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.

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.  

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.

 

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.

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.