Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Golden Shower Award or Sunshine Blogger - Same Difference (or color at least)


Oh, For Fuck's Sake 


The Golden Showers Award or Sunshine Blogger Award (whatever)


Apparently, when you write enough crap, people are tired of seeing your name pop up in their feed, and they bestow you with fake awards to shut you up. 

I’ve seen the Liebster Award (fake) which is given to bloggers who are known for their kindness and pleasant nature. I trip children at the park, I’m not ever getting this award.

My asshole friend, Kieran (we’re only internet buddies, I have no real friends) decided to nominate me for the Sunshine Blogger Award. I assume he did this because he either ran out of solid bloggers to add to this list, or he was day drinking again and thought it’d be funny. The rules say I must thank him though, so, whatever. Thanks.

You can find him on Twitter https://twitter.com/KieranBullshit or you can go directly to the source for some truly hilarious shit. The man has a gift and unnaturally light skin. I could tan just standing next to him. Do yourself a favor and check out his page.

The Rules:

  • Thank the blogger who nominated you.
  • Answer the 11 questions the blogger asked you. (Thank God he’s lazy and only presented 3)
  • Nominate new blogs to receive the award and write them somewhere between 3 and 11 new questions. Or do what you want, I’m the boss.
  •  List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award in your post/or on your blog.
  • Notify the nominees about it by commenting on one of their blog posts.


Here are the questions Kieran asked me:

1.     What gives your life meaning and purpose?

I kinda like my kid. Well, I did, until I got the little shithead’s report card and found out he failed 3 classes and got D’s in two others. Lying little asswipe.

I enjoy watching sports mishaps. I’m fairly dedicated to that and feel serenity and gratitude after about 20 minutes of gruesome bone breaks and near-death impalement.

I like helping people when and where I can. Having been through addiction myself, if anything that I’ve done or have been through helps another – keeps them from making similar mistakes, then it wasn’t for nothing. It was a win.

2.     Why do you waste your time on a blog (other than the narcissism and babyish need for attention)?

He nailed it with “narcissism and babyish need for attention.” You mean there are other reasons to blog? Fuck! I know dick about makeup application and 70% of what I cook comes from a package. I am not Susie Homemaker. You will not see me writing an inspirational blog and my mommy days are long over. This babybox was decommissioned during the Clinton administration. I have zero useful tips for new parents. At least, none that any new parent wants to hear.

Let the kid crawl on the floor! Let the kid put dirty shit in its mouth. YOU, parent, are the fucking problem. You’re the reason Timmy and Tanya are going to grow up to be sniveling pussies who are always sick and have gluten and dairy intolerances.

I blog because I'll unleash my crazy shit on the unsuspecting public if I don’t occasionally unscrew the cap a little every so often. Therapy is expensive. This is the alternative. Besides, it must make some of you feel better reading my crap and realizing, hey, at least I’m not as fucked up as that bitch!

3.     What makes you laugh/feel good.

Sex.

The lobster and I laugh together - a lot. We make one another laugh and we both feel good. He’ll read this later and I’ll reassure him that it makes us both feel good. I’ll raise my eyebrow to reinforce the seriousness.

There’s usually not laughter after sex, more along the lines of giggling and, “thank you, honey.” So yes, I stand with my first answer: sex. I’ll only add that the aforementioned sex is with my husband and not some random dick. 

Barring that, I’m insufferable and find no joy in anything. The exceptions to this are: athletes who fuck up, kids who eat shit at the playground, and animals doing silly animal stuff.


My nominees

Kieran was a selfish fucker and stole all the writers (ok, like two of them) that I would have nominated. He must be an only child. However, I think I may have found an appropriate response. In keeping with his own dealings (breaking “no backsies” rule), my first nominee is, of course, the bemusing bullshit artist. 


* Land Manatee, I would nominate you, but it just feels like I’d be doing ya dirty. How many times do you really want to do this shit, man? Just know, if Kieran wasn’t so fucking selfish, you would’ve made my list. *


Questions for the Troops

If you’re still following this, God bless you. Let’s tie this bitch up.

Answer the following in your own blog:

  1. How do you measure success? (not necessarily professionally, could be personally)
  2. What do you worry about most and why?
  3. Waffles of Pancakes?
  4.  If you could be any superhero or villain, who would you be? Why? 


That, I think concludes this session of Golden Showers. I mean, Golden Globes. Uh, Sunshine something or other. Same difference.






Monday, June 10, 2019

The Messiah of Melodrama, You Oughta Know



I had the misfortune of coming across a song on the radio last night that brought me back some years. I had never paid attention to how horrible it was until last night. Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know” isn’t about empowerment after a breakup. It’s about a woman who refuses to let go. It’s sad really. The problem, as I see it, is that the song is catchy; you want to sing along. Young women beat their chests proclaiming: “I’m taking back my identity! I’m being true to myself! I’m finally being heard!”

No, you’re being crazy. Let go of shit that no longer serves you. Be a woman of integrity. Find your happiness in something or someone that returns the effort, affection, and attention that you give. When it’s done, it’s done. Let it go and try on some personal growth.

There’s a range of emotion that's to be expected, but for the love of all that's good in the world, keep that shit in small circles. You look pathetic when you attempt to sully others publicly. And if you’re going to write a song, let’s call it what it is. It’s not empowerment, it’s an adolescent attempt to drag someone through the dirt and gain the sympathy of others.

