Dora the 7-11 explorer

In the week or so since I last wrote anything I’ve decided I don’t want to be around humans anymore. I’m going to take up a dog collection, increase my existing cat count, sell my child, get some houseplants to talk to, and keep my husband around for household handiwork and sex. Everything else can fuck off.

People are horrible. I’m no better, I just don’t have to see my own bullshit for what it is - usually. Even when I do, I can choose to ignore it or blame it on some other shit, like how I was raised, or menstrual cramps. I’m a shitty human being because my uterus is seizing up and it clouds my judgement, forcing me to act like an asshole. Sounds legit.

Riding around town with my offspring in the car, you know, the kid I’m going to sell, and he says to me: “Did you hear about Pres. Trump uniting No. and So. Korea? That’s a pretty cool accomplishment, isn’t it?” Like a “normal” mom would react, I said: “Yep, I guess it’s cool. I mean, it’s cool until you weigh it against taking children away from their parents and putting them in camps. Not like “cool” camps either, these were shit houses. Remember the year you went to the YMCA and it was 1000 degrees outside? They made you stay outside on the tarmac without cover? Yeah, like that, only much worse because the food made everyone sick, so they were throwing up and shitting everywhere and then had to sleep on the floor too.” Completely normal reaction, right?

My 11-yr. old stared at me, not really knowing how to respond. I hope he took that information straight home to his father. There’s no earthly way my child would come to me with Trump propaganda if it wasn’t filtered through his InfoWars father. I’m just making sure my kid knows ALL sides of the issue. I’d like to say I handled it well, but it’s clear, I didn’t. My approach has always been, and will remain, to allow for my child to come to his own conclusions. I just need to encourage his monkey ass to do his own research on issues. I support his right to choose, and yours too, even if conflicts with my beliefs. Just don’t be a douchebag.

On the topic of douchebags…

This morning I was aggravated while at a well known convenient store. It was 11 minutes past 7 am. An older Hispanic woman had come into the establishment. She was purchasing coffee while her companion was outside pumping gas. I’m toward the back of the store shopping for my daily lunch of carbs and sugar, health fanatic that I am, when I hear the clerk mock her in his best Hispanic impersonation. He sounds like Speedy Gonzalez, “Rapido, arriba!” I hear him say. I stop short. What the fuck just happened?

Why do white people feel the need to impersonate fictional Mexican characters when they encounter Latin Americans? I would have been impressed if he had done a Desi Arnaz impersonation, but it’s so calculable that Speedy is the go-to. Shit, I would have settled for Cheech and Chong, and that’s 80% stoner! This shit is insulting as fuck! The only time I mock an accent is when I am directly trying to draw attention to our differences. So, when I’m being an asshole. This was not  an episode of The Simpsons’ - Apu is not the clerk, Homer is not the politically incorrect and incorrigible character we know and love, and this shit really did  just happen in my presence.

[DREAMSCAPE]

I stop cold. I turn around, point at the clerk, “You knock that shit off! Is that half-assed impersonation the best you could come up with? Get your ass back into the stock room and come back when you have new material. That shit was tired as fuck. She’s little and Hispanic and you didn’t even try  a Dora the Explorer joke? What the fuck? That cartoon is half English and half Spanish, you at least had a fighting chance with that one. Way to think outside the box, Steven. Guess they don’t pay extra for originality here, do they?”

By this time, I’m walking up and down the aisles, knocking crap off shelves. “Steven, how old do you have to be to legally drink?” I ask with a bottle of Miller High Life in my hands. I wait for his answer and before he opens his mouth, I say “Never mind, Juanita here probably isn’t legal. Are ya, Juanita?” I release the bottle and let it crash to the ground, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces. “Oops. My bad, Steven. Maybe ya ought to get to cleaning that shit up. ¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale”

[END OF DREAMSCAPE]

Wow, it’s super easy to get carried away and fly off the handle. One minute I’m talking about Cheech and Chong and the next I’m fantasizing about destroying a convenient store; must be my uterus again.

Anyway, my point is, people are fucking assholes sometimes. Don’t be one. I’m tired of writing shitty blogs and I really can’t afford any more pets. Don’t contribute to my need to do either. Thanks for reading.

Crafting happiness out of horseshit

It’s rare that I wake up and turn all my hostility inward. Normally, I like to direct it at you sorry sons of bitches. I relish catching you off guard with a well-timed insult or some other form of comic relief, usually at your expense. Today, however, I’m stuck in some time loop where I keep putting my own boob in the vice grip for some twisted home mammogram where the results always come back terminal and the doctor makes fun of my tits and my outfit.

