Hehe.

The Slut-o-Meter. You put in a name and it comes up with a "slutty" number. I put in my real name (which I never use on the internet) and got something like "-559%". I put my name in and got a "17 %". When I put my "twin" sister's name in, it came back with a whopping "87.5%". Hehe. Funny.

Minor Update: paranoia.

Stuff

A green puppy. I wonder how long it will remain green. I like the name that the owners gave it...very fitting.

Oh, and now I know where to go if I ever really needed to get a plushie tampon. (Really. And toilet paper. You gotta click it to believe it!)

A New Thingy

At the left, if I've done it right. Yay for Weekly World News!

Convergence

Life is strange:

• When I walk around work, I have constantly touch metal surfaces, otherwise the static electric charge buils up so bad that when I should finally happen to touch a metal surface with my finger, the tip will go numb for several minutes. So my one of my coworkers laughs and says that I'm electric. Yesterday, right before quitting time, one of the lights flickered, and I joked that it was me. He laughed and said, "So, you think you have special powers, huh?" I laughed and replied, "If I could really do that, do you really think that there wouldn't be a power outage every week? Hell, every other day!" When I left, something had blown, and the parking garage was frighteningly dark. A few lights were on, one being directly above my car.
• At the bar, I ran into a guy that I hadn't seen for a few months, hadn't called, but no biggy. He came up to me, told me that he'd lost my number, and has a cell phone now, so I gave him my number again. Odd.
• My aunt gave me money to do with as I pleased. I can now get new glasses...and even more joyfully, get my fucking wisdom teeth removed. I'm estatic. I also can pay off my credit card. And I'll have enough left over after that to pay for another bridge for my front teeth and to cap the broken tooth I have. I might prepay for all dental work, just for the hell of it. Yay!
• I had a very odd dream. That will be in a different post, but damn, the dream was really odd. I think my mom visited me.

Hopefully this good luck will last.

A Funny

Let us go back to 1990, when a little Sporkeyette was precocious and juvenille, and was completely obsessed with They Might Be Giants:

Your Racist Friend
(Flood, 1990)

This is where the party ends
I can't stand here listening to you
And your racist friend
I know politics bore you
But I feel like a hypocrite talking to you
And your racist friend

It was the loveliest party that I've ever attended
If anything was broken I'm sure it could be mended
My head can't tolerate this bobbing and pretending
Listen to some bullet-head and the madness that he's saying

This is where the party ends
I'll just sit here wondering how you
Can stand by your racist friend
I know politics bore you
But I feel like a hypocrite talking to you
You and your racist friend

This is where the party ends
I can't stand here listening to you
And your racist friend
I know politics bore you
But I feel like a hypocrite talking to you
And your racist friend

Out from the kitchen to the bedroom to the hallway
Your friend apologizes, he could see it my way
He let the contents of the bottle do the thinking
Can't shake the devil's hand and say you're only kidding

This is where the party ends
I can't stand here listening to you
And your racist friend
I know politics bore you
But I feel like a hypocrite talking to you
And your racist friend

On Race

Or, Even If I Am White, Please Think Of Me As Black

I harbor no illusions that I may have an occasional racist thought. It takes effort and motivation to stop and think about that single thought, to wonder, to dissect the thought until I can get it out of my head, at least for the time being. When you grow up in the white world, it's all too easy for the many layers of racism to seep into your head. I'm not talking about the group of white people and there's a black person in the room kind of thing...I'm talking about when there's no black people around. Apparently, some white people can feel that they can say certain things because we're all white, don't 'cha know.

Whatever class privilages my color gives me, I would gladly spend a day talking with people about the honkies. Really. It's not a "Can't we all just get along?" kind of thing, it's a "Well, people are just people" kind of thing, and you know what? If you have to, in just about any conversation about people, have to use qualifiers like "Black" or "Mexican" or "Towelhead", you can just stuff it. Like a story about a rude person has to involve color...or a funny story about a person has to involve color. If it's not necessary to the narrative, then STOP. Rude people are everywhere, and I don't know about you, but I've encountered my fair share of rude white people, as well as rude people from other ethnicities. It has nothing to do with race. Rude people are just plain fucking rude. And no more towelhead shit either.

