Sunday, November 26, 2017

Ordinary Heroes

Maybe it’s just the time of year that has me all sappy, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ll be sharing part of my story with a room of people this evening; but I’ve given some thought to people and things that have influenced me along the way. Public speaking terrifies me and perhaps it is my intent to give credit to these individuals in case I make a fool out of myself this evening and I opt to never come out of my apartment again unless it’s to open the door for Chinese food, pizza delivery, or my Lola organic tampons.

If you don’t find yourself on this list it’s because you don’t mean enough to me yet; keep trying. I’ll also be randomizing this list of events/people. I have to keep you jerks on your toes and performing at peak. I also have anxiety attacks just thinking about the phone calls from my mom that I’ll get as to why she isn’t 1st place.

Jim S: I’d like to publicly acknowledge you [wherever you are] for cleaning up after my first drunken puke parade. That’s a special kind of person for sure. As I recall, our friendship was still fledgling at that point and I fucking power puked Jack Daniels over the target garbage can. Subsequently afterwards I curled up in what must have been the most angelic sleep ever while you scrubbed the carpet of my stomach contents before your Dad got home. Forever my brother, even if you are a complete asshole.

Carrie K: You taught me how to roll a nice joint. I don’t do it anymore, but it’s earned me my seat at the big kids table many times over and for that I am grateful. It also helped cut down on costs. I had no idea how much I was wasting by rolling shitty, loose joints. There is an art to licking them closed without looking trashy or making it too wet; you were a master.
Homeless Dude #43: I was 17 at the time and withdrawing money from the ATM when I saw you. You had a sign that said you were a veteran of war and needed help. You were sitting in a wheelchair. I gave you $20, which for a 17 yr. old is a lot of hair dye at Hot Topic, and you asked if you could hug me. Being a good hippie, I said yes. You licked the side of my face. Let me first say: FUCK YOU! Next I’d like to thank you for the life lesson. I can’t leap into every situation with my cape in attempts to save everyone; especially when the cape obscures my sight to potential threats. *hasn’t stopped me from doing so almost every opportunity I’m presented with though; I’m really slow to learn*

Mom: For the record: she is cursing me right now wondering what took me so damn long. Where do I start with so many lessons on how to live and so many more on how not to live? *tells herself to keep it light-hearted and not get all weepy and shit* Mom always told me that “if you look good, you’ll feel good.” That’s complete horseshit. I’d be sick as fuck and putting on makeup and no one ever understood why. It’s just one of those things I do. I still do it. Thanks Mom. It’s not that I feel any better physically, but maybe…just maybe I feel prettier than I did with toilet paper hanging out of my nose and that has to count for something. She’d also ask me “What do we do when someone is down?” The normal person would surmise that we help them back up; lend them a hand. In our family the correct answer is “Kick them in the stomach.” I can feel and hear the audible gasp. I know that you guys are making judgements and castings stones. That’s cool, you can do that shit. We’ll still be standing. The point is, it taught me about self-preservation in a backwards humorous way. Think about it. If you still don’t like it, you’re not funny and go fuck yourself.

Dad: Remember that time you attempted to teach me how to throw a punch? We squared off and you told me to check you in the chin. You pointed to the spot and after showing me proper form, said “ok, hit me”. Yeah, I remember too. Good times. First and only lesson; I aced that shit.

Greyhound Bus Driver: I feel for this dude. I really would like to find out where he is and send him a tin of Christmas cookies or a sausage or something. I made a 12 hr. bus ride from Southern CA to Northern CA when I was getting sober. When I say ‘getting sober’ I mean to say I was still fucked up when I got on his ride. I was a sight for sure. I actually wasn’t let on the first bus because I was still too drunk. So that should paint a picture for you. I’m pretty sure I had a concussion, I had a gash on my chin from gently kissing my face with the concrete curb a couple of days prior and I was told that I had urinated in my friends vehicle before being dropped off. I cannot confirm nor deny the last part of that. In any event, I was looking [and smelling] pretty rough. Every pit stop we made, I would steal a can of beer [or whatever] to stall the DT’s and on we would go. That bus driver talked to me most of the way when I wasn’t asleep. I realize now that he was just making sure I was still alive, but it was real human of him none-the-less. Probably wouldn’t have looked very good with a dead white girl on his bus, but I have to believe he cared a little.

K.A: For fencing, the art of the re-write, Psycho Donuts, editor duties on shitty Mac computers, and for reminding me that my words were never in the bottom of a bottle somewhere or anywhere!


Thursday, November 23, 2017

Overdue rant - enjoy your Thanksgiving

Social media is a hellscape. Most days I am moderately amused, other days I am forced to contain the urge to heave my computer down a flight of stairs my office doesn’t have or restrain myself from throwing it out the upstairs window of our single story building. That does not, however, stop me from killing the battery on my phone refreshing my apps to see what you guys have posted every three minutes and what bullshit “Marlene” is responding to which usually is none of her business to begin with. It is why I exist.

It never fails, I am always lured in under the guise of wanting to keep up with how my friends are doing; or who they’re doing, and before I know it I’m scrolling through endless cat memes and pseudo inspirational quotes. Come for the friendship; stay for the epic bullshit. It’s a mixed bag - I’ve seen some great stuff; like charitable and heartwarming acts that reaffirm my faith in humanity and I’ve seen underwear that creates the illusion of having “camel-toe”. There must be a tiny market somewhere or it wouldn’t exist, right?  I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have had to put my head in my hands and utter the words: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now!” We’ve all been there – I’m not special. I just like to re-hash things and take others along on the ride.

