A Random Image

Posts Tagged ‘somebody save me from myself please’

|| June 19, 2013 || 9:22 pm || Comments (3) ||

You know, for some years now I’ve been trying to ‘get a hold of myself,’ to be even and mild and measured.
I’m thinking that I’ve put in a lot of work that was antithetical to who I’m supposed to be.
I don’t want to be gentle and quiet as a rule.
I want to roar, both in my laughter and my rage.
Supplanting that roar with a Mona Lisa mouth makes me feel all odd angles and unsatisfactory leanings.

I can whisper when I’m dead.
And if I can’t, I won’t know the dang difference anyway.

Tell me about your misplaced work, sugar. I miss your voice.

Cockroaches: Every last thing about them conjures up the most profound grossed-outness that I can humanly muster. Where I’m from, cockroaches signify that you are Nasty and not in that fun-sexy way the kids all dream about. Cockroaches signify that you are white trash, and not only are you white trash, you are white trash, you diseased-vermin-having motherfucker.

So, you know, I have a huge aversion to them. I wouldn’t say I’m terrified, but I could say with a good deal of surety that more than five of them gathered together in one spot would drive me right up to the ledge of Seriously Skeeved In A Way That Might Make Me Irrational.

Where, you know, ‘Irrational’='blowtorching a twenty-foot surface area’. Okay. Now you’re clear on my stance toward cockroaches.

When my boots hauled me out of the South, I ended up bobbing in the Pacific on this hunk of lava that many people believe to be some form of Paradise. Okay, overrated, but whatever. My time in Hawaii was weird. Not your standard operational weird, but the kind of weird that makes you believe that maybe everyone has a ‘Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas’ experience under their belt, just stretched out over several months, all skewed landscape and protracted pace instead of crammed into a jaunty weekend journalism expedition.

I’ve had a couple, but we are talking cockroaches here so I’m stuck with Hawaii for this story. Did you know that there are Big Mystery Bases in the pineapple fields? Well, one for sure (I’m surmising the rest). And I don’t know if it’s such a mystery anymore? My friend from work, a Navy wife, invited me home with her one day and I’ll be damn: We drove off into a sunset of pineapple stalks and arrived at the heavily-manned gates of a tiny military installation that I’d no clue existed until that moment.

While I was slipping my military ID out of my wallet, I asked her quietly, Your husband’s MOS?

Oh, computers and stuff, she said glibly. ‘Computers’ wasn’t really a throw-away word yet in 1990, you know? It was still very weighted with science fictiony overtones.

Right, cockroaches: One night I was watching television with my first husband (third time’s a charm). I’d been putting things back for my first home since I was a little girl, and by the time I was a senior in high school I had what I needed to modestly equip a house. I went into that marriage ready in ways that most people aren’t; I had already put the work in to make myself a standalone model, no relationship or kickstand required.

As a result, I had no obligations toward the frenzied buying of things like spatulas and rugs, so I was able to push some decent money toward a really fucking good console teevee.

Thus me lying in the floor on my belly, elbows crooked and hands propping head, watching I-don’t-even-know-what.

I just remembered part of the reason cockroaches skeeve me so: Their incredible speed. Their nervous system may be underdeveloped compared to your basic biped, but a cockroach can get the jump on a human every fucking time. Their speed is creepy. Their unapologetic will toward survival is disturbing.

I wonder if God ever thinks this way about us?: Their unapologetic will toward survival is so disturbing, so downright creepy. Reason number 10,428 that I could never be God. Humans are pretty dang creepy, film at eleven.

On my belly, one ankle kicked up in the air, foot at the end of it lolling in lazy circles. My eye catches it, my brain is slow to register it, and before I can even figure out what I’m freaked out by, my body has already coiled, leapt to its feet, and offended the air with a shriek. The cockroach whose carpet-scurrying had sent me flying in the opposite direction was approximately an inch long.

Which, you know, was what I knew of as a Bigun up until my residence in Hawaii.

