Monday, December 16, 2013


My back hurts. But I can't get comfortable.

My thinks have a pattern as I wait for chemical sleep to shut down my senses. 

A weak glow from the living room, though I know the lights are off. It's the second night in a row I've seen it. My noggin never makes it far enough to decide what it might be. 

The covers are heavy, despite the thermostat set at 75. Four blankets, one curled around me and shoved under my chin. Soft. I crinkle the sheet in a fist and weave it between my legs.  My legs. I need to shave. I feel it when I kick them to grab the comforter with my toes. I'll shave tomorrow. 

Is there anyone left in the First World who sleeps without pills? Does anyone get a decent night's think before their eyes close anymore? My thinks are rotten lately. Gummy and chewy.  The words are elementary. I'm ashamed. 

Vaguely, I remember a girl who used to live in this body. It was only a year ago.  Maybe less. When the words flew unchecked. When she could fly with them. When they were lit from within by nothing less than magic- simple, unworldly, single-wide magic. 

But she is stiff now. Her backs hurts. When she can't own up to who she is, and who she is not, she switches to third person. Maybe it'll hurt less. Less responsibility to take. She plays with her lids, fighting. 

Shit, did I really say that? Or write that? Or do that? Who will remember? Who will forget? Will she forget when her pills wear off? 

Oh, if she could only be so lucky. To forget. 

To forget. To take it back. To rest. The way baby boys rest when their only memories of mommy raising her voice are in laughter. Never anger. 
That rest. 

That's the rest she wants. 

But the glow is still there. A weak light in the hallway, reflected from somewhere in the living room. Perhaps he forgot to close his laptop, she thinks. 

They're coming to take me away, she thinks. 

..... when i got on my knees and begged you not to leave because i'd go berserk....


There's that tic in her cheek again.  

The waves break on her earlobe in the dark. She wonders if it's a conspiracy.

Sleep never comes. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

Princess Nothing

             She was born from stardust.  Princess Nothing, they called her.  A wanter by trade, she sat on a throne fashioned from spider silk and the beaks of 10 albatross.  For that is what she wanted.  She refused shoes under any pretense or matter.  For shoes, she knew, would shatter her stardust feet and render her naught but Princess Useless.  For that is what she feared.  Her raiment was a gown of gold gossamer lined with black lace over a corset of velvet and whale bone, sewn by no less than a dozen motherless children.  For that is what she demanded.   Of no use to her any longer, she slaughtered the children upon a Parian marble slab and used their bones and skins to fashion a grandiloquent chandelier, under which she thought, one day, she may greet esteemed statesmen or knights of noble honor all vying for her affections.  
                Yet no matter how she masked herself as Princess Something, the townsfolk did not flock to see her; no suitors pursued her; she wandered upon the grounds of her aery castle of glass alone with an audience of scarlet firethorn to boo her.  Doing nothing.  Loving none.  Her hair told stories of the supernova remnant of the red giant from whence she came-  fire upon her head, unkempt, untamed, flickering in the twilights of the day.   Her wanting betrayed her.  Her fears consumed her.  Her demands unmasked her.  Her soul told stories of the black hole it became. 

Trifecta Week 101- Boo
3. (verb) to show dislike or disapproval of someone or something by shouting “Boo” slowly 


Friday, October 25, 2013

Wanna Have A Beer?

I don't "blog" the way I think.  For the most part.  If I did, no one would ever read it.  Or if they did, they'd suffer through it.  Perhaps, skimming, skipping whole paragraphs, before they get so sick of it that they click the little X and go bang their heads against the wall. 
Lemme tell ya.  No one wants to read your academic voice.  No one wants to read your preaching.  It's pretentious.  It's annoying.  Nine times out of ten, nobody gives a shit what you think about much of anything.
They just want to be dazzled, moved, like a little kid playing with a kaleidoscope.  What if, instead of pretty colors, that kaleidoscope flashed multiplication in front of their eyes?  In the trash goes the kaleidoscope.   Same with your "let me tell you what I think about X in my most smarty-pants voice" blog posts.  
I'm just as guilty as anyone else of waxing pretentious once in a while.  Usually, as soon as I am done writing it, I delete it.  The few things that actually make it through my bullshit filter and get published, I immediately regret. 
If you know me outside of blogging, you may already know all my different voices.  My loudest voice I call my WHAB voice.... or "wanna have a beer?" voice.  You know.  We're just talking, hangin' out, chill, whatev.  It's all good, right?  That's the voice most people relate to.  And you can say absolutely anything you want to say, even the most academic of topics, in that very layman's voice.  Just ask Stephen Hawking.  He's the master of it.  
Those who constantly feel the need to blog in their "listen to me because I'm so ridiculously smart that it blows my own mind" voice are the ones no one would ever invite to a sleepover.  Sorry.  But I ain't passing the bong or stealing my gramma's car or telling ghost stories at 2 AM with your pretentious ass. 
Don't fucking preach to me.  You're more than welcome to share your opinion, but don't hand it to me in a courier new, 11 font, professionally-bound research paper and actually expect me to do anything more than toss it in the proverbial blog trash in favor of reading Dolan and Gooby memes. 
And if your academic voice is the only one you have?  Oh dear.  Well.  I'm sorry.  Only the chameleons get in to all the good parties.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Trifextra Challenge- Alone