I’ve walked away from a lot of toxic shit in my time; why not the internet? It’s clearly fucking with my health. My blood pressure spikes every time I read some twat get involved in a post that clearly has nothing to do with them. Pro-tip: If it has nothing to do with you and the writer is not specifically asking for help; stay the fuck out of it. This is a HUGE pet-peeve of mine; bet you couldn’t tell. If someone is suffering that’s one thing, or if someone has posed a question to the masses that is understandable,  but if you find yourself offering “assistance” in more than 40% of your posts…you ARE part of the problem. If your responses are a paragraph or more…you ARE the fucking problem. Get a hobby. Maybe you should consider writing a blog where you can unleash all those feelings of inadequacy – it’s what I did.

I’m on a few different social media forums; mainly because I don’t want all of you knowing how entrenched I am in my addiction. I keep it balanced between Twitter and Facebook with a sprinkling of Instagram. I’m thinking of adding Reddit but definitely not Snapchat because that’s for cheating dirty whores; or that’s what I heard. I don’t understand the premise. Why do I need to take photos that disappear only to never be found again? Sounds shady as fuck to me. You say Snapchat has cool filters? That’s great! I’m rapidly hurtling my carcass at age 38; I’m way past pretending that an autumn halo is going to fix my shit. Bunny ears and cute pink nose? Get the fuck outta here with that shit! Clearly you don’t know me. I am not sending you pictures of myself that are going to self-destruct; I am not Inspector Gadget. Fucking millennials.

I spend an inordinate amount of time each day scrolling through various feeds. Some of it is hysterical. Some of it reminds me that I am not terribly funny; some remind me that I’m not too dull either. The vast majority of it just fills the space between sips of coffee, telephone calls, and f-bombs. It keeps me safe from having conversations with people that I probably don’t want to, if I am with my nose in my phone or glued to the monitor at work. Downside: it keeps me from ever really enjoying time in the present. Even after I’ve “unplugged” I can spin in my head about something I’ve run across on the internet. I like to play this game when I get home, it’s called: “Oh my God, let me show you this shit I read today”.  I like to make sure that people around me are as miserable and hostile as I am, I guess. What’s that shit about? Is that anything like: “Oh fuck, that tastes terrible, here try this?”

This is where I’m supposed to tell you that for this Thanksgiving I will be unplugging and living in the present. I’d be lying, and while that’s not surprising, it’s also not quite noon yet. I have a hard and fast rule against lying before noon. I just felt like venting a little bit about the shit that really gets under my skin. Mom said there’d be days like these, she just didn’t tell me that I’d have to contend with a million other assholes just like me.

Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving.

This message brought to you in part by #halldark ~ for when you care enough to send whatever.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Rant for a cure - mini rant

I’ve it heard it said in song that all you need is love and I dis-a-fucking-gree. I can’t possibly be any clearer on the matter, and yet I will try.

I was in the shower [relevant information] this morning and the most fantastic stroke of genius came upon me. It was as though God himself whispered to me of how to ease the suffering minds of our brothers and sisters. It’s going to revolutionize the way we cope and heal; I just need you all to be open to the experience - embrace new ideas. Here’s my pitch…

Obviously this whole “love thy neighbor” thing isn’t very effective - so instead of thinking, praying, and relying on love to see us through; I thought we’d give drugs a shot. I’m not messing around either; I’m talking drugs on a MASSIVE scale. FEMA has disaster relief, how about some emotional relief? I’m proposing we set up camps with tents and cafeteria style, or buffet if you will, drug banquets. You will have your choice of uppers or downer, hallucinogens or inhalants and just about anything in-between. You will be required to stay on-site until you have successfully comedown from your voyage to ensure the safety of others as well as yourself. Your staycation has no set limit, but routine bathing will be required and you are to provide for all of your own meals. I haven’t quite worked out the details on how to procure the drugs, the funding for said illicit drugs, or where to get tents that big, but I’m sure the answers will start flowing. Remember:

Now some of you are probably thinking bigger picture shit. “Oh Tina, there’s a drug epidemic out there…this is so irresponsible and reckless,” Settle down – I have something for those of us that suffer too. For those of us that are registered chem offenders (suffering from chemical dependency issues for my straight edge friends) I have a solution for you too! You get relief from your sorrows as well! In a separate tent – A VERY SEPARATE TENT – my dependent friends and I will be playing with kitties and puppies whilst viewing the world through old school orange view finders, clicking away our woes and fears. Maybe Three’s Company will be playing on a television somewhere off in the distance and there will be pee-pads for as far as the eye can see. Kitties, and puppies, Jack Tripper…oh my!

I realize this is all a lot to take in at once and very much in its infancy, but I truly think that I’m on to something. Shoot me an email, leave a comment, or a simple thumbs up (even if you mean for me to stick it up my ass) to show your support.

Thanks for your time,
Ranting for a cure
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Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Freddie's Dead and I'm rockin afro puffs

My mom always said that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. I’m full of shit. She said no such thing, so here we go…

I’d like to say that I was struck creative today and that I knew exactly what to write about, but that is far from the truth. I caught myself at the supermarket desperately searching for shitty quizzes in even shittier chick magazines at the checkout counter. 20 moves to a flatter stomach in two weeks; to my chagrin there was actual work involved. I thought perhaps I’d find something simple like “stop eating so fucking much” or “you’re hopeless, we we’re just kidding, have another hot-pocket” but there was actual work-out moves complete with steps in there, you guys. Next! I kept searching for the Holy Grail: Is he really into you? These six clues will tell you for sure! There is so much garbage out there though and I have a propensity to throw in the towel at the first signs that I might actually have to put forth a solid effort. There’s a pan of brownies at the house I’d much rather be doing business with; screw those washboard abs! I turn 38 next month and I’m rightly comfortable shopping for sweatpants from now on at this stage in the game.

