%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  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   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. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
No judgement!! Welcome back!!