No man’s eyes can pierce the darkness of me.
No man can storm my shrouded wood.
Ever shall I be alone, the last of my kind.
She said.
Yet he
Is no man.


Yep.  I'm actually doing a Trifextra Challenge once again.  It's been a while, yeah?  This weekend, the challenge is thus- "We are looking for a 33-word explanation of what scares you"
Trifextra Week Ninety

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Mother, Mother, Mother, Please......

Have you ever heard it?  The Jonestown recording.  I've listened to it at least a dozen times.  

The first time you listen to it, you'll focus mainly on Jim.  His voice.  His words.  The obvious slurring of his speech.  His tangential thought processes.  The disturbing fatherly hold he has on his people.   Your brain will stagger as he convinces 1000 of his people that the only logical conclusion is "revolutionary suicide."  And, at least judging by the sound of cheers and encouragement from his audience, he succeeds.

The more you read and learn about what happened there, the more you hear.  The next time you listen, you may focus intently on Christine's argument, and her tete-a-tete with Jim.  The obscene backlash she faced from others and Jims' smooth mask of protection over her.  As he preaches ardently and proudly on communism, he gives this woman freedom of speech, of dissent, and at least verbally protects her as though he were exactly what they called him- Dad.  Though Christine was fierce, her protests were eventually quelled, and she acquiesces to the inevitable.  It is my firm belief that she was one of the many who were forcibly injected and killed.

The subsequent times you listen, you will begin to focus more on the background.  The eerie music dubbed in from a previous recording (Jim frequently reused tapes over and over again, causing the previous recordings to bleed into the current ones.  That is the music you are hearing).

You will hear the screams.  The screams.  The crying.  Of children.  Dying.  Jim's wife makes a lame attempt at soothing parents' fears and urges them to keep their children calm.  Jim repeatedly says that it is not painful, it is merely a "stepping over."

"Everybody relax and you'll have no problem." He says.

Some nameless followers pass the microphone around to give their thanks to "Dad," who eventually loses patience with them and puts a stop to it.  "Let's get on with it," he says.

And babies cry.  "I wanna see you go.  I don't wanna see you go through this hell no more.  No more, no more, no more."  He says.

And babies cry.  And scream.

They "appreciate the way our children are going."  Because Dad has convinced them that, because of the murder of Senator Ryan on the airstrip, the outsiders will do nothing less than parachute in there and slaughter their children.

Screaming babies.  Listen closely.  How many are being forcibly injected?  How many are trusting their parents and drinking the Kool-Aid? (It was actually Flavor Aid by the way).

They're dying with dignity, Jim says.  And babies scream.  How many are in their parents' arms?

"Lay down your life with your child, but don't do this."  This.  We can only imagine what "this" is.  Protests?  Desperate pleas?  Terror?  Outright refusal?

"Don't lay down with tears and agony........ Stop the hysterics!"

Oh, God.

And babies scream.

Free at last.

A child screams "No! No!"

"I don't care how many screams you hear, I don't care how many anguished cries.  Death is a million times more preferable than 10 more days of this life."

As he calls on the adults to "stop this nonsense."  Nonsense?  And again, you question.  Protests?  Desperate pleas?  Terror?  Outright refusal?

The screams of the children become ominously more scant.  And it hits you once again exactly what it is you are listening to.  Even in the silence.  Especially in the silence.  The silence tells of the number of children who were screaming, and the number of children who now are not.  The silence that you hear is death.  Children lying in the grass with the bodies of their parents.  No longer able to scream.

And yet he just wants peace, he says.

One after another, those who have not yet "stepped over" praise Dad for his kindness.  Proud of their revolutionary struggle.  Proud that Dad has given them the choice to lay down their children this way instead of giving them over to those who would most certainly slaughter them like pigs.  And to these people, at all makes sense.  Wonderful, transcendental, peaceful sense.

