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Posts Tagged ‘rife with swear words’

About four years ago I set out on a mission to get rid of every ugly coffee mug we own. Well, if they were the right shade of ugly (you know, like ugly-interesting) they could stay. If they were just sheerly ugly-ugly, they had to go, sport. Shut up, this is my logic and you maybe just need to take your opinions and/or household management style over to your OWN voyeurnal that you have carefully cultivated in literary mediocrity for fourteen years day before yesterday*), holla.

So, in short, I fucking failed. Failed!

This is because I have a husband who actually smuggles horrid mugs out of the donation box I’ve packed, lets them ride around in his car for a couple of months until he thinks I won’t notice, and then sneaks the dang things back into my cabinets. Please insert four years’-worth of manic mug-related cycling here.

Let’s address the inevitable FAQs here so that the comments aren’t cluttered with them:

READER: Jett. You’re showing marked restraint. Why don’t you just smash them and have done with it?
JETT: ……

READER: Why don’t you just take them to the thrift yourself?
JETT: a) THIS MARRIAGE IS A PARTNERSHIP and I’ve already done the hard part, which consists of bitching and putting some shit into a box and placing said box into my husband’s car, and b) I didn’t bring those fuckers into this joint and I shouldn’t have to wag them out of it.

A couple-three years back I made the very conscious decision to actively seek out mugs I deemed as cool and fold them into our cabinet, so that my eye would be drawn to something besides the annoying mugs and so that I would be More Overjoyed At Mundane Things In General.  I think this hunt, too, was triggered by the fact that the Chieftans mug that I’d won in a music store design contest had gone a-wanderin’. People, –so help me God– I love cash, but I loved that mug more that the prize money that accompanied it.

(aside: As I was typing, I remembered how when my insanely cool Chieftans mug disappeared I practically put that thing on the side of a milk carton because I missed it so badly, and then I thought I had let it go and made peace with it except that now I’m mad at Maxim because I know damn well he carted it off somewhere and lost it because that’s what he does with my awesome things that he ‘borrows’ in an ‘I don’t have permission but maybe it will be worth the rage?’ fashion. In fact, I just stopped typing for a minute to glare at him one more time and say, “Maxim. Whatever happened to my fabulous Chieftains mug that you disappeared AND YOU BETTER NOT EVEN PLAY DUMB ABOUT IT BECAUSE I’M WRITING MYSELF INTO A LATHER AGAIN.” The case is still cold. Maxim better do the rest of this day correctly because CHIEFTANS MUG.

The case is still cold, I said.)

Okay. So I started snagging mugs I deem cool. With every one I found, I made a polite-but-firm announcement:

“Family? Family. This is mommy’s new mug and she superfuckingduper likes it, please use one of the other eleventy-gazillion mugs in the cabinet instead of this one. Please. Please?”

And to date, I’ve bought five such irresistible mugs because their design or size charmed me. Also to date, each one of them has come up profoundly broken (bye, handle, you were so useful while we knew ye) or just plain ole chipped. Apparently the hideous mugs envied my affections for the Chosen Mugs, because they ended up mysteriously beaten up with no one –NOT A SINGLE SOUL– in my family having an active knowledge of how these chips and breaks were occurring. The ugly mugs are staging big rumbles when the cabinet doors are closed, is what I’m saying.

That’s not crazy at all, right? I mean, my family would tell me if they’re guilty of destroying my property, right?

There is only one thing I’m really concerned about figuring out, though: Are the Chosen Mugs getting chipped because they are the most-used and loved, or because of the fact that they are mine and mine is the only shit around here that ever gets broken (and not by me, is what I’m saying)? Hmmm, Muffinasses, just hmmmm.

I even bought a control mug with which to perform an experiment. I did the requisite announcement and mild fawning about how much I really dug this Monopoly mug that I’d picked up on thrift for seventy-nine cents. Only, my family didn’t know that I’d only spent seventy-nine cents. I left that part out. My logic is that the less I pay for it, the less of a magnet a coffee mug is going to be. I pulled the mug out of the cabinet once, twice, three times. It was on my fourth reach for it that I saw this:

chipped

AH-HA! Also, motherfucker. But mostly AH-HA!