I’ve broken down the lyrics to the song below and added my thoughts in purple text. I want you all to know, that I wish nothing but the best for her. * not passive aggressive at all. nope. not one bit. *


YOU OUGHTA KNOW (with remarks by Rants & Swears)
I want you to know, that I am happy for you
I wish nothing but the best for you both
Oozing passive-aggressiveness. Wanna try again?
An older version of me
Is she perverted like me?
Would she go down on you in a theater?
Public indecency is highly frowned upon, please be careful. Pee-wee Herman got in a lot of trouble for this.
Does she speak eloquently
And would she have your baby?
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother
'Cause the love that you gave that we made
Wasn't able to make it enough for you
To be open wide, no
Clearly, you opened wide. You still haven’t shut.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died
'Til you died, but you're still alive
Get over yourself sweetheart. We all say sentimental shit no one is expected to be held to unless you marry up. Weren’t we all going to marry our first love and grow old together? Remember that bullshit? Yeah, we were all around 15 when that happened, right? So, by that rationale, we’re all miserable liars.
And I'm here, to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair, to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
Wait, you’re bearing a cross now? You’ve made yourself a martyr? Wow didn’t see that coming. Nope, not at all.
You, you, you oughta know
You seem very well, things look peaceful
I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know
No shit you’re not well. You’re bordering on obsessive, leaning towards delusional.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
Doubtful. I rather think she enjoys it.
It was a slap in the face
How quickly I was replaced
And are you thinking of me when you fuck her?
Psst…this song was written following her breakup with Dave Coulier. That’s right, the fluffy dad from Full House whose token line was, “Cut it out!” Not hunky Stamos or even the comic Saget; just Coulier. What am I missing? Ultimately, she doesn’t want the answer to her question, “are you thinking of me when you fuck her?”
Sweetie, if he was thinking of you…he’d still be with you.
'Cause the love that you gave that we made
Wasn't able to make it enough for you
To be open wide, no
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died
'Til you died, but you're still alive
Dammit! We’re here again? Bitch, herpes is forever, not your relationship. Time to move on.
And I'm here, to remind you
(and all of creation)
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair, to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
Seriously, put down the cross, fix your hair and go find some new dick.
You, you, you oughta know
'Cause the joke that you laid in the bed
That was me and I'm not gonna fade
As soon as you close your eyes, and you know it
And every time I scratch my nails
Down someone else's back I hope you feel it
How do you plan to scratch your nails down someone else’s back if you continue wailing about this dude? Men don’t like it when you’re hung up on your ex. Revenge sex only hurts everyone. Heal. Move the fuck on. He’s just not that into you.
Well, can you feel it?
And I'm here, to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair, to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know
He knows it, your next-door neighbors know it, your grocer probably knows it too. Your co-workers have began scheming; devising ways to have you terminated. They’re tired of your shit too. Your pets no longer like you either. If they could dump you, they would. Face reality: it’s over. You lost. Stop writing passive-aggressive, bitter misery anthems and move the fuck on! Spare us all your pathetic call to arms. It’s only Dave Coulier. For fuck’s sake lady, “Cut it out!”


Fun fact: if you google "angry breakup" images, Alanis Morissette's album cover comes up as #15. 




Thursday, June 6, 2019

365 days plus time served


June 6, 2019: our anniversary. I’ve been married (to the same guy) for a full year. We’ve been together for more than 6 years. I’ve never devoted myself to anything with such unwavering loyalty. Well, not since elementary school; I refused to let the stretch pant and scrunchy sock fad die. I just wouldn’t give up on them, holding out hope that LA Gear shoes with glitter shoelaces would make a comeback. I was fighting the good fight. I wasn’t one of the tacky bitches who wore tasseled denim jackets or, god forbid, the tasseled boot. I had class. Stretch, scrunch, & glitter 4 lyfe!

People will sometimes ask how The Lobster (husband) and I met. I like to say, “It’s kind of a funny story. When we first met, he was a married mute who tucked his rock band t-shirts into his denim shorts. He reminded me of a teenager with developmental issues, who, because he was still married, was off-limits. It was so fucking hot.”

My husband isn’t a mute, he just wasn’t much for words when we first met. I get it, I’m kind of breathtaking. He was, in fact, married when we first became acquainted. That’s a long story. CliffsNotes: She lost. I won. He no longer tucks in his t-shirts. I win, again. I’m not a homewrecker either; they were already separating. I was just in the right place at the right time. I’m lucky like that.

When I began dating my husband, I was much prettier. Okay, I was nicer. You still not buying? Fine. I was younger. Along with youth comes a sense of I’m going to be okay, no matter what. I don’t need a relationship. I’m older. Not so anymore. It’s all downhill from here; a fact I remind my husband of frequently. It’s called CYA. Can’t have him claiming he wasn’t aware that I’d let myself go then try filing for divorce. It’d be a shame for the brake lines on his car to go.  

I have trouble getting off the floor when I’ve gone looking for something under the sofa. Bracing all my weight on my good knee with both hands to assist me, I hoist my meaty organ husk off the floor, letting out a soft whimper. I am not prepared to do this shit alone. Furthermore, I want a partner whom I can tease well into old age.

What if I fall in the shower one day? Sure, Life Alert can get a paramedic to my residence, but by now I’m ugly, old, and likely naked. What’s the point? Might as well just leave me in the shower to drown in my own piss and tears. My cats will eat my remains eventually. I’ve seen them throw up on the floor then eat it, you can’t tell me they won’t eat my dead body. Years of eating the same dry cat food daily, I imagine there’s quite a bit of hostility worked up. The marriage trade-off is: I pack lunches until retirement, in exchange he changes my oil, reaches the shit on the top shelf and makes sure I don’t die naked. It's fair.

Over the last 365 days, I have said, “I’m sorry” 1,321 times. How can you possibly know that you may ask? I’m anal retentive and have zero regard for how awkward it makes other people feel always saying, “I’m sorry.” I was also raised Catholic, so it’s deeply fucking ingrained. I say, “I’m sorry” when you stub your toe. It’s not my fault you’re an idiot who didn’t pay attention to where you were going. Still, somehow, I’m sorry.

