Fine. Fuck it. Yeah, add it to the list.

So maybe i have some tendency to hoard. Or maybe i'm lazy-feeling a majority of the time when i'm at home. Possibly both. Anyway, the time has come for me to do something about it. Recognition is the first step.

I am a hoarder. A hoarder with anxiety, prone to depression, and with a history of panic attacks, who has had one minor psychotic break. Awesome. And single. Can you believe that?

I know there shouldn't be 11 dirty dishes that i can see from here in my bedroom. Honestly though, 4 of those things are cutlery so it's not that bad. Oh shit! I didn't count cups - add five. Twelve....so not that big a deal. Yeah, 15 is my limit anyway. It's fine.

Beers cans? Strew about a bedroom? Ridiculous. Well i'm rollin' 12 deep. I go for a solid 18 before that's a thing. It's fine.

My roughly 80 square feet bedroom has precisely 6 square feet of clear floor area? So? At its cleanest it only has 30 square feet. Why do i need five times as much space? What am i, the Queen of Sheba? It's fine.

And the rest of the place? It's full, yeah. There aren't like tunnels or shifting mounds of stuff (except two places where it's supposed to be like that). I'm certain there are no dead cats buried anywhere. Mainly because i won't let the evil monsters in my home. I mean, gross. Anyway, i live with Cousin Roommate who is also an artist and artists need stuff, man. And since it's not all mine to control, why bother controlling any thing? Even myself. . .

...

I think we've made a break through here today.

...

Yeah, whatever.

Oh how soon my words bite me in the ass

I have this friend, let's call her Nellie. I give Nel a lot of shit about how she longs for this one dude but never really goes for it. She's all, "What if he doesn't like me?" And i'm all, "Yeah, so what? At least you'd know. You can still fantasize about him either way - you don't need mutual consent for that. It's always better to know than not to know." I said those words at about 8 o'clock last night. That was approximately one hour after the dude i pine over and who was supposed to come out with us last night sends us texts saying he couldn't come to the bar because he lost his ID but maybe when his best friend (dude-wife more like) gets to town we can meet up somewhere else. We'll call this guy Carl due to his unnatural affinity toward sweatpants. Anyway,  Carl keeps sending texts saying he's waiting for his butt-buddy, Ass Bag, but now it's late, we're back from watching the band i wanted to see and i'm itching to see Carl so i take matters into my own hands and text Ass Bag, who happens to also be my cousin, to get his ETA. Here's where shit gets nuts.

You see, this whole time, Nel has kept saying that Carl is probably lying and he and Ass Bag are probably playing with each other's joysticks in front of the PS4 and talking about how lazy and stupid they both are and how they're a match made in heaven. Cuddling and passing pipes and whatever. "No, no," i say, "that's crazy. I know they're in love with each other and Carl hasn't been the same since Ass Bag got married, but if Carl said his ID is lost, then it's lost. It's such a stupid thing to lie about. If he didn't want to hang he'd say so. Maybe they can come over here for a fire pit sit when Ass Bag shows up or he could swing by and pick us up on the way. Carl's pretty gross and immature, but he's a good guy. I've never heard him tell a lie in the nearly ten years i've known him. We'll hang out tonight 'cause he wants it."

I totally defended him all chivarously and believed that A) his license was lost and B) that my dipshit cousin wasn't there yet because he hardly ever shows up anywhere before one in the morning. So i text Ass Bag. Here's how it went:

Me: When the hell are you getting to town?!
AB: Who said i was commin to town
Me: Carl. Is he a liar?
AB: No i made him think that last night maybe but i hav shit to do tomorro
Me: Ok. Well you made him ditch me tonight so thanks.
AB: Glad i could help i guess
Me: You broke his heart. Trust me. You're a monster.
AB: I love me

I stopped texting him then and sent a text to Carl. This is what i sent:

Ass Bag is not coming to town. You've been duped. We're chillin' at my house if you wanna hang.