….but not really, I realized, because there is no real way to sort the result into one of the two named categories. But still: These things are mine and these things end up broken.

One day I was out Spejunkin’ (spelunking for junk=Spejunkin’, in case you don’t follow me on Twitter**) and I came across a fifties stoneware mug. It was putty-colored and sported the name ‘George’ across it in this awesome, delft blue vintage script. George’s mug had gotten away from him through death or a change in tastes (kind of the same, really, when you consider that nineteen-eighties coke-loving me thought that black lacquer furniture was the very pinnacle of style and also taste, my hand to God) had ended up at the thrift for thirty-nine cents.

I immediately had a lightbulb moment. I would start collecting vintage mugs with the names of other people on them. There were only two rules to start: 1) Mugs carrying the names of people in my immediate family could not be collected, and 2) I have to find the mugs myself or be along for the ride when they are found; they cannot be purchased for me as a gift. Since then, I have added two more rules: 3) Tackiness is very much desirable but a mug cannot be terrible, horrible, no good or very bad. I know what these things are when I see them but not until then. 4) The mugs, no matter how old, have to be in like-new condition. BONUS POINTS: An obscure/unusual name, for example:

elfriede

There is a quiet brilliance behind my Collecting Other People’s Mugs project: I will gather these particular things to me because I won’t give a real shit about a mug if it’s actually someone else’s in theory, right? Riiiiiight. You can’t see me, but I am winking both conspiratorially and sarcastically at you and that’s called ‘foreshadowing’.

Plus there is the bonus benefit that I hadn’t anticipated: The name mugs are actually actively repelling my family through a clever combination of being significantly smaller than contemporary mugs and the fact that they have someone else’s name on them, thereby subconsciously casting blame when pulled out of the cabinet. The sad part is that these same exact factors have caused me not use them, as well, but yet I still look every time I go Spejunkin’. Because thirty-nine to fifty-nine cents, usually, that’s why….and sometimes even a quarter. A quarter!

I may also be a little addicted to this goofy-harmless activity, as well.

I’ve found about five so far, but my favorite is this one:

inez

I expect at some point I will fuck up and let someone within these four walls know that it’s my favorite. I am here to tell you, spirited reader, whosoever breaketh ‘Inez’ will be forced to move the fuck out of the house and only visit on Christmas and maybe the nights when I cook too much spaghetti and need to get it gone. If it turns out to be Maxim, then he can visit to satisfy conjugal interests.

Mine, not his. Of course. Are you thick or something?

UPDATE: I was going to include a picture of ‘George’ in this post, since it was the trailblazer in this accidental project. George is absolutely nowhere to be found and the family, upon cursory questioning, has no earthly idea what I’m talking about. But! George is the only name-mug that I announced with a flourish when I brought it home; I gloated over it while explaining my brilliance in this new and challenging (but cheap! oh so cheap!) undertaking.

I AM OFF TO STAGE AN INQUISITION ABOUT THE WHEREABOUTS OF GEORGE.

*some of whose archives are like playing dodgeball with horrible writing as the projectiles, forewarned
**
if you don’t, then I totally forgive you, go with God and such

I have an elaborate plan and I am not even kidding about this shit. What’s that? You say that you’re dying to take part in it? Well edge in closer, buddy, and I’ll preach a little.