If we do the math, 1,321 averages out to 3.6 times a day that I say I’m sorry to my husband. Let’s call it 4. Can you imagine how fucking nerve-racking that would be? It’s a miracle I’m not buried in the desert by now. I would have killed me at least 4 months ago. Times like these I’m glad we live in a condo. Community pool means someone is likely to witness the drowning and there’s no backyard of our own to speak of; he’s going to have to borrow one.

The Lobster endures. I am not what one would call high maintenance, but I certainly make it difficult. There's pouting, passive-aggressive backlash, impatience, and an endless barrage of shelter dog photos that I send him. We can't have a dog due to landlord regulations at our condo. That, however, doesn't stop me from sending him photos of every sweet miserable pup face I see. My depravity is boundless.

6.5 fucking years! I’ve been sleeping with the same man for 6.5 years. How the hell did this happen? Not a stray in there anywhere. So weird. Family members have joked about my 2-year cap. My attention span gives out after that and literally, EVERYTHING they do irritates me. I have dumped men because I didn’t like the way they breathed anymore. Chewing was an issue with one. Hair became an issue with another – I couldn’t wake up next to dreads anymore. It was nothing serious at that point anyhow. Best to nip that shit in the bud. Here I am 6.5 years later, still staring at the same set of balls though. Man, life is funny.

For my readers, my husband is an incredibly good sport. He’ll take this in stride and with remarkable grace. He knows I love him beyond time and space. For the sake of his family, I’ve made this post “unavailable” on certain platforms– or at least to some of them. No one wants to read about their son’s balls. My own family, however, well, I have no shame and since most of this is about how shitty I am, this should come as no surprise. My foul-mouth and lack of tact or couth is why everyone knows not to answer the phone on speaker and ALWAYS remind me to behave myself BEFORE the family function begins. If you forget to tell me not to swear, that shit’s on you.

I’ll wrap it up by saying my husband is a sweet piece of ass and I adore him. It’s been great so far. I’ve enjoyed finding new and creative ways to confuse and torment him. For our next year of marriage, I’m going to practice saying, “I’m sorry” in multiple languages or perhaps with a Canadian accent. For language variations, I’ll start small. I can begin with sign language; clear facial emote must be employed. I’ll work up to something harder like Japanese or Hungarian.

That’s all for now. Sorry it took so long. Thanks for following along on my mindless rant.
































Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Jesus in my front yard


It’s 7:30 am. Jesus is chillin’ outside my apartment with Enrique. They’re shootin’ the shit. This has been the routine for the last 2 weeks. Sometimes Julio is there too. I’m thankful that they appear to observe Memorial Day as a holiday. I was left in peace on Monday morning. Throwing open the window and screaming, “Shut the fuck up! It’s a holiday, you sick fucks!” is not how I would have wanted to start my morning.

Typically, I open my blinds to greet the morning with a sunrise salutation song and some rejuvenating yoga poses. Just kidding, that shit’s ridiculous. I open them because the coffee pot is in the kitchen and that’s way far away. I need life pumped into my being immediately. Nothing says, “get the fuck on with it” like a brutal dose of sunshine to the unprepared retina.  

There’s one problem: If I open the blinds and begin my morning ritual, I risk exposing myself in my Chewbacca pajama short set to Jesus and his disciples. To be fair, it’s excruciating how awkward and unruly my body is in the morning. I don't wish for anyone to witness that without proper medical reinforcements at the ready.

My hair is matted to one side of my head. It’s pasted to my skull in a drastic slant, like I got drunk, leaned against a wall, and slid down that bitch, then slept on the floor all night. There are creases in my face from both the pillowcase and my hand. It’s not an imprint of my hand, it’s merely creased by the excess skin from the back of my hand where my face has slid down it during sleep. Then, there is the drool that has accumulated in the right corner of my mouth. I favor sleeping on my right side - away from my snoring husband. This is all so steamy.

Standing up, my feet hit the floor with the thud of a much heavier individual. Did I suffer a stroke? Is there some sort of paralysis? Why are my limbs so fucking heavy? All 132 lbs. of me are apparently located in feet. My shorts are trying to crawl inside of my body, and I can feel hair actively growing in my armpits and on my legs. Good morning, world!

This is where I would normally throw open the blinds and shock the shit out of myself with unforgiving daylight. Not today, and not in the last 2 weeks. Jesus is outside. It’s obnoxious really. I get it, they’re roofers and they have a job to do, but it’s 7:30 in the fucking morning! Can this shit wait until 8:30 am when most tenants have left for work? I find it unsettling that 3 tiny Mexicans are sitting outside my apartment, doing nothing while I’m trying to seize the day or whatever. Don’t get self-righteous; they are miniature. None of them measures taller 5’5”. Don’t ask how I know this. Furthermore, I’m still not convinced that one of them isn’t a biblical figure, so I’ll refrain from slamming anyone too hard. Maybe.

Peeking through the blinds, I see one of the men drinking from a Thermos. He spills on himself. He gets angry, starts swearing, then empties some of its contents onto the pavement. I notice the color of the liquid is red, not brown like coffee, but bright red. Is it Kool-Aid or Gatorade? Did he bring Menudo in the Thermos? Whatever it is, I want to run downstairs and ask Jesus to turn it into wine.

Dammit! Chewbacca jammies! The best-laid plans are always thwarted by Chewbacca pajamas. No one can be taken seriously while wearing Chewbacca shorts that are being consumed by their rear end and proudly wearing boulders of crusty sleep in the corners of their eyes like amulets. Is this turning anyone on? No? Ok, moving on…

To the best of my ability, I get ready for work. No sun salutation song, no yoga poses. For the record, the sun salutation song goes: “Oh holy shit fuck, oh goddamn it. Fuck it, let’s go!” My yoga poses involve me trying to crawl out of bed without disturbing the two sleeping, asshole cats that are on the bed. 