And babies scream.

And then Jim cooly interrupts a speaker by calling for a "vat."  A vat....... "so the adults can begin."

Congratulations.  Long about the 5th or 6th time you've listened to this recording, you realize you have listened to 41 minutes and 25 seconds of babies and children being murdered, either by their willing parents or forcibly injected by Jim's henchmen if the parents protested.  And the adults had not even begun.

"....... an act of revolutionary suicide protesting the conditions of an inhumane world."


Warped, dubbed voices.

Utter silence.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Hey! Hey You! Yeah, You! Whaddya Want?

I don't know why you people keep coming here.  Wanting to see if I've written any deep, transcendental thoughts lately?  Wanting to see if I've danced with any big fancy new words?  Wanting to see if I've bared my soul in some morose, vestigial, thought-inducing lyrics? 
I have not.
I have written nothing. 

I absolutely hate the main character of both books I've started, even though they are both longer than the fucking bible, I absolutely HATE these people. 
I've found a way to fix one of them.  Which magically came to me in the lyric of a song my Alice in Chains.  And my creative blood sort of seeped out of my apparently weak and empty capillaries for a fraction of a moment. 

Other than that, I am cold.  All the time.  Freezing.  I have bruises in places that barely touch anything.  I am tired.  I am aged.  I have wrinkles in the corners of my eyes that beget the time I cannot slow.  

I have a boring job. 

I am trying to sell my house so I can move to the beach.  

I am trying to keep my 18-year-old son from doing anything illegal with his 15-year-old girlfriend.  I'm almost 100% positive he is smart enough to control himself.  But c'mon.  His hormones are only 18 years old. 

My dog is dying. 

And no matter how many ideas I have to turn my main character into what I want her to be, I have yet to open that file on my computer and do any goddamn thing about it.  

I have nothing to tell you.  Nothing to say.  Nothing head-scratching to bring to the table aside from the fact that my telomeres are shortening with every second that passes and there isn't a fucking thing I can do about it.  

I find my pleasures in putting my toes in the sand.  Watching the moon on the water.  Watching the tourists on the beach with their little fuck trophies and thank every god ever invented that my kids are 16 and 18.  

Actually, no.  I do have something to say.  I want to start a poll.  ill probably do it on my other blog.  But it will be all scientific and shit.  I see so many people my age just now starting their families.  And add to that the fact that I asked my gynecologist at 16 to give me a tubal ligation.  And add to that the fact that my kids only exist because Plan B did not exist when I got pregnant. (Hey, I'm just being honest.  I mean, I love those little boogers more than the air that I breathe, but they're lucky as fuck they are even here.) But. I really, truly, and honestly want to know WHY PEOPLE PURPOSELY WANT TO HAVE CHILDREN.  

My husband and I talked about this endlessly this weekend.  He kept coming up with answers that just did not satisfy me in the least.  In my mind, all of those answers were pointless.  Made no sense.  None.  So.  I want to figure it out.  WHY in all of creation (aha! see what I did there?) do people have the desire to procreate?  No.  Not procreate.  Be parents.  Raise children.  Pair-bond with some person who fits their version of "love" and create another human being they wish to raise and love and care for and feed and clean and house and spend money on for the next 18 years of their lives.  Any answer at all completely escapes my logic.  

But other than that.  Why are you visiting my blog?  Why do you care what I have to say?  I have nothing to say.  I need to get back to work, as a matter of fact.  


Monday, July 15, 2013

And Pus Pours Out Like Whipping Cream!

I have been told that I was born into this world screaming, and I have not stopped since that day. Over years, doctors have relished in the search to name it, though I have settled on a much more accurate label- just me. My name. I am all that I am, all that I’ve done, all that I will do. Whether as the beast or as the wanderer, everything others would label with a diagnosis is nothing more or less fantastical than the average brain within my skull. I have human DNA, just like you, though perhaps my double helix resembles more closely that of an overstretched rubber band, sometimes snapping backward into its original position, and other times shot in some random direction leaving a sting upon the heart of whomever has the misfortune of standing in its path.