ELABORATE PLAN, PART ONE:
Acquire the following items:
+handful of small bills
+some safety glasses
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART ONE: Please make every attempt to acquire these things legally. It would be stupid as shit to get arrested for swiping plastic glasses and/or five bucks in ones, der.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART TWO:
Place these items into your handbag or backpack or poncho or whatever the hell thing it is you use to wag stuff around from Point Ay to Point Bee or Point Cee or Point Eleventyseven.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART TWO: If you're one of those progressive-type brainwashed feminist laydehs, you can just put the glasses in your car and your money in your pocket; GO WOMYN-SISTERS, GO.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART THREE:
Go to thrift stores.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART THREE: Can substitute 'yard sales' for 'thrift stores'.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART FOUR:
Buy all the cheap a) plates and b) tinkly glassware you can afford.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART FOUR: No one piece of tableware can cost more than twenty-five cents.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART FIVE:
Drive to middle of nowhere.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART FIVE: 'Middle of nowhere' should be the sort of middle of nowhere that one might mistake as a possible hidey-spot for the handiwork of serial killers or moonshiners.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART SIX:
Get out of vehicle.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART SIX: Dude. REALLY? You REALLY need instructions for this part? If that's the case, just abandon the plan now and go your ass back home.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART SEVEN:
Look around. Find a tree with a broad trunk that has about sixteen feet of clear terrain outwards in all directions.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART SEVEN: Don't overthink that shit, friend. Let your instincts guide you. Flow in the force, Luke.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART EIGHT:
Get previously-mentioned cheap plates and tinkly glassware out of vehicle.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART SEVEN: Make several trips if you have to and ZOMG BE CAREFUL WITH ALL THAT BREAKABLE SHIT!!1!]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART EIGHT:
Carrying your tableware, walk to within eight feet –or thereabouts– of the tree you got a visual on a few seconds prior.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART EIGHT: Don't trip.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART NINE:
Place the breakable shit(!!1!) gently on the ground at your feet.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART NINE: You can get all fancy if you'd like and spread it out all around you just a little....just make sure it's within easy bend-and-reach distance.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART TEN:
You should’ve donned the safety glasses back at the car before loading your hands up with cheap punch cups and ugly-ass ironstone. If you didn’t, go back and do it, GAHHH.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART TEN: Don't argue with me. Put on the safety glasses. They make you less of a badass, but if you were to lose an eye you'd have to waste a significant portion of your time in the future explaining to people how that perfectly usable eye got away from you, which will make you look like even LESS of a badass. Plus also it would up your dumbass quotient significantly. Then someone could legitimately call you 'candyass dummy' instead of just 'candyass' and nobody wants all that nonsense, now do they?]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART ELEVEN:
Get in touch with your inner maniac. Tell him to meet you up top in a couple seconds.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART ELEVEN: Be sure you're stout enough to wrangle the maniac back down into his usual spot when the time comes.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART TWELVE:
Pick up one of the items at your feet.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART TWELVE: Bend at the knees, sugar. Bending at the waist should only be done in the privacy of your bedroom when donning stilettos and wanting to appear completely slutty as part of strippery and/or role-playing funs.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART THIRTEEN:
Let loose the hue and cry of your soul by way of your pitching arm and hurl the item in your hand at the trunk of that tree you so masterfully chose.
(ed note: you awesome decider, you!)
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART THIRTEEN: Screaming like a crazed banshee just prior to and during the throw improves aim and also heightens the overall experience for everyone involved. It hypes up the room, so to speak, and the show gets more epic by degrees.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART FOURTEEN:
Repeat until all tableware is vaporized against that trunk.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART FOURTEEN: This is not a silly little endeavor, no-no-no. Oh man, you are a treasure to future civilizations. Some archeologist-dude is going to dig these bits and shards up out of the loam and sense in his very bones that some sort of ritual happened at the dig site long, long ago.]

ELABORATE PLAN, PART FIFTEEN:
Calm yourself. Smooth your dress, finger-comb your hair. Leave this place…..that is, the physical one. Hopefully the mental/emotional location that turned you into a plate-flinging motherfucker is already in your rear view and you are no longer suffering the chastisement of your peace.
[OFFICIAL GUIDELINE FOR ELABORATE PLAN, PART FIFTEEN: Go forth, child, with feather-light heart; be stoked like a mother at the knowledge that your fury burned bright and loud but nobody got hurt and everyone is poison-free, to boot.]