On the street, in the bar, well, I can take that little bit and just be annoyed for an evening. At work, however, I sit and boil, getting angrier that I have to work with one of those people, you know their kind, the people who blather about "Towelheads" and black people getting into car accidents (as if, in the history of the world, no white person was ever in an accident!), the kind that all look alike. Sadly, I look like one of those people. I wish I didn't. And I so wish my coworker would shut up. I'm afraid that one day I'm just going to start yelling at her. I've taken, in my head, just to go "Blah, blah, blah" whenever she speaks like that. It's not working very well.

This weekend's activity? Must apply for other jobs. Not that I'll avoid the blathering idiots, but hopefully I'll be in an office where there are enough kinds of people to discurage those people to start blathering, lest they get dragged into HR and get their ass fired.

Off to work now, thank god it's Friday!

Heh.

You are a Social Liberal (66% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (20% permissive) You are best described as a: Socialist Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Learning.

I learned tonight, that if I, with my fatty body and fat ass, cannot ever be held to same standard that thinner women and their smaller asses would ever be held to...

So apparently, having small tits and a small ass, coming from an ex-boyfriend, would actually be an excuse not to hit her. As long as she was attractive, he wouldn't kick her in the leg if she was spiritual...well, now I know what I did wrong. I just wasn't thin enough. Or had small ass/thigh/boobies thing going on. Ah, yes, my fault. My fault that I see through this bullshit. Either you love a woman, because you love her, or you're looking for the perfect 10. If you're looking for "perfect" without the phrase "perfect for you", you're wasting your time. Seriously.

I don't care whether guys are attracted to me or not. Just let me know. A "I'm not into you" is so much better than anything else...and I so wanted that. I even fucking asked ex, in fact, I said, "If you're not attracted to me sexually, then we can't go out. I just want to know." But did I get the truth? Oh, hell no. What the hell? I said it would be okay, but I wouldn't date him, we'd just be friends. Are there guys out there as terribly insecure as girls are? If there are, I would have no idea why......

Just a note.

Dear TypeKey:

Who is the retarded one? You or me? Becuase I can never sign into a typekey account, even though it admonishes me that I have to log out before logging in, and if I'm logged in, then why the hell can't I comment?

Pandagon, bitches, in Atrios fashion.

I used to visit there every once in a while, but when Amanda came on board, well, I check the damn thing every day. As a very long time lurker, and hideously infrequent commenter, I love the site. It's made me think through quite a few things in my life. That maybe I'm not so weird and paranoid as I thought I was. Good work! And any man who needles deserves Extreme Accupunture, probably soon to appear in a Weekly World News near you!

And yes, will be putting up the poliblog once I have some free time from the crap ass job and stuff.

Until then, keep firing, Assholes!

(It really all comes down to Spaceballs, for me at least. Hahahahaha.)

With outrage overload comes humor:

I forgot about a site that was rather funny. Since most of (I presume, by comments -- but any kind of people, if any reading this -- can prove me wrong!) the people who read this are female, I laughed for, like OMG, 20 mintues after I read this:

"OHMIGOD, like, Iron Hymen taught me to respect myself way too much to ever let some hairy creep hock man-lugies on my Godly cervix like it's some gross subway platform!"

If you ever vistited abstinance only sites, that one sentence pretty much sums it up.

I smirk at the abstinence only fools. Why? I didn't have sex until I was about 20, 21, and wasn't going to have sex until I met someone that I really cared about. If you think sex in any form is horribleicky and you can't refer to the relevant parts of your body as hymen, vulva, vagina, clitoris, uterus, fallopian tubes, or ovaries, you have a serious problem. If you have no idea what any of these structures of your body (if you are female, of course) are, then you need help (and maybe, if you're male, not a bad idea to know what they are). Seriously. There is a very, very small portion that really, really doesn't want to have sex. If you don't want to have sex at all, in any form, with anybody, and have absolutely no desire to, ask your doctor. Maybe it's medications...or it could be something else altogether. But if you have problems with the relevant terms for your body, you may need professional help. I've known a few people who in the past snickered at clinical terms for body parts, only to find out later that they suffered some kind of trauma...abuse or just shaming of those body parts.

