Kylie and ants and pumpkin, oh my!

Attrition followed by chemical peel then three Hail Mary's required to remove Jenner from my face.

                                                             

Does any human really need this much makeup unless you're a drag queen, a professional artist or an actual retailer?

Where the hell is the rest of my coffee Starbucks??? I did not pay for just the cup! Thanks for spelling my name correctly, but I prefer to be gleeful about that while actually drinking my coffee, not staring at a half empty cup. 

Full Blown Rant

For the last couple of days I haven’t had one single solitary original thought. I’ve considered whether or not I should go to the movies without my son, but if and when he finds out, he’s going to get all butt-hurt. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful some alone time sounds – just me and my ego. I’ve debated going for a nice swim, but that means wrestling myself into a swimsuit and then getting out of that thing once its’s actually on and wet requires the jaws of life and I’m not into all that effort. The library is only three blocks away but when it’s hot as Satan’s taint outside I am not trying to make that voyage. I could drive but my car seats are generic leather and I burn my thighs every single time I get in. Every. Single. Time. Besides, did I mention it is three blocks away? I feel like Al Gore himself will hail down on me and begin yelling about my carbon footprint and I really can’t handle that kind of guilt and personal responsibility. I’m Catholic, I wake up that way and slowly work my way into a place of moderate ease.

The last few days I’ve felt more like a caged animal. Pacing and waiting. Waiting and pacing. I just need for something to happen – something to break or maybe the last thread to snap; the last grips I have on sanity to finally give way. How could it not? I don’t get political here. I’ll leave it at that but the state of our Nation right now has brought me to pray more than I have ever prayed before. When I say pray, I mean pray for others, not the praying you probably imagine that I do although I still do that too. God, if you’re listening I want a Red Ryder BB gun, some Kendall Jenner lipstick (cuz I can resell that on the web and make BANK,) a pet monkey that won’t eat my face off and a BBQ. That’s really it. I have low standards. I want you to know I really had to think about that last one and all I could come up with was a BBQ. I also figured out that if the monkey eats my face I’m cooking the hairy little beast. So yeah, I’ve been praying for others but their prayers are WAY better. No face eating monkeys for them. The world can be a really dark place, I have to be able to laugh at it or I’m liable to slit my wrists (or yours) when the Slurpee machine isn’t working at the 7-11 and it’s all I’ve thought of two days; especially when the rest of the world is hurting. Maybe you should be praying. Just saying…

I made the mistake of thinking I could poke fun at the tabloids. I thought I would look at a popular women's magazine and find one of their stupid quizzes and answer all the ridiculous questions and show you guys how absurd and one-sided these things are. My hope was that I could point out that there are more than A, B and C answers that are available as viable answers. Instead I found that wavy eyebrows are the new trend. This is real? Are you kidding me? There was an entire article dedicated to this “hot” new trend. They look like someone having a seizure drew them on. No thanks. I’ll include a link at the end of this for your amusement. I also counted no less than 12 articles on Tay-Tay. I am so freaking over Taylor Swift. Will someone please find her a new boyfriend or scandal to be a part of? Isn’t there something we can do with her as a society? She’s distracting us from what’s really important – Kanye. He must be hurting so much right now. *sniffle whelp* Did you know she released her album on the anniversary of his mother’s death?? Tragic. What’s worse?? I know that!! Kill me now!!