This fifteen-part-plan is henceforward known as a Plate Party. I think I’ll be throwing myself one real soon. A couple of other people have already said they’ll join me.

 
|| March 16, 2011 || 3:45 am || Comments (13) ||

“I wanted to do the music proud.” // Joan Jett

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I stood there and looked at it through the window. Only two other places in town had bars over their glass: The jailhouse and the funeral home. The thick iron grates here at the guitar shop, however, were the most imposing of the three. Bowie (named for the knife, not the androgynous rock star) had a lot more to lose than either of the others.

I was squinting against the one o’clock sun, carefully considering the top of the wall and what was hanging there. Though I’d never been a shrinking violet, being a girl in a guitar store struck me as an entirely different animal. Well, at least until I could round up enough money to merit my walking in there and asking for the guitar to be pulled off the wall for me to ‘look at it with my fingers’.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Henry has always been one to step into my life when I was fucking up or just barely recovered from doing so. When I am a productive, shit-hot human being we are estranged. It’s the weirdest father-daughter relationship ever, I guess; we haven’t been in touch for a while now. I mean, there was the Christmas before last and everything; that had nothing to do with the disarray of my life, but rather the disarray of his. He and his wife of twenty-something years –who, cutely enough, was also twenty-something years younger than him– were splitting and he imagined me to be a sucker thirteen-year-old rather than a perceptive thirtysomething-year-old.

That particular conversation was cool because every time Henry would lie to me I would say something akin to, “That’s not the truth.” I felt a sense of calm that I had never previously felt when communicating with him.

Digression, regression, aggression, bullshit.

Henry was in my life. I’d just finished fucking up really good and was hemorrhaging dignity when he did me a couple solids that were the emotional equivalent of hauling me up by my blouse, slapping a kevlar on my head and telling me in no-uncertains to keep my ass out of the dirt and on the trail where it damn well belonged.

Hallelujah for the Saviours of this world, even if on the three-hundred and sixty-four other days of the year they are balls-deep in random, big-titted bottle blondes.

(To hear him say as his marriage dissolved that if he’d known where he would end up, then he would have tried a little harder with my mother was The Straw. THE Straw. “Don’t tell me that shit, Henry. Don’t say things like that to me. It invalidates all the suffering we did –crying for you, going hungry because we only got one meal a day, fear, marginalization– as a result of your whoring. Your choices were your choices, and I’ve gotten to a place where I have made peace with that. I can’t for one second pretend like those things didn’t happen, though, because they inform who I’ve become in such an important way. To so easily say that you’d fix the suffering we did then if you had known the suffering you would do later is the most chickenshit thing I’ve ever heard. It’s infuriating that you feel you could have fixed things if you had only tried but you chose to quit anyway and, as a result, you left us swinging in the gap between you and mother while she was clawing for purchase and trying to drag us back to safety at the same time.”)

Henry was back in my life. I was twenty-four. I usually wore no eye makeup and my lips were the color of darkly-bruised berries: There was no mistaking which cigarette butts were mine.

‘Back in my life’ consisted of three weekly phone calls and the occasional card. Corny jokes and cards go hand in hand, did you know? If Henry loves nothing else, he loves a confidently-delivered corny joke. All of my father’s girls have wincing down to an art, as well as those sidelong ‘here we go!’ glances we shoot around chairs and walls and stray hairs when Henry is gearing up for a particularly groan-worthy pun.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Dear Henry,
You taught me how to spell ‘Wednesday’ correctly (“Say this, Elizabeth….say “Wed. Ness. Day.”) and you gave me a wealth of material to write about. I can think of lots of fathers who have done less for their girls.
Love,
Jett

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Do you remember? Do you remember that to this day the reason you think that FedEx envelopes are ugly is because for a span of years they came, overly-formal (why the fuck are you too good for regular old letter mail, Henry and Henry’s legal representatives??) and stuffed with edicts more times than you can attach an exact number to?

You knew that FedEx would have a surprise this time, because he told you so. He felt just superior enough to you and just satisfied enough with you to give you some fiduciary comfort and encouragement. You had learned to take it where he was willing to loose it and not expect anything else, because the ensuing post-expectation meltdown wasn’t fair to either of you.