I remember the first time I saw death, my tiny bare feet scuttling in the dirt along an overgrown path far more deep in a wood any wee child should be. I’d read a book once from which I’d learned The Hearse Song, and as I skipped, I sung in little-girl tones about worms playing pinochle, eating my eyes and the jelly between my toes. And then, upon my path, I saw it. Lying on its side, bloated and deformed, its tongue lying in the dirt, eyes wide. Itty Bitty Me was enchanted. And, as would be the natural reflex of any tiny screaming soul, I searched in the brush for the perfect stick. I poked and poked. Lifted its tongue with the stick and watched it flop back into the dirt. I poked at its eyes, but could not bring myself to actually poke them out. It would have required a callous curiosity that I had not developed quite yet. Though even at that age, I had visions of exploding bloated dead bodies, and kept myself from poking too hard for fear of being covered in baby calf guts.

But guts would find me yet. I remember the first time I “helped” my uncle dress a deer. I was fascinated. As my little sisters ran around the backyard making vomit noises, I stayed close. Right at his side as he scooped out its entrails. I watched them land in the bucket below with that wet slapping sound. I remember that sound even now. I counted its ribs. Saw its heart. The lungs. He pointed each organ out to me and told me its name. He then did what any respectable uncle I would eventually come to name my child after would do- He grabbed a handful of guts and tossed them at me. I thought it was hilarious. Laughed so damn hard I probably inhaled a little blood. My sisters continued to feign gastrointestinal upset with their tiny girl barf noises. I just laughed. And laughed. And pretended to run away while he flung guts at me. Yes. Oh yes. Many years later, I would name my youngest child after my Uncle Andy. The man taught me how to tie my shoes for christ’s sake.

As I think and think on it, remembering past flashes of life, both wonderful and terrifying, I believe perhaps I've been desensitized to the extremes of human experience.  Those extremes began for me at such a young age, and as I grew older, my affect toward them flattened into something that would seem to be a nonreaction to other humans.  Simple pleasures do little for me.  I need explosions of passion to even begin to stir my heart.  And cultivating a reaction to bland sorrow is a task not unlike sweeping the kitchen floor.  It requires catastrophic disaster to move me to true empathy. 

I never laugh when a hearse goes by.  Though I will admit, I've uttered "Oh, hurry the fuck up" more than once.  


Sunday, July 7, 2013

Drift The Sky

My forearm carries the scars of erasure, a bygone child who couldn't be.  
My wrists are not for sale. 
I carry no shame for what I have done, though I hid behind sleeves for years.  
Faded now, only I see the marks.  They are there.  And remind me of scattered desperation. 
I saw the sky today.  
In the vein of the game I play with words, I laid on my back and tried to drift the sky.  
Knowing it is only blue here.  On this Earth.  The clouds are only white here.  On this rock.  In this corner of life.  
I tried to drift the sky.  
Turn the blue into a foreign wonder, the clouds into sui generis anomalies.
It was a changeable sky.  The blue fading to white as it met the sun. The clouds morphing into pareidolia in a mind preprogrammed for such capriciousness. 
Is everything we are.  
What we see.  
What we create.  
What we become.  
What we were.  
Purpose becomes a fruitless quest for treasure found only in the very synapses that give us the desire for it.
Ideas spring forth from minds that only gained the right to them in the yesterday by the clock of creation.  
Blood.  That beautiful thing that separates the mindful from the mindless.  
There is no shame in that wet reminder of the taste of ones own mind.  


Sunday, June 23, 2013

Written by You K. Who

Sometimes I write to piss people off.  I've done it from as far back as I can remember.  Knowing that I have the ability to use words to challenge perception is something I realized when I was just a wee'un.  Pissing people off is really just a side effect of having one's perception challenged.  But it was something I really got off on as a kid.

What made it all the more fun was that I've always been pretty dark.  There are thinks that go on in my head that I have never put on paper or given a voice.  When I was a kid, though, I would say things.  The shit would just kind of fall out of my face before I had a chance to think.  And those things would kind of.  Well.  Freak people out.  At the time, I'd just giggle uncontrollably, not really understanding exactly why it scared the shit out of people, only knowing that the looks on their faces were hilarious.

Fifth grade.  Mrs. Ramsey's English class.  We were supposed to be doing some sort of menial assignment in groups of 5 or 6 students.  I happened to get the group with the Righteous Twins.  You know the ones.  Them.  I'm babbling on about whatever it was I used to babble about, and all of a sudden I say something about "almighty Satan."  I don't remember the exact conversation or my exact words, all I know is that those words were said with a flourish of body language and an incredibly creepy smile on my face.  Almost as if it were choreographed, the Righteous Twins stood up, turned around, and ran.  Literally RAN away from me.  The kids who stayed just sorta stared.  I, of course, am falling out of my chair laughing.