I spend a good deal of time focusing my hostility at others, and so for today boys and girls, I’d like to flip the script – because if you can’t say anything nice…just kidding; what fun would that be?

I’m the clumsiest bitch I know; my close friends will attest to as much and the bruises on my shins, arms, and feet will back that story up. It’s a wonder I still have 10 fingers and 10 toes. I’ve nearly lost a couple here and there in the kitchen in freak accidents with knives. Somehow that goes wayside when the music starts. For a girl who walks into stationary objects on a regular basis and has broken a toe putting on underwear [true story] I love to dance and don’t even suck at it. Most nights you can catch me in my kitchen getting down while I cook dinner. The type of music doesn’t matter too much; the funkier the better though. Tonight’s pick: Curtis Mayfield. Everyone buckled in??? Fantastic! Here we go!

I’m a visual girl; not in a nasty way, you perverts. The music starts to play and I can almost feel the notes on my skin. I can start to see and feel my surroundings change. I’m not hallucinating either, so please step away from your phones – no need to dial 911. The drums, the horns, and a flute too – then it happens. I bust out in plaid bell-bottom pants and polyester top; mustard colored. I’m black now too suddenly. I’ve got the sickest afro puffs and a rockin booty. I’m scaring the people I live with. It is a live re-enactment of Soul Train in my apartment. To the outsider, I'm an awkward white girl who’s likely to injure herself and require medical attention. In my mind, I am a solid gold dancer and I can’t stop…won’t stop. I identify. I’ve also just dropped the sauté pan lid on my left foot. That's gonna leave a bruise. 

Music has always taken me places that not even books could. Shit, for a moment I was black. I never once read a book and thought “Yep, I could totally put myself in that Geisha’s position – totally relatable.” Growing up I always wanted to be Ella Fitzgerald. I don’t know if many young girls felt about Miss Otis the way that I did. I never gave it much thought until today when my partner watched me doing my thing in the kitchen again and could only shake his head and say “You, my dear are a delight.”

I don’t have a point in any of this other than I like good music, magazines are bullshit, sweatpants are my official uniform, I only injured myself once during the course of all of this, and Curtis Mayfield is the shit - I’ve include a track for your listening pleasure.

Hopefully you can picture me as a black chick in bell-bottoms and afro puffs. I think I’d be pretty rockin. If I’ve offended you, lighten up. Dance, you’ll feel better, ya stiff.

Monday, November 13, 2017


We live in a society of entitled little bitches. Chances are you’re one too. Don’t get upset; I’m one. If you don’t think you qualify, check out the last few text messages you’ve sent and the emoji’s you’ve used in those text messages. Did you stick to the standard happy faces or did you utilize any of the aftermarket images? You know what? It actually doesn’t matter that much. Did you look at your phone to check your text messages? Do you own a mobile device? Exactly.

Before you get all self-righteous and defensive retorting with shit like: “I’m really low-maintenance, I give back to the community, and I live well within my means” – I said I was an entitled ass as well – calm down. I’ve always wanted to tell someone else to calm down when they’re agitated. I bet that pissed you off; it would have pissed me off. Feel free to submit a formal complaint via email; I promise I won’t read it.  My point is: I don’t slight you for it. In my opinion that’s how we're socialized. With the advent of new technology, so comes the urge for proprietorship. Everyone can relax their ass muscles; this is not a personal attack - I promise I’m going somewhere with this.

I was pretending to work this afternoon and composing one of the many text messages that I do to kill time and re-affirm my value in the lives of those I call friends when I noticed something: there are a shit ton of emoji at my disposal. As I began to scroll through what seemed a never-ending stream of characters, I thought: what is all this fuckery for? When am ever really going to send someone a Mermaid? I loved the movie Splash, but Daryl Hannah and Tom Hanks rarely come up in conversation for me and if I’m alluding to tuna - I’ll send the fish or a dolphin because although most tuna is dolphin free; I’m a sinister bitch and that’s how I play. I have the option to send elves from middle earth in my text messages. Why? Why would I need this option? Can I not spell Elves? Can the recipient of my messages not read? I get that it’s supposed to be fun, but I think maybe we’re dumbing it all down just a little too much. Next stop: picture books. Or maybe books and the written work altogether are to be replaced by emoji. New wave hieroglyphics.  We. Are. Fucked.

It occurred to me that as with all things, some asshole somewhere asked for this. Most likely the same genius that thought it would be a great idea to put four meat patties on a burger with bacon and extra cheese - sound logic. Ideas don’t come to fruition without the push for, or calling from a populous. Why? Because we’d most likely just as soon add more meat or bacon to the shit we already have in place. Perhaps a shitty analogy, but I think you get what I’m trying to say. It’s not a medical breakthrough, we’re not reinventing the wheel, and it’s not revolutionizing life as we know it – it’s just making killing time more fun.