In the cardboard sleeve was a smallish envelope. In the envelope was a check that you didn’t even look at. You held the envelope perpendicular to the palm of your hand, curling its edges slightly. You liked the crispness of it in your hand and the knowing of it in your brain. You stepped out of the car, gravel crunching under your boot, your skirt hem bouncing lazily against the backs of your thighs.

Bowie was the perfect blend of gruff and professional. The three other males there were startled to have estrogen in their midst. You pointed, Bowie retrieved, you laid a hand on the body and closed your eyes, you paid without bothering to play the damn thing. You walked out of the door feeling like you had owned that case and its contents for a hundred years because it was good there in your grip, and familiar.

It was April the first. The fool had turned twenty-five. The night before, in the waning throes of twenty-four, she had slipped off black Docs and slid out of a green dress and told the world that things were gonna be different.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Of course, bar. Of course, guitar. Of course, throwing up before going on because who the fuck plays sober?

Look! It has boobs! It wants to make music for us!

Look.

Look.

My playing is weak, but my voice has always been strong. Mother wrote in my baby book “Cannot carry a tune in a bucket,” when I was eighteen months old. It wasn’t long after that and I was carrying a tune in my back pocket, wearing one like a necklace, balancing one on my head. The voice had a two-decade lead on the hands.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

He approaches me. He wants to write songs together. I tell him I will think about it, but I have already made up my mind, because he has already offered suggestions for tweaks and he didn’t look at my boobs one time the whole time we conversed.

My voice is strong, but my songs are stuck in ‘A’. We write some that aren’t. We sit down one night on opposite corners of the bed, a four-track recorder between us and trap enough material for an EP in there. There is chatter about mushroom pizza after the first song. Other than that, the only words on that tape are ones I wrote.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

One week, then half of another. I walk into the music store –mine this time, the one where I am Princess of the Racks, deliverer of obscure bands, finder of songs based on five words of lyric and a desire to not be shown up by an old person’s “You’ve probably never even heard of him, but….” or a young sophist’s “I bet you don’t know anything about prog rock…”; every answer hastily given is a sweet little ‘Ohfuckyou’, a snotty triumph reasonably delivered– I locomote all the way to the back, pull the bolt on the heavy storeroom door and step out onto the concrete, propping one boot on the wall and firing up a cigarette.

It’s three o’clock. The store is starting to get busy. I have a jacket tied around my waist. I clock in at the front, step down around the counter like I am a customer. Christie is glad to see me. She always is, even though we sometimes make one another furious. Partly this is because we are both newly clean for the second time and neither of us has a lot of  ‘chill the fuck out’ to spare, so we save most of it for customers and traffic cops. Partly it is because I challenge her without meaning to and she’s insecure without realizing it.

We are the only sane, intelligent people on staff (other than our boss, who is really just a dadlike presence to a mess of attractive twentysomethings that the home office pushes him to hire) and it’s nice on the days we get to work with one another.

“I have something for you to listen to later,” I say to her. I reach down into the pocket floating in the vicinity of my right thigh and place the tape up on the counter.

“No time like the present!” She moves toward the tape deck, stopping the ceedee that is playing. Silence in a music store always garners strange looks from shoppers.

Then there is my voice, then there is Christie hissing, “Holy shit, it’s you!” By the end of the first verse I have joined her behind the counter and she has placed her hand on her chest and this, THIS is how I know I’ve nailed it, I’ve hit that fucker out of the park: By the second chorus Christie Who Is Made Of Absolute Stone has tears dropping past her lower lids.

Triumph ricochets around my head.

Two guys approach, “Who is this?” Christie’s hand, which is still pressed against her breastplate, curls into a pointing thing directed at me where I am now standing alongside her, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. I am too dorked to say anything.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

The last verse was short and to the point:

“Before the winter of discontent / Blows around the fall / Dressing windows for all the world / Is killing us one and all”

…and for as much has changed in my world since I last sang those lines, the world at large has changed dynamically, leapfrogging over itself, keyrings and spare nickels being flung everywhere. To my great surprise, those four lines remain surprisingly true and elegant.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Inspiration,  memory-stirring, blame for this post all lie here:

 
|| August 17, 2010 || 9:50 am || Comments (12) ||

In the course of the last week, I’ve been informed that my husband and all his employees have a good chance of losing their jobs  in January.

