Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Holy fucking shit!

I’ll keep this shit brief because I’m just thoroughly disgusted; I’m beside myself. This week is yet another week where humanity baffles and astounds me.

In the news we have role models who come into the light as abusers and possible sexual predators and more senseless deaths that can be chalked up to terrorist activity. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What I do know is that it doesn’t surprise me and that’s what fucking sucks. People in positions of power that we entrust with our respect, who then in turn abuse that respect and harm others – that shit doesn’t surprise me much these days either, and that shit sucks too. What the fuck has happened to our morality? As a human being is there a point at which you say to yourself that you are more important than another living soul and it’s ok to be fuck someone over? Does money and power flip that switch or were you an evil creature from the beginning and simply needed a little nudge.

None of what happens in the news surprises me anymore. What astounds me still and manages to piss me off to no end though, is the fact that people stand around the water cooler and talk about mindless bullshit after the fact like human lives aren’t being lost, like families aren’t suffering and it didn’t just happen in our own goddamn backyard. We’re so desensitized; or maybe I’m too sensitive. I literally am crawling out of my skin listening to my co-workers talk about the wages they have bet on tonight’s basketball game not 3mins after having watched a clip of the news from New York. Here they are laughing about some lay-up some asshole missed. I fear they are missing the mother fucking point!!!! People are dying, people are hurting, entitlement is goddamn rampant and respect and morality are non-existent. Yes - I’m upset. For fuck sake, you should be too. 

Sunday, October 29, 2017

It's just business nothing personal

In the course of two days I have said the sentence “I am not a very compassionate person” at least 6 times. I tried giving that some thought; assigning it some personal responsibility, but I came up with only two possibilities for why I lack compassion: 1) you’re an asshole and probably deserve it 2) it’s just business, don’t get bent out of shape.

If you present me with a situation that would generally fetch feelings of sympathy and/or empathy, chances are I will react with such unless you’re a walking colostomy bag. I usually have something kind and soothing to say; maybe some shit you’d read in self-help book  only 10 x more vainglorious or perhaps a Hallmark card, and 7 out 10 times I actually mean them. In fact, I have trouble not reacting to the baggage of another human being. I usually offer to carry and then store their shit under my bed; because I’m helpful like that. If you’re missing any of your traumatic life events, bad habits, and shitty relationship drama or any character defects – they’re probably under my bed in alphabetical order; first my owner then by disorder because OCD is alive and well in me. You’ll need to fill out a field-trip permission slip if you want to take them with you for a while, but you’ll need to bring them back too if you want to continue to bitch and gripe about the same problems that brought them here in the first place. I am loving and tolerant but that tolerance is finite.  

I have been providing counseling services for a few people in my life for some time now. Unpaid counseling services; so you can imagine how invested I am in providing sound advice. “What? Yes, of course telling your girlfriend that she’s being a moron is the proper course of action. She is indeed being an asshole.” Giving out this advice comes at a price though. Rarely is my advice heeded. I have no idea why; it’s sound fucking advice. I end up with my head planted firmly in my hands imagining what it would be like to pummel that individual; to beat them into a state of reasonableness. Drinking isn’t an option for me these days and jail is a real place; I never much cared for the thought of communal showers and sharing toilet paper rolls so I resort to fantasies about random acts of violence. If you ask me for advice and don’t like what I have to say; it’s just business, don’t take it personally. Consider yourself lucky; there’s likely a whole host of shit I’m not saying to you out of some form of deluded respect. Don’t worry though, my brain will catch up and when it does, my mouth takes over – better buckle up.

People aren’t always receptive to the feedback I give them. I get that; no one likes the dirty truth. That however, is exactly what you’ll get if you ask my dumb ass. I can try to sugar coat that bitch to safeguard your feelings, but I’m less than sterling where handling things with delicacy is concerned. My ability remain congenial through all of this instead of rolling my eyes or exerting and open gasp of “oh, for fuck sake!” is about as tiring as pushing a semi up hill in a pair of heels and a mini skirt – because the heels alone I could probably handle. I don’t have a disdain for people and their problems; on the contrary, I want to help everyone. I want to help everyone so long as they listen to me and do shit my way. If I wanted to be heard and then ignored, I’d talk at my 10 yr. old. Hmmmm…maybe I’m the asshole? Nah! Fuck off. Remember tolerance is finite.

Tolerance is finite. Patience is finite. My attention span is finite. All things being equal, I’ll end this tragic thing here. I’m not a compassionate person; if you want to ask something, go ahead. If you don’t like my response a) you’re an asshole or b) it’s just business, don’t take that shit personally.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

I just can't...

I’ve been hearing this commercial on the radio lately and I laugh and cringe each time I hear it. It’s sad commentary on just how lazy we have become as a nation, on the whole, but that’s just my opinion.

Maybe you’ve heard this commercial for Lola, the organic cotton tampons that you can have delivered to your doorstep. I have so many issues with this. Let’s start with the fact that at no point in my menstrual career has my vagina ever said to me that it prefers organic cotton to the synthetic blends sold at most grocery stores. I think if it had, I might have given some serious thought to the long term effects of drug abuse. Maybe that LSD had a more profound effect on me than previously thought. Swear to God if my vag asked for Egyptian cotton and a 300+ thread count, I would be selling that bitch on the black market. I have “cotton blend” sheets on my bed and I’ll be damned if I’m shoving pristine Egyptian cotton up my who-ha just to bleed on it. Think again little lady. Sell your story waking.

