. We continued to raise a little shithead. Still all attitude and sass. She is fucking amazing. She is independent, philosophical, inquisitive, kind, empathetic, and intelligent. I am ready to go Rambo on a similar little small town over this child. Dear Moms and Dads of my backwards town: So, while I have not met a great number of you, I feel I need to start this letter with a more informal introduction due to the fact that you have been running your uninformed mouths about me and my family at your house every night, therefore: It’s me… skeason! Husband A, Kid A, Kid B, and I compromise the little band of souls you label degenerate. We are the heathens you speak of while you stuff your face at night. I’d like for you to understand that we too talk about you over dinner. Not at first we didn’t. We took the high road and we talked about things such as, acceptance and the meaning of unconditional. Slowly we had to shift the focus of our conversations from us being accepting and loving to words that represented you. Words such as unaccepting, close minded, prejudiced, and misinformed. We did this without speaking directly about you. We did this in general terms that allowed Kid A to make her own connections between the behavior of your child and the definition of unaccepting. Not now though, not after seeing Kid A come out of a place she used to love in tears every single day. After trying to teach an eight year old to rise above and what being a better person means. Trying and failing because….because she is fucking eight and feelings hurt worse than any other injury ever could. After hearing the things that are being said to her and knowing, in no uncertain terms, that these are parroted concepts heard at home. After watching her slowly fold in on herself and begin to withdraw….we changed our tune. We now sit at dinner and we call you by name. We call out those of you who are so close minded that you cannot even show your children that it doesn’t matter what another child’s beliefs are. We specify which terms and ideas of damnation have been told to the children by which of you. And we do this because we want Kid A to understand that being the better person can run on the same course as rejecting hate. We want her to know which of you to avoid. Which families have spoken the vilest, disgust filled comments to other people regarding her. We tell her endlessly that both she, and her choices, are infinitely acceptable and forever belong to only her. You do not get to take that away from her. You are the example of what not to be. I would also like to add that if you stupid fucking entitled cuntbags do NOT stop bringing up my second grader as your topic of shame then I am going to become a problem you had no idea could exist. Stop telling your children cruel things about my kid. You have a problem with a decision my minor child makes then you bring your third-party-balls to my face because I will throw the fuck down. What she thinks doesn’t change what you think in the slightest. If one more of your brainwashed asshole kids speaks to my daughter again in the fashion which I have observed as of late, I will explain to your child the many ways in which you just money shot your hypocrite load all over their pretty little faces. In what world is it okay to ice out an eight year old? I want you to know that while it may seem in your delusional little brains that we are walking around hoping to not be confronted about our satanic ways…after you say your prayers tonight, rest assured that it is quite the opposite. I walk around this bitch hoping to hear one of you step over the line. Whew. Now that I got that love letter out of my system…..
Dinner and dancing! It's our next-to-last night on the ship, and the Captain wants it to be special. What's on the menu? What kind of music is playing? Is it a band? A DJ? A monkey? Grab your partner (or your friends) and show us your moves! You know what is on the menu for skeason at the shindig tonight? I am going to feast on others’ righteous indignation, though it looks to be not well executed nor fully cooked. I’d like to drink from the Holy Grail and wait anxiously for the alteration of my soul via this transubstantiation. I’m pretty hungry though…would it help if I ate a bunch of wafers and drank the whole cup? Barring that…I want some fucking fried chicken. I am not sure if I have shown well enough in this little blog that I am obsessed with fried chicken, but stick around – the truth will out. Maybe I should want some steak or some other such deliciousness but I don’t. I want fried chicken and biscuits. As for the music…I don’t know about you, but I’d like to hear these angels singing that we heathens could hear if we’d just….well….if we’d “just”. I’m down with any kind of music. I can go with the majority. Unless it is country or heavy metal. If it is country then maybe I WILL end up doing a little comedy skit as I make fun of everyone. I’d really prefer to drink my dinner….who brought the booze? |
We're being treated tonight to a live performance by one of your favorite comedians...but what you don't know is that he/she has conspired with the rest of us to get you on stage during the set. What kind of skit have we planned for you to improv to? Are you fucking kidding me? Hi. My name is skeason. None. No kind of skit. |
We were gonna head to the ship's lounge for a mellow night of listening to some classic crooners...but there are signs posted up all over advertising a Talent Show! That sounds like fun! Are you performing? Is it a solo act, or part of an ensemble? Or are you content with just watching us and conferring with the judges? First let me express my disappointment in the fact that we are missing out on the classic crooners. Second of all I have zero talents. No that isn’t true. I have only one talent that lends itself to a performance and it is some nerdy bullshit. I could read a story. I am killer at reading stories. It could be something dark and/or crotchety…. But that fucking shit doesn’t win talent shows so let’s talk about what I hope I get to see. I want someone to dance, well. I’d like someone to dance, horribly. Same goes for singing. And please let some of the horrible singers team up and form a group. Boy band anyone? I want someone to do some stand-up. Two people juggling both knives and watermelons at the same time, but despite the hype, we are all disappointed when all it really turns out to be is one person with knives and one with the watermelons. Someone needs to deliver a drama wrought monologue that is just too cheesy. HEY! I got that one. Skeason with the monologue that everyone wishes would end. I am going to need someone to entertain us with a misguided attempt at proving they are still a cheerleader. Someone will play an instrument and move me to tears. And before the night ends someone will strip away both their clothing and my decorum. If the show goes that way then I say we are all winners. |
| Let’s talk for a second about the further pussy regulation going on in my state. I am sick of the thumpers, no matter where they fall on the spectrum, thinking that their personal delusions make our laws. Come the fuck on. Poor Mike Pence’s wife must be disappointed all around because glistening lips scare that man to death. How can people who stand on their high horses (bareback no less, for these people lack factual support) and scream that God shits all over evolution, then determine that a tiny group of cells about to undergo their own evolution have rights that trump ANY others? Shut the fuck up. Stop making up ways to abuse positions you do not deserve to begin with. Stop worrying about my vagina, I am certain that no angels darting through the fluffy cotton candy clouds up in heaven are worried about it. Christianity does not equal law and I can promise you that, though we both may have bled, there is no room in my womb for Jesus.