**Ring Ring** “The old Taylor can’t come to phone right now. Why? Oh, cause she’s dead!” Give me a break – give us all a break. Sorry, can’t speak for everyone. Give me and Kanye a break, he’s been through enough…

I’m done hating on Tay-Tay. I’m done hating on Kanye, he’s married to Kim – he has issues enough. I’m done looking outside of myself for inspiration; it all sucks. I suck too but at least I know it and don’t purport to be anything other than what I am. When I am stuck in the muck and the mire I say something about it. In doing so, I sometimes find myself coming to grips with my reality. Reality check: not every day is inspired. The world is not the glistening pearl I would have it be. Morality is set by each individual and I can no more change or judge your morals than you can mine. You can try, many have – I don’t recommend it. I’ll wind down because I’m thread bare and you’re bored. We numb ourselves. I get that much. The crap in these magazines – the pages and pages of pure crap astounded me. It’s been forever since I actually looked at a magazine. It was crazy depressing what we consider entertainment. It’s also crazy depressing what’s happening in our news. It’s just so worrisome to me that we are going to end up a society of people who can’t get a grip on loving one another and expressing ourselves in productive and non-harmful ways, but we’ll all have wavy eyebrows and playlists full of Taylor Swift. 

I feel better now. Thanks for listening. The old Tina can’t come to the phone right now, she’s dead.

PS: NOT ONE SINGLE SOLITARY CURSE WORD!!! BOOM!!

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/style-beauty/a12140099/wave-brow-trend/

So you have a vagina

I have an ingrown hair in my armpit that has thrown my entire world on its axis. It has seriously fucked up my entire world. It’s crazy painful too. This isn’t the kind of thing that classy and dignified women talk about and it certainly isn’t what they lead a conversation with. That’s why I’m writing it and you’re reading it. I noticed this little beast two days ago in the shower while I was shaving. While I may talk like a dirty trucker I do manage to keep up with basic grooming rituals including, but not limited to: brushing of hair and teeth, use or antiperspirant/deodorant, regular showers, shaving (as previously mentioned – cuz hippies are cool but body hair is smelly) and laundry when I can no longer see the floor in my bedroom and my pants stand up on their own. That’s disgusting, even as joke. I am actually really fucking clean. To an anal retentive degree; I am a clean human. So, I’m in the shower and I graze this bitch with the razor and I didn’t whine or anything, but I notice it’s tender. I touch it and notice that there is a lump. I have cancer. That’s it, I have cancer, I am dying and it’s time to start thinking about how to allocate all of my debt. That was Thursday.

Friday I went to work feeling like crap on a cracker. I love going to work on days like this. I feel like I’ve earned the right to be a total bitch to everyone around me. I was on my period [shocker for the guys who may be reading this, I do have a vagina and it does still works] and I felt miserable. I work in an office FULL of older men. Not old like Crypt Keeper old, but older Christian men with wives and children who are on the UBER conservative end of the spectrum – men who would rather never ever have to deal with anything in this arena. They’d probably just as soon send me home for a week; which I would welcome if I honestly thought they’d leave me alone or believed I would be allowed to live it down upon return.  I’m popping pills like Pez in the breakroom because it’s the only thing keeping me from throat punching Paul and Steve says to me “That’s an awful lot of aspirin you’re taking today.” He clearly thinks he’s funny. I’m not amused. I want to rip my uterus out and slam it on his desk. Instead I reply “It’s a maintenance program,” which was a stupid thing to do because now Paul is curious. “Maintenance program?” he asks from his office with the look a 6^th grader gives you when you try explaining quantum momentum. More like the look your dog gives you when you ask him something in what you think is dog voice but really is just stupid human voice.  Picture it…tilt head to side…drop brows…there. Got it. I didn’t know how to explain the lack of makeup, sweatpants and pill popping. I just looked at him and very softly said “You have daughters, right?” You would think this guy was going to stuff his fingers in his ears and start crying out “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA, I can’t hear you!” He straight up looked at me and said “Never mind, I’ve heard enough.” That’s all it took to make him uncomfortable. He’s married, has two daughters and two sons and I didn’t even get to tell him my crime scene jokes. I feel short changed. That was Friday

