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Archive for November, 2000

 
|| November 21, 2000 || 9:55 pm || Comments (0) ||

We’regonnatrysomethin’here,youfuckers.

 
|| November 21, 2000 || 9:43 pm || Comments (0) ||

|| BACK IN MEMPHIS ||

Memphis makes me mean:
I feel its stomp in my stomach;
My eyes glint in the humidity of Overton Square.

Memphis makes me sexy:
I feel its pounding in my veins;
The skin over my collarbone gleams under the lights of Beale.

Memphis makes me sorrowful:
I feel its cries of days past under my ribs;
My palms burn with the legacy of the Delta.

Memphis makes me alive:
I feel its pride in my backbone;
My blood is ignited by the electricity of the river skyline.

Memphis makes me whole:
I feel its umbilical remnant;
My being was shaped in its’ rocking embrace.

 
|| November 21, 2000 || 9:28 pm || Comments (0) ||

Grrrrrr.

Brrrrr.

Those are the two prevailing sentiments this evening. Today classifies as Yucky Day Extraordinaire, for reasons that are my own, a.k.a. None Of Yer Fuckin’ Biz-ah-ness (ya mooly muthafucka!). I am just mad and sad and upset and overwrought and overspent and overblown and overfuckingdramatic. My stomach is all knotty and I want to break things. Fuck things. I want to break people.

Look, I know that violent tendencies are severely frowned upon in our society. They are no longer punished as heavily as they once were, but they still aren’t exactly rewarded. I know also that I am a trusty grade-A role model for three little bodies and minds who are highly perceptive and intelligent. I seriously have no desire to fuck that one up.

But DAMN, for all the good it does me to try and BE good, I could just let go and be bad. I could be the perpetually doggedly bitingly bitterly hateful-souled sarcastic ugly-acting dirty cunt that I was born to be. This whole sainthood thing ain’t working out. I would make a really great bad guy. Except for that damned conscience thing. It fucking gets me every time, because it utilizes my maternal grandmother’s voice, who really WAS a fucking saint and who has probably made her god-linens two sizes too small from crying on them. As a result of observing me, of course. Because I learned to say the word ‘fuck’ and because I now use it so comfortably and copiously. Anyway, back to the breaking people thing….

If you have never landed a good punch on someone, I highly recommend it. Especially square in the face. VERY cathartic. I am gonna admit something right here, in just a sec. Please seat yourself comfortably in a chair, preferably with arms, so that you can grab them tightly. Have your inhaler or your Phenobarbitol or whatever the fuck coping mechanism you utilize ready and waiting. I warned you, douchebags.

I whipped someone with a car antenna one time. I was 13. It felt really, really fucking good. She was a couple years older and she pulled a knife on me. “Self-preservation!”, you cry, coming to my defense.

Nuh-uh. You and I both know that using that car antenna as a weapon of defense may have been acceptable. But I was there. I saw it. I whipped the total shit out of her with it. FLAYED her, man. It was most assuredly overkill. Even I can admit that. Shit, I could admit it at the time, however immature I may have been. After I started beating on this girl with this whippy metal rod and the adrenaline was flowing and the “Bow before me, thou lesser being!’ button was pushed and I heard the whip-crack sound of it slicing the air and her cries punctuating my pounding hatred and heart I found it difficult to stop. Her whimpering and the modest crowd’s stunned silence afterward were so dissatisfying, so anticlimactic.

Sufficiently horrifed yet? YOU goaded me to write. You asked for it, on a day like today.

You did.

 
|| November 16, 2000 || 10:36 pm || Comments (0) ||

When I was two-and-a-half, I shattered my right femur. Well, not really shattered as such, but broke the almighty shit out of it in several places. Back then it was the same as shattered….

Anyway, two-and-a-half, badly broken femur, lengthy hospital stay (3 months), most of it in traction so as not to dislocate my hip or further discombobulate my little body. Eight weeks afterward in a body cast. Parents hadda teach me to walk and potty train me all over again. There are several enriching humorous stories (lengthy and not-so-long) that are attached to the bigger picture, but this is not one of them. Nosiree, those are for another time. This story is an ongoing offshoot of that early happening.

Several things in my adulthood are related to this leg breakage thingy.

For instance, my right leg is a full inch shorter than my left. Not that it really matters all that much, because I am pretty leggy. I don’t have to mourn that inch from a stature standpoint, or anything. Because of this imbalance in leg length, my back loses alignment, so every so often I am couched for a couple days at a time, quite literally not able to move. In cases of sudden weather change, I am at a great advantage, because a temporary throbbing in that gimp leg (as the family so jokingly refers to it) gives me a bit of a ‘leg up’ *HARHAR*. Gramma always said that I was the best barometer that she had ever known. And that little hitch in my git-along was largely misconstrued as a come-hither sashay (or maybe I can accredit that to the large boobs, I dunno…) But disregard all that. What I am here to talk about is the pain.

