Why are you telling me this?

Last night i was talking to a guy i've only met twice. We were talking about local bands and the people in them and started discussing a band made up of really good friends of mine. The bass player is a lady. All of a sudden, he interupts me and says, "Can i be a really big chauvanistic pig right now?" To which i replied, "Go ahead, but i might kick you in the shin." He backed away a few steps, took a deep breath and said, "That chick is, like, SO hot. Like really really hot." I cocked my head and said, "I have eyes, dingus. What's your point?" He's all, "Well, i would never say that to her." ... ?

So why the fuck say it to me? He wouldn't say it to her because he knows she gives exactly zero fucks what he thinks. I also give zero fucks. ZERO. All my life my closest lady friends have been way above average looking. In school my best friend was probably one of the most beautiful girls ever born. That's not why she was my friend. She was my friend because she was funnier than all get-out, supremely talented, and kind. But all the way until graduation and beyond all i'd ever hear from dudes (some of whom i thought were hanging around me because of me) was, "Damn! Beebs is HOT! Does she have a boyfriend?" Fucking ask her. And for fuck's sake, why tell me that? I already know. I spent most of my time with her and our other friends - i am completely aware of how pretty she is. Just effortlessly gorgeous and fit. By the way, i will not "put in a good word" or set you up. I eventually started blowing off guys who stared at her but then approached me; why wait around for the inevitable, "Hey, your friend is a babe"?

It took me a long time to get over growing up in the shadow of that. Paired with two guys in 8th grade who sat in front of me on the bus every single day only to spend the trip turned in their seats literally saying, "You are so ugly. A real dog. No one could ever like someone so hideous", school was fucking damaging to my self-image, -worth, and -esteem. I don't feel like a beauty queen or anything, but i can look in the mirror now and not see what they said they saw. 90% of the time i just think, Welp, that's my face. The other 10% i think, Maybe i am kind of pretty. And that's huge for me.

This guy the other night? It's not the first time it has happened lately. Another friend of mine from high school i recently reconnected with wouldn't shut up about it all night. He even felt the need to inform her long time boyfriend of her hotness. Really? You think he isn't aware? These dorks won't say it directly to the woman because they "don't want to make her uncomfortable". It's not like i am slightly interested in either of these two guys, but if i'm talking to you i don't need the obvious shown to me. "Hey, that Redwood is tall." "Whoa! Lake Superior is huge." Can we talk about something more interesting.? Maybe i could actually learn something from you. But then again, maybe not.

And why hasn't anyone ever cared about not making me uncomfortable?

Inflatable Bone

I devastated the kitchen today
made a bigger mess than i needed to
so i could have the satisfaction of making it shine like new
'cause lately i don't really feel like i have control of much
but breaking things just to fix is a really stupid crutch

I bit off more than i can chew
someone grab a bottle brush
cram it all the way down
i certainly don't want it to come back up
-all sticky and shit-brown

I'm in way over my head
thought i could tread forever alone
but now i'd really appreciate someone throwing me an inflatable bone

I'm losing all this sleep but it's so much worse to find it
it's full of normal-looking things
each with a fucking monster right behind it
i don't know how we got here
i see you cringe each time i speak
you don't bother to say to hello or even look in my direction when we meet

So while i sit here calmly, saying i want to be alone
what i really mean is
Can't you please toss me that inflatable bone?
Hand me over that bottle brush?
I know i say i'm fine treading here on my own
But please, friend, could you throw me that fucking bone?

I just don't want to bother you
or step on any toes
but i liked the way it used to be
it's still there, in pieces, i suppose
Now i'm gathering all the shards and making a neat stack
hoping i can find some glue and maybe put them back

I ain't got no reasons and nothing much to say
i acted like a stupid twat in ninety different ways
the whole thing seems so stupid now
like nothing much at all
but you take up so much space in me
and i feel so fucking small

So hand me over that bottle brush
throw me down that bone
i'll take your help and cram it down
and go on floating on my own

Lamps

Little bit of shameless self promotion. I've been making these luminaries for about a year now. I am opening an Etsy shop soon, mainly so i can make what i want instead of doing custom orders. This is where i'll be posting pictures of the ones i've made. Not all are available.

More to come...

Disassembly Required

Fuck bras. For real.

This used to be my bra.