Did I know exactly what I was doing or was it a case of painful social ineptitude?  I don't know.  Maybe both.  All I know is that I have not matured a whole lot since then.  My kid went to church with a friend a couple weeks ago.  He texted me in the middle of it to tell me how uncomfortable he felt.  I told him to run up to the pulpit and holler "I am the devil and I am here to do the devil's work!"  Thankfully, my kid is much less socially retarded than I am.  I probably would have done it.

Believe it or not, none of it has anything to do with my religious beliefs.  Actually, there are probably 3 or 4 people on the whole of the Earth who know what my religious beliefs are.  What I do and why is nothing more or less than to challenge perception.  Not because I give a shit about human beings but because it is fun to piss them off.

Point blank.

My kid's been trying to do just that for the past 4 weeks.  One of his summer semester classes is called "Storytelling."  As soon as he saw the word in the summer class catalog, the look on his face was one I have had a thousand times.  Yet every time he turns in an assignment, all he gets are comments like "Amazing!" and "Wow!" and "You're so talented!" followed by an A+.  He couldn't be more pissed.  In his mind, all that means is that he hasn't sunk low enough yet.  And for my offspring, all that means is that babies are fixina hafta die.

I have decided I am going to write under a pseudonym.  It's the only way.  To get these thinks on paper.  To sink down into the very soul of the depravity that lights my fire is going to require some serious anonymity.  For me to let go.  Disregard mores and taboos.  Relinquish my responsibility over hurt feelings and sullied innocence.  To go beyond the social censorship that I never developed in the way that comes so naturally to other humans.

My little sci-fi adventure has turned into 70,000 words of everything that is wrong with humanity, challenging the line between man and animal, then pulling back and finding that overgrown third tine on the fork in the road where there is no man and there is no animal, just sickness.  Most humans refuse to go down that road.  I refuse to ignore it.  But that isn't the challenge.  The challenge is finding your way back.  That's the adventure.

And so.  I have decided that you will never see my name on any book.  My kid is convinced that people won't stop at burning my books until they've tied me up and burned me, too.

That sounds like it might hurt. 


Thursday, June 20, 2013

Nobody Would Stop To Save Her

I have come to the realization that I am underdeveloped.  It explains everything.  My emotional immaturity.  My height.  My inability to understand and relate to grownup stuff.  I think that's probably the same thing as emotional immaturity, but shut up.  

When I was a kid, the doctor tried to get my mom to put me on growth hormones.  She rightly refused.  My mom's only 4'8".  It's not like I didn't come by it honestly.  It's not a medical problem or a diagnosis.  I am just not tall.  Why does that require fixing?  

Grrrr.   I went off point there for a moment.  Anyway.  Maybe I AM actually underdeveloped?  Stunted maybe?  I'm normally proportioned.  I've got plenty of tits and ass.  I didn't get my first period until I was 16, though.  But who's counting?  

All that meant to me was that at 15, I could rack up the notches on my bedpost without having to worry about getting knocked up.  

Anyway.   It's the only way I can explain certain things about my personality.  Things like my adverse reaction to worky jobs.  And adult definitions of "successful."  My refusal to get an old lady haircut.  Ever.  The sheer terror the idea of getting old evokes.  My relief that my kids are now old enough that I don't have to do grownup Mom shit anymore.  

GODDAMN.  Mom shit is so stupid.  I always thought glove compartments made much better diaper bags.  And if it didn't fit in the glove compartment, the kid doesn't need it.  Strollers are stupid when it's much faster just to sling the little bug over your shoulder and keep marchin.  Bottles?  Fuck that.  I had free food that didn't have to be prepared and never resulted in dirty dishes.  Why would any woman be averse to that??  

Taking them to school?  Bullshit.  That meant I had to get up early.  So.  Homeschooling it was.  It was only later on that I slapped together a more socially acceptable reason for it.  Truth.  Waking up 5-year-old babies while it's still dark outside to send them off to a classroom full of people you don't know is downright HORSESHIT.  So, I just quit.  

Responsibilities?  Fuck.  If my bank didn't do the automatic bill paying thingy, every single bill we have would be completely forgotten.  What?  You mean you have to pay to turn your lights and the faucet on?  Why did no one tell me this??!!  Yeah.  It would be a disaster.  

Even now.  Andrew walked into the living room a few minutes ago and asked if he could go hang out with his friends.  I got this blank look on my face.  Sorta like, "Why the fuck are you asking me?"  Kid's got a driver's license.  He's got money.  He knows the rules.  At least wave at me when you walk out the door so I know you're leaving.  Otherwise, I don't give a good goddamn what the fuck you do.  


It explains everything.  