And THEN my phone rings. It's Ass Bag. I answer, ready to really chew his ass out for ruining my life and destroying all my chances at happiness, "Whaddaya want, dick weed?" But wait. . . what are those garbled voices? . . has he ass dialed me? Why, yes, yes he has. And who's that i hear and background laughing and shrieking like Ned Flanders seeing purple drapes? Carl. Mother. Fucking. Carl.

Yep. So i keep on listening for a few minutes while Carl and his cousin, Derp, and my cousin the ass bag read my texts to each other and laugh like retarded hyenas. Nel keeps trying to get me to hang up and call back but i'm like, "Fuck no. I'd rather know than not know." So she calls Carl and when it starts ringing my phone gets quiet for a sec and then i hear, "Omigod! It's Nellie!" And they all bust out laughing again and he shushes them and answers. I can hear him on my phone and our stupid cousins trying to keep their shit together. Nel straight told him Ass Bag had butt dialed me but i hear Ass Bag getting the word from Carl and he whispers, "Dude! I'm looking at my phone. There's no call!" So Carl proceeds to tell Nel that Ass Bag is not there and he thought he was coming to town and he really did lose his ID and he really wants to hang out and he is in no way a liar. She keeps saying, "The jig is up! I can hear you on two phones right now!"

He wasn't getting it. Totally drunk and probably stoned. Anyway, after their three minute conversation ends with him still insisting he's being nothing but completely honest, Ass Bag's phone is still broadcasting. Then Ass Bag says, "Oh shit, you guys!" And the line goes dead.

He did that on purpose. That Ass Bag was letting me know because it's better to know than not to know. So now i know. At least they all got a good laugh.

TV is causing me an existential crisis

Warning: I'm going to talk about plot lines from Season 2 of Sons of Anarchy so if you plan on watching it, this could piss you off. But i don't care.

So a couple friends of mine got me hooked on Sons of Anarchy. I dug on the beards mostly even though the show has a level of violence that i'm not comfortable with. I like watching Good fight Evil so i just fast forward through things that hurt my soul. Also, the women in the show are strong which is awesome. Correction, the LEAD women on the show are strong; the rest are mainly depicted as pieces of ass or all together insignificant.

Last night i watched the episode where Gemma is gang raped by a group of masked dudes (probably the Aryans). I skipped the graphic shit and moved on to the next episode. I am so disgusted, not only by the fact that everyone goes along with her wish to keep it a secret, but by how Gemma actually says that this only happened because the other club wanted to send a message. Like she's taking one for the team and it's fucking noble or something. I had to stop watching after that because i felt like burning the world to ashes. This whole idea that raping one person to hurt another is a thing FUCKING PISSES ME OFF! Raping a someone for any reason is about the worse thing anyone could ever do and no matter how much it hurts the people who love the victim to know what happened, it will NEVER hurt as much as it does to the person who lived through it. And it never helps anyone to keep silent. Never.

So now i'm stuck. I have a pretty good idea that venegence will be served, but in what form? Retaliation rape? I'm so not down with that. I'll probably continue watching against my own better judgement but be warned, writers, i can find where you live. I won't rape you or your loved ones or your dog, but i am a fan of watching shit burn.

I'm starting to get pissed off

One of the things new people ask about is your relationship status. I get it. Are you married? Do y'all have kids? But...you have a boyfriend, right? Or a girlfriend? It's not like there's anything wrong with that.

Apparently there IS something wrong with being single. And that is starting to piss me off. When people tell me they are married or dating someone, i don't ask them why. But the first thing people ask me is why i'm not in a relationship. Like there must be something wrong with me. Or worse, they'll say, "Don't worry. You'll meet someone." I'm not worried. Yes, i get anxious about a lot of things, but this is not one of them. No one can wrap their head around the fact that i actually enjoy being single. I can do whatever i want, whenever i want and if i fuck up my budget or am late making payments on things, then i'm only hurting myself. Plus there's no one bitching at me for those things.