Now let’s talk about why we need them delivered. Are we ashamed? Are we lazy? We’re fucking lazy! C’mon now, we can have shit food like McDonalds and Jack-in-the-Box delivered and believe that there are assholes out there that do. That’s barely marketable as food, but some stoner or lazy twat is out there dialing up some tacos, a shake, and double cheeseburger somewhere at this moment. I have never once asked any of the men that I’ve dated to pick up my sundries and I’m not about to have some random stranger drop a box of miracle plugs off on my doorstep; I don’t care if they are hand selected and spun by monks who pray over them. I prefer to take my bloated and grumpy ass to the grocery store in my slippers while clutching my lower back and throwing shade at anyone and everyone; especially the cashier – poor bastard.

I’m just really perplexed by the whole thing. Why does my vagina need organic cotton tampons? Do they taste better? Someone help me out; I’m lost. With delivery fee and increased cost for organic cotton, are we talking about a $30 box of tampons? Do you understand how many double cheeseburgers that is? If you can help make sense of this bullshit for me, please send data and reference material to rantsandswears@gmail.com.

That’s all. Anyone wanna give me a ride to Jack-in-the-Box for some tacos and an Oreo cookie shake???

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

The day the funk died

The Observatory North Park – SD, CA
Show: George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic

I’m not saying I want my money back, but if I had known that George Clinton would be inviting his family and friends to host their own headbangers ball and do zero justice to both metal and original funk music, I would have attended a Kid Rock concert. With the exception of a few classic gems: We want the Funk, Super Freak and Flashlight; I was left scratching my fucking head – had I entered through the wrong doors? Everyone seemed to dressed the part but the music was all fucking wrong. Where the hell was the funk?

George is old as dirt and it’s hard for that fool to be fully mobile. I think Keith Richards is only capable because he’s fueled on residual heroin and Smart Water. Smoking weed and pulling so much pussy must have slowed the brother down; he sits on a sad little stool for parts of the show. I get it though, if I were rich as sin I’d sit wherever the fuck I wanted whenever the hell I felt like it too. I’d just order people around, fan myself with money and buy two of everything.

I had such hopes for this show. We got to the show on time [because I wasn’t the only anal retentive one in attendance that evening] and even had some time to click some lovely evening skyscape photos. We chitchatted in line and once we had been properly searched and groped, were allowed inside. The smell of marijuana already hung heavy in the air – good times. It would only be another 1.5 hours before the band arrived…an hour late. I hate tardiness. Rich bastards. I get it, you’re rich as sin and get to do whatever the fuck you want; but seriously SHOW THE FUCK UP ON TIME, WE ARE YOUR FANS AND PAID TO SEE YOUR OLD WRINKLED AND SWEATY ASS. I’m not bitter. Did I mention that there was next to nil funk to be had? So glad I didn’t throw my panties on stage.

The majority of the show George spent either seated, or in short spurts of frantic energy which were actually quite impressive. There were the few songs that I mentioned above that I was grateful for, the rest seemed to be rap songs and some metal at the end that his nephew or grandson or maybe even his son sang. The mics were turned way up each time one of the men took it, but I noticed it was hard to hear when George was on. If the ladies were singing, for-fucking-get-about-it. I think they actually turned their mics off. I’m sure there will be an uprising soon. The ladies did a duet mid-way through the evening; of course they did…everyone got their 10 mins of fame. Some got 30. Some should have given their 30 mins to George so that he could have sang some old skool jams. I digress.

The real highlight of my evening was when the dance floor opened up and I could see “Him.” All the music stopped and all the lights pointed directly at this skinny white dude on the floor about 8 feet in front of me. I crawled through the bars that separated us because I had to touch him; I just had to. This skinny little boy had the most fabulous white fur [fake of course, so everyone put down your buckets of pigs’ blood] and I was gonna touch it. I did it! I came up behind him and ran my hands down the length of his back. It was kinda creepy. It was even creepier that he didn’t flinch and didn’t seem to mind at all. He turned around and looked at the guy next to me with a smile. They looked at each other puzzled for a moment before I raised my hand and smiled. Guilty.

I continued to dance by myself in the little space that had opened on the floor next to the crushed beer cans. It felt normal. I felt normal twirling and sweating with empty cans of beers at my feet. It was probably the most recognizable feeling I had at that concert. The company was good and I didn’t get roofied, although I would have accepted the challenge and probably welcomed the distraction. I’m pretty sure I saw Fred Flintstone and Kenny Rodgers – maybe I did get drugged. That’s what the “service fee” must be.

It’s an experience I’m glad to say that I had, but not one that I’ll ever repeat again. Wait 2 hours to watch a band get pissed off at us for not “making noise” when clearly we aren’t feeling it. Play for your audience, not for yourselves. It was sad and great at the same time and I got to pet a furry white boy; he’s lucky I didn’t jack him for his coat, I think we were about the same size.

Saturday, October 21, 2017

another rant - menstrually inspired

If I’d been given a choice of gender at birth, I’m not sure I’d have chosen a vagina. Let’s pretend for a second that in utero I got a shoulder tap and was presented the facts and asked, after having possessed full knowledge, which gender space I wanted to occupy; I may have said: “I’ll take dick for FTW, Bob.”