Wait.  No it doesn't.  I also have hair on my toes.  And I run barefoot.  I rarely leave my house.  And I have once again succumbed to the filthy temptations of pipeweed.  

Holy shit. 

 I'm a fucking Hobbit.



Saturday, June 8, 2013

Fealty Oblique

I have been accused of "not participating in the family" before.  This is not a new thing.  It was years ago, and I am using this blog with the chance that this could possibly be read by family members, so clearly it is not an issue, or accusation, that truly bothers me.  More than anything, I find it funny.  My BFF were talking about this the other day.  And I guess I just feel like giving it some text.

Partly because of the way I was raised, and partly because of my own personality, I have never felt any kind of blood loyalty.  That seems to be quite a foreign concept for many people.  I do understand.  I mean, there are thousands of years of cultures developing upon a foundation of blood loyalty.  Family comes above all else.  You have a responsibility toward your family.  You love them no matter what.  You're expected to maintain those relationships.  Some cultures go farther than others, but there is some function of that mindset in all of them.

My brain has never worked that way.  Never.  Not ever.  And to be 100% honest, I have trouble understanding that concept at all.  In my mind, I have no responsibility to anyone but myself, my husband, and my children.

In my mind, I have no responsibility to maintain any relationships that are not emotionally fulfilling to me.

In my mind, I have no responsibility to maintain contact with anyone I don't like.  Anyone to whom I am completely apathetic.  Anyone who, were they not related to me, I would never cross in the course of my life because we live- psychologically, emotionally, mentally- in completely different worlds.

Uncles, aunts, cousins, even grandparents, even parents, brothers, sisters, great aunts, steps, second cousins twice removed, on and on it goes.

The scope of my emotional focus is quite narrow.  One could even say I have tunnel vision in that regard.  I really don't think I have the mental capacity to maintain relationships with such a tangled web of what is, to me at least, a seemingly random gaggle of people all tossed loosely together by blood and marriage.  If I tried (and I have), everything and everyone I actually DO owe my loyalty to, will suffer.  Including myself.

Why should I be expected to maintain a relationship with an aunt or uncle I don't even really like?  And who I know don't really like me?  Why should I be expected to send 100 Christmas cards every year, complete with some hokey-ass family picture, to a bunch of people I see once a year, or less, or never?  WHY?

I love my mother.  She is probably my best friend.  That is why I love my mother.  Not because she is my mother.  But because she is an amazing person who did amazing things for her daughters and continues to do amazing things every day.  That is why I love her.  Were she a piece of shit, I'd have no qualms about walking away mumbling "have a nice life" under my breath.  No qualms whatsoever.  None.  I've done it before.  It means nothing to me.  Nothing at all.

Heartless?  Absolutely NOT.  As a matter of fact, it is a tribute to those who deserve all the heart I have that I am able to do this.  Otherwise, the people I love the most would be loved with a fractured heart, one that has been fractured under duress by blood loyalty, the feeling that I must continue to care for someone who is not worth my time.

Why should we spend time in our day having conversations with those with whom we have NOTHING in common?  They aren't bad people.  They've done nothing to me.  They are just.... aside from being related to me..... well..... they are just nothing at all.

Why should I use my time and my money to attend their weddings?  Or reunions?  Or get-togethers?  Or anything?  Taking time and money to do those things would be taking time and money away from those who actually deserve it, those I actually love.

It shouldn't really be that shocking to anyone that I feel this way.  From the day I was born, I have never traveled paved paths.  Aside from the few who understand me and love me, it has always been to the chagrin of others.  And once again, I just frankly do not care.

I've never understood why apathy is such a hard concept for most people to understand.  There are times in life when the ability to embrace apathy is the closest thing to true freedom we will ever experience.

To those in my family I love, I would give my life.   To those I don't, please don't take offense.  It isn't that I dislike you.  It is nothing more or less than an act of self-preservation.  I simply cannot see you at all.


Sunday, June 2, 2013

Half-Assed Shit About Annoying Verbiage With a Cool Song At The End

I understand that effluvient is not a word.  However, effluvium is.  I don’t understand why it cannot be accepted that effluvient would the be adjective form of effluvium.  Effluvia is its plural.  It would only be natural that effluvient would be its descriptive cousin, yes? 

Interestingly, this has bothered me for quite some time.  Other things bother me.  Words that people use incorrectly bother me. 

Regime v. Regimen-  C’mon.  Really?  Doctors do it all the time.  I feel every nerve ending in my ass stand on end and all I want to do is slap a bitch. 

