The Creatures Shall Not Defeat Me

I live in a big house. Well, I live on the first floor of a big house. 2 bedrooms, lots of closets, living room AND dining room, plus 2 porches. I also have a garage and a big backyard. I am very lucky. However, I am also an artist, so that means there is never enough room for all my shit. Perhaps if I lived alone...alas, I live with Cousin Roommate who is also an artist. We have a lot of shit.

I have tried many arrangements in order to allow us both enough space in this incredible shrinking apartment. First we confined all the art stuff to the dining room. The hoard laughed at our efforts as it spilled into first the living room, then the kitchen, and finally my bedroom. After that I decided that since A) Cousin Roommate is sort of a recluse and B) I haven't been having many indoor parties lately, we should each have our own room for arting in. I took the former living room and Cousin Roommate expanded into the entire dining room. Also, at that time, several of our friends joined us in an adventure wherein we rented a huge studio space downtown to try and get the ball rolling on something (something some of us lost sight of, or never had, or whatever - that's another topic).

With the duel studio rooms going on, the hoard grew much more slowly and I was actually able to move, art, and breath in my space. However, recently, the downtown studio space became a thing of the past. Suddenly the hoard was back, with teeth. My "studio room" looked like 6 episodes of "Hoarders: Buried Alive" all smooshed into one colourfully lit area. Even breathing became hard.

I cannot art in those conditions. When I cannot art, I became restless, then angry, then depressed. Also, it's winter now and I have to fight against punching the stupid out of people harder than the rest of the year as it is. Something had to be done.

So I have moved into the one room in the basement that doesn't necessarily scream NIGHTMARE. All the other rooms are pretty terrifying. There is even a Murder Shower.

I used to have a "lab" down there when I first moved into this place with my former roommate. But a series of very soggy events led to everything I had worked on being ruined. I cleaned the room out but before I got my shit situated, I decided to let the place be used by some very cool people who were running a pirate radio station because fuck the FCC. The room has been abandoned for a very long time (ever since my paranoid landlord thought the antenna on the chimney was a bomb) so I'm back, baby.

Now here I am in a conundrum. You see, the spiders and other disgusting critters in the basement don't understand that I pay the fucking rent. They've been squatting on my dime so long that they are understandably pissed at me now that I am making them leave the only place that isn't a dank hell hole. But fuck 'em, right? They can have the whole rest of the cavernous, dark basement. I'm not going into the Murder Shower, even on a dare, so it's yours, assholes. Oh, that's not enough space for you relatively small monsters? How 'bout the haunted coal room where the light from 4 LED flashlights cannot penetrate? You'd thrive in there, you beasts. But, no. They keep coming back to my area. And now they've called in reinforcements.

It's my fault. The other day I got tired of nicely explaining to these stupid spiders that they could go over there or over there or even over there and I wouldn't tear down their webs or shoo them with paper or anything at all. Plus, they eat silverfish, I think, so I don't even kill spiders that have bodies smaller than my thumbnail as a rule. One spider, bigger than the ones I had tried reasoning with a million times, startled me. I noticed it out of the corner of my eye coming straight for my face - i'm assuming it wanted to get in through my eye to my brain so it could take control of my body and make me leave. At the time, I was working with my heat gun so I did the most logical and instinctual thing, which was burn it with a 700degree blast. Not nice, I know. And when I was 19 I caught the curtains on fire at my apartment killing another spider using a lighter and hair spray. I should have learned my lesson because this time the consequences were much more serious than flaming draperies. . .

The spiders have let bats in the basement. I'm not joking. Or a bat, anyway. There is no other explanation for that bat's arrival mere minutes after the spider's death. The survivors rallied in support and called on the creature of the night to frighten me. What they don't know is A) bats are one of my spirit animals and B) I've been inoculated against rabies. Bring it on, shit bags!

Actually, it scared the shit out of me. I've even been having dreams where I'm trying to give one of my friends an artichoke and I notice that there are flies on it but the flies are actually little tiny baby bats. So I don't give her the artichoke which makes me sad because, for some reason, in my dreams she really likes artichokes.

They've invaded my studio and they've invaded my dreams, but they shall not defeat me.

Come on! Really?!