The way they position themselves, it’s impossible to get out of bed without twisting your spine, pulling a groin muscle, or most recently, giving myself calf cramp. I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure the cats are comfortable and haven’t been disturbed; it’s at this point one will get up of its own volition and begin furiously licking its ass on my comforter. Fuck you very much!

Jesus is climbing on my roof by this time. It’s just before 8 am. The other two men are stationed below and chatting. Do men actually chat? Women chat, do men chat? The other two men were “talking.” They appear to be finishing up their breakfast while Jesus makes no time for idle chitchat and gets straight to work.

I often feel like a perv. Don’t get carried away, let me finish that thought. I’m fluent in Spanish. I listen to public conversations. To look at me, you wouldn’t assume that I’m Hispanic. Being bi-lingual (and keeping it a secret) has worked in my favor and is a card I’ve played well – when it mattered. Most of what I hear is innocuous, but occasionally I get sensitive material. Today was not one of those occasions. I don’t care what Enrique said to some dude at his cousin’s house last night. And yes, I know that sounds like stereotyping, but I can’t change the facts. We all have a thousand cousins and we hang out with them all the fucking time.

Walking out to my car, I stop cold. What in the fuck is this monstrosity?! The bible crew had erected a ladder impeding the path to my car. I’m not saying there was a moat or a flaming hoop I needed to jump through - there wasn’t even a bridge troll, but there was a ladder and I had to either crawl through the bushes or walk underneath this ladder.

Grumbling, I crawl into the car with freshly muddied kicks. Fuck walking underneath a ladder! Superstitious? You bet your sweet ass! I’m not stupid about my superstitions though - I don’t go tossing salt over my shoulder, that’s just wasteful.

Wasn’t it enough that these motherfuckers had changed my whole morning routine for the last two weeks, now they wanted to try cursing me with bad luck too? Fuck it! Bring it! Initially, I was nervous about the implications of walking underneath this ladder. An appraisal of my current standings helped me reassess my fears.

I just had a tooth extracted and two dental implants placed. I’ve got a 12-yr. old boy who recently figured out masturbation. I know because I walked in on it. I got served wage garnishment paperwork at my place of business for a vehicle I stopped making payments on when I was a shitty drunk. I didn’t know there were legal proceedings happening because all the court paperwork was sent to an address that I haven’t lived at since I was 19 goddamn years old! Motherfucker, I’m 39! I figured it had gotten repossessed as I never heard about it.

Did you know that a fuckton of interest can accrue over the course of 6 years? My mother is transporting my Grandmother back to Mexico. It’s always a crapshoot on the odds of someone getting detained at the border. We ought to start drawing sticks for which of us will have to go get them when shit goes upside down. Yeah, so, go ahead and put your rickety ladder there for the foreseeable future. As far as I can tell, you’d have to wait at least another 1-2 years to collect on any intended form of misery.

I still want to see Jesus turn the Gatorade into wine. I know he can. I want to be able to open my blinds in the morning and not see the 3 Amigos downstairs or hear them up on the roof for that matter. Santa hangs out on rooftops and Jesus turned water into wine. Either leave me presents or make yourself useful and turn shit into alcohol, then be on your way. Besides, at 5’5” you’re more like an elf than a Santa or Jesus figure anyhow.

And with that, you may now all be offended.


















Thursday, May 2, 2019

Corduroy & Captain Poopy Pants


When you grow up overweight, there are two undeniable truths: That corduroy is not your friend. Not under any circumstance. Not ever. And that you will, without fail, be the last person picked from a lineup for all group sports – for all eternity or you lose weight and gain popularity – whichever comes first.

Adolescence, for me, was an emotional boot camp. I was broken several times over. It was fucking brutal. At 5’7” and 240 lbs., I didn’t fit where normal girls fit. I didn’t move through life like the other girls. Hell, I didn’t even move like one of the guys. I spent most of my time trying desperately to be as invisible as possible while occupying more physical space than any of my classmates; painfully aware of the disparity.

I wasn’t what one would have considered an academic, nor did I qualify as an athlete or a “jock” as we called them. I tried my hand at the whole “goth” craze that was happening, but all the desirable clothing was designed for someone who wore a size 0 or perhaps a 2 if she were bloated. I desperately wanted a homegroup; a place of residency within the social construct.

I found one.

We inhabited the carwash across the street from the high school. We were the miscreants. We were the smokers, the rejects, the misfits, and the have-nots. We were a sorry bunch of assholes. Cumulative GPA couldn’t have been higher than 3.0 and I attribute that to the hard work of, at best, 3 of us. This would be my family of choice.

Elementary, my dear


Kids are miserable pricks. In elementary school, I was teased, ridiculed, for the last name I carried. I took the last name of my step-father throughout elementary but ended up dropping it because the teasing was horrendous. I feel bad about it now. I didn’t have the fortitude at that age to just say “fuck off.” It seemed like the end of the world for me then. Relentless teasing all over my last name. I didn’t even have acne yet! I hadn’t even hit peak weight! Fucking assholes. My step-dad though, that guy is a fucking Saint. No one puts up with the amount of shit my mother and I put him through and continues to pick up the phone when we call – no one! They’re divorced now. Both re-married. It is what it is. They’re both healthier people now, blah-blah-blah.

I remember recess and dodgeball. Being the team captain was important. I don’t remember how the captain was chosen. I imagine it had something to do with influence; who had the most of it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it wasn’t randomized. The captains' would then (after deciding who chose first) begin selecting players to form their teams. You remember how this shit goes, right? Back and forth, selections based on favoritism, skill, and apparel. That’s right, clothing. If your threads were tired, you were about as likely to be picked as a three-legged dog with one eye and mange from the shelter. It could happen though, dreams come true for special doggies and kids just like you sometimes.