Let's wind down another month on the Magical Ship by taking in some of the on-board entertainment...I hear there's a funk band playing on stage in the ship's casino. Who's ready to try their luck? Who wants to get down and boogie? Tell us about it...the sights, the sounds, the action, etc. I have not had a chance to read anyone’s anything, and I am not good at tagging you people in anything….I will get better at that. But I need to catch up so I will just do what I always do and answer. You can’t say funk without me thinking of one damn thing. Mother fucking George Clinton. There are so many good bands labeled as funk, but there can only be one Parliament Funkadelic. When I was fourteen this song came out: [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] While I was totally on the O’Shea bandwagon already, this was a revolution for me as far as George was concerned. Obviously there are better Funkadelic songs, but I linked this one because…well…because you can’t ever match that first hit. So if this is a party cruise the agenda for skeason can only mean one thing. Mental escape via the dulling of my faculties. George can Tear the Roof Off the Sucker while I drink Harvey Wallbangers like the 70’s are going out of style. I think I find ludes to be the appropriate first choice, but if you’ve got it – I’ll do it because an altered state is a good state. In this weird magical shiptrip there is no Husband A and no Kids AB. So chances are, as I dance around in my sparkly boots, teeny tiny napkin skirt, and afro (fuck I have always wanted an afro), I would be likely to go back to the cabin of the first purple wearing pimp that thrust his vibe my way. You definitely need to keep me away from the casino though. Even sober I would be the girl who comes home without the deed to her house. I like this trip already. |
I am so fucking sad that life is riding me hard and putting me away wet, leaving me to miss this week where the prompts begged to be chock full of Doctor Who references. Seriously..... R.I.P. what would have been the best blog week in a while. |
Talk Tuesday! Gonna go easy on your guys since it's almost wrap-up time. Give me three possible prompts you'd like to see in a future 30DBC. You don't even have to explain them if you don't want to. 1. One morning you wake up to find that you are an evil clown. What is the first nastiness you perpetrate? 2. What would happen if kittens took over the world? 3. Favorite old wives’ tale? Why?
Prompt 16: What profession did you aspire to enter as a child? Did you succeed? When I was a little girl all I wanted to be was an “ice cream scooper”. I wanted to work at a chain like Baskin Robbins and stand behind the counter scooping ice cream. My mom insists that I wanted to do this because it was a career that didn’t involve college and I was determined to be done with school the very second it was within my grasp to do so. (So says, the perpetual student.) And while I suppose it can be said that I, in fact, did not achieve this goal…I wouldn’t say the book is closed on that one either. I could still be an ice cream scooper. Granted…it is nowhere near the same. I don’t want to be an ice cream smusher at one of those dumb mix-in places. And I don’t want to scoop frozen yogurt either. But I do want to scoop ice cream. All I want is to stand behind a simple counter filled with giant circles of brightly colored flavors. I want to reach down and scoop out a million different cone concoctions towering three scoops high. Once in Hawaii, my sister and I, who are quite annoying together, went into a Coldstone Creamery. The poor guy had a tip jar in front of him with a sign that said…ask me to sing for my tip. And so we did. He broke into a version of Gwen Stefani that rocked our fucking socks. “I like to mix bananas, b-a-na-na-s, bananas.” Amazing. The best part of the starry eyed dreams of my childhood? I do not now, nor have I ever, liked ice cream. |
Day 28 Motivational Monday! "You have to be unique, and different, and shine in your own way." -Lady Gaga, born on this day in 1986. What's your shine consist of? I…don’t shine. And while that sounds like indulgent, self-deprecating, drivel made to enhance a blog tone I frequently employ….It isn’t. I don’t shine. “In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.” Francis Bacon I guess I am that bullshit darkness. I don’t bring the sparkle or the shine. I don’t glimmer or reflect. When I am good at what I do I don’t need everyone to know, people already know who did the best – they don’t need to be told. I like to be the weird person that everyone is looking at…but that isn’t shining so much as repelling. I don’t shine…. …and I don’t really mind. |
Day 27 The Sunday News! It's Easter Sunday! Share a fun story from your neck of the woods. If you're not celebrating Easter, share an interesting news happening. It's kind of an "open prompt" today I hate Easter. For a whole lot of reasons. It is yet another co-opted Pagan holiday the Christians get erections over. The hunting of eggs really just pisses me off. And ham is the fucking worst. Two Easters ago I experienced this: an 11 year old asks an older lady, “how old is Jesus?” Her response was, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was God.” The 11 year old says, “But how old is Jesus?” The older lady repeats herself. The 11 year old says, “that doesn’t answer the question.” The older lady angrily asserts, “IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD AND THE WORD WAS GOD.” Come on now. Fuck the common version of Easter. Fuck it in every room of a Pagan temple. |
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