I’m not sure what happened or what caused this piss poor mood I’m in today, but I wish it would find someone else’s ass to crawl up. If it could find Stacey from 6^th grade, that would be amazing! She was super fucked up to me and I’m still resentful about some of the friendships that bitch stole out from under me. I’ll pack a little food poisoning snack and maybe even a yeast infection treat in a gift bag for my bad attitude to take along with it; I think that might cheer me up.

I woke up this morning dull. Not dull like stupid, so shut your face! I mean dull like lacking the brilliant shine that I’m known for. My sparkle was gone. [I’m laughing even as I type this. I wish you could see this.]  I searched everywhere for glitter before realizing that I don’t DIY craft ANYTHING and I’m not in any off-Broadway plays. I’m also not a stripper, so there’s that. It appears I’m fucked in the glitter department. I need to create my own shine. Not easy to do for someone whose wardrobe consists primarily of black clothing, pajamas, & workout apparel. I’m either going to bed, the gym, or I’m in mourning; there’s very little in between.

I settled on a skirt. A very long, black skirt. I thumb through my closet for anything that doesn’t scream “cutter” or “Marilyn Manson fangirl,” and there between my onesie pajamas [yes, I hang them] and my 49ers jersey is this cute little pink blouse with black cats on it. It’s cheerful, I think. This ought to work. I throw the outfit on, blow-dry my hair, make a half-hearted attempt at make-up application, and I’m out the door. I’m dressing my way into happiness, or so I thought…

What I hadn’t counted on was that it would be hot and humid today. I’ve also managed to run over this piece of shit skirt no less than 5 times with my desk chair, getting it caught in the wheels twice. Now, I’m not in the best frame of mind, so when I start sweating, and my thighs start sticking together, I begin convincing myself that it’s because I’m a fatass and if only I hadn’t eaten that piece of steak last night, none of this would be happening to me. The steak is to blame for all my troubles today. Hell, maybe the steak is to blame for that shit that went down with Stacey in 6^th grade, fuck that girl! I hope she chokes on a piece of steak while sweating in her living room wearing a pair of shorts and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Or, maybe a Creed t-shirt. Oh…I’m starting to feel better. I should keep this up.

So, while the backs of my knees are sweating, my thighs ARE their own slip-n-slide, and my bra has become a super absorbent maxi-pad for my boob sweat, the work phone rings. This is just what I want to do right now. I want to answer the phone and talk to someone, anyone really, while I uncomfortably try to wipe away moisture when the dudes I work with aren’t looking. Ever try that? Inconspicuously tend to your unruly body with others’ present? It’s hard as fuck, you guys.  

The lady on the other end of the line is pushing all my buttons. No, lady, I don’t automatically know who you are. I introduced myself when I answered the phone. Looks like you have the advantage here. Want to reciprocate, or nah? This is just my day job. I make mad grip afterhours playing with crystal balls and tarot cards, reading the fortunes of drunk college girls and lonely housewives. How about you tell me your name and where you’re from and I’ll decide if I want to help you, or if I’d rather just listen to you rattle off your demands while I twirl my hair on the other end of the phone like some kind of moron. Hold please, boob wiping in process.

What did she just say? *scrolling Amazon for pet products*

I’m pretty sure I didn’t hang up on her, but I’m also certain that was not my best customer service call. That’s okay, she can call the office manager and get it all straightened out tomorrow. Oh yeah, that would be me. Good luck with that shit, lady. Go take a seat next to Stacey.

So, in closing, I’ve learned the following today: When I feel bitchy, I probably just need to write. When I feel fat, I probably should wear something that prevents my thighs from saying hello to each other. When I feel like I deserve a raise, I ought to revisit this blog entry. Finally, I seriously need to purchase *and keep* glitter on hand in my home. All this bullshit could have been avoided.

I'm not sure why I needed this glittered ass in my blog, but I figured it couldn't hurt my case any. Throw that glitter around! 

eat a carton a day

That’s very kind of you sir, now will you please stop smiling at me? You look like you eat a carton of cigarettes every day and have been doing that for at least a year.

I can’t say if the clerk at my local 7-11 is a smoker, if he hasn’t brushed his teeth since he was 14, if he’s from Flint, MI, or if he eats dirt in his free time -what I can say is that his grill is jacked-the-fuck-up!

