Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Uteri take the field and win!

I recently had the privilege of taking a cruise from Los Angeles to Ensenada. I’ve never been on a cruise ship before, so this was like a fucking fairy tale – until it wasn’t. Let’s take a trip together.

I love my boyfriend’s parents. Let me say that up front so that there isn’t any confusion later, because imma say some shit.

Thursday morning, after spending 3 days in Disneyland with my boyfriend and his parents, and even my fucked up family for a day – we prepared to board the boat for a 4-day magical mystery tour. With butterflies in our stomachs we approached the counter and greeted the 3-hundred-year old woman with the box dyed hair. “Passports please,” she managed to say between emphysema gasps. I proudly handed her my card; it’s a damn good photo and I wasn’t bashful. Kevin on the other hand looked frazzled. And here we go…

Kevin searches his wallet 2, 3, 4 times and his piece of shit pass card isn’t in there. A myriad of scenarios as to what could have happened to his card go running through my head, but he is certain that it is in his luggage. Ok, cool - I’ll chill the fuck out. He’ll just run downstairs, stop his luggage from getting on the boat and grab it. He’ll come back up and shit will be cool – like a couple of Fonzies. SHIT WAS NOT COOL! Kevin did not find his card and I board this gigantic piece of metal on the sea.

This may be a good time to mention that I chose this trip to quit smoking. Yep – genius. Right now I am into day 3 without a cigarette. So, let’s recap: I’ve just spent 3 days in Disneyland surrounded by hordes of people, spending obscene amounts of money on trivial shit, all without any tobacco. Now, I’m on a boat and I’ve just found out that my boyfriend isn’t getting on this fucking thing with me. I’m riding for 4 days with his parents, his brother, and his sister in law. Still, no cigarette. It’s the evening of day 3.

I’m crying that night in my room when I notice that I have no bottled water from room service. I decided to take a walk to the gift shop to purchase some to take back up to my room. It’s important for you guys to understand: there is NO way he’s coming on the boat at this point and NO way I’m getting off. Reality has just shot me in both feet.

I stagger into the shop with tears in my eyes and look for the refrigerated case. I see nothing. I approach the clerk and ask kindly “Um, I don’t see the refrigerated case; I just want to buy a bottle of water to take up to my room…” but just then I looked over to my left and sitting there on the counter was a basket of full packs of smokes. I am dying. This is hell.

“Yeah, we don’t sell water here, you can get that from the bar,” he says. Fantastic! Can this possibly get any more fucked up? I managed to not buy any cigarettes, but now you tell the alcoholic that she needs to go to the bar to buy water?? I look up at the ceiling and think ‘You’ve certainly got a sick sense of humor, dude. If there are Sharpies in Heaven, I’m drawing a dick on your forehead when and if you sleep. Count on that shit!’

That was the end of my first night. I survived and managed to pull myself together a little more each day. There was so much that happened that I’d like to share, but aside from the little story below I will only mention that I saw sister wives on board. Real life sister wives!! It was crazy.

I was in line for coffee and there were like 4 of them in ankle length skirts with identical hair styles straight from 1983. Shoulder pads and plaid for as far as the eye could tolerate. I felt as though if I had looked for much longer, the whole boat was going to jump into hyper drive and we might never be seen or heard from again. None of them spoke. They all looked at the ground or maybe it was their white shoes (flats) an awful lot for being such hideous footwear. So many questions…I have so many unnecessary questions.

Aboard our cruise ship one of the hosted games was "American football". The premise of this delightful little game was to toss Nerf squishy footballs into makeshift nets. At the beginning of this game, there was no one interested in participating - gee, I wonder why. 

It was started off by a really innocent looking Asian woman and her mother. I say innocent "looking" because as it turns out, she was a fucking shark and sunk all 6 footballs. I casually sipped my latte because honestly, I didn't give a shit. 

Football shark's mom was next. She was terrible, but she had loads of fun and wore a gigantic smile. I enjoyed just being around her. Her enjoyment of life was infectious. I took a moment to stop being a self-absorbed asshole and looked around; the line had grown. Many were now participating. Some that I wish would go back to their rooms, or better still - jump overboard. 