Melenic v. Melanotic-  What the fuck?  One has to do with blood in your shit, the other has to do with the color in your skin.  Sorry.  Not even close fuckers.  Just go ahead and die, please?

Tympanic v. Tympanitic-  One is the sound a drum makes.  The other describes your belly when you’re bloated.  PLEASE STOP BREATHING NOW YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. 

Other shit that pisses me off?  Words I hate. 

Guffaw-  I’m sorry.  It’s just the dumbest word ever in the history of dumb words.  DUMB I TELL YOU!

Comeuppance-  Gimme a fucking pretentious break.  Doesn’t “That motherfucker got exactly what he deserved” sound much more interesting?

Vulva-  Ok.  Just stop.  Please.  It’s no different that describing the head of one’s dick as the “urethral meatus.”  I’d just…. You know…. Much rather not.  Pussy.  Cunt.  Snatch.  Twat.  Cooch.  Hell, even Vajayjay is better than VULVA.  God….. it’s sounds like that one aunt you get stuck talking to at every family reunion… you know, the one who brings a jello mold or pistachio salad.  Oh God! Here comes Aunt Vulva!!  RUUUUN!!!!


Tuesday, May 28, 2013


The me you see strains to snare the incubus threading the needle between Scylla and Charybdis.  
In time, it shall moan a song of isolato.
Scaling, adrift, a courier of bones on which skin has no home.   

Bring her the ganglion of love.  

The sibylline hours before the twain shall meet, when the gods themselves quiver among the esoteric rain- the afterbirth of all that which eluded their hearts, only millimeters proud above the salt of creation.  

Wander, the brave.  Savor, the night.  

From her palm is born Elysium, smelling of nag champa, room only for two.  

She offers it freely.  

To one alone.  

Fingers uncurled for one alone. 

Take me.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

In Which I Discuss My Absence

I had a baby.  See, look------>

Okay, okay.  The truth.  The truth is that I wrote a comment on someone's blog post a while back about how I never wanted kids, I will never understand why people my age are having babies, and that the baby aisle at Wal-Mart makes me break out in hives.  

And then. 

My son fell in love with a pregnant girl.  And then she had her baby.  And my son fell in love with the baby, too.  

And then.  Well.  He brought them home.  To live with us.  In our home.  And then I fell in love with the baby.  And Chris fell in love with the baby.

And between the 7 folks living in my 1800 sq. foot home, we are all tag-teaming baby duties while her Little Mama finishes her last few weeks of high school and my sweet little monkey begins his summer semester 8-week classes.  

Needless to say.  Controlled chaos has ensued.  

Oh.  And we are still in the process of getting our house ready to sell.  Following our original plan, it should be on the market in 10 days.  

Excuse me while I piss myself laughing.  

So you will have to excuse me while I am swept up in the glittering hurricane that is my life.  My writerly self has fled and is replaced by my shitty-diaper-changing, baby tummy raspberrying, kitchen-tiling, shutter-painting, front garden-sprucing glittering hurricane.  

Becoming a famous writer has sort of moved down my bucket list of late.  I know this is unacceptable.  I know my Feed Demon is demanding I pay some attention to some fantastic people I have met through this blog.  I know my paycheck job is sitting to the side at this very moment as I write this.  

Fear not.  I shall return.  Bigger.  Brighter.  And whiter than snow.  I will scream at the make believe, scream at the sky.  And I'll finally find all my courage to let it all go.  *wink*


Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A Touchy Subject

In light of the passing of sweet-ass Chrissy Amphlett, rivaled in my heart only by Joan Jett, I feel the need to talk about something.  Something most chicks don’t really talk about.

The ages and ways boys and girls discover their bodies are as varied as one snowflake to the next.  It seems as though, in today's society at least, a boy's process of physical self-discovery is not only expected, but condoned, and understood, and is as inevitable in a parent's mind as his eventual desire for a driver's license.  

The one double standard that is not as clearly defined and accepted is a little girl's process of physical self-discovery.  Mothers of daughters fret over it.  And quickly correct their daughters if they happen upon a chubby little hand shoved into her Strawberry Shortcake panties.  Even more misunderstood is that for many little girls, their self-discovery starts at a much earlier age than little boys.  The last thing most parents of boys would expect to inadvertently interrupt is their 4-year-old son jerking his junk to an episode of Dora the Explorer.  But if you have a 4-year-old daughter, you may already have, and did not even know it.  Well, not Dora.  But maybe Diego.

I am about to turn everything you thought you knew about little girls upside down (or perhaps tipped slightly askew?).  It is going to be explicit (or perhaps vaguely so?).  It is going to be uncomfortable.  The girl I am talking about is me.  And I am not ashamed.  You have been warned.  If you'd rather read something else, may I suggest This?