Such was the case for Jeff. I’ll leave his last name out of this. Jeff was exceptionally bright. He was a math genius and a minority. I’ll leave you to guess which one. Jeff’s intellect was a strike against him in this instance. No one likes a smart kid, especially when it comes to sports. Jeff had a meek nature about him too. He always seemed frightened of things. I think that he may have been ground zero for gluten allergies, probably grass too. Jeff’s second strike against him was his threads. He always wore royal blue pants (floods), and some type of plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. We used to say that he only had one pair of pants that he wore daily. It was a shitty thing to say.

(dodgeball selection process nearly completed)

Jeff, one other bastard, and I are the only ones left to be “teamed up.” The bastard is picked. Motherfucker! Next up: the mathematician??!! Really?! I am last and by default. Fantastic. This is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I’m wearing my favorite burgundy corduroy pants. I hang my head and slowly walk to my place with my team. My thighs are sending signals, giving up my location, to anyone in the immediate area. Discretion is not an option in these pants. Swish, swish, swish. I am further shamed. I am the poster child for latent rage.

“Game on!”

Normal play begins and one by one people are getting picked off. The strategy is to always go for the weakest individuals first. It’s just like in the animal kingdom, take down the weakest, the one with few defenses.

You’d think that Jeff and I would be first to go, but Jeff is quite apt to use others as a human shield and for as large and imposing as I was, people seemed unable to hit me. Is there some law in physics that states that the larger an object is, the harder it is to identify? Did I miss that class? The mechanics of the game seem straightforward: hit the big, mostly stationary object with a ball. Yet here I was, one of last standing team members.  Jeff and I lock eyes. This motherfucker is not using me like a goddamn shield!

The ball is hurled across the court and in extremely slow motion, Jeff, having no other option at this point, catches it. He doubles over, presumably from the force. He stays in this position with the ball curled into his stomach for an unusually long time. Classmates are excited and shocked to see that our very own math fairy has triumphed over his fear of everything not decimal related, but Jeff still isn’t moving. Teachers begin to approach slowly.

We’re told to back away and continue playing elsewhere. Jeff has a death grip on the red ball. He lurches across the blacktop, like Quasimodo, sneering at the other children as he passes.

As it turns it out, Jeff shit his pants playing ball that day. Sure, he may have had a hero moment, but it ended abruptly when he unloaded his breakfast into his royal blue trousers. Given the amount of crap we gave him for wearing the same “uniform” every day, one would imagine that having this experience would prompt Jeff to switch up his routine. Not so much. Jeff showed up to school the very next day wearing royal blue pants and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. Bold move, my nerdy friend.

I have no idea where Jeff is now or what he’s made of himself. I’m sure he’s doing well and has soft hands. He has probably never played another team sport just like I have never worn another pair of corduroy pants.

Kids are terrible little beasts. Growing up you will be wise to find someone sorrier than yourself and nurture that. It saved me; it could help you too. Thanks for taking one for the team, Jeff. You’re a real sport!














Friday, April 26, 2019

8 years, 7 months, & 26 days later


8 years, 7 months, & 26 days ago I first made your acquaintance. It must have been an exhausting shift at the restaurant I was working at because I missed all the signs that evening; all the flares going off behind you like fireworks.

I came home, trudging up the stairs of my shared apartment, smelling like an amalgamation of raw fish and fine Italian cuisine. I had pulled a double that evening – working the sushi bar that afternoon and closing out my night at the Trattoria. You greeted me at the top of the stairs; I’d never seen you before. Your nose was predominant and oily. My roommate came rushing out from her room to introduce you.

I stood, frozen on the stairs, exhausted. I fixated on you. You looked down at me from the top step holding a tray of mixed store-bought sushi (even now I cringe) and prosciutto wrapped mozzarella. This should have been the first of many indicators that you were no good. I should have torn you to shreds right where you stood. No one with any class whatsoever brings store-bought sushi to a party and certainly doesn’t serve it alongside said prosciutto. Who the fuck are you?

Moving my eyes upward from the atrocity in your arms, I zero in on your shirt. It’s not terrible, but you obviously think you’re headed for a more tropical climate than that in which we currently reside. You’ve unbuttoned it just enough to let the off-white wife-beater peak through, pushing aside the 3 chest hairs that have made their way up, like a plant searching for sunlight. But the worst offense yet rests on your head, slanted to one side. You are wearing a goddamn fedora. Not just any fedora either, it’s a Disney fedora. Jack Skellington? It’s bad enough you’re wearing a fedora (and cocked to the side like a dick slit) but must you also incorporate a cartoon character? My roommate didn’t tell me that we’d be babysitting on New Year’s Eve. I thought I’d be in the company of adults all evening.

Just then you put down the tray of food poisoning, offered to assist me the rest of the way up the 4 remaining stairs (thanks, Prince Charming), and produced two bottles of wine from thin air. At this point, I have forgiven the oily nose & horrendous hors d'oeuvre choice. I can help you make better choices in the future. Let’s discuss where you went wrong over a glass or two of wine.

Two bottles of wine, some tequila shared childhood trauma, and a trip to Jack in the Box later, and we’ve bonded – soulmate bonded. I’m pretty sure we’re going to get married. There’s just one small problem – your current, live-in girlfriend. Ours will be the shit fairytales are scripted around. Urban, co-dependent, addiction-based fairytales.

I’m persuasive and within a month I was no longer your side bitch. You’d kicked out your girlfriend and I was moving in. I’m just that good, I guess. It’s wretched really. If I thought about it for too long, I was miserable. It wasn’t anything that a stiff drink couldn’t fix though, and you were never shy about pouring me a drink. In fact, since the night that we met, that’s all we seemed to do. Celebrate? Let’s have a drink! Worries? Drink! And when we were angry, we drank too.