Going through all the emoji, one stuck out as missing to me. I noticed one that I personally would like to see added. With a hodgepodge of other useless shit like smiley faces in cowboy hats, a disembodied arm holding a cell phone [I’m not kidding] two or three different types of rice, 4 different wrestling emoji, a hypodermic needle [SMH] and a barber shop pole, I noticed Jesus was missing. I can hear you guys sighing. I’m not a holy-roller but I feel as though if we have a Santa emoji, we need a Jesus; and that’s why I propose the Buddy Christ emoji as seen below. I would most certainly send this emoji on the regular! Got a friend who is feeling a little blue? Buddy Christ to the rescue! Do you have a friend that sometimes engages is behavior that is morally questionable? Every so often you should send that friend Buddy Christ as a reminder that they are loved. Plant the seed and watch that bitch grow!

Since I don’t see the trends changing any time soon and people becoming any more grateful or cognizant of all that they have been blessed with; I am jumping in with both feet. I want Buddy Christ; who do I have to write to make this happen? With the way things are going, if we’re to revert back to pictures as our only means of communication, I foresee a lot of eggplants and peaches. I need a Buddy.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

A momentary distraction

My opinions aren’t always popular ones; they often go against the grain in fact. I don’t pay much attention to it, until it’s pointed out to me that I might be being an uncaring twat. I suspect it has little to do with our difference in opinion and more to do with my delivery. I have no plans on changing; this is me. That’s not to say that if you’re a friend and I’ve offended you, I won’t apologize; but if we’re friends – it’s likely you’re laughing along with me.

I’d like to take a moment to distract your attention from the scandal in the news as of late. Let us not think about the icons that are falling like chess pieces. Let’s talk about some shit that confuses me and some shit I think is pretty fucking cool. If you’re not in, stop reading now.

Glitter Lattes: What the fuck is happening here? Who is the genius that decided that putting glitter in my cup of “wake the hell up” was a good idea? Sure, it’s pretty and it sparkles and all the little girls will swoon and wet their little girl panties. Hell, I know some old broads that would buy this shit and spend top dollar doing so too, but I’ll pass - thanks. There is no way in hell that I am spending money to turn my toilet bowl into a disco ball for the indefinite future. *Louis CK* You know the lifespan of a single spec of glitter? You don’t? Ask a stripper. I believe it’s somewhere in the vicinity of 4 months. You do the math on the destruction in a cup of coffee.

Crop Tops: Can someone please tell me *George Takei* when these things made a comeback onto the fashion scene? I’ve noticed a disturbing correlation between crop tops and chokers too. Is there an incentive program in place: buy one get one free? I’d like to ban both for women over a certain age. I won’t body shame by adding a weight limit, but I guess I kinda just did by bringing it up - cat’s outta the bag. I whole-heartedly embrace loving yourself at any size; but I also embrace loving the clothing the loves you back. Crop tops aren’t it. As far as I’m concerned [and I’m clearly an expert] crop tops aren’t a good look on anyone; not even Suzy with the washboard abs *Kevin Spacey* and perfect tits.

I’m fairly certain I said that I was going to talk about some cool shit too and I hate not following through with what I say I’m going to do, so here it comes… Some cool stuff…still searching the data files…

I’ve been blessed with a really mundane existence. Wait for it. One that affords me the ability to take things slowly and enjoy the subtle nuances of life: going for a walk, going for a late night swim, going to many, many concerts and shows *Harvey Weinstein* going to the movies and dinner with friends and the time to write and inflict my suffering on you folks. Recently I went to see the movie Thor: Ragnarok with some friends. I really enjoyed the show, but I realized that I could never be a reviewer of films. 20 mins out of the theater and I had already forgotten it. I blame drugs. Movies aren’t the same for me as music. Music touches me *James Toback* in a way that movies can’t; never has and probably never will – at least not until I finally go deaf and can’t hear the music any more. Even then, I believe I’ll still feel it.

Hopefully I’ve distracted you from all the bullshit in the news *Steven Seagal* and given you an opportunity to start questioning some of the crap that doesn’t make sense to you either. I for one, would still like to know why my vagina is interested in organic cotton tampons. I’d be interested in finding out if the wavy eyebrow trend ever really took off or if it fell flat - and if it really did take off, for fuck sake why? Who are these assholes perpetuating these ridiculous trends? Is it ok to isolate them on their own little island so they don’t infect the rest of the population? If we allow this type of shenanigans to continue we might all end up in fanny packs again. I can’t take that kind of humiliation and my ass too big to ever pull that look off.

In closing: don’t masturbate in front of people that you’re not in a relationship with - even if you’ve asked permission first, don’t show people you’re genitals unless it’s in your job description or you’re in a relationship with that individual and they’ve said “it’s cool” or it’s mutually understood, and try to just be a decent fucking human being. Just a few of my helpful hints on how to maneuver through life without being a miserable sack of shit. Cheers!

Friday, November 10, 2017

She's gone soft folks

The holiday season is upon us again and for me it usually creates either feelings of extreme pressure and anxiety or togetherness and a deep need to be close to family. There’s really no grey area or middle ground. I like to live in extremes.

I was working on some of my Halldark cards this afternoon when nostalgia struck. It’s a real motherfucker; always making me sappy and soft when I need to be on point and with my head in the game. In the middle of my ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ Halldark card Pandora decided to fuck with me and throw some Coldplay on the shuffle; it’s been downhill ever since. The ghosts of Thanksgivings past have been playing racquetball in my head for the last 45 minutes. I figure if they’re going to get their workout, I might as well stretch my fingers too. I don’t know if anyone else visualizes ghosts in traditional Amish attire playing racquetball the way that I do, but if you don’t, perhaps you do now…and you’re welcome.