I’m not saying that being a woman isn’t a beautiful thing – not at all. Furthermore, I am not saying that being a woman hasn’t allowed me to do some truly amazing things: giving birth to my son, reaching levels of compassion, intuition and empathy that I feel most men have trouble with, scoring free shit from stupid men when I couldn’t afford it, and shoes – it all comes down to looking good in a great pair of heels. When I weigh that shit against the other not so glamorous stuff, which we will get to, I am left thinking I’d still like to be able to piss on a tree just once.

I started thinking about this topic curled in the fetal position on the couch waiting for the painkillers to take effect on my baby box which is actively being sabotaged. It’s not new stuff, I’ve been going through it for a few years now, but as I’ve gotten older it’s all gotten worse. They say shit hurts more as you get older- they aren’t fucking kidding. It is no joke when I say that I would love to rip out my uterus and drop kick that bitch into a black hole in space. It’s clear I’m not pushing any more small humans through it, why do I need this thing? Seems pointless to me that I should have to suffer so much and thus push my suffering on those I come in contact with; because that’s what happens, at least once a month until this thing dries up. That’s just my menstrual cycle; let’s talk about other fun girl stuff.

So, women’s clothing is fun and pretty, right? Sure, if you are a traditional size and that size is socially acceptable and you are OK with that size. If you have body image issues and/or you don’t fit into standard issue clothing straight from the rack, you are FUCKED! Good luck shopping and not trying to slit your wrists later. Take me for example: I have short legs, but they are full and a small waist. I’m sometimes a 6, sometimes 4, an 8 will work depending on the maker; but none of that shit matters because they’re usually too long unless I get the skinny jeans. I hate skinny jeans. I told you I have thick legs right? Thick legs…skinny jeans…fatal flaw! Moving on…

I could go on for hours about body image and how we spin ourselves stupid: “My boobs aren’t big enough; my ass is too big, my calves are fat, and my nose is too big” Thoughts like these have crossed most of our minds at least once or twice; some more than others. Some of you ladies are well-adjusted – I tip my hat. Truth: I know very little about being well-adjusted, so I will just stop here and say that it’s fucked up what we do to ourselves and what we so often think about ourselves.

If someone had whispered in my ear that instead of being a moody bitch for two weeks each month, instead of jamming food in my face as if on auto-pilot, instead of excusing myself from situations like Clark Kent but instead of changing into a cape, I get to change tampons - if I had been given the list of “instead of this…you could this” I would have stood in line for a penis. A penis stays tucked inside my panties [yep, I went there] when I go running too, boobs are always fucking shit up. I have very little to speak of in this area, but I’ve heard other women bitch and that’s enough for me.

As a man, I think my first act of business would be to go out in public without a top on. Hopefully I’m one of those men that probably shouldn’t be topless, but doesn’t care either. Men seemingly have this comfort with themselves as they are, or is that arrogance? Either way; I want it. If I parade around without my top on [which would never fucking happen in a million years] my ass is getting carted off to jail for indecent exposure. I’m clearly not a hooker; no one is buying these goods. Men don’t have to get their nuts squished for test-o-grams do they? No? I didn’t think so. Mammograms are hardcore hero shit. There are other medical areas to explore but my blog is getting long and attention spans are usually gnat-like.

I guess what I’m saying is: I want to know what it’s like to pee on trees, I want to know the freedom of not being burdened by  the societal cinderblock of an ideal of what womanhood should be or look like. I want to know what it feels like to have sex with an external sex organ. Ladies, don’t bullshit me and say you’ve never asked yourself what it felt like to fuck with the opposite sex organ. Vaginas are great and are even greater if your partner helps you maximize their full potential, but I’m a curious girl and there is nothing wrong with admitting that shit either. Take the shame out of it!

I feel like, as ladies, we are expected to behave a certain way and perhaps not say certain things. To that I say: bullshit! I say what I feel and I feel what I say. If I offend your delicate sensibilities then move along; I don’t blame you or fault you. Maybe I’m not your cup of tea and that’s fine too, but I won’t apologize for being real. Maybe that’s my purpose; they say we all have a purpose, maybe mine is to shake the status quo. Maybe I’m supposed to say the shit that people think but are too bashful to say. I’m not alone in it, but most of the women who do this are notable figures; I’m just a nobody. I’m the foul-mouthed girl next door who talks aloud about what it’s like to have penis envy. I’m the girl who talks to you candidly about my uterus and homicidal thoughts; and you’re welcome.

Vaginas are great! I’ve really enjoyed mine for the time I’ve had it, but I think if I had been slipped a note that very clearly explained to me the implications and side effects associated with the ownership of said vagina, I might have opted out. Women are beautiful and perhaps as a man it might have given me a better opportunity to appreciate them in a different light instead of always seeing them as a direct threat. Disassemble Stephanie! That being said, I’ve decided to start writing letters to Santa for a penis. I want one that belongs to me and is attached, not some rouge stranger penis, so applicants need not apply and please zip your pants back up. I’ve never heard any stories of Santa trading but I hear some of the elves are on the dark web; maybe we can do some business that way.