He has a sparkling personality and I’m sure he can skin a fish, or any other kind of animal, with nothing but a pocket knife and a paperclip in 2 minutes flat. I wish he’d not smile so toothily at me when we chat in the mornings, however. I have great difficulty focusing on anything other than the mangled mess inside his facehole. I also don’t like having to acknowledge what a gigantic piece of shit I am for seeing him for his teeth. Well, his teeth, his camouflage baseball cap, his heavy accent, (probably from LA) and the monstrous armpit stains he’s sporting. Quite an accomplishment considering it’s a black work shirt with some peek-a-boo belly action happening.

Now that I’ve painted a vision of a stereotypical redneck, let me tell you what a sweetheart he is. He’s a sweetheart. There, better? Am I redeemed? Hardly digging myself out the grave I’ve dug for myself, huh? It’s cool, it’s comfy in here. I’m going to call him Clive. Clive is a nice guy. Each morning I buy the same thing and he never pokes fun at me: bag of pretzels, gummy worms, gum, and coffee. I’m predictable as a motherfucker.

He always seems surprised that I’m on my way to work though, this baffles me. Dude, I get here the same fucking time every day. Every day you ask me if my day is just starting. One day I’m going to look directly at him and say, “No, Clive, I pulled an all-nighter whoring and I’m on my way home right now. It was a doozy, so I’m just picking up some refreshments and I’m headed home to get some shut eye.”

I really ought to practice not being such an asshole, but what fun would that be? Most of what I write are “inside thoughts,” that I have only in my head. The shit that is wildly inappropriate and sure to get my ass handed to me if I let it slip in public. Some of it I share with a select group of other assholes, who I know won’t judge me because they don’t have a leg to stand on. The rest of it I accidently blurt out at completely inappropriate times, like funerals and birthday parties.

It’s understandable why I’m able to count the number of friends I have on one hand. It’s not that people don’t think I’m funny, or enjoy my company, it’s just they’d rather not risk getting caught in a situation where they’ll have to defend themselves because of some stupid shit I say.

Back to Clive…

Talking shit about Clive’s mangled grill got me thinking about my own time spent as a smoker. I was the type of smoker all the other smokers' wanted to beat up in a darkened alley – I could always walk away from it when I wanted. Imagine me – my shitty personality; now add a cigarette affliction. Smelly hair and stinky hands. I’m already foul, add to that an addiction that required a program of maintenance and allowed for feelings of entitlement. I was an absolute pleasure to be around!

You don’t see ads for smoking like you used to. Smoking is fucking gross. I won’t get all soap-boxy about it. I smoked, and can’t, with total certainty, say I won’t ever do it again. But, it’s fucking gross. There, I’m done with that mini-rant…

I went digging for smoking propaganda. I’m pretty stoked at some of the shit I scored. Far and away, Benson and Hedges was pimping cancer sticks in the most fashionable way for the longest time. Virginia Slims, aka Vagina Slimes, did a great job marketing their demographic. They targeted women and their most vulnerable weakness; their waistlines. A lot of the ads talk about women being slender – giving women the idea that smoking will make you thin. Hey, so will crack cocaine, but I guess smokes are cheaper.

Anyway, kick up your feet, light up your smoke, and enjoy some marketing genius.

From hot to cold in 2 minutes flat

The quickest and most surefire way to kill my sex-drive is to begin talking about financial affairs. You will effectively throw my libido into full reverse without slowing down. The engine will drop out. Way to go, tiger! Killin’ it…or not, as the case may be.

For most of the day I’ve been looking forward to going home. It’s been hellishly hot in our area, and our air conditioning unit took a shit God knows when. We never use the damn thing - until now.

It was 97 degrees inside my apartment when I went to turn on my central air the other day. Much to my dismay, I found the fucking thing was broken. It dribbled lukewarm air from the vents with all the enthusiasm of a teenager mopping the kitchen floor. So, for the last four days I’ve been sitting in an upstairs, well furnished, oven. Why then, you might ask, have I been excited to go home? Well, you see, my husband fixed that shit! That’s right, there’s cold air pumping through my apartment right now.

As soon as I was informed of this delightful turn of events, I mentally closed all the blinds in the house, grabbed the coconut oil (because it’s trendy as fuck now and I hear that shit is amazing) and queued up the romantic “mood” music. Strike the music, my kid isn’t home this week, so I don’t give a fuck if the neighbors hear us. It’s been a while and I’m really looking forward to this.

Just when I think I’m going to punch out early, change my gym plans and surprise my man, we begin to text. And that’s when all the pieces to beautifully constructed sexscape came crashing down. Never EVER talk money before you’re about to get nasty. Like ever, ever! Within a mere matter of minutes, I went from We can be in any room we like  to I swear if he doesn’t answer that last text Imma be pissed. I became the Mojave; the angry Mojave Desert. Dry and hostile.