Saturday I have a flat tire. It’s not flat, it has a slow leak. It’s been that way at least two weeks. I’m really lazy. I hate taking care of mechanical crap. I’d just as soon replace the whole damn car if I had endless supplies of cash. Windshield wipers busted? Get a new car! AC broken? New car! Is the dead bolt to your front door sticking? Time to move. I’m not handy, I’m not nice and I’m not good at math. There is very little that is redeeming about me at this stage in the game. The reality is that I know better than to walk into an auto shop for ANY reason unless otherwise accompanied by someone or something with a penis. I don’t even think there has to be actual brain activity, just a penis. Is there a handbook for reference that I can refer to? It never fails; I get fucked [figuratively – not literally] every time I take my car in to get serviced. It’s like I have a neon sign that says “I have a vagina, so please make sure to treat me like an asshole and fuck me without lube!” I absolutely love being taken for a ride. “Hey, that regularly priced oil change that is normally 30 bucks? Yeah, we don’t have that synthetic oil so it’s actually going to cost ya 90 bucks ok?” Anyhow, that slow leak turned into a nail in my tire and ended up costing me to get it replaced. In hindsight, it’s my own damn fault for not asking to see the tire and the nail. I wanted to say “Now you’re just making shit up and probably even stuck the nail in there because I walked in here by myself and I am sans penis,” but then I realized that probably wouldn’t help matters any and when I looked around I realized I was the only chick in there. All the other ladies going through this on Saturday were smart enough to stay home and ask a male friend to do this shit for them. 

All things being what they are: me being a bitch, never growing a penis, never giving up my vagina to be any different than I am – I am proposing a new business. For a nominal fee, maybe hourly [still working on the details] women need to be able to hire men as errand boys for mechanical stuff. I am tired of getting taken to the cleaners. A friend of mine reminded me that vagina rhymes with “rip me off” and I totally agree. We need to do something about this! Send a penis in its place. Vaginas do enough dirty work. I really think we need our own handbook. “So you have a vagina: A handbook for navigating the afterlife,” because let’s face it; once you really learn how to use the damn thing, it’s all downhill from there. 

Music for your ear-holes

Here are the YouTube links for some music for you boys (and girls) to get your "she did me wrong" music on. I've included links for That Dress, Deceiver and Reaction. Turn it around is noteworthy also, but a little too positive for this post. Stay bitter my friends!

https://youtu.be/A_TrnbPAtlA

https://youtu.be/o5V9i8B0zd4

https://youtu.be/VyphWKe8Y-Q

Keeping it real!

I’ve been going through some existential life bullshit lately. I feel slightly broken, as evidenced by my last few posts. I think I figured it out though. Seasonal depression. That’s got to be it. I’d also like to hold Mercury in Retrograde and my pre-menstrual status personally accountable. It’s so much more fun to be off-beat and witty with my posts but lately I’ve been subjecting myself to the likes of Jewel, The Cranberries, and Sarah McLachlan. This all leads to really crappy emotional mo-jo and contributes to sub-par writing. I’m sorry people. As I type this “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” is playing on Pandora and I can’t even pretend like I’m about to change it. In fact, if there was a Snuggie within reach and some cheddar popcorn this party would be ON! The only thing truly saving me from totally giving up is the fact that I actually put some damn effort into my attire today. In spite of everything that was screaming inside of me this morning saying “Bitch, grab those damn sweatpants, you know you want to! You don’t need to brush your teeth; you don’t care about the dudes you work with. Deodorant? Who needs that shit? In fact, if you rub some garlic under those pits, maybe those fools will back the fuck up.” Legit ya’ll, every FIBER of my being was on fire this morning. Burning with the itch [that sounds like I need an ointment or cream] to say fuck it and run. I’ve done this in my drinking history, this would be a first in sobriety. This adulting thing is bullshit. It hurts and it’s not funny until you put it on paper.