As I sat there listening and somewhat watching, I overheard an older lady holler at one of the men "C'mon Jim, don't be outdone by a woman!" I'm sorry...come again? Did I just hear you correctly, you dirty old wind bag? By this time my coffee wasn't hot enough to walk over and pour on her. Why is it that women seem to always undermine other women? My attention is torn between giving the Crypt Keeper, anti-feminist, the 'I'll murder you' glare and staring obviously at the sister-wives to my right. I'm fascinated. 

By this point in the game we have about 7 contestants: 4 women and 3 men. I could waste your time describing each of them, but I'll just say that two of the men were 'good 'ol boy' football types and the 3rd was Japanese. The women varied. Two were Asian (Lam & Mom), Michelle who was disabled and Shannon who seemed to be average in every way possible. Lam slaughtered all of them. *hahahah…slaughter…Lam…*

I did the tallying of the scores after two rounds:

Lam: 8
Michelle: 0
Shannon: 5
Lam’s Mom:0

Japanese guy: 0
Football hero #1: 3
Football hero #2 aka Jim: 5

As you can see, in spite of the fact that the women had more participants, only two actually scored, thereby leveling the playing field – so to speak.

Women: 13
Men: 8

Uteruses win!

Special thanks to Jim’s wife for being such a bitch. I never would have started this little rant had it not been for you. It’s a lonely world out there if you only support men when you have a face like yours, honey. Might want to think about that. I’ll lift up my fellow lady…ya gotta be a lady first though.

We'll be taking another trip to Alaska in upcoming months. Stay tuned for that rant; there's bound to be some good shit in that one. This was rather watered-down. I promise if Kevin forgets his passport again though, you'll be seeing me post from inside the county jail once a month when we get internet access from the library. At least I think that's how it works. 

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Disney shit parents

Disneyland is scary as fuck and if you’ve taken your child under the age of 5 there, you’re a shit parent.

For the last three days I’ve been wandering around Disneyland. It is among the scariest things I have endured as an adult and by far the scariest I have subjected my own child to.

As an adult you’re aware of the germs on everything. Each time a child sneezes or wipes their runny little noses, then touches every fucking thing they see; you become the petri dish where all that shit will grow. Bathroom door handles and vendor cash exchanges are recon missions. Your objective is to triangulate coordinates, draw in close but limit actual ‘physical contact’ and fall back quickly for cover with the rest of your team. That’s just the icing on the shitcake of Disney for adults.

Let’s talk about crowds. Oh, does that makes you anxious and break out in a cold sweat? I know I’d rather shoot a hole in my own foot than stand in line one more time for ‘It’s a Small World’ behind the group of foreign exchange students that have taken 700 selfies but not allowed me to photobomb a single one. Do they not photobomb in Japan? I thought that’s where that shit started.

When you’re a child, all that you see in Disney seems real as fuck. Shame on you parents for slamming your kids into a seat on Pirates of the Caribbean and scaring them with drunken pirates and glowing rat eyes. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride scared the piss out of me as a child and The Matterhorn was fuck all! I didn’t want to go on that shit again until I was an adult and even then I had some reservations. I remember that beast being crazy big and scary as a kid. As an adult I obviously knew he wasn’t real, but I couldn’t rationalize that the fear I had as child was irrational. I was still a pussy about it. Thanks, Mom and Dad; totally your fault. I know that there are rides that I went on as a child that I can’t remember now. I’m certain they were traumatic and I’ve blocked them from recall. I think, again, that Mom and Dad…you guys suck. For my son, Curran: Splash Mountain – Dude, you were older. Get over it.

It’s not a small world. It’s a really big world, with a shit-ton of screaming of children, really grumpy parents, a smorgasbord of germs, and 5 pissed off and underpaid Princesses. I recommend leaving your children at home until they can wrap their tiny little brains around the fact that animatronics are just giant Barbie dolls and that nothing really bad is going to happen to them when the lights go out. Nothing ruins the show for the rest of us like you singing a lullaby to your wailing child while the rest of us are howling “Dead men tell no tales…”

Pro-Tip: It’s super fucking cold. Bundle your brat up. It’s been 50 degrees the last 3 days; I’ve had to wear 3 layers and have still been cold. Just because your infant can’t tell you they’re cold, doesn’t mean they’re not. Use your fucking skull. If you’re cold…so are they.