Growing up my family would gather at my Grandparents house which conveniently was next door. It was convenient in that my mother and I absolutely hated attending [sorry Mom] and waited until the last minute to show up, staying just long enough to eat and help clean up a little, and then leaving. You’d think that it would have been painless – you’d be wrong. If we could have played a game of rock, paper, scissors or arm wrestled our way out of attendance we gladly would have fought each other. Loser has to attend and make up a creative excuse as to why the other was staying home. Fatal flaw in that plan? My Grandmother would have marched right over concerned for our very lives and began praying at our bedside. Better to just bite our bottom lip and deal with it for a few hours.

My family was no more dysfunctional than the next. I’m choking on my water. Choking on my damn water. My family was so fucked up! I can say that shit though. You say it and I’ll cut you. I still miss that old house that I grew up in. I miss the arguments at the table, the terrible ambrosia salad, the tamales and turkey [we always had both – we embraced both cultures and couldn’t grasp moderation in either] and I miss my Grandfather.

Lino was a rough man who walked a bit stiff. He walked like a man who had just gotten off a horse. He walked that way for as long as I can remember. Even his arms swung awkwardly when he walked; that was just his gait. I wouldn’t quite say lumbering or Neanderthal, but he definitely had the posture and stride of a man that had endured much physical labor in his life. Maybe that’s why he was such an asshole. I’ll stop right here and remind you, this is my family and while what I say may seem harsh; it’s the truth. He was, in fact, an asshole. He loved us though and that was never in question…ok, maybe it was questioned, but we knew it deep down. He provided for us; all of us.

My Aunt Vicki and Grandmother would work tirelessly in the kitchen while my Uncle and Grandfather would watch football. My Grandfather was already drunk, having snuck out into the garage for several pulls off the nasty ass bottle of Canadian booze he had stashed out there; you know, the bottom shelf stuff. My Uncle would join him shortly. Mom and I would wait till we were comfortably back in our own home to get shitfaced; no one needs to see how we drink. Besides, the two of us get loose-lipped when we drink so all those silly “feelings” might come out and God forbid I should let slip that what I really think. I’m even moderating here. It’s not that I still harbor crappy feelings, it’s just that re-hashing that shit does no one any good. I’ve learned that other people have feelings and when you hurt them, it’s hard to fix that kind of shit. It’s not like when I was twelve and ripped Barbie’s head off; you can’t just put it back together all nice and neat. *I always shaved Barbie first, then I ripped their heads off. I was troubled. *

We would all sit down at the table eventually; all but my Grandmother. She continued to serve all of us. She continued heating tortillas and fetching my Grandfather whatever he barked at her to get him. Oh, by this time I’m hoping that you’ve been swift enough to pick up on the fact that I’m Hispanic. I dropped a few clues: Tortillas, Tamales, Grandpa’s name being Lino. Besides, most white families know better than to live next door to one another. We all together still? Ok, great! Moving on. My poor Grandmother would always be the last to eat and she would sit by herself; not even in the dining room where the rest of us had eaten, but instead at this shit ass little table in the kitchen that was covered with a mess of crap: mangoes, 5 different types of cereal, Folgers coffee crystals, assorted Tupperware, and a radio that only tuned in am stations. I fucking hated that thing. I can still see the wall mounted yellow phone if I close my eyes.

I live in San Diego now and I’m far enough away from my family that I don’t feel the crushing anxiety around the holidays any more. I’m also sober so that changes things quite a bit. I don’t need to escape for a drink. I don’t fear that people can tell that I’m already tossed. I don’t feel the need or desire to chew my arm off to get out of those situations and quite frankly I would pay good fucking money to have my asshole Grandfather back for another Thanksgiving. I fucking hate that Coldplay did this to me. Sappy bitch! I miss my family; my dysfunctional, erratic, chaotic, and lovable family. I spent the better part of my life disassociating myself from them and today while writing a Halldark [fucking figures] card, I am struck sentimental.

I’ve blabbered much longer than I intended. I don’t know that I even had a point. I guess I just had a feeling and some free time. Both are dangerous when you present them to me. Hopefully this is just temporary and I haven’t suffered any permanent damage. Maybe it’s just a phase – like Nickelback. Oh fuck! Pray for me. 

Happy Thanksgiving #halldark

Our homes may be far apart, but our hearts are as close as always.

Ps: Sorry I couldn’t be there to celebrate with you; I just couldn’t be sure you weren’t going to spring one of those “intervention” things on me again this year. Give my love to Aunt Faye.  


Halldark ~ for when you care enough to send whatever

Thursday, November 9, 2017


Becoming sloth

5:30 am and instead of being at the gym or outside on a morning run, I am on my ass in my living room typing this drivel and deciding between sweatpants or leggings for today’s wardrobe. If I were allowed to show up to work wearing burlap or one of the sets of unattractive pajamas I own; trust that I would. At 5:19 this morning I threw in the towel; I gave up – game over.

As with any other morning, I was sitting on the toilet plucking my eyebrows; it’s oddly cathartic for me, but what is not cathartic is finding a rogue chin hair. I might be lying a little bit if I were to tell you that I hadn’t seen this little fucker before, but today he seemed darker and more menacing. If this little whisker had a face I’m sure he would be smirking at me. There is no way that it could be female - in my opinion. Female facial hair would be sympathetic and sorry for its premature arrival and this asshole was for sure throwing shade; I could feel it!

