XXX

I thought that title might grab your attention. Funny thing; I had to rely on my old friend, Pornhub, to tell me the tier rating on X’s. How many is appropriate? If I’m not mistaken, there is a Triple X pro-wrestler. As it turns out, Triple H is the wrestler [could have been awkward], The XX is a musical group, and porn seems to go from X rated directly to XXX. So, there you have it – in case you were curious.

I have a very active imagination. It helps me survive most days. It leaves me smiling awkwardly by myself long after others have moved on. In my mind however, the story has evolved, and it’s funny as hell. It also sets me up for unrealistic expectations. Allow me to illustrate.

I have this recurring fantasy that one day I’m going to come home from work and my boyfriend, having been home all day, is going to walk up to me, grab me firmly by the shoulders while looking into my eyes and say, “You need to go sit down, I have dinner covered, honey”.

I’ve seen that meme; the one where the guy picks her up, carries her into the room, lays her down on the bed, and proceeds to clean the entire house. That’s some Roald Dahl fantasy fiction. I don’t believe in giants, overgrown peaches or talking insects and arachnids. I do, however, believe in God. In my home, it’s the Xbox One.

I’m certain that if that piece of plastic had a set of tits and a hole that read “insert dick here”, I’d be obsolete. Cereal is a viable dinner option and if he’s in a place in the game where he can hide behind some shrubbery for a minute, he can pop a TV dinner in the microwave. The other things that I regularly take care of around the house will eventually become a health and safety issue; if he doesn’t address it, the neighbors will eventually call it in. I clearly don’t have any issues with the amount of gaming that’s done in my home though – clearly.

Please don’t mistake me; I like to play from time to time also. I usually don’t do it for 7 hrs. straight though and can tell when it interferes with my basic living. If I didn’t need that damn machine for my Netflix and Hulu accounts, I’d “accidentally” drop it into the bathtub while I was “dusting” it. Might be difficult to explain, but I used to be a decent liar, I’d be willing to try again.

Some time last week I came home from work and desperately wanted to be told “Go sit down, honey, I got this.” Much to my fucking dismay, that’s not what happened. My boyfriend, whom I love very much, sat on the edge of our coffee table and played video games while I stomped around the kitchen banging cabinet drawers and pots and pans like some one-man, passive-aggressive marching band. It might have been easier to ask for help, but where’s the fun in that? Then I’d have nothing to bitch about later and certainly nothing to write about.

In the days since this incident first transpired he’s been super helpful (mostly), which makes it hard to post this, but he’ll understand. If he doesn’t…well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Ultimately, I carry the power around with me always. It’s called pussy. Do I like having this much power? You’re damn right I do!

With great power comes great responsibility.

Another school shooting: Why I'm not surprised

**If you’re easily offended, step off this blog – this shit ain’t for you**

I woke up this morning to news of another school shooting. This one taking place in Maryland. It doesn’t matter any more where they happen. They aren’t isolated events and they aren’t relegated to impoverished communities. So, what I want to know is: which households want to borrow my mom?

I’m not any more surprised to hear news of school shootings than I am to witness children acting a damn fool in public. I can join hands with the people in my communities and argue that gun control is needed, but I feel that fundamentally something more is missing. I don’t speak for anyone else when I say this, so get your pitchforks and flaming shit sacks ready. Children are entitled little pricks because we let them get that way and they need to get the shit scared out of them.

I was terrified of my mother – that shit is healthy as fuck. She never beat me, even though I’m sure I deserved it. I respected the shit out her. You wanna know who I respected even more than her? My grandfather. I wish that guy was still alive. He oozed control and demanded your attention and respect. He would beat your ass though. They were different times then. No doubt my mother got her ass handed to her; she let that experience shape her in such that she vowed not to do the same to me. Believe that she just had to look at me though and I knew I was in deep shit. As a child, I raised my voice just once in a most disrespectful way. What happened? She slapped me. Want to know what didn’t happen? I never talked shit like that again.

Our children today are coddled entirely too much. In my opinion we are partially to blame for the tragedies taking place. We allow our children to “express themselves” and be “uniquely their own person” even when it interferes with a greater good. Our offspring become so damned “special” and precious that we never want to stifle their individualism. Guess what? We’ve created narcissistic little twats that run around thinking that they’re the center of the goddamned universe. Vainglorious little monsters. Monsters with access to technology.