In the course of the last week, I’ve been informed that my best friend in this world and her partner are likely moving just shy of four hours away from me. This, too, in January.

The last week can go fuck itself. As I am a cautious optimist (or an optimistic realist, whatever), the jury is still out on January. I hate to jump the gun and all.

 
|| July 25, 2010 || 12:18 am || Comments (2) ||

Confessions about this video:

! I would like, in the case of my demise,  this played on a loop somewhere in the funeral home. Yes, you read me right….fuck that typical gooey, sentimental photo montage of things like the Bad Shmullet Phase and The First Oreo To Have Obliterated Itself Against My Facemeat. Oh, and the visit to that unfortunate town where someone took those unfortunate photos in that unfortunate hotel. Whoops!

It’d be like I was Rickrolling everyone who showed up, but with the Sesame Street cast.

!! Bonus on the above if my demise (most probably untimely) was somehow alcohol-related, me being sent home to Jesus with tequila on my breath and this song on my lips. This has to be a winner as a drunksong. I mean, COME ON!

When I find I can’t remember
What comes after
“A” and before “C,”

Doesn’t that scream, ‘Welcome to my big drunk-drunkety drunkation of drunktacity. Please be seated and witness the gol-danged show, bitches!’ to you too?

!!! In the second verse, I always sing ‘big’ and ‘bad’ instead of ‘big’ and ‘bird’ because I maybe believe you have to speak your place into this world and then step into it. I gotta get back to you on this one.

!!!! I should be more careful about looking too hard at these lyrics. Some of them are somewhat creepy if you take even a moment to consider them:

Letter B, letter B, letter B, letter B.
My mother whispers “B” words,
Letter B.

Letter B, letter B, letter B, letter B.
My mother whispers “B” words,
Letter B.

In fact, upon further review, the third line to the second verse (‘Ball’ and ‘bat’ and ‘battery’)  looks like a masochist’s wet dream.

!!!!! Big Bird really gives me the heebs, sweet Muffinasses. Maybe that’s a wee part of the reason that I won’t sing ‘big’ and ‘bird’ . Well, that and just the act of singing ‘big’ and ‘bad’ (but not like that….when you sing it, you have to be all ‘big and bad’, one solid phrase) makes you feel a little more big and bad than you did before. Lord knows I’m all about empowerment.

 
|| December 7, 2000 || 7:42 am || Comments (0) ||

I swear to GOD, if I am forced to listen to another Third Eye Blind song, I will put somebody’s eyes out with a white-hot fork. Who in the fuck KEEPS BUYING THEIR SHIT MUSIC! Stop propagating and perpetuating it, you ignorant schmucks!

So I am listening to a local station early this morning and they have a group of little girls on singing Christmas carols. They are representing their church’s ministry. The pastor comes on and is touching a bit on their charitable programs and activities going on now and in the near future. ///can I remind you here that this man and these little girls were oh-so-obviously invited guests on this program??\\\ The ‘head’ DJ in this morning show team of 3 replies with, “Wow, sounds like you have a lotta stuff going on, which is kinda good, I guess, since this is you guys’ big one. (meaning the holiday with regardd to the Christian church, if you missed that)” in a tone that was so ripe with sarcasm that the radio might have exploded with it had I laid a finger on any of the buttons.

YOU FUCK. –that was the first thought that hit my head, closely followed by, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK. Then the thoughts came streaming in so fast that they crashed all over one another and became just so much heated fury.

These were invited guests on that show and they weren’t pimping some self-serving shit. This cat was BLATANTLY disrespectful, zinging this minister for no good reason. What kind of example was that for those little girls?

Uhhh, pardon me, WHY don’t kids have any respect for authority anymore? Damnit.

And hello, my insomnia is back. Five hours two nights ago, 3 night before last, 1 and a third last night. I am ready to squeeze some people’s heads like zits. Wanna volunteer?

Oh yeah…remind me again why I stopped using blow?

 
|| 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.