I can't be the only one. Is it wrong of me to disengage after watching 12 of 13 episodes of a show because the offspring of two brown-eyed people had a blue-eyed kid? I mean, if you're going to do that, i'm going to need photographs of the grandparents showing at least 1 with blue eyes. It bugs me. Whatever. It's totally irresponsible, though, when two blue-eyed peeps have brown-eyed kid. How much of the budget would get eaten up by conacts? Really? No one would spring for Daniel Radcliff to wear green contacts? That's not the thing that set me off, but it' a good point. Anyway. That's the kind of thing that makes me throw remotes. I'm just saying - people know science, bro. Gaaal!

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.

True Dreams of Anxiety

So now I'm having panic attacks in my dreams.

Last night I watched a number of bizarre movies: "Black Sheep" (hilarious horror movie wherein genetically modified sheep turn people into sheep-zombie-monsters that eat your face off), "Poolboy" (just watch it - it's horrible, i can't explain. Danny Trejo is in it though, so that's rad), and "Upside Down" (a sci-fi dystopic fantasy with really beautiful imagery and a hokey love story).

This combination of films led to a night filled with some of the craziest dreams i've ever had - almost. Here are a few fragments:

First off, i dreamt of a group of people playing a D&D-type game. The DM found a spell that brought the game to life, so the players were actually manipulating people in a tiny world that they had to protect. Since the characters were real, they continued existing and doing stuff while the DM and players were away. This led to the players spending more and more time on the game so it could go their way. The DM's daughter (who was about 8) grew more and more resentful of her dad being so engrossed and also believed that what the players were doing was wrong. She learned the way to break the spell was to kill her father. So she poured drain cleaner in the mouth pieces of all his french horns - he had like 10. Anyway, i woke up before he used one but he was going down for sure.

Another little snippet involved "Up top" which was one of the worlds in the movie "Upside Down". There was a nightclub where rich people went to do drugs, get hookers, and dance. The drug they did was a type of liquid hallucinogen that was absorbed through the skin. This was administered to patrons by having them enter into a plastic tent where the drug was rained down on them - hence, getting wet. After getting all fucked up they would go find themselves a prostitute. The prostitutes were all naked and divided into 8 gangs. Whenever a girl stole a trick from another hooker clan, an eyeball-shaped tattoo would appear in one of eights colours. If a trick went back to the original hooker clan, the skin would split at the tattoo and bleed the colour out. The hookers with the most tattoos were the most highly sought after.

The final one i feel like sharing involved nearly all my friends at some point. We were on the top of a super tall building having a dinner party - OUTSIDE the building, mind you. On one end was a high brick wall and a partial roof. Two sides had a metal railing, but the fourth side was open. I was sitting at the open end. Most of the dinner went well and we were all delighting in the rushing wind and the horses, manta rays, and sea turtles we could see flying through the clouds above and around us. Then i realized how high we were and i asked my friend Sarge to switch with me so i could be by the railing. Then i got too scared to move and had a full-blown panic attack. I laid down and scooted on my belly to the brick wall and freaked out about the ladder i knew i'd never survive. I closed my eyes and when i opened them i was at my favourite ex-boyfriend's house. He had a new baby girl with his wife and i wanted to play with her. As i sat with her, she grew up. I was so sad that i wasn't her mom that started crying and the whole basement filled up with tears.

I woke up actually crying and decided it was time to get the hell out of bed.

I'll take none of those and I probably won't call you in the morning

So i have a pretty lengthy history of mental disorder. The diagnoses started rolling in when i was 14. First it was mild depression. Then depression with anxiety. Then Major Depressive Disorder. Then depression-inducing anxiety. Blah blah blah... Until the whopper at age 19 - Panic Disorder. Panic Disorder fucking sucks. It ruins everything, all the time, forever. It makes me angry to have panic attacks looming around every corner. So i get mean. Then i get sad for being mean. Then i remove myself from everything and everyone under the guise of getting my shit together, but really i'm sleeping all day and staying up all night, manic-insomnia-style, worrying about how much i'm screwing up and when will i "wake up" four months or six months later, 60 pounds heavier with no job and sleeping on someone's couch or in their guest bedroom or in their basement wearing sweatpants with fucking elastic hems...

And writing epic run-on sentences.