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk asking for straightjackets and silently praying that some random act of God [or kindness if you ask me] would come and snuff out my boss. Today I was laying on the floor of the gym at my apartment complex; which it DIRTY AS HELL, so I’ve probably contracted something communicable now, pontificating on whether or not I would be missed if I just didn’t show up – anywhere…anymore. Morbid? Maybe. Mercury. Retrograde. Pre-menstrual. I’m not suggesting I need an asylum but maybe a staycation is in order? I have no other explanation for my sick and indulgent propensity for emo chick music as of late. Hold on – I think I hear Alanis Morrissett… “Isn’t it ironic?”  Let’s not even get me started on how misused the word “ironic” is. Fuck! We would be here for at least another page. It’s coincidence people! I will put money on the fact that what you mean to say is: it’s coincidental. See how easily I’m distracted? Where did that damn straight jacket go? And yo, my skin is mad itchy – I think I got scabies; no more crying on the floor at the gym.

At one point last night I realized just how much of a pussy I was being. I was standing in the shower and I was having a little pity party going over the events of the day. I doing that Office Space thing in my head where I re-enact how I would have had things play out in a perfect world. You know, where you say what you want without any repercussions for said actions? I’m in the middle of telling my boss I want a damn raise for correcting his countless fuck-ups because his heads not in the game, that I want more respect, that I want Tim to quit pissing on my toilet seat – in fact, quit using my fucking bathroom altogether and grow the fuck up! I’m telling him that if he ever snaps his fingers in my face again to get my attention he is liable to lose those digits because that’s incredibly disrespectful, I’m not your household pet and although I’ve come a long way in my program of spiritual growth; I am not so far along that I am above biting a motherfucker. All of this is happening in my shower while I’m shaving my legs [my pity party hat is not getting wet BTW] and while I’m bent over shaving [which is also real attractive] the bar of soap falls from the ledge it’s sitting on and lands square on my head. Now, sure it’s funny, but it was also a kind of SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT moment. No it wasn’t, I’m lying. I was a little bitch about that too.

You’re waiting for a point. I don’t have one. I’m crazy, my posts have suffered, I’m sorry but I fear they may get worse. Mercury. Retrograde. Pre-menstrual. Now I’m just trying to see how many times I can say pre-menstrual and make you guys uncomfortable. I know I am. LMAO. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some emo chick music and crying to get back to. 

Seasonal Depression

I am tattered in places

Worn around my soft edges

I stare through the frames

Time

Structure

It all plays like reiteration of my favorite verse

or favorite tune

Like keys on a piano

Replicating themselves until I can hear

Nothing else

Blinding sound

Snapshots of memories formulate behind my eyelids

Like a child’s Viewfinder

Each click releasing me from

Innocence

Each turn

A simple dance

Whispers and shadows gather

On the floor at my feet

They pull at the hems

Taunt me in their usual fashion

Close my eyes tightly

Until the light comes

Until it’s safe

Again

With my tattered dress

And softened shoulders I dare to march on

Trusting where I stood

Space and time occupied

By “Her”

Is merely space on a dancefloor,

Song ended

I am free to leave

The wired

Behind the veil of the internet

I'm immutable beauty 

The wires 

Marionette strings

Arms and legs writhing 

Genuflect

For praise of Grace

A shallow scream brought to the surface

Traipsing across the cool 

Exterior

Of the keyboard 

Wires carrying the message 

Abating the savage within 

Transitorily

Attention and praise only last so long

Parades come to and end

Costumes get returned

Curtain call comes 

Eventually

I shudder 

I shiver

Naked before the world

Smeared mascara 

No wires to hold me

Writhing for you all

Why I write or "What's the Alternative?"

REASONS I WRITE

1)      Therapy is Expensive – On any given day there are about a hundred different thoughts that swirl around in the swampy soup bowl of my brain. I am constantly in a battle with myself. I have a committee in my head that tells me you people talk shit about me all the time, that you are better than me, that I shouldn’t even try, that my ass is fat and I need to change pants. If I don’t get that stuff out, it will destroy me. Ever seen a soda can explode in the freezer? Yep, like that – clean up on aisle “Tina” again!

