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Posts Tagged ‘just! like! that!’

|| 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 12, 2000 || 1:01 am || Comments (0) ||

I have decided to lob off my hair. ESPECIALLY in light of the fact that the going trend (as observed with regard to all the really “it” popsicle sticks in high fashion) is super-long, full locks.

After literally HOURS of perusal, I have decided to lob off my head instead. I mean, who in god’s name knew there was so much hair art hovering about out there, ESPECIALLY in the short genre??

And oh yeah, a really great big FUCK YOU to this place and their “Hey-you-ain’t-gonna-right-click-us-baby” bullshit. Hairstyle #1137 has been successfully transferred to my hard drive and Miss Judy will be using it as a template for my new ‘do on WEDNESDAY. Take THAT, bee-otch!

|| November 6, 2000 || 11:08 pm || Comments (0) ||

These quotes do it for me:

“Now, I know I am an exception to most of the rules about how people act. I admit it. But I just want to go on the record with a few things on this topic.”

“I’ve passed kidney stones. They say that it’s the closest a man can get to knowing the pain of childbirth.”

“Ladies? Are you taking notes? If you don’t have quid pro quo in bed you aren’t going to have it out there in the world.”

“If there was a way I could get across a deafening scream on a computer, I would insert it here.”

“Give me one big fucking break!”

“Women aren’t going to get anywhere by being empowered by such shows as “Piggy McSqueal” or whatever the hell it’s called. Women are going to be empowered by beating the shit out of men in the boxing ring. That is what clearly intimidates and frightens men, and that’s the only thing that is going to make an impression.”

“Who is telling you that a balding man isn’t sexy? Is it the same people who are telling you that a 5′5″ brunette woman with a 32 inch bust beating up someone in a boxing ring isn’t sexy?”

“Be a dear and toss me another handful of candies from that little dispenser there, will you?”

“Don’t be shocked; that’s what I do. I’m a polar bear.”

“Oh, whine, whine, bitch, bitch, I didn’t ask to be born a man / woman / black / white / American / African / supermodel / cripple / whatthefuckever. Hey, I never even asked to be born human. What about that?”

“Yeah, last week I wanted to just be someone else. But I decided to scrap that plan and dream big. Now I want to be something else. I don’t want the new problems of someone else. I don’t want the new hangups or shallowness of someone else. I don’t want the job or income or debt or relocation of someone else.”

“Humans have too wide a capacity for love. It goes too high and it goes too low.”

“Hello, 21st Century Western Cultureman. You haven’t got a chance.”

“If you had any talent or purpose, you would not be sneaking around trying to hide your sad little hobby of “oh, I’m a misunderstood writer.” You are an electronic ink-blot on the unread paperwork of humanity. You are a coffee cup stain. You aren’t even that interesting.”

“Wake up and smell the bullshit you have pouring out of your mouth, jerk.”

“Hey, I’ll buy you a mirror and you can give up the drive space to someone who really needs it, ok?”

“Is this more information than you were looking for? Too bad. Time to contemplate life’s sticky little issues.”

“Am I saying we should give up trying to make the world a better place? No.”

“What can we do to improve the quality of life in the face of a negative but unchangeable reality?”

Like manna lying delectably in a sea of fishsticks. I found them all in the same place; can you IMAGINE??

|| October 17, 2000 || 11:31 pm || Comments (0) ||

From time to time I get one of those e-mail forwards that is worth the click I spent opening it. The following, sent to me by one of my favorite college profs, is a fine example. I laaaaaughed and laaaaughed, d00d.

Subject: chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

I fight for the chickens and I am fighting for the chickens right now. I will not give up on the chickens crossing the road! I will fight for the chickens and I will not disappoint them.

I don’t believe we need to get the chickens across the road. I say give the road to the chickens and let them decide. The government needs to let go of strangling the chickens so they can get across the road.

I believe that every chicken has the right to worship their God in their own way. Crossing the road is a spiritual journey and no chicken should be denied the right to cross the road in their own way.

Chickens are big-time because they have wings. They could fly if they wanted to. Chickens don’t want to cross the road. They don’t need help crossing the road. In fact, I’m not interested in crossing the road myself.

Chickens are misled by the evil tire makers into believing there is a road. Chickens aren’t ignorant, but our society pays to create the need for these roads and then lures chickens into believing there is an advantage to crossing them. Down with the roads, up with chickens.

To steal a job from a decent, hardworking American.

Because the chicken was gay! Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the “other side.” That’s what “they” call it-the “other side.” Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And, if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like “the other side.” That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It’s as plain and simple as that.

Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, The chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed, I’ve not been told!

To die. In the rain.

I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross without having their motives called into question.

In my day, we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.

It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

It was a historical inevitability.

This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

What chicken?

To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.

You saw it cross the road with your own eyes. How many more chickens have to cross before you believe it?

The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual insecurity.

I have just released eChicken 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook -and Internet Explorer is an inextricable part of eChicken.

Did the chicken really cross the road or did the road move beneath the chicken?

I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What do you mean by “chicken”? Could you define “chicken” please?

I don’t think I should have to answer that question.