Thanks for visiting, friends!

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Panties and cruise lines

Will there be a washing machine on the cruise ship? Will my cats like the neighbor better than me? How many pairs of underwear packed for a vacation qualifies you for psychopath status?

 I’m about to go on a cruise for a week. That was a sampling of the crazy shit that pinballs around in my head. I’m not bringing 7 pairs of shoes. Shoes are heavy and I’m not that stupid contrary, to public opinion. I’m only bringing 5 and 1 pair of slippers. I’m wound tighter that my catholic Grandmother at the sight me walking around without a shawl on. “You’ll catch your death, Mija.”  It’s 67 degrees outside, I doubt pneumonia is knocking at my door.

Vacations are supposed to help one relax; that is the idea, right? Why am I panicked about whether or not the men I work with (for) are going to figure out where the toilet paper is, how to load the copier with paper, how to answer the phone, or make up their own excuses for why John can’t come to the phone and speak to angry Listing Agents and Underwriters – that shit is a full-time job in and of itself. I can’t take a shit, and I haven’t left yet.

I’ve come to understand how fucking impossible I am. I bitch and moan about how overworked I am and how long it’s been since I’ve had a vacation, then I’m granted my wish and all I can do is stress about the logistics of relaxing. Way to kill it, dumbass. 

Do I pack a bathing suit? Will the weather be permitting? How many socks? I bet I can wash my clothes in the shower. Is that gross? Are the rules for boarding a boat different than a plane? If I bring liquid in my luggage, am I going to hold up the line when they have to open my bag and find mouthwash and thermal spray protectant for my hair? Fresh breath and shiny hair is important. Fuck, people are going to be pissed. They’ll walk along the ship for the rest of their vacation resentful at me for being the shithead that ‘didn’t know the rules or care to read them’. You know what? I don’t care to read the fine print. I never read instructions; that’s why all my furniture looks like a Picasso painting. In actuality, these people will never think of me again except to laugh at me. I’m just not that important and neither are you.

I spend an absurd amount of time wondering what others think of me. That’s the biggest fucking waste of time ever. People don’t give a shit. People are most often too busy thinking about themselves, perhaps even obsessing about how they, themselves, are perceived by others. Those that don’t give a shit any which way are likely narcissistic sociopaths. It’s almost enviable. Imagine how much time could be freed up I wasn’t freaking out about if I was doing something to so-and-so’s liking. I might have time to figure out what to pack for this stupid vacation.

I’ll likely expand on this train of thought when I’m not consumed with what you think about me and how much packing I have yet to do. 

I have to get 6 men prepared for the fact that I won’t be there for them for the next week. It’s a little like telling your toddler that you’ll pick them up after daycare, only I have 6 of them and daycare is 7 days long. I can actually feel the acid rise in my stomach and into my throat as I type this. I predict that I will get no less than 20 text messages and 12 emails in my absence. This is not self-inflated delusions of grandeur. I wish it were. This is working with a group of men that have come to rely on you and also see you as family. Maybe that’s the key; as family I should be cool telling them to go fuck themselves.

Back to where this all started: how many pairs of underwear is too many?

Thursday, February 15, 2018

charm school drop-out

I’m pretty sure my parents had hoped that I would have had higher aspirations for myself. In fairness, I feel like I shafted myself a bit too. I’m currently picking stuff out of my teeth while sitting at my desk watching my phone blow up with text messages from my mother about where to get my eye exam; she’ll pay for it. I ignore them. Never-mind - I looked again. She’s changed her mind…I should go to Costco instead of the first place she texted. I am drenched in the stench of ‘this is my goddamn life’. I still have dehydrated chick peas stuck in my teeth and I have to unbutton my pants now because my belly is uncomfortably folding over the top. Yep…just went there. Music plays in the background and I count down the minutes till I can leave this desk where I’ve been sitting, doing absolutely nothing but contemplating how little I’ve done with my life for the last 1 hour and 3 minutes. But who’s counting?