When I gets too dang cold, mostly in a humid-like cly-mutt, mah here laig goes ta achin’ me sumpin’ pyreful. No shit. That shit hurts, mang. The kind of hurt that says, “Hey, since I can’t go away, I might as well fucking spread the wealth around.” So here it goes to my hip, on into my other hip, and down my other thigh. If I am REAL lucky, my knees get invited to the party. w00t!

Since we moved into this new house, I have been hurting a little. Now and then. Okay, a LOT. Like every fucking day. Every night and every morning until I get up and get around. After an hour or so of movement, it abates. BUT, in all honesty, I am less inclined to go to the gym and get on the treadmill if my hips and legs ache like an old fucking swaybacked mule.

The reason for this sudden change? My husband keeps the heat hovering around the motherfucking 66-degree mark. I go turn it up, he turns it down. I comply quietly, he turns it further down.

In all fairness, he doesn’t know about the pain that I am caused by the cold, because I am not the type to run around bitching about how uncomfortable I am. I know that we are in a new, much larger place and he is worried (as always) about expenses; he’s trying to cut corners so that we can do the things that we want to do when and where we want to do them. I do, however, go around grumbling. I say, “MOtherFUCK, it’s COLD in here. SHIT!” and other colorful catchphrases in that same vein.

But NO MORE, I tell you; NO MORE!!!!

Tonight I went into the laundry room to iron a pair of pants and I discovered that the iron had been on the ‘high’ setting all day. 12 hours’ worth of day, to be exact. I credit you here with the ability *perhaps dangerously so* to figure out who it was that left the thing on.

No more Ms. Nice Babe. No more, “Well, we really SHOULD leave the heat at fifty degrees, because there are starving kids in Ethiopia in desperate NEED of a little more electricity to power their ice cream freezers, not to mention the fact that our government gave them all of those plug-in toothbrushes…..”

No WAY. I jacked the heat up to 70 and snarled at him, “My sonofabitching legs HURT, and if you want any pussy from ME this winter, 70 is where this damned thing will ByGod STAY“.

Clarity of communication. That’s all a marriage really needs.

Really.

 
|| November 16, 2000 || 6:24 pm || Comments (0) ||

About 5:30 p.m. CST:

ME: *waggling finger in direction of youngest boy-child* WHY is he SCREAMING like that???

ELDEST BOY-CHILD: *oh so matter-of-factly* Because he’s two.

ONLIEST GIRL-CHILD: *frowning as only she can* And because he’s a BUTT.

 
|| November 16, 2000 || 3:09 pm || Comments (0) ||

What’s funny to me is the fact of certain people being marked as “SHITHOUSE-RAT-CRAZY” by society. I am floored constantly by the strength it takes to live daily in a world that refuses to truly assist, much less understand, those who were gifted with a brain chemical mix that registers as ‘abnormal’ or ‘off-balance’. Who are we to judge when the genetic cocktail goes a bit awry by ”NORMAL” standards? Would you judge someone born blonde as faulty? What about someone with a propensity for no hair? What about freckles, huh?

Fuck “NORMAL”. I think “NORMAL” is innately BORING.

The following are excerpts from email that I received in the last couple of days. Peruse on, gentle reader:

“Thank you for the compliment, but I don’t think I’ve done anything extraordinary. I view mental illness as I would any other disease. I think if more people did that there wouldn’t be such a stigma attached to it. I can’t help the serotonin levels in my brain any more than I could help a cancer growing inside me. People hear anything with the word MENTAL in it and they think you’re crazy. I think that even WITHOUT my medication I’m a lot saner than most people. Besides, lots of the greatest, most talent people ever have had mental illness. Van Gogh, Winston Churchill, Shakespeare etc… You have 3 younguns right? I don’t want to have any kids. I like other people’s kids and I think Mothers are the most underrated people in the world, but still, none for me. Sometimes I think I inherited every illness gene from both sides of my family. Don’t need to pass that on!”

“anyway, thanks for the inspiring lack of sentiment. i have a sick feeling that i’m going to be getting a lot of the heavy sentiment here in the next few days and it makes me queasy. i don’t want the pep-talk as a reward for making my bitching public…i just want the fame and heaps of non-taxable income.”

These people make me question the fact that they are mentally ill. Frankly, I think that they are fine and the rest of you schmucks are all fucked up. Shit, at least they are interesting to talk to.

 
|| November 16, 2000 || 2:25 pm || Comments (0) ||

There was this time in high school where I posse’d up with a bunch of pals, got terribly drunk and went to a haunted house. The line was really long and it was bitter cold, both of which are conducive to taking a piss (at least in my humble case). I just couldn’t hold it, so I headed for the port-a-john. This particular port-a-john had a lid over the opening, which I have never heard of before or since, and I was blissfully unaware of this. So, in my pleasant inebriated fashion, I sat and began the whizzing function before all facts registered clearly.

I pissed all over the lid. D’OH!!!

The really hilarious part, though, is the fact that I simply didn’t care. I was really fucking amused. So much so that I loudly told my friends when I got back into line. I STILL find it hilarious.

I have no idea why that particular story came to me on this particular day. Perhaps the fact that it is raining relentlessly and it is cold. I dunno.