The bottom line is i haven't had any issues since 2008. That's FIVE YEARS, mang! Before that? 2004. I was certain i had a lid on this crap - without therapy and without drugs (since 2004). In 2000 when i was 22, after i had had my most major episodes (including disassociative amnesia fugues - whoa! My brother died, so sue me.), i started college. My first class was PSYCH 101. My teacher was awesome! I got the tools i needed and learned how to treat myself fairly successfully with cognitive behavioral therapy. I went off anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills for the first time in 6 years. I faltered briefly 4 years later after giving birth at 18.5 weeks. It was fucking traumatic, okay?

I wasn't on drugs long in 2004 because they took away my sex drive and made my ears ring so loudly that i couldn't sleep. It was ridiculous. I lived alone, in a new city where i only knew like 4 people and i couldn't even pleasure myself? Torture. The endorphins you get from sex or masturbating are irreplacable - drugs can not give you those. Not the ones the doctors give you, anyway.

Fast forward to 2008. One panic attack on a severely shitty day. I was on it! No drugs - just good ole fashioned making myself smile for five minutes and not letting myself stop doing all the stuff i normally enjoy. Plugged. No probs.

But NOW? Now i'm so far into this spiral i can't believe it. I'm barely making art, my diet is all kinds of fucked up, i can not fall asleep at night without booze and i catch myself being an uber bitch all the time. I don't even drink coffee in the morning anymore which is one of my favourite things in the world. I've had 3 panic attacks in the last six days! I'd rather sleep than do almost anything during the day. I quit a perfectly good job for virtually no reason. I'm so broke i'm hiding from my landlord.

This shit is getting sneakier. I am not amused. But now that i've caught its scent, i know just what to do. Sleep - that's the first and most important thing. Sleep AT NIGHT. Coffee in the morning, smile for 5 minutes, take my allergy crap and iron pills and maybe some St. John's Wart and art, art, art. Oh, and i need a mantra. . .

What is Loved is Never Lost OR: Full of Sound & Fury

I'm overwhelmed right now. There's a lot going on. I'm not weak or shallow or blind - this is heavy shit happening with and to both my family and me. I'm trying to be a bad ass but, damn! it's for real. So, i need to get a little nostalgic. It will do me good to remember some stuff.

Reester Seester designed this. It has been made into a shirt for who ever wants to to wear it to the annual party held in my brother Michael's memory. Mine is purple and i am so excited to wear it. Let me explain ~

Michael was a life-long dirty birdy. He always included swears in his vernacular from the time i can remember him speaking. The first Easter i can remember involves his vulgarity, even if i didn't know it at the time. Allow a transcript:

Momster: Go upstairs and get Mike. It's time for this Easter stuff.
Me (after plodding up the steps in my footsies, at the tender age of 5, and barging in to 13 year-old Mike's room): Mikey! Mom said come downstairs. We got Easter bunny baskets!
Mike: Go away! I'm playing with myself.
Me: Okay.

I plod back down and relay the message:
Me (to Momster): He's playing with himself.

I was all nonchalant, just telling her what he told me. She went bananas! Storming up the stairs and then yelling at him. I thought it was my fault. Nope. That's on him.

Once when i was in kindergarten, Michael, his twin sister Silly, and I were waiting at the end of driveway for the bus. Silly asked Mike why he kept digging in his pocket. To which he replied, "I cut out the bottom of my pocket so I can play with my balls." Silly said he was sick but I just wanted to know what kind of balls. Did they bounce? Could I see them? He just laughed and laughed. I thought about his stupid balls all the way to school.

He was also the King of Gross. He was always burping and blowing the smell at someone's face or holding someone down and doing yo-yo loogie or farting in their ear. He used to hack up big meaty lugers and cup his tongue like a bowl and let little Samantha, Reester Seester's dog, LICK IT OUT OF HIS MOUTH! I am totally fucking serious. Still holds the title for grossest dude I've ever known.

Anyway, the shirt design. Mike was insanely disgusting and always hilarious. The design up there is a foot with toes spread out, see? That's how you could get him. He wasn't a fan of feet in the first place but you could take off your sock, hold up your foot and spread those little piggies out and he would actually retch a little. If you were near him, he might even scream a little and flail around like a maniac trying to get away. That was awesome.