When I was younger I’m sure I had dreams about making something of myself. I remember wanting to make the world a better place. I fit into that portrait somewhere that was uniquely my own, I’m certain. That all seems like so long ago though. I have trouble remembering last week. It’s rare that I feel like I have a purpose anymore. Most days, my purpose it seems, is to make sure my child keeps all of his limbs and that cat box gets scooped. I’m on autopilot performing a litany of tasks and the cast of characters in my play all sound like the teacher in Charlie Brown. Everything comes to a screeching halt. The cat puked on the fucking floor again. Suddenly everything is in audio again and it’s painful. I miss the homeless guy from outside the gym, J.R. He used to speak nonsense and play shitty songs on his beat up guitar, but he was nice and he never asked me to do anything for him. In some fucked up way, I envied his carefree approach to a life lived without much to show for it. Could have been the crazy amounts of crack cocaine he was smoking too; guess I’ll never know.

I was a people-pleasing little girl growing up; I wanted to make sure that people were happy. I’m not sure when the illusion that people will treat you as you do them wore off, but when it did, it was fast and hard. It was like getting bitch-slapped with the fireplace shovel. It was never about getting what I thought I needed or deserved; when I saw that people couldn’t or wouldn’t treat other people with kindness, I grew cold. If you didn’t give a fuck – well, guess what? I can not give a fuck even harder. Everything boils down to a competition. I will out do you or die trying. You can drink? Oh, that’s nice. Pass your bottle this way. You can run? That’s cool. Watch me call an Uber to pick me up from the hospital because I’ve never run a fucking marathon, but I’ll lie and say I did. Competitive eating? You’re gonna regret that. I fucking love watermelons and corndogs! *has no idea what people really eat during these things, but will take your challenge*

So fast-forward a bit. I’m 38 yrs. old, have survived my dysfunctional ass family, have survived a brain that tells me that alcohol is the answer to my problems and a body that says “Fuck yes! Someone play Mustang Sally!” and I’ve survived a relationship that nearly killed me. Hell, when I write it out like this, it sounds like all of my relationships nearly kill me. At least with the booze I got to dance too.

I work for a living and I’m pretty content for the most part. Ignorance is bliss, right? By no means am I gonna retire on these earnings though. I don’t have a 401K, no savings to speak of, and if my son wants to go to college he better get a scholarship or become a minority real fucking quick. By the time he’s ready for college, transgender won’t even be enough. We could try to play the Hispanic card; but it’s pretty played out and he looks too white. Maybe while touring campuses he can take a nasty spill on one of them and in lieu of filing any kind of charges, for say, negligent maintenance of a hand-railing; we can accept an offer of acceptance instead. Maybe the screws were just old and the railing hadn’t been tampered with…you know how those things go.

I really pray that Curran ends up doing more for himself than I did. I hope that he doesn’t get stuck behind a desk with his shoes off at 4:37 pm on a Thursday imagining the various office equipment that he can staple his co-workers balls to. My hope is that he doesn’t wake up screaming in his sleep “I sent your email to Justin in accounting and no one sends faxes anymore, they’re called scans!”

This is probably why I’m not very well liked. I’m foul-mouthed, opinionated, forgetful and depressing. It’s why I will always find solace in music and books; photography and art. They all express in their own way what I feel but can never fully convey. All those mediums allow me to “feel” and yet they never ask questions, they never ask for more, and they don’t have a timeline. While I may not have the life that I would have dreamed of, per se, I have one worth living. There really is no pain in my life today that I don’t make worse by choosing to suffer. I’m not rich, not gorgeous, not brilliant, but I am alive and healthy and even loved by a few; so fuck your charm school, I don’t need it.

I'm not the fucking IT dept!

When I become the technical support at my work, shit is about to get hairy. I don’t say this for nothing, but we have a fucking IT department and I am NOT it. When I got hired on, “fixing your broken shit” was not in my goddamn job description and I certainly do not see it line itemed on my pay stub, so call someone else when you can’t figure out why your monitor doesn’t show a picture. Hey, when the man offers me health coverage, maybe I’ll give a shit that your ACI files are pulling from the wrong location. Until then, dial up the dudes that get paid for that shit. They probably have health insurance too.