One slightly used vagina w/completely functional uterus for trade - seeking moderately sized penis of average girth with no visible blemishes and no prior VD history. Please reply, serious inquires only.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

If they taught boundaries in schools

If schools offered a class teaching boundaries and a practical application of those boundaries, perhaps I wouldn’t have a problem saying no to your request for a hug even though you smell like body odor, Cheetos, Axe body spray, taco sauce and latex. It’s actually really disturbing. Maybe after taking this course I would have little issue saying “Actually Jane, I barely want to attend the wedding; I have even less interest in shoving Jordan Almonds into little mesh bags and sealing them shut with hot glue guns; probably burning myself half a dozen times. Can we just stick to me showing up late and fastening myself to the hors d'oeuvres table?” How many times has someone asked you to do, or has done some uncomfortable shit to you and for lack of testicular fortitude [or clitoral kung-fu] you sit by, shrug your shoulders and jam your thumb up your ass? Maybe you promise yourself you’ll say something next time. Bullshit. You don’t want to make shit uncomfortable, right? Imagine if we had been taught that’s it’s not only ok, but also cool as fuck to respect ourselves.

I remember taking classes like Home Economics, Journalism and Photography. I think I remember taking a computer course as an elective and I even took German and American Sign Language; but I was never offered a course that taught me that it was cool to tell someone that my space was being violated and to step the fuck off. We are raised to be tolerant and accepting of people, but how far into this backbend are we supposed to go? Compassion and tolerance are things I strive for personally, but I need to be able to draw the line somewhere. Where is that line?

Will I be judged if I prefer to shake your hand rather than embrace you? Maybe I don’t trust your motives. Maybe you smell. Whatever my reason; does that make me a bad person? How do I approach that? I need direction. Left to my own devices, I will either never say anything to avoid some awkward exchange or I will throw that bitch in overdrive and say: “Listen, you smell crazy bad and I’m not entirely sure you’re not a serial killer- so for real, let’s stick to handshakes. This way I still know I can snap your wrist if you try some shady shit.” From our early years I feel like we are programmed to tend to others and make them feel accepted but we are never, or at least I wasn’t, taught that it’s ok to tend our own needs too. As a mature woman with a family, I think it’s even more prevalent. It almost makes me miss being a sloppy drunk; I was always getting my needs met. “Fuck you, and you, and you…oh and fuck you twice because I’ve hated you since high school bitch. I’m doing me!”

What would a class in boundaries look like? Instead of the penis and vagina on the overhead projector like in sex education would there be a list of do’s and don’ts? A guide to self-care in the simplest form?  

-Thank them for the opportunity, but...
- Explain that prefer not to embrace
-Pause when Agitated 

-Laugh when they ask/offer
-Throat punch
-Start yelling and telling them they make you fucking crazy - not helpful

 Each list is going to look different, but you kind of get the drift. Mine might include stuff like: don’t say hateful shit, don’t throw shit, don’t peel out of the driveway in the car to prove just how pissed off you are because once again so-and-so didn’t pick up on a very obvious cue and is proving you really need to spell it out for him. It might include stuff like: ask for the 20 mins of alone time that you need, it’s ok to not make dinner every night and it’s ok to ask for help too. I never learned to say no. I never met a drink or drug that I could say no to. It seems that I have a problem with the word “no” in general. I can’t say that I would have paid much attention in school if this was offered to me as a course; I was usually trying to make a joke out of curriculum or was already loaded by the time I got to class – but hey, maybe you guys could have gotten something out it.

It just tickles me that we teach our children foreign languages in school; even obscure shit, but we can’t teach self-love. What the fuck is that shit about? Maybe if we were better at loving and respecting ourselves we’d stop being such assholes too. There are seriously some narcissistic twats out there. There needs to be a balance. Too much of anything is bad, right? I take that back. I love music, dogs, cats and babies – can’t get enough. The babies have to belong to someone else’s though; I need to be able to give them back…because…boundaries.

Sunday, October 15, 2017


The Fall and Winter seasons are evil sons of bitches, waging toy solider warfare on my emotional stability. I’m already precariously poised on the ledge of sanitarium material 2 weeks out each month; this is gaslighting. By the time March rolls around I have convinced myself I belong in a psych ward eating paste and playing checkers with my imaginary friends. I’m only sticking around the next few months for the Pumpkin Spice lattes.

It wasn’t always like this; I remember being happy and anticipating the approach of this time of year. It’s not that way today and I blame working in retail for a number of years. I think I suffered some irreparable PTSD. That shit is real, folks! I can’t step foot in the mall during Christmas time. I break out in cold sweats and I am drawn to the nearest store that looks like the lines are too long and I immediately try to start help gift wrapping shit. Three’s a crowd, bitches! It’s all bad; automatic response bullshit. I need a Shaman to deprogram my ass. I used to enjoy the sights and smells of Thanksgiving and Christmas but today this shit is just too overwhelming. If I could spend the next few months in my sweat pants sporting potato chip dust and soda pop stains as accessories; believe I would. Unfortunately, I don’t get paid for that shit. If anyone has any leads on how I can make that a profession, please send correspondence to: rantsandswears@gmail.com. I have zero shame and will sell out to anyone for the right price. Just saying…

I don’t really know where I’m going with this; I never really do, but I was out running errands today and watching all the happy people today and it struck me: I am fucking miserable. I don’t often get so disgusting that I judge people on sight [total fucking bullshit, I do it all the time and I do it for fun] but today I was in rare form. It was weird though. I would start to get pissed off at some assholes shitty driving or crappy attitude and I would start to do that ‘How it Should Have Ended’ thing in my head where I play out my crazy alternate universe endings…and I would fizzle out. It’s so disappointing. It’s like stopping in the middle of having sex and just walking away. Deep sigh…. You can’t even go back to that once you feel better and pick back up where you left off. You men ever try that shit? Stop mid-way through a sexual act because you aren’t “feelin it” and then try to come back to the same spot later? Nice fucking try. Awkward as fuck!!! I’m the Queen of awkward and even I can’t pull that shit off.