The road, you will see, represents the black man. The chicken crossed the “black man” in order to trample him and keep him down.

And God came down from the heavens, and He said unto the chicken, “Thou shalt cross the road.” And the chicken crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.

I missed one?

|| October 14, 2000 || 2:39 pm || Comments (0) ||

I just don’t understand those moms that go to the ballfield looking like they’re ready to take afternoon tea. I am an exuberant mom, so I dress the part. You simply can’t jump and cheer properly in 3-inch heels (we are excluding bedroom sports here, y’all…).

I don’t just cheer for my kid. I learn the names and numbers of all of ‘em. I think that’s my role as a football mom…some of those little people have no encouragement whatsoever. Others have rampant negativity. They are 8 years old, for Christ’s sake…cut some slack there, you overbearing, fat-assed, I-missed-my-chance-so-I-must-live-vicariously-through-my-offspring-and-intimidate-them-into-success parents. SHEESH.

The latter annoys me, but the former does even moreso. Who cares if your slacks get wrinkled or your nails get chipped or your hair gets mussed? Drop that jaw and pull some good old-fashioned enthusiasm from the gut! You can re-apply your lipstick.

Here again, I state the obvious: You can’t re-apply their childhoods.

And, oh yeah,


|| September 13, 2000 || 11:50 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fer God’s sake, it is not really even the middle of September yet and I am sitting here shivering.<–wish I knew of some funky little snippet of code I could slap in there and make the word ’shivering’ quiver like newly-set Jell-O….that’d be tres awesome!

Anyhoo, I was saddened by the news about this cyberguru-to-some. I’ve not been visiting long, but the visits that I DID make were unsettling and thought-provoking. I like this guy because I don’t necessarily have the level of courage to be so forthright and raw with my web spewings. We have lots in common, D. Maybe you find comfort in knowing? Maybe not? Either way, I should have made you aware of that fact sooner…hope to hear from you again real soon.

|| September 11, 2000 || 12:22 am || Comments (0) ||

~giggle~ Pneumatic chairs are the bomb. AHEM, now that I have THAT outta my system we can move along, folks.

Ever partake of something the 20th time out and it still seems fresh and new to you? Something about it simply sparkles and it appeals to you on many levels?…I know you know that feeling. We all know that feeling about something in our lives; those of us who are incredibly fortunate have felt it from more than one aspect/in many respects. If you’ve never had it happen, don’t worry. It will occur (even if it takes until your dying day).

One such thing for me is ‘Lawn Dogs’. The fact that Sam Rockwell (some names are so FITTING) sets the old Lust Bus en route notwithstanding, he is one fuck of a performer (sorry, Sam…that’s the best way I coulda put it. I’m at a loss; how cliche). It simply loosens my jaw to know that I have never heard him credited as one of the hottest commodities in Hollystrange. I mean Hollyweird. Nonono, it’s Hollywood. Yeah, that’s it: Hollywood.

So now you know one valuable thing about me: my true feelings about Hollywood. I’d make a shitty entertainment lawyer; or a great one, I dunno….

I should mention that part of the appeal is the character “Devon”; her fancy-schmancy hyphenated last name temporarily escapes me. Yuppies, SHEESH. “We are such full, interesting people that lead such full, interesting lives and live in such full, interesting houses with children who undoubtedly have full, interesting futures ahead of them and we should possess names that are just as full and interesting.”**HEY, HERE’S AN IDEA….perhaps you should earn one more hyphen with each successive ten mil after the first five or so.**

ANYWAY, all kidding aside, I was telling you about Devon…. somebody who knew me as a child talked to some writers and I was incorporated in some aspects into this character. That’s the only possible explanation….tooooo uncanny, mkay? These traits emerge and rub up against me with an air of familiarity that leaves me awestruck. How did they know that I would go out into the moonlight barely clothed on mild nights and look up at the unpolluted sky and feel all those places where I was not? To know that sorrow that accompanies a homesickness for a place you had never seen, a person you’ve never been? Does every little girl know talismans? Is it incorporated into the female makeup? Did we all climb trees and tie ribbons to each branch in need of a shiny piece of satin? Were/are there other young women that knew the disdain of their microsociety? I never pissed on my dad’s car, but had I thought of it, I might’ve. I NEVER would’ve entered a stranger’s house uninvited or unannounced; this was not from fear but from thinking it ill-mannered. I wouldn’t have done the fly-in-the-cookie thing either. Why waste a perfectly good cookie? The dolls, the doll parts, the exacting-punishment-where-punishment-is due…..yeah, toned down a half a click it could’ve been me.

The self-created parallel storyline WAS me. Always ticking out the next string of words in whatever drama I was destined to lay to the page. Not an escape, not a way to enliven a dull existence (for it wasn’t a dull one), just something that was. Like breathing or blinking. Simply an inherent part of the whole.

So watch ‘Lawn Dogs’ and know that it gets me right there, even if it doesn’t do a damned thing for you. Then e-mail me with what holds your multi-layered magic. Or better yet, set up your own blog and tell the world.

Pee ess….I am almost NEVER satisfied with the endings that are unfittingly served to us, but there could not ever in the history of the planet been a more suitable and filling wrap to a story. TRULY.