It's not like i'm sitting around, alone, pining for someone to sweep me off my feet and save me from a solitary life. Right now, i thoroughly enjoy my life. All of my needs are met by my friends. I have people to laugh with, people to shop with, people to art with, people to get crazy with, cry to, lean on, travel with, cook and eat with, watch movies with, talk to about anything (and i mean anything)... All the things couples depend on each other for i can find in my friends and family. Except for the sex thing. And even then, sometimes.. .  . And the money bit - no one is supporting or depending on me and i like it that way. Anyway, assuming that everyone needs another person to make them happy and normal is fucking rude.

And then there's the fact that every major relationship i've ever had (with ONE exception) has been fucking traumatizing. Seriously. And not like your normal bullshit - fucking terrible. I seem to attract liars like no one else in the world. And, occasionally, a sociopath.

I've dated a couple times in the past few years but i always find myself in the same frame of mind after just a couple weeks. They're going to screw up what i have going on. I gotta get out of this. And so i check out. So, yeah, maybe someday i'll meet someone who doesn't seem like they might fuck up every good thing in my life. But i'm not waiting for it and if it never happens it won't be the end of the goddamn world.

Big Deal(s)

So, yeah, lots going on. I got a second job that i love because i get to cook. Every single time someone walks into the center, they comment on how good it smells. Without fail, every single time. The kids are quiet when they eat (except for that one, he's a real turd) and they are getting at least two nutritious meals and two heathly snacks on my watch. That's a good thing as most of them live in shelters and have very young, disinterested parents. Anyway, if two thirds of them weren't always screaming and/or snotting all over the place, it would be just about the coolest job ever. Well, besides my other one which is totally awesome.

Also, tomorrow, several members of my artist collective and i are headed out of town for a big reception at the gallery where the skateboards we designed are on display. Pretty cool shit. I'm way excited because my work hasn't been in a gallery before unless you count at County College, which i don't. It was just a damn wall. No one ever looked to see what was there. It could have been the same art for fourty years and not one person would have known the difference. Big whoop. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow IS a big whoop. A big, fat, hairy whoop. I'm even going to wear lipstick.

The Raspberry Body Spray Incident

Once upon a time (the late 90s), there was a young woman in her first real relationship after high school. Let's call her Daria. The "man" she was in love with was someone she had not-so-secretly been nuts-balls about for about 6 years. It was not bliss. On his side, it was sort of a revenge relationship. And on her side...well, she was an idiot who would put up with anything from "Trent". She put up with a lot. He was a rock star who never shared anything, especially drugs, even when he had more than enough. He would share with everyone else, just not Daria. Sometimes he would give in and give her some mushrooms if she did things like drive to a party with 50 people and bring back the keg he had left there. He also liked to wait outside of the bathroom door or right inside the front door when she thought she was home alone wearing scary masks and terrifying the shit out of her as she came out of the shower or home from work. Or he would throw parties and specifically invite all the people Daria hated most.

Daria let Trent move in with her because he was unhappy being 22 and living in his parents' shitty basement. While she was at work, he moved all of her things from her bedroom to the guest room and claimed hers as his own. She had thought they would be sharing a room but he had moved out for independence. Why couldn't she stop suffocating him?!

There would be times that they shared a bed, however. Most of the time it was whatever. Nothing mind-blowing, but they had good times and occasionally would spend hours messing around and being goofy and laughing while they got their rocks off. But, then, something changed.

Trent started drinking more. Daria began to dread his invitations to his bedroom. Refusal wasn't exactly an option as he would simply crawl into her bed. And he started requesting things she was uncomfortable with; most noteably, back door access. He had been "accidentally power jabbing" her for weeks. Encounters would end ubruptly at that point because Daria would become angry. And also because it fucking hurt and she fucking hated it. She simply tried harder to please him in every other way. He wasn't having it. Pleading ensued. Then chasing. Once, he chased her until she threatened to call her dad.