I know other people suffer from seasonal depression too, but they don’t count. I‘m the one in pain and wearing sour cream and onion chip dust on my shirt and in my hair at the moment. I guess I’m just hoping that if I bore you guys with it for a little bit – if I burden you with my weight; I can go back to being the same loveable, bitchy, passive-aggressive, sometimes hostile woman that you’ve come to appreciate. I just don’t even have the energy to do all the things I want to do.  

Maybe someone reading this suffers from depression too. Who knows, maybe my happy ass isn’t terminally unique. I still want to know if I can make a career out of being a fat, lazy slob. I will practice restraint of pen and just say that there are soooo many fucking people in Hollywood right now doing just that, why the fuck can’t I? Don’t make me play the minority card! I’m not above that shit either. Female, Hispanic and if I have to say I’m a lesbian – I will. Enough people will say they aren’t surprised. Where is my ticket?

Other people…right. If you qualify as “other people” and you’re suffering from depression, please know that you’re not alone. There are resources available if you need. I’d be happy to help you find them if you are in need; just email me. Keep your head up too; shit could be worse. You could be an asshole like me too. I’ve heard it said somewhere: This too shall pass.

In all sincerity: If you are struggling and need help, please feel free to reach out to me privately and I will be more than happy to listen, correspond and try to help locate resources in your area. Sometimes we just need to know that someone else hears us and understands.  Be the change you want to see. 

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

In a nutshell...

I’ve been thinking lately, which in and of itself is some dangerous shit; but I’ve decided it’s probably time to get a bit more personal with you guys. I don’t mean personal like you can leave your dirty ass socks on my living room floor and I sure as fuck am not about to bring my Sonicare toothbrush to your place, but some folks have said some touching shit to me lately and my charcoal heart has been moved.

Now, I am not the picture of “togetherness” as I sit here looking like somewhat of a Madonna throwback – think Lucky Star days. I’m wearing black leggings, a hideous white lace dress over those leggings and two too many bracelets. I’m a direct assault on the retinas, causing lasting and in some cases permanent damage. The scary part is that I put thought into this outfit today. I threaten my pet guinea pigs with turning them into dinner at least twice a week. I’m always unable to make good on that threat though; recipes for guinea pig are labor intensive and I’m inherently lazy. I swear around my child regularly and have shitty coping skills; I am not the poster child for balanced mental health.

That being said, a few times recently I have been told that I am admired and respected for my strength and courage. It’s not hard being a drunk. It’s hard being sober. It’s even worse getting there. So in a very tiny nutshell, because I’m not even sure you want to hear this shit…here is my story…

I grew up in an alcoholic household. I didn’t know that shit then, but I sure as shit do now. When I look back at how many times I fetched wine and beer for my parents I’m really just pissed I didn’t charge those two trip fess and that I didn’t burn more calories and wasn’t thinner growing up. I was an overweight adolescent and that would shape much of my childhood and honestly still does.

I said I was overweight, thank God I wasn’t ugly too. I was the child that growing up everyone would look at and say “Oh, she has such a pretty face,” like my ass wasn’t standing right there. That’s some shit you say about someone when they’re in the other room comfortably out of earshot. Nope. I was always front and center. I remember always feeling like I needed to appease people – like I needed to be smarter and faster and prettier [at least facially] to make up for what I lacked in other areas. I was always trying to fill this void inside of me. I was a lonely fat kid; a lonely fat kid with drunk parents. My parents loved me though, so put your checkbooks away – this ain’t the Make-A-Wish foundation.

Throughout my young adult life, I would experiment with drugs and alcohol… a lot. I really liked the relief it offered me. It’s easy to forget about how much you hate yourself when you’re fucked up. Your shitty situations and perceived problems are just smoke clouds when you are literally sitting in clouds of smoke. I stayed fucked up as much as I could to make myself tolerable. It was as if I had a record player on repeat in my head and all I could hear were the voices of those people from my childhood and classmates who had ridiculed me. Take all that toxicity and marry it with a troubled home life; because by now both my parents are deeply alcoholic, violent, and going through divorce; and I become a Molotov cocktail.

I’m 20 years old and I’m living with a man I’m 20 years old and living with a boy in San Jose, CA. It isn’t much that we have, but we’re happy. I think we’re happy. We’re happy? This is where the beginning of the end starts for me. We shared this apartment with another dude. He’s really irrelevant to this story except for the fact that he had really great cocaine once. Ok, last time he gets mentioned. Did I mention that I was on disability at the time because I had a cracked tailbone? Yep, I fell down a flight of stairs INSIDE my own apartment drunk one night on too many martinis. I hooked up with my guy because he showed up at my mom’s house to take me to the Oakland A’s game and brought me a seat donut for my broken ass. That’s good shit right there. I don’t care who you are!