It’s not enough that I hold down two jobs [doing both throughout the day at the same time in the same place, yet keeping the two separate] but I also get the pleasure of being burdened with a constant barrage of “Hey, do you know why?” questions. Yes, in fact I do know why. From now on you may refer to me as ‘The Seer’. I, apparently, am an all-knowing oracle. I really thought the perks would be better with a title such as this. I can’t complete one project without some half-wit asking me if I know if he really needs to download the latest version of Adobe or if the email he just got telling him that he needs to take some kind of action looks legitimate. Are you fucking kidding me right now? Shall I wipe your ass too? Here sweetheart, let me cut your steak for you; you might hurt yourself with that big knife. I was hired to manage the office, not manage toddlers. This should be very basic stuff, people!

That’s why I don’t mind writing on company time. If I have to spend 15 mins swapping out a monitor for you first thing in the morning because you can’t figure out what’s wrong with yours, I’m not going to feel guilty. I can’t understand how you couldn’t figure out that your monitor burnt out in the first place. I’m no rocket scientist, but if it gets power and the screen is blinking but still black, that signifies to me that maybe that fucker is shot. The funny thing is, I know the asshole that swapped monitors with him last night.

John came in this morning and his monitor was unplugged and he couldn’t figure out why. Then he noticed that his monitor wasn’t working and still, he couldn’t figure out why. John marched his Beaver Cleaver ass downstairs and pleaded his case with me. There were only two of us in the office yesterday. I left early because my kid was sick with a stomach ache and threatening to shit his pants at school. That left one person in the office with John’s computer. One person to switch monitors when his burnt out. He did a crap job of putting shit back together and covering his tracks. C’mon man, gotta do better than that! I’m never taking you as my wing-man on a heist. We’d be behind bars in a hot second.

Keeping this one short and sweet as work continues to nip at my heels like disease ridden rats. The next sonofabitch that asks me some stupid shit like “Do you know why the printer is making that sound?” is getting a Swingline stapler up the ass. Yes, fuckmonkey, it’s making that sound because it’s out of paper. Where did you say you got your degree from? I fucking hate stupid people. 

 *Injury below caused by co-worker stupidity 

Sunday, February 11, 2018


This is going to be various random [very random] trains of thought careening into brick walls at top speed, buckle the fuck up – it’s about to get scary.

Last night I attended a play with some lady friends of mine. I did not  have to pay these women to go with me. Well… I did pay the parking fee and that was 20 bucks which was almost what my dinner cost, so maybe I did buy their friendship. Hey, Josiah at Black Angus, [I like to call it the Black Anus] you need to work on your dinner service. It should not take 2 hours to flip a table of some bitches that are not being picky and asking you if they can leave. Take your biblical ass to the register, print out the magical little slip, that if you bring it us promptly, and return back to us in a reasonable amount of time, allows for you to receive a pittance.

As we were leaving the venue I noticed the people next to me left two wine glasses on the floor. Full. I’ve not hidden the fact that I’m in recovery - this was, by far, one of the worst cases of alcohol abuse I have encountered. I’m sure it was shitty wine, and sure it was served in plastic cups, but for fuck’s sake – you assholes paid 10 bucks a glass! Chug that shit! You want to waste 10 bucks? Give it to me. If you’re going to waste the wine, at least ask if others around you might want it, you thoughtless selfish fuckers. What is this world coming to? It nearly brought tears to my eyes. I felt myself walk past the glasses in slow motion, looking back at them with arms outstretched – like some drama movie where mother and daughter are torn from each other. I’m suffering the emotional hangover this morning. I really thought she [lady next to me] and I had a moment when we were singing “Time of My Life” together in the darkness while her husband sat motionless on the other side. Fuck you, Wendy [I’ve assigned her this name] you are dead to me now.

So my brain works in really fucked up and marvelous ways. On the car ride home my friend and I are discussing a myriad of topics which included but were not limited to the following: voyeurism, breast pumping during work meetings, breast milk being a scent that is inherently repugnant to most everyone and everything save for children and cats, the nipples of the actor who played Johnny Castle in the play, and holidays & divorce. That shit can really fuck a kid up in case you’re curious. It’s not the back and forth that hurts, that shit’s cool – we get to celebrate Christmas twice now. What blows is that my family used to celebrate Christmas Eve; after the divorce shit got fucked up and we started celebrating Christmas morning. What the hell??!! Not cool! As my son would say: “Christmas Day is for chumps.”