I immediately became militant about bombing the shit out of our domicile, which was on the seventeenth floor of a forty-four story apartment building. Having never been an apartment dweller before, I had no understanding that such an endeavor was futile and that, unless you get everyone in the building to have a go at the Raid all at once, we were doomed to cohabit with roaches forever and ever amen. I also had no logic to tell me that I lived in a tropical locale whose mild climate and propensity toward moisture was not only Paradise for spoiled white folk and obnoxious Japanese tourists (yes. there are obnoxious Japanese. I was startled, too), but for your basic Periplaneta americana, as well.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m fancy. I had to look up that clever little snippet of Latin. I can’t believe how pretty the Official Scientific Name for cockroach is. Just look at that, would you? Periplaneta americana. That shit looks like whatever it’s naming represents pure possibility, dunnit?

Oh, cockroaches. I guess if you wore a bag on your head, you would live up to your fancypants name. In theory, you are possibility: You survive no matter what. I hold fast to my theory of thirty years that if we were to suffer a nuclear holocaust that you and Tupperware and Twinkies (preservatives) would survive. Let’s hope I never get to say “I TOLD YOU SO!!1!” on that one.

Anyway, I hadn’t the climate and dwelling logics to tell me that I needed to just get over myself where roaches were concerned. I was convinced that our immaculate new dwelling was somehow Nasty and that I needed to stage Cockroashima. The first bombing kept them away for three days, then they were right back to startling me when I opened the cabinets to reach for my cornflakes.

The second bombing bought us twenty-four hours. We started to catch on a little that they were just packing it in and moving to the neighbor’s until the air cleared. While I was fumigating a third time, a pretty Chinese girl laughed at me and my efforts. I had been bemoaning our situation over coffee at work.

“OH, you don’t get it, do you? In Hawaii EVERYbody has cockroaches. The clean people have the little ones”
(here she held her finger and thumb an inch apart)
“and the Nasty people have these ones,” whereupon she indicated a critter of about four inches.

It was then that I knew I’d never, never be home in Hawaii. Not ever. I was right. I appreciated my time there, but when friends from back home sent me missives about how lucky I was to be where I was, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t try to explain because I knew they’d not get it. Even Paradise is not without its troubles.

|| May 31, 2012 || 1:14 am || Comments (27) ||

Sometimes I wake up and I think, “I don’t know who the fuck I am.”

That is what age and wisdom does to you. The more you discover yourself, the less you know who you are. The trick is to get comfortable with being off-kilter most of the fucking time, standing ready in the rocking shift of consciousness. You get to pick from “I am enlightened and tickled about it,” or “I am a nervous fucking wreck.” Some days you’ll swing from one to the other like a big ole meat pendulum, you with your smirking mouth and your weak ankles. But you have a strong back and your bowels work, so there’s that to make up for the other.

Back to this waking up business: You wake up every morning and there is a certain amount of magic and science you expect to be on your side. Most of us are lucky enough that it is a fair deal of the time.

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

Apparently I have gotten far too comfortable in my life, is what the universe is trying to tell me today, All You Folk.

I don’t know a lot of things. Wait, scratch that. Yes the fuck I do. I know a metric ton of stuff.  One of the things I know is that I’m very self-aware (metaMetaMETA!), and I have a good grip on my strengths and weaknesses. Mostimes I am just as liable to tell you the ways in which I’m a sore fuckup as the ways in which I am strong and capable. I try not to make excuses for myself, especially if I’ve engaged in poor behavior. If I can be proud of the good things in my life, I can own the shabby ones, too. I try not to luxuriate in the one or self-flagellate with the other. These are all just things. There are happies and there are sads and graces and contemptuousnesses and all of the other point-counterpoint that life weaves through you. You enjoy the one, you motor through the other. You take a knee where it’s called for and you  jump around like a fool where it’s appropriate (and, if you’re like me, sometimes where it’s not).

I like to be in the moment, to wring everything I can out of it. It’s simple, really.

Another thing I know is that your secrets are the very things that will kneecap you and make you worthless. The tighter you hug them to yourself, your burdens, the colder and heavier and more unrelenting they become. They will drag you down without compromise. Some people will tell you to keep your game face on, to always telegraph surety and success.  They want you to believe right alongside them that you should never leave your neck exposed, even if it means sacrificing the act of turning your head, craning it for all it’s worth, to look at something amazing like a baby’s laughing mouth or a pretty, unselfconscious woman. You know, things worth exposing your soft meat for.

I can do stoic like nobody’s business. I learned from some of the best. I’m not convinced it’s the best way to live, though.