It seems like the “getting angry” part came quickly in our relationship. I guess that’s a natural progression when your foundation is greed, booze, hurt, and shame. The most troubling part of this whole mess is that we both had children; innocent children we were dragging through the muck. Convinced that we were creating the modern version of The Brady Bunch, we played house in our dysfunctional way. You had your son 100% of the time. You told me about your ex-wife. You painted her a drug addict and a loser mom. You told me you had "locked her inside the house for her own good" when you went to work. Only now do I question how much of what you say is true.

I’m not beyond reproach; I was looking to escape you. The way you smoked your cigarettes irritated me. To this day, I can still hear you pulling from off your cigarette; your thin lips releasing their grip from the filter and the deep, obnoxious inhale you’d take. You’d pinch the filter between your fingers, like an asshole, and take another repellent drag, drying my vagina. We’d order another round of drinks, all was forgiven.

By this time, however, I had caught the attention of the bartender. He liked a girl who could shoot & hold her whiskey. One evening he called you a “lucky sonofabitch” for being able to land a lady who looked the way that I did but could still handle her drink. It was the highest form of compliment I had ever received. I began to unravel your perfect relationship.

I was secretive and untrustworthy. Your fragile ego suffered and sought to retaliate. You didn’t want to let me go, only humiliate and hurt me. I didn’t want to let you go either; you served a purpose for me. You allowed me to be the worst possible form of myself – you allowed me to be an alcoholic. Indeed, you fed it. You cradled and nurtured the beast in me, and I loved you for it. I needed you for it.

It would be another year of heavy drinking and intense arguments. You’d scream at me in front of the children and pin me against the wall by my throat. I’d beg you to stop. You’d tell me to get on my knees and tell you why I deserved to still be your girlfriend. I would have done anything to make it all stop. I would have done anything to ensure that I could continue drinking. I would have done anything except leave you.

The truth is, I don’t remember how or why those arguments started in the first place. As a first class drunk, I can’t remember if I said something terrible or if I simply forgot to switch the laundry over. I don’t remember if you had gone through my phone and my emails again or if I had passed out on the couch and that’s what had angered you this time. I’m not a defenseless woman but I didn’t fight back for a long time. I was afraid of all that I had to lose. And what did I have to lose?

8 years, 7 months, & 26 days later I know what I lost. I lost someone who was okay pushing me downstairs, dragging me by my hair, violating my privacy, harming me in front of children, and degrading me. I’m not ever fully free of this individual. My dependence on him for the time that we were together was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. His sickness, his ability to control and manipulate, arresting.

The last time that you struck me we had both been drinking Jack Daniels. We had likely been drinking since you got home from work. I had probably been drinking for longer. I don’t remember much from that evening. I don’t remember why we had begun to argue, it seemed so commonplace by that point. I hated you. I hated being with you. I hated fucking you. I hated myself with you. I had lost everything, in my opinion, because of you. Here I was though, in miserable Florida, without my son, treating yours as mine. Sometimes, enough is enough.

After that night, nothing was the same.

You’d always had a problem with self-esteem and your ego often took the driver’s seat. That night when you punched me, I finally fought back. I was tired of being told that I wasn’t deserving of your love. I would never wish your brand of love on anyone. You didn’t respond well to my form of self-advocacy. I’d be dragged around your parent’s home by my hair for a bit. They fucking watched you drag me around their living room! They probably thought I deserved it. Maybe I screwed up your dinner. Doesn’t matter, the next day, both of us with black eyes, finally understood. This is fucked up!

You asked me to leave. I hated you for it. I had left everything behind to be with you, even after you fucked everything up for me in the first place. The reality is, I was an alcoholic – I made terrible choices. I spiraled out of control and one bad decision led to shame and guilt. At the end of each of my bad decisions, there you were, with a drink and a promise: It was all going to be okay. I honestly didn’t care how it ended just so long as you kept me in my cups.

There came the day though, that I was more afraid of you, more afraid of myself, more afraid of not being all that I was intended to be than I was of facing all the shit that I had or hadn’t done. I had not been a mother. I had not been a daughter. We are told that we must forgive ourselves if we are to be successful in our recovery but how do you truly forgive choosing a bottle and man over our own flesh and blood? A child that I gave birth to; felt move within me, I was able to cast aside so that I could stay drunk. I missed him. There’s not an easier way to say that, no way that encapsulates it more clearly than: I missed him.

I’ve been sober for several years now. I’m supposed to want the best for you. I don’t. I’m supposed to forgive you. I do. I think you’re a miserable human being and deserve to have someone bigger than you and equally miserable beat the shit out of you and make you feel tiny and insignificant. I hope that you feel as irrelevant as you made me feel. I hope you get help too. I hope that you end whatever cycle of bullshit you have going on; I pray you don’t pass that on to your son.

Should we ever see one another again, make no mistake, we are NOT friends. You may NOT speak to me ever again. You may NOT speak to, or say hello to, my son. I have crafted a sense of safety and personal freedom. You may NEVER infringe upon that again.

It has been 8 years, 7 months, & 26 days since I first laid eyes on you. God willing, I never have to do it ever again.













Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Suck it!


I am on the precipice of a mental breakdown and my co-worker is a sudden gust of wind blowing manufactured trauma through the office. “Why should I have to ask for a straw?” he grumbles, sending shock waves of disgust coursing through my racked body. Because you just do, you entitled fuckwad. Is it so hard to ask for a fucking straw? Are you so ridiculously entitled that you think these things are your right of ownership? Is it just me, or is it just a goddamn straw? Ask for it, say thank you, and be done with it. Even the marine life is tired of hearing this guy bitch about it. Somewhere, a sea turtle is sharpening a straw against the coral reef; turning it into a weapon. Fuck this straw crybaby!