About 20 mins into this hodgepodge conversation, my friend looks out the window and says: “Oh, look! The carnival! I want to go to the carnival.” My immediate response without hesitation: “People get kidnapped from carnivals. Fuck that.” Enter Liam Neeson, just kidding, this blog sucked long before I tried to introduce the latest installment of Taken. Then, in my head and not out loud [because my singing voice is shoddy at best at 11pm,] I started singing Carnival by Bikini Kill. Some of you are scratching your head; don’t worry, I’ll include a link. You’re welcome.

We circled back to the couple that left the wine at the theater. That shit was really traumatic, yo. My friend told me about an incident at a bowling alley when she attempted to redistribute a half a pitcher of beer that was left behind by the group in the lane next her. When you’re an alcoholic, normal people leaving booze behind is really confusing to us. Both of us having been sober for a while, can laugh about this stuff. We really just want to make sure no cup goes empty. No one would take her up on this offer though. Wonder why? Some random chick walking up and down the lanes trying to give away a half a pitcher of beer seems legit, right? “Hey, want this beer? I didn’t piss in it” is what I tell her my "sell" would have been. I immediately see that there is a flaw. Why do I pole-vault over all the other options available? Why not lead with something like: “I didn’t spit in it”, “I didn’t stir it with my finger”, “it’s just a little warm”, or “we just have to leave”, etc.? Nope, I immediately jump right in with both feet: “I didn’t piss in it.” Now, this is all fiction at this point, but this is where my brain would immediately go first.  I’m that shade of fucked up.

The other day in traffic I played out an entire scenario. Stop me if you’ve heard this before.
Me: *walks up to vehicle, taps on window* Excuse me, yes…you driving this POS 93’ mahogany Chrysler. I’m going to need you to hand over your license. Nope, don’t give a shit about your registration, just fork over the plastic and get out of your vehicle.

Driver of POS: I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

Me: You wouldn’t

Driver: Is this a routine traffic stop?

Me: Routine? Yes. Traffic stop? No. Get out of the vehicle please; your license is being revoked.

Driver: Revoked??? I don’t understand. There has to be some mistake. Why?? I’m not on any drugs, I don’t have any warrants. What’s going on here?

Me: What’s going on here is that you’ve proven to be incapable of managing simple motor skills and rational thinking simultaneously. You, dicknose, have been sitting in a turn lane at a red light holding up traffic. This is not a “no turn on red” intersection; thereby YOU have impeded the forward momentum of at least 6 cars behind you. To make matters worse, you had been traveling at a mind-bending speed of 21 mph in a 35 mph zone for the last 2 miles on a one lane road. We’re all real happy about that too. Once the lane opened to an intersection, you weren’t paying attention because you can’t handle multiple tasks, and got in the wrong lane, so when the light turned green, you decided to go straight instead of turning. THAT is why we are here in this moment. Give me your license now and I’ll let your shit stain Pomeranian in the back window live and not take him home as a “treat” for my feral back-alley cat, Stella. She’d love to make it her bitch.  

Driver: *copious blinking*

That’s it. That’s where the story ends. My light turned green, I guess. I did decide that I truly think that we need better regulation license issuing. IQ testing and motor skills function testing; at least if an IQ test is in place I can’t call you a dumb motherfucker on the road. I have a vision of a happier America. We all get into our cars every morning to go to our places of employment – or wherever, and we’re so happy in the knowledge that other people on the road won’t be douchebags that flowers pop up out of the ground behind us as we drive. Birds circle us and we sing some happy joyous shit. Maybe some woodland critters come out and frolic in the…nah…no woodland critters; hunters shot them all down with big guns and hung them on mantles so other hunters could masturbate all over their shoes.  My bad. I don’t have a problem with guns. I have a problem with guns in the hands of people who can’t respect the power that they have and use them to kill arbitrarily. Yes, sport hunting is arbitrary.