I know parents who let their children call them by their first names or do some other disrespectful shit and then offer things like: “Johnny’s therapist suggests that we let him go through this phase and support his emotional journey”. Fuck you, that’s bullshit – grow a pair. You allow that kid to walk all over you and they will. Not only will he or she walk all over you, but they’ll think that’s appropriate behavior to take out into the world too. Why? Because you fucking taught them that! I’m in no way, shape, or form endorsing beating your kids. This isn’t 1950. But just for shits and giggles, let’s look at the stats on school shootings in 1950.

http://www.k12academics.com/school-shootings/history-school-shootings-united-states#.WrFM-MPwZhE

So, Timmy doesn’t feel special and maybe his gluten allergy is acting up and the Ritalin isn’t working the way it used to. His assignment didn’t get the grade he thought it should have (because he’s an entitled little shitstain) and his therapist took the week off. One thing leads to another, you keep letting him “honor his emotional journey,” which honestly just means that Timmy runs amok, and Timmy has the internet at his fingertips. Next thing you know there's Amazon packages at your door for his "school project". Kids are clever – more so than we sometimes give them credit for. Timmy likes attention and any attention will do. You may think this is a stretch, but I beg to differ.

Maybe mental illness is a factor? Ok, sure, I’ll bite. As an adolescent I was prone to depression and anxiety. I was on medication to help with this. I can’t tell you for certain if the crap worked or not. If you ask me I was just a pissed off teenager. We’re all so happy to label something as broken and feed it pills. I fell into this category. My parents were sure I was broken, my therapist concurred, and my psychiatrist was happy to issue me meds. I eventually used those same meds to try to OD. Stomach pumping is not my favorite thing in the world. Shitting the bed after they make you drink charcoal - also, not my favorite pastime. Do you know what I didn’t do? I didn’t get a gun and go shoot up a school despite being terribly sad and feeling as though my world was ending. Gee, that’s novel. Why didn’t I? Because I’m a moral motherfucker and I feared what my parents would do. The way it ought to be; in my opinion. You can’t tell me that these kids don’t know right from wrong. They just think they’re better than others; that their lives are more valuable or that the lives of others aren’t - and that is utter bullshit.

I’ll ask you again – anyone want to borrow my mom for a week or two? I think my Dad is kind of busy and honestly, I think he’s gone a little soft. Mom will tear your kid a new asshole though. Hell, she might even rip you apart for being a spineless piece of shit. You’ll never meet a woman who will support your every endeavor with such fire you think she’ll burn down stadiums and tear you apart with mere words when it’s earned quite like my mother.  I love her, fear her, and respect her – that’s how it should be. That’s just my opinion. What do I know? You don’t have to trust or believe anything I say. Fact: I have never shot anyone, I’ve never beaten my child, and I don’t expect that he will either.

Curran says “please” and “thank you”. Curran also says “fuck” and “shit” because I allow him to “honor his fucking journey” but when he acts a damn fool or does some shit that’s outta line, he gets his little ass checked because I’m his mother and that’s my goddamned job.

Commence dookie throwing now…

Flowers use shit to grow

We’re all beautiful flowers hungry for the sun. Let me re-phrase that: we’re all Home Depot pansies; ordinary, thirsty as fuck, and capable of suffocating the life out the flower next to us for our time in the sun.

I’ve long believed that humans have this insatiable need to be seen and adored. I’m no different. I don’t work out every day just because it makes me feel good. You’d be smoking crack if you believed that I wouldn’t rather be eating pizza by the box and washing it down with milkshakes and full calorie soda. Holy shit, that was erotic. No - I work out, maintain basic hygiene, and try not to be too much of a cunt because I seek approval.

Why are we such pieces of shit? Tell ya what, I’ll try not to figure you out; I’ll just talk about what an ass I am.

I was having a discussion with my cousin this morning. She’s a Dr. and wasn’t prescribing me anything and I didn’t owe her anything at the end of our discussion, so choke on that. Anyhow, we talked a bit (I talked) about how people tend to take tragedies and make them catastrophes, then paint themselves right smack in the center of them (and how this fucking irritates me) when really, they ought to sit down and respect the process that usually HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THEM. Once I had myself affixed to my soapbox securely, I was able to talk shit with more confidence. How dare these people! What kind of asshole thinks only of themselves in situations and has no regard for others? Me. I do.

I was a lonely kid growing up. I knew I was cool as fuck though too. I’m certain I remember myself much differently than I was. If you ask me to describe myself (I’m going to anyway) I would say that I was a bit of a loner with a book habit. I indulged in music and shitty poetry and dreamed of being a musician; all dark and brooding. I was a 14-yr. old girl for fucks sake. I might say that I was unique. Ugh! I was not unique. Not even a little. At least not in the ways or for the reasons that I thought made one unique. I dyed my hair and played guitar, so fucking what?! I was no more special for that than my neighbor, she was a living Barbie doll. I brought home strange homeless people and tried to fix the wing of a bird that my cat tried to kill. When I couldn’t fix the bird and my mom found out about Tom (homeless guy I hid in the attic) I was heartbroken and cried for days – THAT is the shit that made me special.