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

I have been sitting here all day fretting. I’m not supposed to tell you that. I was raised by a mother who took on as our family motto the phrase, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” I see where she was going with that, and it was a well-intentioned route, one that encouraged us –my sister and me– to be proactive and not wallow and not have a sense of entitlement. She wanted it to be clear that we were to do our part in our destinies, whatever those may in fact be.

But you know, over the last couple of years I’ve been thinking, and those thinks tell me that “If it is to be, it is up to me” is just a titch arrogant, and inadvertently prideful. It implies that I can do it all on my lonesome….or worse, it implies that I should do it all on my lonesome. So my father actively drilled superiority into our heads while my mom passively did so, even as she touted the good virtue of humility in our hearts. That’s startling. (It also makes me think: “How many didn’t-mean-tos am I responsible for where my own bairns are concerned?” We are all so well-meaning, aren’t we?) If there’s one thing I know about myself it’s that I need a tribe. I’m not especially co-dependent, but I am hugely loving and tribesmen bring the lulz and sometimes buy the beer and they let you hug them. Most of them hug back. My tribe doesn’t need to be huge. It just needs to be mine.

I am a tough motherfucker. I can take a shot to the head, no sweat. Depending on who you are, I may taunt you for another (I’m off-kilter but I ain’t dumb) . I can take a verbal bludgeoning and laugh and shake it off later via elaborate voodoo rituals on your person
by knifing your tires

with a rowdy game of darts and your picture
leaving it be. This is not to say that I don’t believe in being vulnerable, however. I do. I just need to correct myself in the error of thinking that I should have absolute control over where and when I’m vulnerable. I mean, I don’t advocate walking around being a slobbering mess, but what’s the harm of showing armor chinks? I’m sure as shit not afraid of someone seeing me beat my spear on my shield. Truth be told, I don’t even need a spear OR a shield: I have a fearsome haka, just ask anyone who’s seen it.

Hell, ask my husband. I love him the most fiercely of all, and he has seen my most brutal parts and all the weapons that I brandish outwardly, only to turn them inward on myself.

Now then, there is something that the guys with the no-vulnerability mindset and I agree on: Faking it until you make it; I believe in a certain degree of that for sure. I don’t believe in lying. I do believe in saying, “Fuck yeah I can do that,” partly for the other guy in the room, but partly for yourself, too. You gotta hear yourself say that you can do something. You gotta hear those words. Then something in you is beholden to step into them and make them fit, see? Something in you is challenged, awakened, teased out. I believe in challenges, because I’m big on adventure. If you’re not an adventurer, then that’s fine. You can, for instance, believe in challenges because you are a glutton for punishment. Hahaha. (no really)


(I love you. We will get to the end. You can take a pee break or whatever and come back.)

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

A friend tells me that the air conditioning in his house has broken again, almost as an aside in another conversation we are having. I know that when the air goes out he gets sick. I also know that his clients have been slow to pay. I pray for his air to work, both so that he can be well and so he doesn’t have to lay out any more money on that damn unit. He doesn’t know that I am praying. I pray for his wife, who must surely worry and fret over him when he is sick, even though she may not actively show him her worry so as not to cause him any strain. I know this dance; I am a wife.

I pray for life to be less mean for you.
I pray for the doctors to find out what’s going on in your physiological self so that it will stop being an albatross on your spiritual self.
I pray for you to find a job.
I pray that you don’t have to make the shitty choice between medication and shelter, between living and L!I!V!I!N!G!
I pray for those little shitbirds at school to stop bullying your sweet kid.
I pray for you even though you mock people like me, people who pray and believe that it works.
I pray for peace and understanding between you and your family, for them to accept and love, for you to forgive hurts, for unification and joy and laughter around a laden table.
I pray for you to stop being scared of the world, and for it in turn to reward and be good to you.
I pray for your beautiful son, locked in a different self, and for you, because the way you parent him is so big and so lovely and so perfect that you could never, ever fail.
I pray for you to stop believing that lying thing inside you that says you are not enough.
I pray for your trust, your openness, and your ability to receive those things from others in return.
I pray for understanding between us.
….and so on.

I’m pretty bad at asking God for things for myself. I used to be pretty bad at asking a few select people to pray for me, over me,  but I’ve gotten better at that. There have been a handful of people praying for me and my family about a specific thing for about a week now.