Alright, I’ve stopped being funny, so I’ll throw in the song I said I would and we’ll call it quits. But hey, I did say my brain was fucked up and marvelous. You’re welcome to leave any time you like, but I really appreciate your continued reading.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

It's MY toxic waste site

I’m pretty sure I’m a reincarnated old Jewish woman. Like super old. I’m sure it’s a lovely religion and that’s all fine and great, but I’m not speaking in terms of religious practice per se, so you can stop Google searching recipes for homemade cyanide. Besides, I’m essentially a Splenda filled cockroach set free on the earth; I can’t be killed. I am preserved for all time. I’m too young to think, act, and speak the way that I do. I’m a fucking disgrace to women without pacemakers.

I used to consider myself a free spirit, open-minded, spontaneous, and maybe even a bit wild. “Used to” are the operative words in that sentence. The only thing spontaneous about me these days are my outbursts. Usually they center around what I perceive to be someone else’s stupidity or how I am inconvenienced by someone else’s mere being. For example: when I overhear conversations in public situations that are in direct conflict with my belief system or they’re hateful racist fuckwads, it takes all the effort I can summon to stay calm and not tell that person why they should shut the fuck up or go back to eating paste and chalk dust. This is just me getting warmed up.

Back when I saw myself as free-spirited I may have said something like “She can dress however she wants to, it’s her choice to express herself in that manner.” Jewish me is saying shit like “You should really put some clothes on Miss, the boys will think you’re one of those easy gals and it’s cold outside; you could catch your death.” Now don’t go choking on your gum as I just about did. Reality fucking check! What really happens is I say some shit like this: “What the fuck is happening here?! This chick has her titties hanging all over the place and I’m supposed to suspend belief that she’s not just using her body to get attention? I’ll gather she has nothing of any REAL importance to say with her mouth hole?” It’s ok though, I guess if I had nothing between my ears and everything in my bra, I’d play that card too. I’m just jealous. She should still wear a sweater though, it’s unseasonably cold where she lives and the flu has been really bad this year. Men, you are absolutely no better. Maybe a little better. I have drafted a template letter that I will be sending out from now on when I get nude photos from men. See below:

Dear Sir,

          I’d like to thank you for the nude you sent. Sorry I can’t respond to your email in more depth. I’ve photoshopped the head of someone more attractive onto your torso and I’m furiously masturbating in the bathroom at work right now.


On the topic of open-mindedness; fuck off. I don’t want to hear about it.

We could talk about how cheap I’ve become, but I’m currently trying to figure out how I can get my 35.00 overdraft fee back from Bank of America. I’ve been on hold with these shit stains for 20 mins. There was money in the account but it was being held because they like to hold your money so that they can make interest off it. Anyhow, a check for my health insurance cleared (thanks for not offering it where I work, Steve) and Bank of America curtesy paid it, but then charged me 35.00 for the overdraft. Hey, dicklickers, you’ve been holding on to over a grand of mine for over a week; go fuck yourselves and give me back my 35 fucking dollars.

I only have one more thing to say before I end this little shit storm. I’m really fucking tired of people telling me that I need to think about how what I write here affects people and their feelings. For the record, I have NEVER used anyone’s birth name in one of my rants/blogs. People like to tell me that my being so judgmental isn’t fair. Guess what…I’m not enlightened and life isn’t fair. There is no way to be all-inclusive of the “feelings” of others and still honor my own. This is my space to vent the toxic shit that’s on my little heart. You don’t like it? Don’t read it, but I guarantee that every once in a while you’re going to miss some funny shit.

Saturday, February 3, 2018

Setting the bar for substance abuse

When does escapism become a substance abuse problem? Whoa, heavy shit at 8 am on a Saturday morning? It’s likely not what you think; but what I say and what I mean are usually ill presented for mass consumption.