But despite being special, I was still a piece of shit…

I fluffed my cousin with compliments (all legit by the way); told her how she had always been an inspiration for me. She made me want to do better for myself. Ok, I’m lying again. She pissed me off because she was always better than me – at everything. This bitch came from another country, barely able to understand our language, and I hooked her up. I took her to school with me and helped acclimate her. Before I knew it, she surpassed me – at everything. I was hella pissed. I learned to compete with her…at everything. I even challenged her to a goddamn sit-up contest. Who da fuck does that shit?! BTW, cousin, I’m still pissed. I hurt for a long time after that. Pride and abdomen alike.

She reminded me just how fucked up my mean streak can be. Here is a little excerpt. God bless her for being so forgiving. This was a HUGE slap in the face for me. I have always thought of myself as relatively kind, but this is hard for me. This was some spiteful ass shit. Check it out…

Her: Lol about the sit-ups. Do you remember how when you’d get mad at me, you’d yell “when you grow up, you’re going to look like your mother and I’m going to look like mine!” You where prophetically right about that.

I guess in some ways, we all turn into our mothers. 

Me: I said that out of anger? That is so fucking not cool. There was nothing wrong with Eva. Kids are evil. I'm sorry. I don't remember that.

Her: We were just kids. I find it pretty funny.

Me: No, that's shitty.

I apologize. I was a mean kid. I'm seeing that now.

That's actually horrifying. Your mother was beautiful. I remember the picture of her and your father in my grandmothers living room. I was just being a spiteful brat

Her: I appreciate you saying that, but an apology is not needed. We had a kind of sibling rivalry that was ripe for this kind of stuff. As an adult, I have realized I was a pretty mean adolescent to my younger brothers

Me: My mom was a drunk and a pill addict. So yeah...my declaration of "I get to be like her" was fitting. Now, that is funny. OMG.... I will so be writing about that!! LMAO

I wanted to come out of every situation the winner. To some degree, I still do. It’s a very unattractive quality. I’m pretty sure that I’ve done some growing since 2^nd grade although sometimes I question how much. For instance: competing with the woman (or man) at the gym on the machine next to me is just plain dumb. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it later tonight, just means it dumb. Because, remember…I want to look good in those jeans so that I can steal the sunshine from the Barbie doll next to while eating pizza by the box. I’m no better than you; in fact, I’m terrible. I’m still working on my shit though. What are you doing?

Should be noted that mom has now been clean and sober for longer than I have. Love you mom! 

Gonna burn for that last statement

I’ve been radio silent for a while. Honestly, I’ve been lazy. I have other shit I should be doing for spiritual maintenance – you know, basic dusting and pillow fluffing [not those pillows, assholes]. These days I’m lucky if I care enough to put on makeup and deodorant. I always brush my teeth though because I’m not a damn heathen.

I’ll briefly catch you up on recent happenings. I don’t have much to complain about. *shock and awe blanket the masses*

My kid starts middle school next year. When the fuck did this take place?! I mean, I know when the act of conceiving the little monster took place – give or take. I’m full of shit. Odds are I was hammered. What? You can shake your head if you want, it’s cool – I can’t see you, but that’s the truth. But seriously, when did I get so damn old? I feel like it was just a few years ago that I was choosing shoes based on ease of removal while intoxicated. Zippers = ok. Buckles = bad. In the nearly 5 years that I’ve been sober now, some things have changed and some have remained the same. Zippered boots are still just fine by me while buckled are still all bad. I really am not inclined to bend my ass over to try to hook those little bastards. My back is bad, and my eyesight fails me from time to time. Fuck all that

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve done some reflecting; not a lot though because that shit is painful, time consuming, and usually I’m not depicted favorably.

I got word that a friend had passed away suddenly. She and I hadn’t been on close or even friendly terms since grade school; never-the-less, the news of her abrupt death hit me rather hard. I was forced to look at how fragile this existence is. I’m not going to get all mystical and Madam Cleo on you. I won’t talk about astral projections, Ouija boards, visions, or preach to you about hugging your loved ones; I just won’t. All I know is she was younger than me and kinder to her body than I have been to mine. One never knows what’s in store. Live your best life or take the chance that you may go having never said and done the shit you wanted to. That’s why I’m eating the fuck outta these sourdough pretzels right now. There are plenty of opportunities for salad or fruit, but these sourdough pretzels have had nasty rumors spread about them making people fat and I needed to put an end to the bullying. Everyone loves to love a salad. Pretzels need love too.