People who complain about the tax on grocery bags are equally pathetic. Here’s the thing, the people voted on it. So, the majority decided to implement the bag tax. You don’t approve of that outcome? Too bad. Shit won’t always work in your favor. Quit wailing about how “unfair” it is; get yourself some reusable bags. Stop being a sniveling pussy. Or, pay the fucking 10 cents. It’s not price gouging, assholes.

Crash Course: Today, the population of the world is roughly 7,795,482,309. That means more than just you. I could spend an eternity breaking this down into minutia about population and voting demographics, or I could simply tell you that there are a plethora of opinions and that you are not the only one out there casting a vote. A bit egocentric, no?

Gas prices are rising. Yeah, it sucks. I get it. While you’re yelling at me about prop 6 and how I fucked up, let’s not forget how it’s not a renewable resource though. Tell me all about your pump woes while you’re filing the Super Duty truck that you purchased of your own accord. I’d love to hear how that wasn’t a choice that you made.

The bottom line is, for better or worse, we’re in this bullshit together. There’s plenty of shit I don’t endorse and don’t cry about on a regular basis. Why? Because I’m outnumbered. The Bachelor, for example. We’re going to make a reality show about a rich guy that several chicks are trying to bang and marry? Fascinating. Color me enthralled. POTUS? I didn’t vote for him. I also don’t bash him or cry about his batshit policies and childish antics with equal fervor.

There is certain to be a backlash. I’ve outed myself as a bag tax loving, gas hike embracing, progressive. I’ll take my lumps like a big girl. What I’ll also do like a big girl, is ask for a mother fucking straw when I want one without being a little bitch about it.  






Wednesday, April 10, 2019

You Drive A Mauve Truck?




So, on my way to work this morning I was passed by a mauve (yes, mauve) Dodge Ram ‘End of Days, Crusader Series,’ truck. My initial thought was: isn’t that a Revlon lipstick shade? I think that’s #237, Rum Raisin. Next thought: that dude is super secure in his masculinity, more power to him! I mean, we are never fucking, but more power to him.

You may question how I can be sure it was a man driving this domineering powder-puff and not a confident, self-reliant woman. Well, I did what any good investigative journalist would do. I punched it and got alongside the vehicle.

Our eyes locked - the moment taut between us. I surmise he was trying to establish whether I was hitting on him or not. He glanced over his shoulder at the median, as though someone else was the focus of my attention. I burst into laughter realizing what had happened and let my vehicle fall behind.

Sir, you’re driving a massive truck the color of a dog’s slick erection. There is no chance in Heaven that I am eyeballing you.

 Image result for dog erection

I began to let my mind wander. What if this dude came to pick me up for our first date? What would happen when I stepped outside and saw the wiener-mobile? Would I pretend that this was a mistake? “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else?” then shut the door on him & turn all the house lights off?

I’m not saying dudes can’t drive traditionally “feminine” colored vehicles, but this one was over the top. This would be like Avon and Mary-Kay fucking on your porch and leaving its lovechild behind. It’s what would happen if you turned a dolphin-shaped dildo into a battering ram – a visual assault unparalleled. My vagina has never been so dry. My nipples actually inverted themselves; went into hiding. Witness protection for the titties.

There’s surely any number of good reasons why this guy could have been driving his lady’s truck. Was he helping her make repairs to it? She has a busy schedule between mud wrestling gators and canning pigs’ feet – cleaning the undercarriage may have put her behind schedule to watch NACAR with the girls at the salon.  

And...I'm stereotyping again. I get it. I have premium seats in Hell reserved. Front row, in fact.

Listen, far be it from me to dictate what color car you should drive. Most days I can’t put underwear on without almost falling over. I ask my 11-yr. old son for advice on which shoes I should wear; clearly, I am in no position to throw stones. Just know that when you drive around in a beast of a truck the color of “dog erection,” I am going to formulate a storyline around you & your choices. It’s likely they’ll wind up here too. It’s all in good fun, it just so happens to be at your expense.



























Friday, April 5, 2019

Best Foot Forward, Bitches

I've got an upcoming speaking event. I fucking hate public speaking. It's not as though it's a topic that's foreign to me or anything that I should need to study up on first; I am literally standing in front of a group of peers and talking about my favorite topic. Me. 

The thing is, public speaking is nothing like writing. When I begin to stammer, my voice quakes, and I misuse words or draw a blank, I can't blurt out "backspace, backspace, backspace." Those assholes are stuck with me fumbling around until I get my bearings again - if I ever regain them at all. This ought to be a riot. 

That's not what this post is about though. This is just to crack my creative knuckles. 

Let's have a moment of silence to pay tribute to some true heroes; those people who touch our feet at the nail salon. I SAID SILENCE - QUIT LAUGHING!! 

Sure, the doctor that cures that nasty (and not talked about) rash you have is pretty dope. The veterinarian that takes care of your pet that you were sure wasn't going to make it is a fucking godsend. But have you considered the cosmetologist who's seated on an uncomfortable little stool and fucks with your gnarly feet while barely speaking for hours on end? Probably not. I hadn't given it much thought either until just the other day. 

I was at the salon getting my nails done when the "kind" woman repeatedly asked me, rather annoyingly, if I wanted a pedicure. No, bitch, I didn't want one the first time you offered, this third offer hasn't made me any more ready to kick off my sweaty gym shoes. I have no desire to put myself through that kind of shame. Nor do I wish hardship of that sort on these women. Except for that woman with the platform sandals; she's been eyeballing me hard since I arrived. Fuck her.