I’m not talking about not being able to deal with emotional shit then chalking up rails to snort in the Jack in the Box bathroom on the corner of Main St. and 12th Ave. off the back of the toilet. I’m talking about filing your day with mind numbing and substance-free fodder; or at least that’s what I was trying to do. I spend countless hours scrolling thru Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram feeds – reading and posting comments on shit that doesn’t really affect me and sometimes isn’t even relevant to anything in my life. Hell, sometimes the shit isn’t even that funny. Why do I do this? To feel ‘a part of’ is my guess. To waste time that could be better spent reading a self-help book on why I’m such an insecure piece of shit.

Seems pretty innocuous, doesn’t it? Sure, until you start looking at it as a bigger picture. That kind of behavior becomes the status quo for how my other relationships form and evolve. I can only speak for myself, but when I get disenchanted with a person, place, or situation, I “scroll”. When my attention is no longer held – when I am no longer captivated by the mundane; I bounce. What’s more is that when I am actively gazing into the screen of whatever the fuck I’m coveting, I am completely tuned out to what is happening around me. It should not be news to anyone that if someone with a pulse is sitting next to you trying to hold a conversation and you’re masturbating your mobile device – you are a fucking asshole.

Lately I’ve been trying to find my ‘place’ in certain social media playgrounds. I’m still the fat girl from elementary school that was always last to get picked for kickball teams. It’s caused me to become bitter and blame certain groups for being “clicky” and biased. You know what? All of that is fucking bullshit. I keep trying to fit a mold in one place that doesn’t end up working in other places, and when that doesn’t pan out I want to blame others and cry about shit. I am slow to accept responsibility. It’s like trying to use my gas card at the grocery store, being declined, and then never going grocery shopping at that store again because clearly they are the assholes in this circumstance. I only make shit more difficult for myself and cut myself off from experiences. Who knows, maybe that grocery store has a great sale on organic tampons and Goldfish crackers next week and I’d never know because I’m being a petty little bitch.

It’s the same with the friendships that I hold. When I use mediocrity as a marker, all things suffer. If the basis of our friendship is our interaction through a social media, or very limited exchanges - if it is based on an unstated but understood ‘what you can do for me’ mentality, then we have jack shit to work with and I will scroll quicker than you can say twat-waffle. Why? I have the attention span of a 2 yr. old and while it’s something I’m aware of and working on, our society has made it not only easy, but acceptable, to engage in this kind of behavior. Go to dinner or any social gathering – look around. How many people DON’T have their faces glued to their phones? It’s probably easier to count those individuals. Why am I socially awkward as fuck? I’ve learned how to have conversations with people through the social awareness programs like Tinder, Twitter, Facebook and the like where the natural progression is: follow, like, message, picture of genitals.

Yesterday I was weepy for a bit; like a little bitch really. I didn’t understand why I don’t have more friends – I’m a nice person. I give a shit about humanity. I feed the homeless. I would adopt all ALL the shelter animals if I could. I would give the pants off my ass [the shirt off my back is so cliché] to my friends, and still I feel like I’m rowing this boat by myself. SACK THE FUCK UP! If I’m alone, it’s because I’ve ignored the blessings around me. I’ve sent back the order of awesome that was brought to my table because it went cold while I was fucking around with my phone. I feel like I’ve been programmed to believe that if I don’t like the packaging, I can just swipe left or right and life will serve up something else for me, and that’s horseshit too. Sometimes you just eat a turkey sandwich or bowl or cereal for dinner. Sometimes it’s just ramen and you ought to be gracious because ramen is fucking delicious.

I’m not tailoring shit to fit in any longer. I don’t have too many true friends, but those that I have KNOW me through and through. Faceless and nameless people shouldn’t matter. I won’t call any of you when my life crumbles. When my pants don’t fit and I feel extra fat, when I think my kid has discovered masturbation, or when my boyfriend does some boyfriend shit I hate [sorry honey,] I won’t be online asking randoms for advice. I’ll be talking to those three or four friends that I have. When everything else seems so fucking trite and formulaic, I can count on these people to show me how shake the shit around in my head like an Etch-a-Sketch. Clean slate.

This has been a deviation from what you’re used to reading from me. Some of you will appreciate it; some of you will hate it. Some will be indifferent and some will scratch your heads. That’s cool. I don’t really get it either. I just know that by sitting here and writing this, I’ve spent less time engaging in activities that dull the senses, numb the soul, and drop the bar on my “substance meter.”