I’d been in denial in the past - thinking perhaps it was a misplaced eyebrow, or that it belonged to someone else and was simply seeking shelter on my face and who am I to turn away a stray? Sure little buddy, I will give you refuge until you are strong enough to make it out there on your own or until you become noticeable on my topography, then you’ll have to bounce. I have issues enough being mistaken for a boy, you becoming a fixture on my face will only reinforce this and I can’t have that. With a ‘barely there’ B cup, short hair, and a 9th grade vocabulary; your residency delivers a crushing blow to my already teetering femininity.

I took his life with the aid of Mr. Tweezerman. With steady hands I went for the kill shot and ripped that little asshole out by the root nice and slow. It was so gratifying in fact that when I was done; I looked down at my handiwork and in a manner of speaking, mocked the hair. That’s right; I talked shit to a hair that I pulled from my chin. I’ve done some stupid shit, but I think this is right up there in the rankings. I talked down to that little chin hair: “What now? What you got now, tough guy? Right. Nuthin. What? Go ahead, say something…” *make sure to insert overconfidence in tone while reading that* I have fallen hopeless to and helpless. I talk shit to facial hair. I was almost disappointed when it didn’t rise to the occasion and I wasn’t able to actually pick a fight. So you see; this is why I give up. I’ve lost the battle with both my body and my mind.

I’ve never had an issue sharing even the most embarrassing of encounters with you guys and this certainly qualifies. I’ve even decided to post the photo of my little buddy [see below] post extraction. I’m a little lonely now if I’m being honest. Hindsight being 20/20, I’m wondering if I made a mistake. What if we could have been best buddies? I could have let him grow and perhaps invited a few more of his cousins and together we could have done something charitable; like grown locks of love. I think I just threw up a little bit. “Here Tabitha, we know you lost your own hair, but here is a nice wig made entirely of chin hair donated by Tina. She says: ‘Fuck Cancer’ and ‘Not by the hair on my chiny-chin-chin’ and that she knows she’s going to Hell, but she hopes you enjoy your new fro.”

Straight. To. Hell.

Does Satan have razors or does the hair just singe from the heat, and if that’s the case, do we all smell like burnt dog hair? I need to know these kinds of things so I can pack accordingly.



Sunday, November 5, 2017

With great power comes great douchebaggery - op ed

With so much bullshit taking place in the Nation and making the headlines, both real and fake; you have to ask yourselves if any of it surprises you.

I for one am not surprised. I am no more surprised by this shit than I am coming home to find that no one has cleaned my refrigerator for me – that apparently is always my job. I’m not surprised when I reach for the egg nog and there is less than 3 oz. left in the damn container. Not. Fucking. Surprised. So I am not surprised when I read headlines of scandal, embezzlement, cover-ups, tax evasion, killings, sexual misconduct, rape, murder, war crimes etc. That doesn’t mean that I lose hope. The same way that I hope one day I’ll come home and someone will have scrubbed the toilets, cleaned the fridge and made me dinner, I hold out hope that one fine day, humanity will collectively pull our heads out of our shared giant anus.

With great power comes great douchebaggery. That’s what Spider-Man’s Uncle tells him before he kicks the bucket, right? Right before he peacefully passes in his sleep, right? WRONG! Peter Parker’s Uncle was shot. Shot dead in front of a library over a measly bag of money won at a fight. That’s petty bullshit – child’s play. Contemplate what happens as the stakes get higher. Or scale it back first if that helps to put things in perspective.

I started thinking about what happens to my brain when power kicks my ego into gear. I recall my first few days with my new car. For starters:  it’s a piece of shit car, but for me it was new and had Sirius XM and a back-up cam and that made me better than you. Holy fuck, I can only imagine if that bitch had come equipped with heated seats! It doesn’t take much to get me thinking that I am “better than” or entitled. Put me in a group of peers designed to work on a project and assign me the role of team lead then watch the power go directly to my head; it takes mere moments. Don’t fuck around and say you haven’t done the same. It may suck, but we’re human and fallible; these icons and leaders are merely human too. Don’t be surprised when they fuck up; be surprised how they fuck up.

At no point in my life have I ever thought it might be neat to inappropriately assert myself on a minor because “who wouldn’t want this?” There are zero times when I thought that making a profit off the illness of another human being was at all acceptable. There’s a special place in Hell for people of this caliber. The more financial backing you have, the easier it is to get away with this horseshit. That’s what it is – horseshit. Politicians [I said I wouldn’t get political here, so I’ll keep this real brief] must come out of the womb with the innate ability to spew shit from their face-holes and bury it quickly beneath the bodies of the people they’ve sworn to serve. I get that it’s a life that they’ve dedicated themselves to and chosen, but what I need to know is this: how the fuck do you assholes sleep at night?

Is this a nature vs. nurture thing? Let me help explain that a bit more. Were these people always scum sucking assholes and money just nudged them over the edge or were they perhaps good and kind people that money and fame corrupted? The chicken or the egg - which came first? I’ll reiterate: I’m not surprised by any of the shit I hear, see, or read any more. I am merely saddened and surprised at the extent to which my idols and leaders have fallen.  None of this is supposed to be funny or even thought- provoking; it’s simply one crazy woman’s thoughts on a shitty state of affairs. I would like to believe that there are still good people out there that aren’t power whores; people that we can trust to put our best interests first. Hopefully they are kind, compassionate, and steadfast, know where to place the apostrophe, and for the love of God – know the difference between “heal” and “heel.”