While we’re talking about chips…

Prime rib chips? Anyone seen this abomination yet? The advertisement says that it’s the chip that eats like a meal. I’m sorry, when did we get to the Wonka Chocolate Factory? Are there different courses to this meal? Do we start with soup or salad and finish with a dessert? Are there options or just a set menu? These things are important to me when selecting a putrid sodium stick to throw my money at. I’m half way to diabetes, someone hand me a Coke-a-Cola.

I was heavy as a teenager. If you look at the picture of me and my friend, you’ll see that I was a big girl. We must have been in 8^th grade in this picture. Thank God we were done with neon colors by this point in our development. I think Aqua Net and Rave hairspray were still a thing judging by the curls I was rocking. My hair will not hold a curl like that for more than an hour and that, my friends, was a lunch time pep rally if I’m not mistaken. I remember that one because a bird shit on my head during that rally. Never went to another one.  

8^th grade me would have taken those prime rib chips and slammed them inside a flame broiled cheeseburger from Burger King on my lunch break and inhaled that bitch; but I never understood why I had weight issues. Math was never my strong suit. Calories in vs. caloric energy spent. I think I finally understand the fundamentals, I just don’t like them. I want to eat like a gluttonous slob and never pay the price – eat cheeseburgers for breakfast and model bikinis when I’m not rescuing animals and protecting children from abusive homes. Normal shit.

Work has even been tolerable recently. My co-workers haven’t given me reason to want to kill any of them and my boss has been more lenient than usual; merciful even. We had a discussion the other day in which he told me that he no longer wanted to type up any of his reports. He, without blinking an eye said, “I want to hire a little Indian boy to type them for me”. Without hesitation I replied, “Everyone knows you hire an Asian. Their hands are dexterous from all that denim stitching and computer building. That’s a no brainer…come on!” We had a laugh. Holy shit, she’s disgusting! You may be thinking to yourself – you wouldn’t be wrong. Hell, I might even have time to type his fucking reports if I:

a)     Gave a shit

b)     Wasn’t already busy doing my own shit

c)     Was properly compensated to do so; I’m poorly compensated for this job.

So…maybe I did find something to gripe about. I feel whole again.

More later. Googling "cheap Asian labor" [going to burn for this one] 

Dirty motherfuckers

I love going to concerts. I love everything about them except for anything that isn’t exclusively the music. Long lines, exorbitant fees, drunk people, smoke, cold temperatures, tall people standing in front of me – this shit all sucks. The music is what makes it all tolerable. Last night was no exception. I was in good spirits though and even the overweight lesbian security guard that gave me the ‘pat down’ couldn’t break my stride. It was actually oddly erotic and a little embarrassing.

Her: “I’m going to have you turn away and face the wall then I’m going to run my hands down the length of your legs” she explained

Me: “Uh huh”

Her: “Now I’m going to feel around your pockets and belt”

Me: “Mmm kay”

Her: “This is me running along the your bra line”

Me: “Yep”

**Clean up on aisle “Haven’t done Bi shit since I was in college”

Once I gathered my composure we got our asses inside and posted up on the floor; this would be our concert real estate for the next 3 hours. I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you guys I am very fucking serious about my concert real estate. There will be dancing – I get that. There will be elbows, hair, feet and beer – I get that. Respect my space though. Don’t be a fucking prick and there won’t be a problem. I often introduce myself so that I know the people I’m about to be up close and personal with. Why the fuck is she telling us this shit you may be asking yourselves. It’s relevant. We’ll get there, but first let’s talk about the opening act.

The Dirty Hooks took the stage at their set time of 8pm. I love it when a band comes to stage on time. It’s dark and I am barely able to make out the 3 shapes taking the stage, but I’m fairly certain the one on drums has long hair and boobs. Holy shit! It’s Sex Bob Omb from Scott Pilgrim. Fuck yeah! The lead singer even kind of looks like the vegan. The drummer though, she looks nothing like Allison Pill, who plays Kim in Scott Pilgrim. This drummer has dark hair, bangs, and a set of pipes on her that stopped me dead in my tracks. She’s a little rockabilly, a little punk rock, and all kick ass. This band [which is unsigned, by the way] is my newest infatuation. I plan to learn everything about them. I want a full length poster for my bedroom door like I used to have for New Kids on the Block when I was in 8^th grade. I’ll grow my hair out just like hers and even cut myself some bangs. I fucking hate bangs. I’ll do that shit though; I can be a hardcore fan girl. Matching tattoo placement too. Just kidding, I’m not that creepy. I’ll probably just get a doll in her likeness and brush its hair every night. 