Now, I’m not saying that my mind won’t change again. We ALL have needs. But men, if you’re reading this, and you have even an inkling that you’re going to get lucky in any way, shape, or form, do yourself a favor and steer the fuck clear of any talk of sensitive topics. I’ll do you a solid and list some to stay away from.

Don’t engage in talk about the following (either verbal or text *especially text*)

·        Money

·        Money (just need to make sure you get it)

·        Religion

·        Politics

·        Her weight

·        Her family

·        Her friends

·        Her ugly pet

·        Her work (unless you can offer comfort and support NOT advice)

In fact, you should probably just stick to compliments and very little else until you seal the deal. Just my two cents, but what the fuck do I know about this shit?

Oh hell, it’s 5’clock. Time to go home, sit around in my nice, cool apartment, stare at my phone until dinner time, and then watch tv until bedtime.

Not all is lost, at least I’ll be cool. It’ll be nice to get a good night’s sleep; a hot and bothered, good night’s sleep.

asshole report card

I require an excessive amount of validation, but you aren’t allowed to be needy yourself because that’s repugnant AF.

So, here’s the thing, I didn’t have a shitty childhood where my parents verbally abused me, chained me to shit around the house, and threw scraps of bread at my head at feeding time. For all intents and purposes, I was a loved and nurtured young lady. By all rights, I should be solidly built on a foundation of self-assurance, self-reliance, self-confidence, and some other form of “self” bullshit. My parents loved me and supported my dreams along with all that other happy horseshit. But ya know what? I’m a hot fucking mess.

I am riddled with doubt. I not only doubt myself, but I also doubt the answers you provide me with. I will very directly ask how I’ve performed in a situation, and once I’ve been provided my report card, I’ll assume you’ve scored me higher because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Any accolades I receive can’t possibly be earned on merit alone. For some fucked up reason, I must believe you pity me.

This creates a conundrum as now I’m compelled to try harder to do the same task you’ve already said I did well, but now I must do it even better. I try twice as hard, exerting twice the energy and dedication. I’m exhausted and haven’t done the job any better than the first time. I want you see that I’ve done better. I need you to approve. I need you to make note of my improvements. Chances are, you look at me cock-eyed and questioningly. And now I’m pissed. You fuck! You ungrateful fuck!

My favorite thing to do is ask my husband why he loves me. I like to ask him while we’re watching television - like it’s a pop quiz. Seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll ask some stupid shit like “Honey, why do you love me?” or “If you could only use 3 words to describe me, what would they be?” He fucking loves this game. I know he does. I can tell by the way he sighs, and his eyes glaze over. It’s kind of like when he orgasms. That’s how know he’s totally cool with this game even though he won’t look at me or talk to me for nearly 5 mins. He’s just getting his bearings.

When he finally gathers his composure, he says some super romantic shit: “We’ve already seen this episode, is there anything else you want to see?” True love; we certainly have something very special. But for real, what do I expect him to say? I spring this hostile shit on him at least once every 2 months. A man’s going to run out of bullshit sweet talk eventually. There are only so many times you can use: sweet, caring, funny, smart, sexy, and great in bed before they all get played out. Okay, great in bed is always reliable. No chick ever likes hearing she’s a starfish.

When it comes to stroking the ego of another, I have little patience. Once is fine. Twice is okay. Three times is pushing your luck. Four times and I’m already trying to instill you with a sense of pride; give a fuck about yourself, dammit. Five times and I’m making excuses to not hang out with you, you zap my energy. Six times and it’s likely that I’ve told you you’re a pussy and we can’t be friends. Seven times and I’m blocking you from all forms of communication. Eight…just kidding, there is no eight. You’re dead to me now.

My husband is the only person who gets to experience me being sappy. It’s grotesque. I can get flowery with my words and I even snuggle, but not for too long cuz body heat is hot, and fuck that. Don’t be jealous. He hates it too.

I don’t remember where I was going with any of this. I think I was just killing time. But I guess I must ask, did you like it? If not, I can re-write it, or you can just wait till I write something better, no promises though. I might just starfish until then.  

As you were

you

you will constantly

need

someone to make you whole

someone to take away

the ache

of your loneliness,

your writhing angers

a salve

to stave off the pain

tend to your abraded awareness

you

you know no other way

than to consume,

hollow out

what does not belong

to you

until

nothing

is

left

those arms that hold you

now

they are not mine

none of this is mine

cathedral songs echo

taunting your ways

and the arms of

countless strangers

fold in upon you

as you writhe

and

revel in your own agony