Morgan Freeman, if you can hear me: I will seriously lose my shit if you wind up in scandal. I can’t take much more, man. If anyone can give me the answer to the chicken and the egg, please send correspondence to:

I'm going to hell with headphones

I was sitting on the toilet plucking my eyebrows this morning as I usually do, and I got to thinking about how grateful I am for the life I have today. I’m no longer hunched over the porcelain bowl emptying the contents of my stomach or hovering over a stick waiting and praying for only one pink line instead of two. I don’t share my shit well even if the spawn is mine. There are only so many bagel bites in the freezer and I’m not above hiding them so that I can eat like a King; and for real, when I find out who drank all but drops of the fucking egg-nog and put it back, there will be hell to pay! I buy this gluttonous shit one time a year assholes - save me some! I’m sorry, where were we? Gratitude…right. 

Most days my life is bland and predictable; I like it that way. I’ve lived enough chaos and have come to appreciate a 9 pm bedtime. It saves me the discomfort of having to turn you down for basically anything you invite me to. You: “Hey Christina, a few of us are going to (fill in the blank) wanna…”  Me: [before you even finish your sentence] “Nope, so sorry, that’s past my bedtime. You understand though, right?” I’m selective about this shit though. I can easily go to a concert or show either by self [usually the case] or with a select few and stay out until both my eyes and ears bleed. I pay for this the next day however, and try to make sure that everyone else around me does as well; I like to share the wealth. My bitch cup runneth over. *notices correlation for first time between number of friends being proportional to how much “sharing” takes place. moves on any how*  

I was at another of these shows last Friday, November 3rd. A friend and I went to see The Greyboy Allstars at a local venue here in San Diego. It was an amazing show which I can say in all honesty [because I lie all the time] is in my top ten shows of all time. We stood right in front, so close even that we got the opportunity to tell the front man that his fly was down. It’s the little things. If you’ve never heard of the Allstars, do yourself a favor and check them out; if you still don’t like them – you’re an asshole. Fuck off.

We felt the bass in our feet and I closed my eyes to feel the saxophone through my pores. That’s what it’s like when I go to shows; it’s magic. Music is oxygen for my soul. Jeff [used-to-be friend I went with - since disowned out of jealousy] is a son-of-a-bitch though and dances better than I do, so I have one more concert experience where I’ve formed resentment. Maybe I ought to start looking at this as a chance at personal growth; or maybe Jeff can fuck off and let me win. You hear me Jeff? Next show I get to be the prettier one! Don’t outshine me anymore or I’ll the cut the brake lines on your new car. Don’t underestimate me! Much love! Digression… Music, dancing [damn you Jeff!] completely being in that moment and Skeksis. Wait, what?

Holy fuck you guys! I have tried since that evening to put my finger on exactly who or what it was that we were standing next to on the dance floor. It came to me at 2:12 am the following night/morning; as all good ideas do. Every good life experience has that one individual that seems uniquely out of place but perfectly placed at the same time. Skeksi was it. In a narrow but three-tiered high room, this dude stuck out like a sore thumb – a very sore and throbbing thumb; a cartoon thumb if you will. He appeared to be in attendance with a Fraggle, but I can’t really be sure; it could have just been one of the other Dark Crystal characters. Don’t worry; there will be reference material for those of you who’ve never seen The Dark Crystal. Also, if you’ve never seen The Dark Crystal – fuck off.   

Skeksi looked like a poor bastard who just never came back from a Jerry Garcia trip; bless his Deadhead heart. I seriously can’t keep helping you out if you don’t know what a Deadhead is. There’s this thing called Google, you should check it out. “Oh Tina, you’re such a bitch” I know. Ain’t it great? Whatever, it’s my story and frankly I’m surprised you’re still following. As it turns out, Skeksi is a real nice dude. I went to make a pee and when I came back, he had reserved my spot for me, ejecting some 4’11” man dressed in all white; apparently this guy never got the memo. My mom always told me that you look like a tampon [maybe “Lola,” the organic ones because he looked hipster] when you dress in all white. Thanks Skeksi! I would’ve bought him a beer as a means of thanks, but I’d already seen him drink 4. He seemed like he was doing fine.  

The show came to an end and Jeff and I left. I would have left twinkle-toes there but he drove. Lesson learned. Music is oxygen for my soul. I’m grateful for all these experiences today. I learn something new every day, sometimes it’s just acceptance. I accept that Jeff dances better than I do. I accept that I have two options: 1) get better or 2) cut the brake lines. When’s the next show Jeff??

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Why first dates fail

At nearly 38 yrs. old I am not looking for Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong, Mr. Right now or even Mr. Right for 5 mins. I’d settle for some old episodes of Bosom Buddies, a pack of gummy worms and my hideously unattractive but warm pair of pajamas. They're the kind of pajamas that let people know that "I haven’t had sex in a very long time, I don’t anticipate having any, and I'm ok with that." I am not the majority though and it got me to thinking about what you dating folk go through.

Call me old fashioned but back when the earth was still cooling and I was still dating, I preferred to meet people sans internet. For those of you that don’t know how to detach from your computers or mobile devices, that means I went out into the really real world and interfaced with other human beings. Today we have a plethora of dating websites to choose from to assist you in meeting your potential forever bed-buddy. Swipe right or left – I have no fucking clue which direction means what; are there instructions or is a working knowledge presumed? It’s all so damn confusing to me but I’ve seen it work for others so I’ll refrain from too much judgement. Just kidding, I can be a sanctimonious bitch and it’s my blog.