It didn’t take long after moving in with this guy for me to start doing shady shit with booze at his place too. They had expensive shit though, so I had to be careful. Hadn’t these assholes every heard of Jose Cuervo or Sauza? How the fuck am I supposed to replace this black label bullshit?? Fuck it, I’ll just drink this clear looking shit. Vodka is always cheap. I’ve never heard of Everclear brand vodka. That was the day that if I could have shit through my eyeballs, I would have – right then. Let’s get this straight: Everclear is NOT vodka. I’m pretty sure I ruined 1/3 of my esophagus that night. I might have done less damage attempting to swallow a flaming sword. It still would not stop me from drinking in the future. That shit hurt crazy bad! I cried privately and crawled back into bed undetected. [If you’re just catching up; I’m sneaking booze]

Stuff starting getting annoying in that relationship, which translates to: he was beginning to see that I had a problem so I left him. There were other issues but this story isn’t about him. It’s about me being a big old fuck up and how I got better but am still way fucked up. I bounced in and out of several relationships for the next few years. I have what I like to call a 2-yr attention span. Basically what that means is that after 2 years, usually guys are smart enough to see what I’m really about. They’re finally able to see just how neurotic and jacked up I am. It takes them a while in most cases. I like to give myself credit for picking them smart enough to still entertain me while we’re together, but just dumb enough to not catch on. It’s not as if I’m good at hiding shit…especially when I’m drinking. I remember falling into the closet doors more than once and blaming it on the laundry pile on the floor. It was the whole ‘Dog ate my homework’ routine. That shit worked too – sad.

I finally landed Prince Charming after the separation from my husband in 2009. By this time, I was hiding bottles under my son’s mattress and taking sips when I would tuck him in at night. I don’t really want to get into my ex-husband because as far as I’m concerned he is a good father and deserves respect. I also believe that he is the Lord of the Underworld and if he finds out I’ve said anything negative about him; I will pay. So – moving on. Prince Charming and I met on New Year’s Eve at my roommate’s apartment over…you guessed it – cocktails!! Looking back on it soberly, he was an ugly son of a bitch. If I never see another fucking fedora it will be too goddamn soon. This relationship would literally -- and in some cases figuratively, bring me to my knees.

I did some geographics [hastily moving around, for my normie friends] after losing custody of my son during this relationship. I would LOVE to point fingers and blame [and still do on some days] at this man for the shitty circumstances under which Curran was taken from me. This man was selfish and upset with me about something then and was a child about it. I get that today; but the truth is I am an alcoholic and what happened that day still happened alcoholically. Regardless of where his feelings were directed, my actions were firmly planted in alcoholism. I would lose Curran and stay with that ass-wipe off and on for another year and a half. Why? Because he let me drink. He liked me drunk. I was pliable that way. Turns out I was easy to beat up too; until one day I wasn’t.

In February of 2011 I was beaten physically, emotionally and spiritually. I had no one in my life left that I didn’t owe money to, hadn’t offended, or even trusted. My soul ached. I hated women because they were all competition. I think at some level I was still trying to find the next man that was going to take care of everything for me; I didn’t want to compete with another woman because if you’ll recall, I’m a fat teenager. Men at this point are a means to an end and have left a very sour taste in my mouth. I miss my son. I don’t even recognize the woman looking back at me in the mirror. I can’t not drink. I can’t live like this. I move in with my father and the healing began.

Levity. I am 32? That was too hard. I actually just did the math there, folks. Yes, I was 32 years old and I moved back in with my father. On the very first night I had my first seizure too! Yay! I just remember being relieved that I wasn’t naked. At least, he told me I wasn’t naked. Dear God, please tell me I wasn’t naked. What a great Christmas card that would have made though. Just a picture of me sitting on the toilet. According to Dad, I had gone into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet seat with the lid down, fully clothed, like maybe I was going to do some deep thinking. We could caption the picture of me drooling “Look who’s home for the Holidays!”

I don’t want to bore you with talk of all the rest of what it has taken me to stay sober and I have spared you the really gritty shit of what it was like actually being drunk, but if any of you ever want to know, feel free to ask me privately. When women that I respect and admire tell me that they admire my courage, I feel like maybe I have something worth sharing. I guess you never know who you might help. Some of the shit that I’ve omitted is really, really fucking funny too – I just don’t have the time for it all.

Sufficed to say that after arriving at my father’s place, shit changed. Not because I really wanted it to; I’d be lying if I fed you that shit. It changed because it had to. I wish that I could tell you that the love of my son was enough to make me want to get and stay sober; it wasn’t. In fairness – it still isn’t. I have to want to be sober for myself. I have to want this life that I have. As fucked up and flawed and neurotic as I can be, I have to love myself enough to choose me. If I don’t, all of this means zilch. If I don’t respect myself, then the choices that I make today bear no weight. If I am not in a relationship with self, then I am not able to be useful to anyone else. That just too heavy for? Here…try this one for size

Sunday, October 8, 2017

DeGraw and mucus

For the last few days I’ve been sick. I don’t get sick usually so when I do, it’s epic. I lose sight of the floor in my apartment for all the used up, snot-crusted tissue paper landmines and I stumble around like some half-zombie half-Betty Crocker amalgamation. I don’t stop tending to the shit around my place that needs tending to: i.e. laundry and dinner preparation, I just wheeze, sneeze, curse, and mumble while doing it. But hell, shits still gotta get done, right? More than once I didn’t want to go to the store for dinner supplies but you’d surprised how hard it is to find dinner recipes for guinea pigs on the internet. So much preparation involved. Fuck removing their little claws too! This is all just a leading up to me telling you that I suck ass for not writing about my recent concert experience sooner but I was lazy. Writing foreplay? God, I’m as bad at this as I am actual foreplay; moving on.