For many of us, our process begins as soon as we develop enough hand-eye coordination to deliberately touch our no-no parts.  

And that is where the raising of your hypersexual little princess soars light-years beyond anything parents are conditioned to expect in a daughter.   

Let's cut to the chase, shall we?   

How the fuck do you parent a little girl who had her first orgasm when she was 4 years old? 

On the flip side.  Let's look at it from your little darlin's point of view.  Do you know how scary that is?  

Perhaps it is better for me to illustrate this scenario with clips from the inner dialogue of a tenderly young baby girl.

4 years old—“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??!!!”  (Yes, tiny girls say words in their noggins that would make most parents shit their pants). 

4 years old (5 minutes later)- “OH MY GOD!!!  I DID IT AGAIN!!!”

4 years old (5 more minutes later)-  “Hmmm…. I wonder how many times I can do it in a row?”

----- Months pass.  Techniques perfected.  Ignorance as to her own biology remains----

5 years old- “Oh shit!  What if it runs out?  What if I can only do it so many times and after that, I’ll never be able to do it again??  Oh craaaaap!!!!  Okay, I’ll just do it one more time….. today…..”

6 years old- She meets a boy at daycare who explains that the word “fuck” means to touch tongues.  So, after fucking Trey, she goes home and tells her mommy that she fucked a boy at daycare.  Mommy flips her shit, only to discover her sweet little baby’s innocent mistake.  Deep breaths. 

6 years old (the next day)- “Mom, what does fuck mean?”  Grandmother passes out on the kitchen floor.  Mommy takes girl by the arm into another room and explains about penises and vaginas.  Girl begins to make a tenuous connection between fucking and that really cool thing she does with her no-no parts when no one is watching. 

7 years old- Girl discovers that if she imagines certain things while she is touching her no-no parts, that awesome thing that happens feels even better!!

8 years old- Girl discovers that she can control it.  Faster, slower, circles, up and down.  She discovers that she can deliberately prolong that awesome thing from happening so that when it finally does happen, it’s like….. HUGE.  She discovers 20+ years later that there is an actual term for that technique- “Edging.” 

10 years old- Girl watches her first porno.  She watches with vested interest, analyzing, taking mental notes.  Instead of disgust, she is fascinated.  And after 6 years of perfecting her favorite undercover pastime, she is finally introduced to the word “cum.” 

--- Years pass.  Girl finally adds the word “orgasm” to her lexicon.  And it is slowly elevated from just a super-secret hobby  to an Olympic sport.-----  

It is around this time that an idea begins to take shape in her mind.  A challenge of sorts.  In public places.  In school.  And so she begins to practice.  Wearing different kinds of pants, preferably jeans with thick inseams.  She tries sitting in certain ways in her desk at school, moving her hips in certain directions, so slowly that no one in the entire classroom even notices she is wiggling ever so barely in her seat. 

15 years old-  Girl finally achieves a scientific breakthrough that, if she were brave enough to admit it to the world, would have certainly garnered her some sort of Nobel Prize-  the hands-free orgasm. 

36 years old-  Girl is now the mother of teenage boys.  Absolutely nothing about their evolution from baby to a passionately sexual man surprises or disgusts her.  And she has never.  NEVER.  Not once.  Opened their bedroom door without knocking first. 

So.  In closing, I would like to say a few things to parents of little girls:

- I don’t care how old they are, they were created to be sexual beings. 
- Age means nothing in matters of physical pleasure. 
- It is a natural human curiosity to touch all of the parts of your body that make you who you are.
And nature- not perverted human beings- created those parts of your daughter’s body that make her feel good. 
- If you tell her it is bad- you fail. 
- If you tell her it is a sin- you fail. 
- If you refuse her questions- you fail.
- If you walk in on her, realize what she is doing, stand paralyzed with fear, and exclaim “what the FUCK are you doing??”- you fail. 
- If you believe this is only an issue for parents of boys- you fail. 

Whether you believe in god, intelligent design, secular-driven science, or nothing at all, your body reacts to masturbation exactly the way it was designed to react.  Be compassionate, not disgusted.  Be open, not repulsed.  Answer her questions if she asks.  Leave her alone if she does not.  And ever so politely suggest that she please remember to lock her bedroom door.  Misguided and misinformed speeches on morality and impurity are no different than any other social commentary that serves to cause our girls to be ashamed of their bodies.  

And THAT, my little darlings, is all I have to say about THAT.