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

Today I sat with myself, dragging myself from task to task until I just finally quit trying to focus on other things and sat frozen, petrified, unable to do anything but cry, even though I hate to cry and I believe that worry is unnecessary things like a) taxing and b) a flavor of abomination. Up and out, right? Crying is the emesis of the soul or some shit and today I just couldn’t quell the spiritual nausea and so I bawled like a tit on and off, using a corner of an old towel I’d torn up for rags as a kleenex.

That! Is how thrifty! And repurposeful! I have become! Behold my prowess! I will never ‘make my own toilet paper’, though. There are leaves and catalogs and corncobs left in the world, my Lord.

Then I reached out tentatively to some more people, willing myself to place in them the trust I know that they are worthy of, because they’ve never shown themselves to be full of anything other than integrity and goodwill. (some of them are full of beer, too: tribesmen)

I told them: There is a very strong chance that we may lose our house. I told them: I need every bit of Spirit you can muster my way. I told them: This is humiliating. This is infuriating. I am on the cusp, on the cusp, but there are still bricks to be shoved into place, and I’ve set enough of them that it makes no kind of sense to turn back. I told them: Maxim’s income has steadily declined. Worse, his morale has steadily declined as he’s had to slash away at the jobs of others. His nerves are taut and he has this stress tic where his jaw clenches and unclenches and I am furious at the state of this country for what it has done to the state of my husband, the state of many of its families. The pigs that stole away with all the lifeboats cannot so much as throw out the stray pair of arm floaties to the drowning masses they’ve helped to shipwreck.

Banks, you see, would rather a corpse be fished out of the drink than aid the able-bodied to survive and swim. They don’t hear you when you tell them, “Um. Ahem. I see rocks ahead,” and ask about preventative measures. They aren’t concerned with the fact that you have dwindled your modest but promising nest egg (YOU HAD NEVER BEEN ABLE TO SAVE BEFORE! IT WAS EXCITING TO SEE THOSE NUMBERS TICK GENTLY UPWARD!). They don’t give a shit that I love that studio up there, the one it took me so long to get. It doesn’t matter to the suits that my dining room is the heart of this house, and that so many amazing things have happened in there. They would just blink at me if I told them how this big ole ambly thing was a literal garbage dump when we found it and although it’s not the Taj Mahal yet, we do a little at a time as we can and everyone but everyone without fail remarks on the easy sense of peace  they pick up on when they come into this place. I’m not the only one, you see, with a story like this. They probably don’t even hear the words anymore.

It’s only been a few days since I’ve known the full gravity of our situation and something in me is insistent that I cannot allow it to mow me under. If I keep it a secret, it will.

….and so now I’ve told you, too. I need rooting-for. I need LOUD, SPIRIT-FILLED, YODELING-TRIBE HOLLERING AND STOMPING ON MY BEHAAAAAALLLLF!

Freedom. I am speaking freedom over myself, whatever it turns out to look like. It may have different square footage or even be in a different town, another state altogether. It may be right here where I will bounce fat-cheeked grandbabes on my lap (“this is the way the farmer rides, hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy”) someday. Whatever. However. I’m asking for you to speak freedom over me, as well. I trust you. I trust you over there with your integrity and your goodwill and your hoping heart inside your rowdy chest.

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

In the last few weeks I have been communicating with someone in a deep and meaningful way. We’ve been pondering on the nature of our respective beliefs and how it’s hard sometimes to be what we are in a world that either misunderstands us or perceives us to be something that we are not; they do so based on a mess of ignorant zealots who act like they don’t know anydamnbetter. We have been awkward and vulnerable and funny with one another. We have been mortifyingly honest, broken, excited to be in the company of someone of the same ilk: “Hi. I’m the fuckup who is here to love you.”

I have never written a truer or more naked assessment of myself: “Hi. I am the fuckup who is here to love you.” See what happens?

Anyway, I shakingly asked for prayers. I got a message back saying, “well. it isn’t a coincidence that I was listening to this when I got your message:”

And no. No it wasn’t. Because that freedom paragraph up there? I’d written it a couple hours before I reached for a hand.