Pedicures must be where they make the real money. Perhaps it's why they jam it down your throat like a 16-yr. old boy trying to French kiss for the first time. When that doesn't work, they'll try sneaking it up the back of your skirt; like an over-eager teen who's already been told "no." 

Recalling all the times I have had a pedicure done, I shudder. Some nasty-ass shit happens in those spa chairs. Things that shouldn't be seen, let alone repeated. 

These cosmetologists subject themselves to some downright nauseating sights in the name of the almighty dollar. You can't pay me enough to hoist your lifeless limb, with all its nasty veins, bruises, and skin folds, into the air & then scrub away at foot cheese. Fuck that, and fuck you very much. 

Oh, you're hoping we can make small talk? Sure, let's talk about how you need to take better care of your goddamn feet. Did you know that your toenails are 3" thick and three different shades of yellow? I need a fucking chainsaw to do any real damage to these sonsofbitches. 

There are 4 people right now that are super pissed off at me. Why are you fungus shaming people? I'm not. Get over yourself. Get your situation cleared up and get over yourself. I'm honoring the people that touch your hideous feet. 

Be honest, you don't even like your feet. That's why you pay someone else to touch them. 5 bucks shouldn't even scratch the surface of what these folks are due. I've seen toes that cross the toes next to them like they're creating some forever secret pact. I've seen toenails that are blackened and bumpy. What the fuck is that shit about? Vanity is a fucked up thing. I want to be attractive and feminine but at what cost? To myself and others? 

It's been more than 5 months since I last went in for a pedicure. I'm a cheap-ass. There's nothing wrong with my toes and my varicose veins haven't quite made the "Dear God, put them bitches away" list yet. I'm hoping to achieve this soon. My dream is to never again wear shorts and move to cooler temps. 

I'm naturally of a pale-ish olive complexion. Somewhere between "Mexican looking" and "please don't leave me at the border crossing, I don't know how to knife fight yet." 

Wherever we move, I want to be the darkest bitch in the hood. I want to be the woman the locals flock to for ideas and recipes for multicultural events and potlucks. 

These are just wistful dreams. Let's back to those nasty feet. 

All I'm saying is this: the next time you set your hobbit feet into a tub of water and make bullshit small-talk with someone who's probably been hunched over stank feet for the last four hours, dig deep when you tip. 

Remember, you're no peach to deal with either. You're probably asking for some ridiculous shit like a flower on the wrong goddamn toe, or you're one of those insufferable bitches that are never satisfied. And for fuck's sake, don't immediately try to put on shoes and fuck up the whole damn thing then get pissed like it's their fault. There's a special place in Hell for you bitches. 









Thursday, March 28, 2019

Mercury can piss off already



For the last few weeks, I’ve been in a slump of sorts. I lack the confidence that previously I felt I had in spades. That’s what most call arrogance, unearned or undeserved arrogance at that.

I've questioned whether I’m meant for more than answering phones in a halfway ramshackle office on the industrial side of town. Am I capable of more? I manage the payroll here too, so don’t everyone get dizzy with praise at once. What I mean is, I never earned a degree in anything aside from bullshitting you out of your lunch money or co-dependent behavior. I have a Ph.D. in that one.

I spend the better part of each day thumbing through endless pages of others’ lives on my mobile device and think: how the fuck did this piece of shit get that job? Brazen of me, right? What the hell else am I to do with 8 hours of time on my hands and an inexhaustible amount of self-loathing?

I have writer friends. I dare not read their posts lately although I do make a few exceptions. It sends me into a spiral of tearing apart my own writing. I have no style - no stylistic techniques or strategies. I follow no grammatical rules. I write what the fuck I want, how I want. My brain is a train wreck, thus, my writing tends to follow suit, ergo, the task of writing has proven consternating.

Recently I applied for a job I knew I had no shot of getting. I didn’t apply for the Secret Service or anything, although I do believe my ass would look amazing in a pair of those standard-issue black trousers. I’ve got better sense than that. It was a position at an aerospace tech company. So, as I said, not a snowballs chance in Hell. For clarification, they wanted office support, not unlike what I do now. It’s not as if I’d be given fucking launch codes. 

I threw a tweet out into the void about attaching my Twitter profile to a job application. OMFG! Yep, I did that. Yes, it was for this job. It would appear, by all rights, that I intended to be dismissed, before ever having been considered.

There are a couple of things to keep in mind here. The first being that I keep it real on my Twitter profile. If you read it there, chances are, some part of that shit is real. The second is that if this employer DID happen to glance to at my profile and STILL decided to call me in for an interview, well, that shit is on them! 

Who the fuck sees my profile as an enhancement to my “less-than-polished” resume? In white font at the bottom of pg.3, (everyone loves a 3-pg. resume), I have added: Have knee pads, willing to travel for work.  

Oh, you'd like to know what happened with the aerospace job? Sadly, but predictably, the position had been filled. They thanked me in a formulaic template letter.

I didn’t apply because I wanted to or intended to leave the shitty job I already have. I love these pieces of shit I work with. I also hate them and wish death on them in horrible, ghastly ways at least twice a week. I once threatened to leave my used tampons on Tim's desk if he didn't stop pissing on my toilet seat. If that's not hardcore, I don't know what is. There is a designated Men's room. Quit pissing all over mine. Last time I checked, I have a vagina and piss sitting down. Unless you do too, you should be using the other restroom - the one located next door. So much love between us. 

That aerospace company is going to miss out on having someone like me on their team. I'm marginally motivated, somewhat punctual, and my vernacular is flowery as fuck. 

I didn't get the stupid job, so the fuck what! I still don't know what my passion is. Maybe that's ok? What I know is this: I took the fucking shot. You miss out on 100% of the shit you don't try. If they had come back and said, "You're just too much," I would have been proud of that. At least I was something. At least I was trying to live.












            
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