Last week I attended a concert with a friend that at first I had some reservations about but went to anyway; I was surprised as shit. When Julie asked me if I wanted to see Gavin DeGraw with her I thought to myself ‘He’s the dude that sings that one song on the radio about not needing to be anything other than what he is, which is a rich mother fucker with a great smile and a grip of ladies who would give him a blow job anywhere if he asked, right?’ Having established that he was one and the same, I said “Of course!”  I listened to a few of his other songs and realized that I knew more than I thought I did. Shock. Horror. Shame. Almost all of this dude’s songs are love songs and sappy as fuck. ‘Here we go’ I thought to myself. I love the concert experience though and music in general; Julie, I might add is truly a fun woman to go to shows with. I went to see The Roots with her and I can tell you, for a white bitch, that girl gets down! I am happy to go to most any show with this lady, and I did.

We get to the show, have some dinner, and now we’re standing in line waiting to take our seats. I’ve never done it this way. I always stand through the whole show but Julie does the dinner thing and gets preferred seating. I feel like a snob. I am ALWAYS doing it this way from now on. Fuck standing! I’m too old and I’m way closer to the stage this way; perfect panty throwing distance if the band is worthy. This one would have been too predictable and honestly, I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. I’ll be saving my chonies for someone who honestly doesn’t see it coming or someone who knows it and will catch those mother fuckers in the air and wear them like an eye patch. 

We’re all standing in line and making idle chit-chat while we wait for the doors to open so we can trample one another for the best seating – I’ve actually played it out in my head like some messed up monster truck show massacre. To my left Phyllis Diller has strolled up and thinks that she’s moving to the front of the line for some godforsaken reason. Honey, maybe  20 years ago you had game, but right now, at this very moment, the Ensure drink in your purse is leaking and the Spanx you’re wearing are sticking out below your shorts. Are those Ann Taylor Loft or Chico? She did not get to pass go and did not collect $200 and I am still going straight to Hell.

Once seated in what I would call the Pennsylvania Ave property of the Monopoly game board [up there in the rankings but not quite Boardwalk or Park Place] I step outside for a smoke. It’s a nice night and there’s not a soul out there save for the doorman who seems completely uninterested. I see the bands trailers but I too am completely uninterested. Just then, I see some riff-raff [I’m 80 years old suddenly] at the gate to my left. The guy closest to the gate tells the doorman that he’s the drummer and asks to be let in. I look over my shoulder half-heartedly. The doorman lets him in and the drummer kind of just stands there in front of me for a second as I’m sitting on the curb. I think he expects that I’m going to accost him for a signature, try to throw myself at him or do some other heinous fan-girl bullshit. He’s clearly confused. It was a magical moment. I continue smoking while he just stands there. One–one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…I’m done; going back inside.

Lights come up on the piano, Gavin and crew take the stage, and no more than three words were spoken before 200 pairs of women’s panties hit the floor. I’m pretty sure janitors were already grabbing mops so that bitches weren’t slipping and falling during the show. It was ridiculous. Reading this, you might get the impression that I don’t like Gavin and that there were no men in attendance. Let me clear that up for you the same way the janitor cleaned the dance floor. There were at least 20 men in attendance that night; they all had sex later too. That’s what happens when you humor your girlfriend and you go to a show with her AND you tell her you had a good time. That’s the imperative part gentleman. Say some shit like: “He was really soulful. I feel like he so clearly says the things in his songs that I feel for you, but am unable to say.” Boom! Panties dropped and you’re getting laid. It’s a fact. Make that shit sound sincere though. Don’t write it on your hand and read it to her like the weather report. That’s all bad and you’ll end up jerking off in the shower.

The show was great. I was surprised. He was really soulful and said all the things that I’ve felt in relationships, or wanted said to me, but never had. So go ahead…someone drop their chonies. Isn’t that how this shit works? No? Sorry, guess I misunderstood the memo. I don’t know what I expected from this show. I certainly did not expect to get turned out. I expected to be able to poke fun at him and his band, but the truth is I respect all of the very much. They paid respect to our service men and women and recognized them individually during their show. Gavin was very human and relatable and did a fair amount of swearing, which I always find endearing, not to mention his piercing voice. The guitar player is wildly talented and the symbiosis shared with the drummer is remarkable. I sat and marveled at how the two of them maintained eye contact counting off with one another and keeping time; all three men are truly talented. I would definitely see them again, but this time I’d throw panties on stage or a bra at the very least. I will say that at points during their show I really thought the drummer was going to climax in unison with the guitarist; money well spent in my book.