‘Only chain a man can stand / Is that chain of hand in hand /Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on’

|| August 12, 2010 || 12:18 pm || Comments (7) ||

So Tess and I set off to go to the Million-Mile Yardsale this past weekend. It’s not really a million miles long (I don’t think? Wait. Is it?), but it’s just more fun to say ‘Million-Mile Yardsale’ than ‘World’s Longest Yardsale‘. Not only does it sound more adventurous, but the former just flows a little better than the latter.  There were some twists and turns and off-track moments –as there always are when the two of us head out adventuring together– before we finally hammered down onto the trail and Made Shit Happen. Once we reached that point, though, we found ourselves miles and miles from civilization, swooping around the winding turns of curvaceous and lovely Lookout Mountain. The sale stops on the mountain portion of the trail were few and far between, but we’d find large clusters of folk hunkered down in spacious yards. Think pig roast. Think family reunion. Think flea market. Now throw all these thoughts in a Mason Jar and shake the shit out of them, jumble them up real good. Serve them over a bed of hundred-and-five degree humidity. The result sort of touches on what was going on.

At one stop we found no menfolk, only a passel of women huddled under a metal carport. There were about five older women (early fifties, perhaps?) a couple of younger twentysomethings and a girl of about twelve. They greeted us warmly and immediately enveloped us in conversation. It was clear from their appearance that they were Holiness Church, which is not uncommon either on our mountain or the one on which we happened to be wandering. I’ve found an illustration for those of you not familiar with the why of how we were able to immediately peg these laydehs as those of the Holiness persuasion.

:: holiness laydehs, a representative example for educational purposes only ::

Except, this illustration isn’t exact. The Holiness Laydehs we encountered that day looked 42% more matronly, 18% less colorful and 23% more dowdy than these do, as is typical for our region. But, to the plus side, they were every bit as sweet and pleasant as these laydehs appear to be, only with poofier hair. That’s another thing: Where their hair is concerned, Holiness women in these parts tend to have eighties bangs, a poof factor of seven or a combination thereof. It’s a complex and exact science, this hair, but I’m hesitant to explore its nuances further for fear that I might find myself  in a tea length dress with a sailor collar, forsaking my collection of lipsticks.

I would also miss my collection of tequila.

We browsed around, engaged with the group, talking merrily. Tess started having a spastic reaction to the fact that she found a pair of purple platform stilettos in a bin. They were pristine, these heels, showing no signs whatsoever of having been worn.

“These are a dollar! They’re my size!” Dance-dance-dance, squee-squee-squee. The incongruity of finding a pair of bright purple stripper heels in the middle of a half-dozen extremely conservative old-school women was not lost on us, but it wasn’t a huge surprise, either. We specialize in the incongruous, in the inexplicable and unlikely.  The laydehs were tickled at her delight, clapping and encouraging her to purchase something that they’d never in a million years wear themselves. We continued conversing and turned to the subject of our earlier difficulty in finding the trail head out of Chattanooga;  they assured Tess and me that we weren’t the only people that had problems with the directions that were posted on the internet. In fact, about eighty percent of their customers had.

Now, at times I express frustration with physicality. This used to mean a good face- or wall-punching, but I’ve upgraded to the class of anger that just means I go all flaily sometimes when I’m peeved about something whose ridiculousness can’t be encapsulated in words. Having healthy dollops of Irish and Italian running around in my veins doesn’t help this, either. I’m predisposed to gestures, you see.  So I started being flaily and Tess started getting tickled at me and of course flailing sometimes unlocks my verbiage so before you know it I was saying, “Well, that website sure didn’t know what the hell it was talking about…..”

Then I heard the screech of brakes in my brain and saw Tess stiffen ever so slightly.

WELL, JUST GREAT. I’ve let a swear word slip, totally betraying my polite raising. I’m obnoxious, but pretty respectful overall, and  I know how cusses –especially from females– are like a slap in the face in the Holiness community. And also there is the issue that,  while  it was only ‘hell’, my tongue is a  wily dipped-in-cusses thing and something like ‘Jesus, FUCK!’ is likely to come down the chute at any second and with no notice whatsoever. One can only imagine how such a monumental swear, said in the presence of  seven genteel, buttery-sweet Holiness Laydehs (and one twelve-year-old Holiness Laydeh in training)  might be received and/or dealt with.