Miss you, Pickle

Wish I Had Something to Blog About

Boring alert - I got nothing. Today was a mind fuck but not in a good way. I went from checking out a potential new art space to work meeting to the emergency room to work meeting to porch to the haunted house. So here I sit waiting for the ghosts to start messing with me, but nothing. I've even managed to bore them. I didn't bring my laundry and I already did all the work stuff I brought to do. I zipped up things on my virtual farm which is possibly the most embarrassing I could have ever admitted. And I don't even care. I'm numb. There's no way I'm looking up anything questionable on my boss's computer and, anyway, I'm not in the mood. I guess I'll go back to finger weaving stupid scarves no one wants pretty soon because it's totally mindless and it helps me feel like I'm accomplishing something. I can't drug myself into sleep or drink until I pass out because I'm in charge of another human all night. I tried to sleep because I am so so tired but my brain is a dumb jerk and is all:

 Hey, don't forget that your brother-in-law is dying. That he is in pain that is unimaginable all the time even though he smiles and says he's okay. Don't forget that he has to fight against his body to breath. Think about your sister who has had so much pain and hardship piled on to her over and over for years. Think of her son, your precious little Z-man, spending his golden birthday in a terrible place he shouldn't even be. How about Michael? Your sister's twin and your hilarious big-mouth brother who died nearly 14 years ago - that day is coming right up. Worry, worry that your brother-in-law goes on Z-man's birthday in two days or on the anniversary of Michael's death a week later. Yeah, worry about that one even more. Worry that this 36 year-old-man who has laughed every day of his life and took such great care of your sister might live 9 more days in pain, tired, and just wanting rest but holding on because he wants to comfort us. Doesn't want to hurt us. And if that's not enough to think about, worry about crap that is actually arbitrary, like how you're bringing people down being all sad and deep and scared and stupid. Worry about your mind breaking again like it did 14 years ago. About losing all your friends, your job, your apartment, your ambition. Imagine that the panic attacks come back and you get depressed or, worse, super mean again and ruin everything good that you have.

So, yeah, I'm going to go finger weave the ugliest fuggin' "scarf" I can with two entire wads of yarn and watch Married With Children until the sun comes up.

Pleasant dreams, everyone.

Re: What happened to your head hairs?

Oh yeah? You're so perfect? You don't suck at anything, right? Well i do, even when i get to feeling invincible because i did one million things in row correctly. Clean the house with in an inch of its life. Mend the jeans that i've been sticking my feet through the knee holes in for two years. Make killer salsa followed by delicious enchiladas. Several other things. Yeah, i shaved my big toes without incident. And then, and then, i decide i can cut my own hair. So i do. And it's horrible. It's like the fourth worst haircut i've ever given myself. Do i stop there? No. I wait a few hours, enjoy a few more beverages and get out the clippers. Now... I think i'm at my second worst.

Here is where i would insert a picture of the hack job were i an owner of technology that doesn't suck.

So, yeah, that's what happened to my head hairs. Whatever. That shit grows back.

UPDATE: The delicious enchiladas have made me into a monster! I can no longer do anything besides lie moaning, sweaty, and drifting in and out of salsa-induced nightmares, waiting for the next bout of firey blasters to send me down the hallway. No amount of Tums and witch hazel can help me now. I fear it is the end. I'm comforted knowing that my hair will continue growing after death. I demand not to be cremated until after it looks acceptable again.

I Might Actually Explode

I'll admit it. I'm not a genius-aire. I don't eat ideas for breakfast. I'm not a complete doofus, though, and I can handle most situations without exploding myself. Lately however, I have been dealing with one of the more difficult normal things. Most humans are like, "Oh, cool. I like someone and I'm going to ask her/him out." But I'm all panicky about what's the way I should go about it. Here's what my awesome fucking brain has come up with:

"Nice face. Seriously. I like it a lot. Can I stick mine on it?" (Alternatively, the last sentence can be replaced with, "Can I suck on it a bit?")

"I'm bored. Wanna make out for a while?"

"I dare you to be my boyfriend. I'll triple dog if I have to." Hmmm...that doesn't sound right.

Anyway, liking people is the pits. It's so undignified. I prefer to have the other person take the reins. Not because I'm a lady and I feel it's not my duty, but because A) I hate almost puking when I talk, 2) the only time in adulthood I made the first move, I ended up with a Rock Star girlfriend who broke my brain, and C) did i mention the puking thing?

I'll keep double swallowing until I get this. Hopefully my brain will give me something better to work with before my bile eruption is under control.