One night, Trent was more persistent than ever. He was practically crying and saying shit about how this would make them closer than cancer and dying and other such things. She had always been a sucker for Tool lyrics. So she said miserably, "Well, go get something from the bathroom so you're not going in dry." And then mumbled about him being a son of a bitch while he practically skipped to the bathroom.

He came back with his raging boner glistening in the dark. "Roll over!"

He never made it in. Daria cried out, "Nope! It fucking hurts! Get off me!" So he unceremoniously flipped her over and did it the right way which hurt immensely too. He finished in record time with her screaming in pain for the short duration.

"What did use you? It BURNS!!"

"Raspberry body spray, dude. It's all I could find." And he fell asleep. She, however did not. Her cooter burned and burned and swelled and swelled over the course of the next 3 days until she broke down and called her older sister who immediately took her to the ob-gyn. She was far too humiliated to say what really happened so after parading every doctor, resident, and nurse through the room and snapping photos (which Daria is POSITIVE she saw in a medical book years later), the horrified doctor ordered some tests and sent Daria home. She was to return in 3 more days for the results.

Worst 3 days ever.

When Daria came back to the doctor, with labia 6 times their normal size, it was to a mystified medical crew. She had no STDs or anything alse they could pinpoint. The time had come to tell the truth. She cried as she admitted that she was dating an idiot who thought raspberry body spray was a lubricant. The doctor's eyes lit up! He knew the solution! The solution turned out to be 12 shots. It was simply an infection. All that needed to be done was to shoot 3 doses of steroids into each labia majora to force the infection to erupt but in order to make that pain toleralable, a total of 6 shots of novocaine were required. The doctor assured her that it would hurt more than giving birth but not last as long. It took 4 nurses to hold her down. In less than hour her junk was back to normal.

Anyway, she threw away all her raspberry-scented everything but stuck by her man. Until she learned that he had dumped her 2 weeks prior while she was too drunk to remember. What an asshole.

Today is going to suck so hard

So as i was laying in my recliner trying to sleep -

   Yeah, that's right, i sleep in my recliner sometimes. What of it? I've got back problems, okay? I have ever since that utter fucking douche bitch going 45 in her Lincoln Continental slammed into the passenger side of my Ford Festiva when i was 17. If anything had gone differently (aside from the old jackass not running the red light in first fucking place), i'd be dead right now. My car stopped, after spinning around 600 times, with the driver's door 15 inches from a telephone pole. If i hadn't been wearing my seat belt, i would have flown out my open window. If my window had been rolled up, i would've donked my head up in a bad, bad way. If she had been going 15 instead of 10 miles over the speed limit, my passenger seat would have totally crushed me. Anyway, back problems...i have some. Better than being dead.

So falling asleep in my recliner last night... I kept doing that thing where when my eyes would roll the sound of the fan would change and i'd hear a chunking noise which, of course, sounded exactly like a raper/murderer looking for the biggest knife in my kitchen. I kept "waking up", only i wasn't really waking up - just starting a new nightmare. By the time i did wake up, my arms were flailing and i'm pretty sure i looked like someone trying to swim to the surface of a jello pond. And basically i was.

By the time i did fall into a "regular" sleep, all my brain wanted to do was rehash the Scott Pilgrim series that i just finished. So i was fighting evil ex-boyfriends in my sleep all night. Then, all of a sudden, i'm awake at 5:09 AM. I think I'll have a pee and a glass of water and get another hour of sleep. But HELL NO! I gave up at 5:34. Sleep is just not in the cards. Do you know what this means?! It means today is going to suck so freakin' hard. AND it means my sleep schedule will be fucked FOREVER and i'm probably going to die.

So congratulations, utter fucking douche bitch. You did manage to kill me after all. It just took 18 years. Well played.