For several months, i have been wearing this bra even though the wire on the right side had snapped. My extra-clever good buddy, let's call her LadyButt, told me about a hack she saw where you cut maxi pads and stick them to the inside of your bra so the wire doesn't poke you. So i did that and for many months it worked. Earlier this week, however, the wire sort of started migrating and popping out in different places. Yesterday at work BOTH snapped ends not just poked me, but actually cut me in 5 places on my side boob and armpit. So i got pissed. Then i grabbed tools. I performed a wire-ectomy while laughing manically and ranting about fixing wagons. Then i put it back on to experience that "Ahhhh..." moment. Which promptly turned to an "Oh my fuck!" moment when i looked in the mirror. Now my tits are normal, which is to say somewhat assymetrical, HOWEVER, one wired boob and one unwired boob is a look that even i have too much vanity with which to walk around. So i had to pull the other damn side apart. 

Alas, the tit sling is useless. It makes my boobs squeeze all over in weird lumpy ways. It feels one million times better but when i look down and see that crazy little middle third boob strangeness, it does not call to mind the sexy alien lady from "Total Recall". I think of my friend Fish's mom who has tremendously large and pendulous breasts and how bras aren't made for that shit so she always had "3rd boobage overflow", as my high school girlfriends and i called it.  I don't want to go to there. All i want is a bra that fits AND isn't going to draw my fucking blood. Is that too much to ask?

And, in case you're wondering, my right boob has snapped every single underwire in every single bra i've bought since 2004. My titter will not be caged! Only, yes it will because i run the show. Got that, bitch tit? I sentence you to a new bra.

Wise Old Six-Year-Old

I work at a before and after school program. There is a game that, as far as i can tell, every 4th grade girl has played since the beginning of time: MASH. You know, M for mansion, A for apartment, S for shack, and H for house? [Interesting development: the S now stands for sewer, as of this week apparently.] Anyway, then you have all these catagories to fill in like who you'll marry, where you'll live, what your job will be, how many kids you'll have, etc. You or your "game master" or some combination of the two pick 4 or 5 things to fill in each catagory. Then all but one of each thing are systematically eliminated by counting by a random number and crossing off stuff and your future is no longer a mystery. Earlier this week i played and had the best future ever wherein i married Neil Patrick Harris (who is my spirit animal). Sure, we lived in the sewer but who cares? We also had 2 kids, which NPH already has so my vagina was a winner too.

Yesterday i played again with two little girls who somehow managed to predict a most vile future for me. I marry a coworker (he's actually a pretty good looking dude but he's 13 years younger than me - i have limits) and i become an astronaut, so it wasn't all bad. However, we will live in a sewer and drive a poop truck, his job will be "pooper" (lucky we live in a sewer then, huh?), and we'll have a pet alligator (also appropriate) and 60 kids. Sixty. At least we have a good sex life? They wrote a song then a rap and teased me about it all day. I was also hanging out with a little 1st grader who was terribly upset about the prospect of me living in a sewer married to a pooper and driving my 60 kids around in a poop truck. During the sing-song mocking she got very quiet. After i sent the twosome over to another coworker to share their beautiful ballad, this little girl turns to me in all seriousness and says the wisest stuff-

     "I have come up with 3 ways to make sure that never happens. If he askes you to marry him, say no. Don't go to astronaut school, ever. Don't move out of your house. No, 4 ways - don't ever sell your car. If you do, buy the same car again." And then, the kicker, "It's hard enough to take care of 3 kids. Just ask my mom. So never, ever have more than three kids. Oh, and do not buy an alligator. Five ways."

She kills me! But really, she's right. Next time i get all weirdy about where i'll be in five years all i have to do is think of the worst place i could be and just not do the things that will lead me there. She's going to run the world some day.

Cereal. Not cereal.

Ok, so, "Sorry. Not sorry"? I've been saying, "Kidding. Not kidding" a lot lately and a couple people appreciated it, but mostly i think people were just trying not to punch me. Well, now there's "Cereal. Not Cereal."

It's not something you say so much as a sad, sad part of being me. I eat a lot of cereal. But it's not cereal so much as two things, one solidy and one liquidy, that i mix up in a bowl and eat with a spoon, often when i'm very drunk. There's been partially melted peanut butter with chocolate chips stirred in, cottage cheese with crumbled doritos, saltines with alfredo (no noddles, man),  cheese sauce with tuna, and chopped up hot boiled eggs with perhaps a titch too much butter. There was the wheat thins in ranch. None of these are things i eat more than once. I mean, they are sickening while they happen and i only feel even worse later on. But last night i found a cereal, not cereal that i may have to experience again. Half a jar of turkey gravy heated till nuclear-hot with toast chunks stirred in. Actually, it was just bread because i was too impatient to wait for the toaster.