(reader: please put on your swirly hat of vivid imagination; fire it up and let it go to work for the duration of this conversation)

“Dear, it is not nice to say ‘Jesus, FUCK!’ in polite company. Or in crass company, for that matter. Please accompany us to the backyard, where we will serve you warm cookies. Then we will shove you into the Specially Anointed Hole that we’ve dug for all Heatherns. Mkay?”

“What kind of cookies, ma’am?”

“Chocolate chip. With walnuts.”

“Well then: Mkay.” I’m not getting lured into any heathen-hole by something with raisins in it, der.

(you may now remove swirly hat of vivid imagination)

Two days later, it occurred to me how such incongruous shoes came to be in such self-consciously conservative hands. We were at the office when I shared my theory with Tess.

“Hey Tessa Rae, I reckon I know how those ladies came by those shoes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“What happened, see, is that some sixteen-year-old girl went shoe shopping without her momma in tow. Truckin’ down the mountain into the biggish city and all that.” Here Tess nodded and half-grinned, getting the gist of where I was heading with this.

“She wags home purple stripper heels, her doe eyes all starry, imagining how damn fancy and fine she looks in them. She dances them out for her momma, who inhales in the sharp, jangly way one does when their sensibilities have been backhanded with a fair deal of force. Momma’s face turns a shade that is complimentary to the offending shoes; she promptly forbids them.”

Tessa swept right in. “And those dang shoes go straight into the yardsale pile, to be snapped up by a Lesser Being at a later date.”

“Exactly right. Because if those shoes go back to the store? And the money goes back into pocketbook like nothing ever happened? Then what lesson will’ve been learned?”

We nodded sagely, agreeing with one another and with what must surely be the only scenario to a pair of brand-new, pristine-soled purple stripper pumps being procured for a buck from seven Holiness ladies high atop Mount Middle Of Nowhere.

There are a couple of morals to this story. One is that we may often get lost, but in the process of doing so we make great finds. Another is that Tess might just be a Lesser Being, but she’s the Lesser Being with amazing legs that end in fabulous, bargain-priced purple shoes.

|| July 28, 2010 || 4:33 pm || Comments (9) ||

Scout called me from Chicago last night. She was there on a layover, headed to Detroit for her grandfather’s funeral. I was wandering around Birmingham with Mathias after having dropped her at the airport earlier in the day. Our shopping errands were long done.

“I miss Sam. Do you miss Sam?”

I asked her this question because I am afraid to ask Mathias. I don’t want him to fall apart, not yet. To further that end, I have been doing my own falling-apart quietly, quickly; yesterday this was done in bathrooms around the city. The one at Target was a little more epic than the others, but not by much. That particular come-apart was exacerbated by the fact that I was buying school supplies for Scouty and Mathias but none for Samuel. Then I hitched up my yoga pants, plastered on a smile  and said something along the lines of Holy God, mommy needs coffee…who wants to handle the Starbucks run? when I plowed out of the restroom.

Mother. He’s only been been gone nine hours and forty minutes.”

“You DO miss him, YOU DO! Not even I’m counting the hours!”

“Give me a break, Momma.”

“But do you miss him?”

“Not yet. Probably because I’m not there. It’ll be kind of hard when I get back. We shared the whole second floor, away from the rest of you guys.”

“I miss him.”

“Yeah. But you know what? The first forty-eight hours are the hardest. It’s going to be better.”

The house sat empty, because Maxim was working late and Scout was out of town. I kept Mathias in the city long past when it could have been considered practical. I wanted for there to be life at home, some sort of human racket, so the place wouldn’t feel so hollow when I got back. I wanted to be exhausted, in order to prevent any impulse  to rattle around and run into reminders of Sam at every turn, to see his shirts hanging in the laundry room, to find the stack of borrowed ceedees he’d placed on the table by the door.

A few hours ago I went up to his room to get empty hangers for the laundry and to put some of his clean things away. It was a bit of, ahem, a pit. “This is good,” I told Maxim, “I can choose to be annoyed with him rather than miss him. He kind of did me a favor, the little prick.”

One hour ago, Sam’s friend Jay came to get his car. Samuel is gifting him with it because Jay has it kind of rough and doesn’t have a car of his own. Sam is sometimes infuriatingly arrogant, but mostly he is good and generous and loving.

Ten minutes ago I got this text:

The drill instructor is taking my phone now. I love you, Mother. You’ll have my address soon.

I don’t know how to do this. How am I going to do this??

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



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 || 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.