No Brainer

You come home. You've been drinking. Your whole life so far is the past and things that you've known, dealt with and carry with you. Those are heavy things. Josh is your enemy and you had to look at his stupid ugly face out of the blue AND while trying to enjoy a meal - ? Yeah, Josh ~ You suck. But whatever. All these things are true. But now - now you have a thing. The thing is an owl with a fat beak and black eye and a bonus slinged wing. HA! You asked for that thing. All the other stuff was just handed over by the Universe and it's yours and you're like, "What the fuck-shit?! I don't want this. What asshole ordered this?!" Just like all the rest of the garbage you have around.

But now, surrounded by the items amassed through pasts unwanted, you need to make room for this owl. It deserves and will have a place in the chaos. Down falls Mojo Jojo, even though he was a bad ass villian and also cute. Down falls the feminist call to action reduced to a button badge. And down falls the little tiny foot prints that kept death and life and the fine line between them so intricately entwined. They are all just things. Someday you will remember. And when you do, you will realize that Right Now not only makes the present but shapes the future. Oh! How it must be treasured!

It's Official - Not Falling Asleep Tonight

I'm babysitting overnight for a child that I recently quit taking care of on a daily basis. Once a job is over, you tend to forget certain things about it; for instance, just how terrifically fucking haunted this house is. And then there's the dogs.

In the beginning, on the occasions that I spent the night here, the Boss Mother would insist I sleep in her room. I tried that first night...for about 12 seconds. The rest of the nights I just messed up her bed and made sure I was awake and had put away the blankets I used on the couch before she'd get home. I finally had to tell her that I couldn't figure out how to work her TV so I was just going to stay downstairs. I can't sleep in that room and here's why: Besides the fact that there is an old-timey spinning wheel, prison tower style, in the corner and that all surfaces and windows are covered with white lacy stuff, there is a wardrobe with a mirrored door in there. It's like an exact copy of one that I saw on one of those TV shows where people recount their experiences with ghosts and demons and all other type of shit that will straight ruin your night brain forever. The wardrobe in the show had been in a little boy's room and he started getting freaky and violent and scared about "The Dark Man in the Mirror" and all this other blizz. They had to get rid of it in the end before their kid got his shit back together. Apparently, Boss Mother bought it not knowing the real history - but I will not be fooled. No muthafuckin' way am I sleeping in a room with a cursed mirror that is possibly a gateway to demonville. Also, when you're downstairs at night, her bedroom is where all the creepy-ass pacing noises come from. So, yeah, no thanks.

HOLY MOTHER OF CRAP! THIS IS TRUE AND JUST HAPPENED. I'M ABOUT TO POOP MY PANTS. The girl, let's call her Penelope, just called my name softly, at first I thought it was the other voice I heard earlier when it became apparent that I was not going to fall asleep, but it was Penny. She called my name again and I went to stand by the stairs. She was leaning over the side and said, "I just had ghost dream. It said, 'Get out' or 'Help me' or something. Can I go sleep in my mom's room? The mean ghosts don't live in there."   Ummmm....what?! Seriously. I've got 2.5 hours to go and I don't know if I can make it.

I was going to write about all the other shady business that goes on here, like the landline doing a punctuated half ring sometimes, or the basement door opening forcefully and randomly, or the dogs barking madly at nothing, and how Penny ALWAYS talks in her sleep to people who are dead (there are A LOT of dead people this kid knows for only being 10), and the grandfather clock that Boss Mother said hasn't worked in 15 years chimes sometimes when I'm here. And the fucking voices! I can't understand the words but there are at least three different voices. The one that really gets me is the giggling girl who seems to answer Penny when she talks in her sleep - only her voice comes from the basement instead of upstairs. I wish I wasn't so totally broke because I'd have said hell no to an overnight shift.

I've heard that I'm supposed to verbally acknowledge entities like this because they're not all bad and all they want is someone to notice them. I can't do it. I'm too chicken shit. In fact, I better stop typing now in case they can read and I'm offending them. I'm going to see how many channels Chef Ramsey is on right now and try not to piss myself.

Maybe someday I'll write about the idiot dogs that live here.