2)      I Enjoy Making People Laugh – I have always maintained that whether you are laughing at me or with me; please just laugh. I would prefer that we laugh together instead of like that time all my classmates watched me walk home with the back of my dress tucked into my tights, but hey, they can’t all be winners, right? Since childhood, I have always sought to make people happy, even to my own detriment at times – but a smile and genuine laughter is worth all the gold in the world. Well, maybe a little gold never hurt anyone right?

3)      Destroying Someone’s Character Isn’t an Art Form Yet – I say “yet” because I firmly believe that if you give me enough time, I am stubborn enough to make just about anything happen. Character assassination could be the next Olympic sport if I have anything to say about it. I’m going for the Gold. Don’t worry Americans I’m bringing it home for the team!! We’re #1!!

4)      Jail is Real -  I am already an insufferable bitch at least 18 days out of the month and even that is being generous. If I didn’t write to vent all this carcinogenic crap out of my system those 18 days would turn into the full month and “insufferable” would become loathsome, repugnant and intolerable. I look good in orange, but I’m too pretty for jail. I write instead.

5)      I Have Zero Patience – I have zero patience for bead working, knitting, or anything else with small and moving parts. I also have failing eyesight. I’m vain as well and I refuse to do anything about any of the above mentioned. I have tried making jewelry (because I’m vain and like pretty things) and I end up getting pissed off because my hands and eyes won’t cooperate with one another. I start swearing and banging shit around like an adult version of a toddler. “Fuck this fucking piece of fuckity fuck!! Fucking cock! Bitch ass piece of shit!!!” Or something like that.

6)      I Can’t Afford Truck Loads of Xanax – See # 5. Do I need to say more? Really?

7)      Eventually Even the Libraries Close – I do a pretty good job of occupying myself given the hopeless nature of my circumstances; I am a 37 yr. old potty-mouthed woman who barely functions in public. I have a disgruntled disposition that I make no apologies for, and for that reason I spend a lot of time alone. I have grown to appreciate this time. I for damn sure like it a hell of a lot better than pretending to be someone that I am not around a bunch of people that I am certain will go home and talk mad shit about me anyhow. Don’t cry for me; I get to spend time at my favorite place in all the world – the mother fucking library! I love the smell of books almost as much as I love the smell of Christmas Trees or defeat and sadness as I squash a competitor.

8)      Slapping People is Frowned Upon – There are people that I want to slap when I see them engaging is ridiculous behavior. Some people, I want to have on a repeating playlist because I know that they’re going to do some “Grade-A Moron” shit again tomorrow and I don’t want to forget. Instead of putting myself in jeopardy of winding up in jail and potentially ending up someone’s “favorite” prison hoe – I write. I guess that I could write while locked up too, but that’s a different kind of writing and Pen-Pals are so 2^nd grade. Besides, it’s hard to write effectively if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to see if you’re about to get stabbed with that #2 pencil.

9)      I’m Not Welcome at Children’s Parties – Many of my friends either have children or are about to have children. I love children. I have a child. I should not be around children. My child is exceptional and I say that not because he’s mine [totally said because he’s mine] but because he is truly a unique young man. I often get invited to attend the parties that his little friends’ have for their birthdays. I would no more attend one of these parties than I would deign to perform my own open heart surgery. AYFKM (are you fucking kidding me?) I can see myself surrounded by 6 other moms [probably all wearing athletic pants] discussing the curriculum for the school year - making idle chit-chat over iced tea and eating gluten-free snacks. *insert barf sounds* That, that right there is why I am not welcome at children’s parties. When Billy falls off the swing, I will be the mom to say some shit like “Walk it off tough guy” or “Sack-up” when he starts crying. When Debbie comes out wearing her mom’s make-up and everyone thinks it’s “super-cute!” I’ll be the mom saying “Oh cool, you’re teaching her how to sell herself young. Awesome. Goals!” That! That is why I am no good at parties.