Or maybe, i'll just buy some milk and gawddamn shredded wheat because that's all i wanted in the first place.

Time to start quitting

I have no voice. Not figuratively. I cannot make any sounds with my vocal chords AT ALL. I am reduced to communicating via white board and crude, made-up sign language. This could not have happened at a worse time because i have a shit ton to say. I'm at the end of various ropes - have been for a minute.

First, Cousin Roommate has been using my car nearly every evening for just about 6 months now. Fine, whatever. He needs a vehicle and his piece of shit is broken all the way down. Has he taken it to be looked at? No. Has he helped me pay for insurance or maintainence? No. Is he saving to buy a new car? No. Does he have a plan at all that involves him not mooching off me for the rest of existence? No again. If he would put more than $6 a week in the gas tank, i might not want to punch his guts out. Every day he takes it, he says he's putting gas in right away. Every time i get in my car the tank is running on fumes. But he just bought himself a sweet new 2nd keyboard to compose on and he stays stoned pretty much 24/7, so bully for him! I guess i'm the asshole.

Then there's my house guest. Six weeks ago, a long-time friend of mine was in a situation up north that was not healthy. He needed to come home for a while. We all encouraged that. He, Thorton, asked if he could stay at our place for a couple (2?) weeks. Still here. No problem. I love the guy, of course i'm going to help him out. He helped me put together a custom work bench for my arting that fits quite nicely in my bay window - AFTER i rage cried in the bathroom because he and Cousin Roommate kept saying they would definitely help me in any way they could as they sat around getting lit, playing guitar and piano respectively, and generally not getting off their asses at all unless they were hungry. So i carried all the lumber to the porch and started doing it myself. At which point, a man certainly stepped because that's a man thing, building. Well, one man stepped in and the other ran to his room. That was 3 weeks ago. I've been able to use my new work space a total of two times. It happens to be behind Thorton's sleeping area. I have two lamp orders i cannot fulfill because the times when i'm not at a job, the space is occupied by mountains of whatever, a bed roll, or the man himself. Also, i am hosting a Halloween party this year and i need to get that room ready. I cannot do so and it's particularly more irritating as the date approaches.

And this work space thing...i spent a considerable amount of time before Thorton even got here designing it. It incorporates all my current furniture and allows for two work spaces and a sitting area. I moved all but one piece of furniture myself, as per usual. I cleaned for many hours and prepped for many more. I got rid of butt loads of useless materials and garbage. After my space was set up (although not organized, see above), Thorton says to me, "Now what i'd really like is for you to do something like that for Cousin Roommate." Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? No one did it for me. Why can't Mr. Humble Genius do it himself, other than being too high to function 90% of the time and utterly lacking any sort of motivation? But, in true door mat fashion, i was determined to figure a way to unfuck his rat-hole-studio using only the furniture i have, save for a custom built topper for my dining room table so it won't get ruined like everything else. I spent more than 3 hours coming up with a work space for two people (so he can have art night with his pal), a sitting area for watching YouTube videos of street fights and epic fails, display space for his paintings and sculptures, storage, AND a space for his keyboard (but now he has two, so that's fucked). I showed the plan to Cousin Roommate and he loved it. All i asked was that he pack up all the shit, clean a bit, and help me when it's time to rearrange. That was almost 2 weeks ago. What's been done? Not. A. Damn. Thing.

On the other hand, when i showed Thorton the plan, his response was, "Well, i was thinking someting more like this", scribbling on my design while explaining a thing wherein i have to get rid of 4 pieces of furniture and disassemble then reassemble 2 more and eliminating all hope of displaying anything or being able to entertain, "so that he has one big giant surface area so i can do animation." Ok. I'm sorry...Charles what now? My mind just sort of broke when he said that. If he thinks he's staying long enough to still be here when Cousin Roommate finally gets his ass moving on this, he better be drawing up plans for bunk beds in his bedroom. I want my gawddamn studio back.

Anyway, all of that was to illustrate how atypical my life is at the moment - and i'm going to quit smoking tomorrow. Because it's killing me. The smokes are killing me and not being able to tell people off is killing me. I'm getting my voice back, for good, even if i become a morbidly obese super bitch. Send good thoughts...please.