20 men got laid night and if they didn’t then they weren’t paying attention because even Gavin gave out helpful pointers; that shits on you guys if you failed. 200 women had to change when they got home. Phyllis Diller needs a new purse. Julie and I made new friends, but Julie’s social ass seemed to know everybody there. Fuck, I need to go to more shows with that woman. She got to dance with George Clinton – that’s an old dirty fool I would give my drawers to with no questions asked. People say shit like “Oh, you only get invited back stage if he thinks you’re skank.” And??? I’m ok with that. It’s George mother fucking Clinton!! Just because someone thinks you’re a tramp doesn’t mean you have to blow them; that shits your choice. You choose to be a dirty bitch. I just wanna dance and touch his hair. Life is short – dance hard. Oh, and always bring a spare pair of panties.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Rock, Whiskey, Pigeon?

Saturday night and I’m dressed like a boy again. Black jeans, tank top, boots and virtually no make-up. I’ve got my earbuds in as I make my down to the 7-11 where I’ll meet my girlfriend who is sure to be dressed the same; and no, we’re not lesbians – we’re going to a bar to listen to what is sure to be a terrible cover band. We meet up with our other girlfriend [also not a lesbian] and the shit show can begin. To be fair; we did not have a clue how epic the evening would be. Spray butter will never be the same!

For the record it’s 9pm and already past my geriatric bedtime, but I am in dire need of some levity in my life. This shitty bar seems like the perfect spot. As an alcoholic in recovery I was warned about what a “rough” place this was and how it’s only good for one thing – drinking. To this I say: bullshit. From what I saw, it’s good for shitty pool playing, live music, drinking, atrocious dancing and one night stands.

If any of us had gone in there wearing heels and a skirt, our intentions would have been clear. Instead, the three of us went in looking like something out of a fucking John Hughes movie. Jill was at least wearing makeup; I think people may have thought we were there to pimp her off until Jeff showed up. Suddenly people were very confused. First it was just Beth and I - and that made sense to people. Then Jill showed up with the make-up and the curled hair and people were like “Oh shit! They’re about to fight over the pretty blonde!” Girl fight at the local dive bar…rawk! When Jeff showed up he was suddenly the luckiest man in the room. I had already assessed the entire situation and knew all exit points and all available weaponry.

            Pool cues against the wall
            Large fish hanging on the wall above the cues
            Exposed wiring above pool table for lighting
            Bar stools
            Cocktail waitress carrying trays – so fun to use those!! Smash or Frisbee
            Indoor Christmas lighting makes for great hogtie

Rule number #1 of being a chick – know your fucking surroundings --- all the goddamn time.

The four of us are sitting at a little table when the band walks on stage. There aren’t words for what we saw. I’ll include photos at the end of this and a short and blurry video. I think Jeff said it best when he said it was if four random people just got on stage together because they knew how to play instruments. The lead singer looked like he crawled out from under a car he had been working on, the bass player looked like he had just come from his little cousins quinceanera – but like a real angry one and he had maybe just gotten out of jail, and the guitar player…hold on…I have to change my underwear. SPLOOSH! This dude is walking comedy.

Fabio is playing guitar. I shit you the fuck not! It was the strangest thing. The last time I saw this dude he was pushing spray butter. Sidebar: I’m fairly certain that’s what he uses to keep his hair manageable while onstage. I have to imagine his hair is way fucked up at the end of a show. I had to do a little research as to what model fan he uses during shows to keep cool and also provide maximum lift to his coif; but I am fairly certain I’ve nailed it. Fabio uses the Lasko 12.25 inch 3-speed velocity fan. It’s available at Lowe’s, has a 4.5-star rating and has a pivoting blower head. That shit is important! From scalp to nuts, this guy is cool and dry. And the kicker? It matches is ax. I am dying as I type this – I am back in that dimly lit bar making eyes at him; hoping…no…praying he looks my way. I tried so hard to get that arrogant twat looking in my direction. He has a go-pro on his guitar. A fucking go-pro! We’ll discuss that momentarily.

The whole evening was a culmination of me assassinating wardrobe, intelligence and talent of those around us, the four of us dancing, and roaring laughter. It was the kind of laughter that even drowned out the band and the many filters he was using to help give us the impression he had some semblance of talent. I think I could probably do better. Then again, I have a ginormous ego. He kept singing to this lumberjack chick in the corner too, so I’m a little resentful; maybe that’s it. I didn’t intend to have the brand of fun that I did that night. Beth looked at me at one point and said “thank God we didn’t drink together.” Amen to that, sister! I see our sexy asses in jail trading Ramen packets for anti-wrinkle cream and cat coloring books. That’s some fucked up and tragic shit. Jill is still on the outside because we need that hoe to bring us cupcakes.

What ever happened to Jeff? Well…they finally started playing Sweet Home Alabama and Jeff lost it. Tina had already told him where all the weaponry was and Jeff was thankful for that but he had bigger and better plans. He took Fabio’s pigeon and threw that bitch directly into the fan, he then took the mic from Earl the lead singer – dropped it and walked away. No one has heard from him since.  

Fabio and his go-pro still play and masturbate for masses. That’s what he does. He’s not even an accomplished guitarist if you ask me, yet there he was whipping his hair and lurching around the dance floor making love to himself and the neck of his guitar. Just a man and the frets. Fuck. I bet he misses his pigeon.

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