I have a theory, please humor me. First dates, as we know, can make or break the chances of getting the opportunity for a second or third date. No second or third date and the chances of you scoring shrink like the male anatomy in cold water, or my libido when I scroll through my Twitter and Facebook inboxes. Why men think caveman come-on lines coupled with poorly-lit and unattractive selfies will elicit a response from me, I am still struggling to understand, but they’re fun to return to every so often during commercial breaks. Which brings me to my next point.

The reason that first dates fail in my opinion, is that not enough time is spent really getting to know your potential mate; especially if your encounter first takes place on-line. You really need to step up your game. This where I ask you guys to indulge me a bit. I like to watch the commercials for prescription medicine and listen attentively for the side effects. That shit is fucking crazy! Have any of you ever really paid attention to that stuff? Anal leakage, thoughts of suicide, temporary blindness, rash, open sores, possible deadly infection…need I go on? Do we really need to do a cost/benefits analysis here? When I start shitting my pants involuntarily [because it’s cool when I do it on purpose] this prescription has ceased being useful to me; I would prefer to deal with the original issue. I digress; I enjoy watching these commercials and anyone that knows anything about me would know this. 

I feel it’s important to invest some time getting to know the individual you intend to date, and that’s why I think you should spend some time stalking them. That’s correct; I said stalk them. Follow your potential mate around for a few weeks; hide in the bushes, go through their trash and invest in some binoculars. If you really want this thing to work, you should put forth a solid effort – they’re worth it and so are you! This is your happiness. Don’t be afraid to ask their friends about what their favorite shows are and buy t-shirts or some other bullshit to wear on that first date. Will you look like a douche? Most assuredly! You’ll also be a douche with more of a chance of having something to talk about - perhaps a shot at a second date. Or, you could creep them the fuck out. Could go either way. Jury is still out on this one; it’s still just theory. I’m counting on your research and data.

I’m not shooting down the internet dating scene. I like to catfish as much as the next person, but there’s something about some good old fashioned stalking that just melts my heart. It used to be easier to meet people. If I don’t force myself out of the house to socialize, I’ll end up agoraphobic. It’s too easy for me to settle in to my fugly [not a typo] pajamas and tune out the rest of the world. Before you know it I have diagnosed myself with half a dozen maladies that I’ll require treatment and medication for. Anal leakage and open sores, FTW! Alright, which one of the guys that messaged me still wants to go on that date? Thought not. All I’m saying is that we spend so much time behind the damn keyboard and phone screen that the “personal aspect” of the relationship is never formed properly…in my opinion. Start right, stalk at night.

*Because some asshole will take this shit literally, I don’t actually condone stalking, maybe start with just being attentive. But if you’re gonna stalk; do it at night*

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

On the troll again

It’s been a long few days of little or no consequence. I have zero to show for as hard as I’ve been spinning my damn wheels and even less to say; at least anything of any real value. I’ve been pissed off more times than I’ve smiled, I’ve been trolled on Twitter by freaks who I’m sure have basements exclusively used for Tupperware parties and S&M fetishes, and have gained three pounds without having eaten a single piece of Halloween candy. Bullshit, I say! I actually appreciate the Twitter trolls, I need to feel relevant; even if they can’t punctuate and use more emoji than actual words. Words are hard – I get it.

I haven’t had much of an opportunity to do any substantial writing, but in fairness, I haven’t had shit to say either. I’ve stayed isolated for fear of biting strangers and spitting on children so I haven’t really had any “fun” stories to recount either. I’m really fucking boring. Sorry.

I went to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show with some friends of mine [yes, friends…real ones with pulses] last Friday and all I came away with was the full knowledge that I am way too old to be doing that shit anymore. 3 am is too fucking late/early to be dragging my sorry ass to bed. I woke up unsure if I was “waking up” or “coming to” again. It’s been a long while since I questioned whether or not I was sober. Sure, the Time Warp is great and Susan Sarandon and Tim Curry still do it for me, but if I’m being honest, Tim looks better than I do in fishnets and I’ve always had a problem with that anyway. 3 am is too late to be out and have resentments too. I’m old and bitter and this shit is catching up with me.

I catch myself trolling people [mostly women] on the web and responding to their posts with stuff that draws attention to the fact that they're being sluts. It’s none of my damn business! I get that shit, but you’re making the rest of us look bad. Clean your shit up. Speak with your words and your intellect, not your twat and your tits. We, as women, have an issue with being abused, mistreated, and objectified by men and have made it very public – as it should be…but…
I am not a feminist…here we go… 

But we should also be very fucking aware of the messages we put out there too. If you’re posting nonsense about wanting to be submissive, then guess what??? If you post photos of yourself with more boobs than face…guess what??? You make the rest of us look bad; those of us who are trying to be dignified. The same goes for the men. Nobody wants to see your penis. Really…I promise. No one wants to see your gym photo in a mesh tank top. Again, I swear I know this to be true. And for fuck sake: do not claim to be a sexual God - we are all laughing at you. See? I am an equal opportunity offender. I am equally offended by both sexes when we/he/she/they act like assholes. God, I am old as fuck and 23 yr. old me would tell today me to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. It’s just an observation I’ve made; that I’m old and lame – the slutty and machismo bullshit is commonplace and common knowledge and it stinks.

I said I didn’t have much to say, guess I was full of shit again; typical. Lucky for you guys, I go to bed early because I’m old and I generally don’t like being awake much anymore. But before I go to bed...

*adjusts lighting for nude selfies*