Cleaning My Room Makes Me Talk to Myself. Also, Breakfast

I'm pretty busy right now researching things like terrariums, aerographite, sugar skulls and leaves so I don't have a lot of time to work on rather long blog posts. Instead, today I will be posting a couple bits of the kind of crap that pops out of my mouth when I am cleaning my room at 4 in the morning, drunk, and watching crappy horror movies alone. The following garbage came flying out while watching Unborn:

"Aw, YEAH, lady! ... Did you just shoot him in the penis?! Nope - shot him in the chest. I guess I'm just a..." here I switched to singing "...MONSTER! Just a-shootin' off dicks like can-DEEE!!"
There was a whole lot of vibrato at the end.

And later:

"OH MY GLOB - it's biting her vagina off which can't be, so I retract that and instead yell '...biting off her vulva and maybe her pubis mons, but defs her labes!' That took way too long and she's dead already. Next time I'll just say pussy and cover all my bases."
I shouted that whole entire block of nonsense. Then I heard Cousin Roommate go to the bathroom and I knew I had woken him up, what with all the saying every single thought out loud and sometimes yelling and sometimes singing, so I shut my fat mouth.

*************************************************************

Unrelated to drinking and cleaning at 4 am, here is how I ordered my breakfast the other day. Well, first I should explain that I had been camping and woke up to a massive thunderstorm which soaked everything except the inside of my sleeping bag. So even though it was freezing as we left, I had no choice but to wear the sundress i fell asleep in and a pair of pajama pants that were balled up in my sleeping bag with me. I was cold, partially drunk still and super tired.

Girl at counter (so perky I could've punched her): Welcome to Hardee's. What can I get for you?
Me (shivering uncontrollably): Schpishcuits.
GaC (cocks head to one side): I'm sorry?
Me (pointing at the picture): With gravy.
There is a long pause during which her smile starts to falter.
Me: Texas toast.
Gac: Ummmm. . . sausage, bacon, or ham?
Me: Sausage....orange juice.....water.
At this point I bent down so I could put my head on the counter. It was all so difficult.
GaC: Soooo, you want biscuits and gravy, sausage texas toast sandwich, orange juice and water?
Me: Yeah, dude.

I got my food and was half done before my friends were done taking their hobo baths or washing their feet or whatever. They never saw a lady working there - all guys, they said. That's fine. I got my schpiscuits and that's all that matters.

Wherein I Reveal Which Set of Gonads I Possess

In case you wondered, I am a woman. I have lady parts and two of them are quite large. Let me tell you, they’re not my eyes like that Zoey Deschanel or those chicks in mascara commercials. I don’t dig ‘em – let’s get that clear. I mean, they’re all right. They’re not deformed too badly and they’re kind of fun to play with and I get a kick out of it when lovers do their thing with them, but mostly they are cumbersome. Buying bras is a shitty experience. Every. Single. Time. Jogging, running and jumping rope are things I have to do in private or else struggle to contain my rage so I don’t punch a bunch of people’s eyes out for ogling. Something which I should not even be allowed to get pissed about because I have been known to stare gape-mouthed at giant and/or unrestrained bazungas. It’s just…well, when it’s me people stare at it becomes a problem.

Anyway, I digress. It’s just hard to let go of a resentment I’ve had since 3^rd grade when these monsters first reared their nipple-covered heads, like mounds of flesh wearing skull caps of sensitivity. 

 

I just wanted to let you know that I’m a lady – not in the fancy, well-bred sort of way – just in the sense that I have lady ‘nads and all that comes with them. I’m sure you would’ve caught on but, you know, just in case…

Yo! This is my disclaimer

In case you have sensitive feelers~

This is my blog – MINE! I write stuff, and I post it here. Things happen – I write them down. I imagine things – I write them down. I dream things – I write them down. I don’t feel any moral obligation to always differentiate among the three things. It should be pretty evident to the reader which is the case, and if not, I pretty much don’t care.

Here’s a helpful guide in the event you have some burning desire to tell the fictionalized facts from the fictionalized fiction:

Is the post completely absurd?

     YES: It probably happened or else maybe it didn’t.

     NO: See “YES”.

Will the post get me into trouble with my family, friends or the law?

     YES: Let’s assume I made it up.

     NO: See “YES” from previous question.

Will the post offend strangers?

     YES or NO: Not my problem. Adjust your thinking to respond positively or move on to another blog and forget it.

That off my chest, I hope you enjoy my future posts. Or not. Just read ‘em.