10)  I Suck at Art – I may not be great at writing either, but my art is next level shitty. This right here [see below] is why I write. 

But first let me take a selfie

I am a selfie slut. I say this in all earnestness. I’m sure if I spent time with my nose in some college or doctoral textbook I’d come up theories around why I do this; some childhood event that took place that left the inner child starving for attention and subjecting the rest of the internet to my wounded self-esteem.  There are days when I for real think my eyebrows are on point, my hair is perfectly in place, and my eyes are deep and Spanish and brown and you wish you had them - I can count those days on one hand. The true true of things [that’s not a mistake, watch/read Cloud Atlas] is that on any given day I look in the mirror and see a troll looking back at me. Smeagol stands there each day with that nasty toothless smile and ratty-ass hair saying “Morning precious-es.” My would-be vanity is a thin veil for some passive-aggressive attempt to trick you into saying some shit like “Oh girl, you’re so smart and funny and pretty.” It’s fucking gross the neediness I still harbor in this otherwise dark and charcoal heart. I’d kick my own ass on the playground for being a pussy. So why bring this up? So glad you asked!

                This afternoon I was driving to pick up my spawn from the designated meeting spot selected by the Lord of the Underworld formerly known as my ex-husband, and I passed this vehicle on my left. That’s a lie. They passed me; I’m so damn competitive I can’t even let them win in a blog. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed this semi-attractive woman [gorgeous] adjusting her hair for the photo she was fixing to take of her and her man riding around in their black BMW. Now, the make and model of the car is irrelevant as people can’t see it [mostly except for the fact that it’s better than mine] but what was poignant was the duck face I witnessed and the perfect hair, olive skin tone, and flawless features. Probably 24 and probably Mediterranean, it was hate at first sight. I began breaking her down instantaneously. Without a second thought, autopilot kicks in and I begin dismantling her character and that of the man she’s with as well. This is where the average person grows a conscience and evaluates their thoughts and actions. Nope. Not me. Secretly [or out loud in my car, because that’s my “safe” place to say shit out loud] I am angry she has long, thick and luxurious hair and I pray she burns herself while flat ironing that shit for the hour that she does every morning. Girls like that are high maintenance. I may be mean and crazy, but she takes 4 hours to go to 7-11 on any given day.

                Most of the selfies I take are either with my offspring, with a furry friend of the animal variety, because I stopped hanging out with humans who leave the house wearing stupid outfits [jail and sanitariums are real] or extremely self-defeating. A selfie where I’m sweating like a pig and have one eye open looking like the other got taken out by buckshot; those are my go-to selfies.  Group selfies are good; they prove I have people in my life that still have enough faith in me to be seen out in public with me. Self-esteem is a slippery slope. I either have none at all or I have more than my fair share. I don’t mean to subject the internet to my face; it’s the inner child asking to hold hands and sing kumbaya - to feel a part of rather than apart from. Nah...I’m just a selfie slut!

A thoughtful moment is all

“Understand that all beings want to communicate. Even if the person shows no outward signs of it – he may not be making eye contact, he may be repeating behaviors over and over, or he may be smashing your TV set but he IS communicating. I believe there is no such thing as “random behavior.” Every behavior has an intention behind it.” – Lea M. Hill

I was reading this passage earlier from the book “Women of Spirit,” pg. 109 and I was thinking about how this true this is of all people, not just those that are Autistic; as was being discussed in this particular passage. I may choose not to speak about the issues that are bothering me in my life and in so doing, I end up repeating behaviors that get me there in the first place. I have a nasty habit of trying to do everything on my own; I hate asking for help – cut off my own nose to spite my face.

The problem is, if you follow this thread of not asking and not communicating and then continuing to act out in the same mannerisms; those things that pop up in your life that you think are so “random” whether they be the behaviors or the consequences, they are not so random at all – they are in direct correlation to your active participation of your life.

Communicate. Listen. To others. With yourself.