Without fail – without rhyme or reason, I always seem to end up standing next to the mortgage broker or financial advisor type who has either had 7 drinks too many or 7 too few. He’s either been drinking for far too long or needs to continue drinking to cross back over that thin line where drunken slobbery reverts to ‘I’ve had too much, I should sit this one out or sleep it off’. This night would be no different.

I found myself standing next to some lubricant God and his harem. There was so much product in his hair that when people started lighting their joints around him, I was genuinely concerned for his welfare. Spontaneous combustion: the show at the Observatory not on the ticket but totally worth the bullshit I was putting up with. ‘Deranged Dick’ was grinding on these girls with his back to me. He seemed to think that he could nudge me out of my position on the floor. He kept trying to use his back and elbows to move me. This was more than just being drunk, this was passive relocation. He doesn’t know me. I don’t fuck around with my real estate. I am immovable. Fuck off. This jackwad is so obnoxious that I’m going to vomit on his alligator shoes just to get him to leave. I don’t feel ill, I just want him to go. I can hear him tell his company that the music is making him horny. Yes! That’s so damn hot. Please take me outside and fuck me in your car!!  I love it when men slobber teenage vernacular into my shoulder. You want to refer to it as a “pee-pee” next? He left shortly thereafter and took Barbie and her clones with him.

Stone Temple Pilots takes the stage and the very first song they play creeps me the fuck out. I’m not sure how many of you know this, but the original lead singer to STP is dead. Yup, fucking dead. This new dude comes out and starts playing Wicked Garden for the 1^st song. The lyrics go: “cause I’m alive - so alive now, I know the darkness binds you.” Now, I don’t know about anyone else there that evening, but I felt like maybe that wasn’t the opening song to have gone with because I’m in the crowd thinking: nope, you’re fucking dead. Jeff [new lead singer] even has the little hip sway and holds the mic stand the way that Weiland used to – clingingly. Weiland did it to steady himself, I’m sure, but this guy doing it is freaking me out a little. Overall, the sound was great and if you blindfolded me, I might not be able to tell the difference.

I learned something on this evening. I learned that I have no filter and not nearly enough fear. Let’s meet my new friend, Cracked Cobhan. I have no earthly idea what his real name is, but Cobhan means ‘dwells by the hillside hollow’ and that’s as close to The Hills Have Eyes and Pet Cemetery as I think I can get.

This motherfucker was 10x’s creepier than KY King. I’m certain that he’d have strangled me in the hallway with his shoelaces if gifted the opportunity. It’s a very long story. I’ll save you the back and forth. What it boiled down to, was this guy was uncomfortably close to women and tried to touch one. I didn’t like that and got involved. He’d already been trying to passively relocate me, and I wasn’t having that either, so when I confronted him on his handsy behavior, he was less than enthusiastic about complying. This shitstain and I faced off for a good 2 mins. I resisted the urge to spit on him; I’m not above that type of shit in these situations either. He was loaded and full of hatred. If he was waiting for me to step back, he’d be waiting a long time. He’d be up to his eyeballs swimming in piss by the time I’d back down. I stared at him and defiantly said “what?!”

Chobani took a step towards me but I stood firm. I had already assessed my surroundings and mapped out my attack in my minds eye. I’d fight dirty. I’d bite his arm then run up behind him, jump on back and gouge out his eyes. I didn’t have to though, because I had friends with me and other bystanders who saw what was happening by this point. Several people asked him to leave. He was really fucking up the show. I came to see the Weiland doppelgänger and now I’m exchanging pleasantries with a dude who didn’t count on the fact that I can speak Spanish. Ha!! Surprise motherfucker! You can’t talk shit to your friends behind you when the little white girl next to you understands your animal ass. Yes, when you attempt to grope women while intoxicated in the dark and then defend that behavior, you are an animal. Go get fucked.

The rest of the show went on without consequence. Well…except for the chick fight. I missed that though and wasn’t directly involved, so I can’t speak to that one. I do know that some broad got hit in the face, but that is second hand information. I’m sorry I missed it. That’s all I can say on that one. Oh, and the other girl probably had it coming.

This is so much longer than I anticipated and so unfunny. I’m sorry you made it this far. If this were preschool, you’d get a gold star. Way to go!!! See you next time boys and girls.