I read The Vagina Monolouges. It wasn't earth-shattering to me. Apparently, it is to some women. But then again, I did grow up with a mom who made sure I knew the basics. However, I think it came from some "Not My Daughter" sense than anything else...like so many things, it was on the edge, never talked about, but hinted at...."a car, the neighbor....".

That is why I can enjoy the privelige of laughing at that site. Some women have to go through so much more that it's either not a joke or something so horrible and twisted that they can't get themselves out of. I want to take all of those women in such a protective hug and then swear and curse at those who dared do what they did, Bar Mouse style, that they think twice about who can and can't wear pants. Sometimes a verbal castration leaves marks that a physical one can't.

Can I be violent? Oh, yes. But since I was 10, I knew it wasn't healthy to take it out on people. And I won't. But that doesn't mean I won't get "stompin'" mad, or beat the hell out of the table to make my point. You may think agressiveness is reserved soley for men; sadly it's not. And I admire a guy on principle who will hit the table and not the nearest women (as long as he doesn't hit any woman, whatsoever). When drunk, that, for certain people (myself included) is restraint. The only time it gets bad is when I'm hurt.

I follow astrology in the sense that sometimes The Onion's astrologies are much more intuned to me than actual and serious astrologies. I find it more amusing than anything else. But oddly, I do identify with one thing: The Passion of Scorpio. Maybe it's true, maybe it's not. When I get angry, hoo-boy, watch out. But I'm a patient passive agressive; no, wait correct that -- I voice things that get no attention. A friend once told me that I had to be more secretive -- a guy who's been divorced 3, 4 times. I never once was secretive and I landed what I considered at that time to be good a guy. And he was. For awhile. But the thing is, I don't want to be that elusive secretive person. I am who I am, changes sometimes from one moment to the next.

Does ANYONE need secrecy above and beyond apparent mutiple personalities? I don't want to date a guy who can't live with all aspects of me. I'm not going to put on some fake show of "I'll be your bitch" -- I saw what that did for my cousin; I'm not that way and will never be, and if guys don't like the fact that I may bitch-slap them with anything, I don't care. Love me, like me, hate me....I don't care.

But I do care about those less fortunate than I. That includes a lot of people. There's someone in our great America going, "I was in New Orleans a month before this happened..."

I may not have been a resident of New York, but when you ask the person you were going to marry to take you to the one place in their hometown that they wanted to take the person that they were going to marry to, and it turned out to be the absolutely perfect place for them to take you to, and it happened to be in the month before the place ceased to exist, you too would feel really odd about it. And that was just NY. I'm sure that there were dozens who thought of that, about NOLA . I can identify a whole lot more with that person. But that doesn't mean that I can't imagine what it would be like to evacuate my segregated city facing diaster. I know what I would take and what I could live without. Renter's insurance is nice. Take only what I really need and value (some clothing, some pictures, and my 'puter, this decided after a fire my family went through). The rest is just stuff. Would I have packed as many people as I could have into my car? Hell yes. With preference for mom and babies. (Worked in a private day care, can amuse babies. And a hell of a lot better than working at my stressful job.)

What does this have to do about anything? I am tired of people waving flags and not really knowing what they're waving them for...or worse, they're waving them for a yankee guy who pretends he's a redneck from Texas. I'm tired of people who claim they know the bible, but apparently forgot all of those "Love thy neighbor", "pay Ceasar what is due Ceasar", "'tis harder for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle" passages from that liberal pinko Jesus and his liberal pinko book, the Bible.

I'd like to see Bush dropped in NOLA, right before the storm hit, no cash, no VP, no Rove to get him out, knowing that he'd get socked with winds and vertical rain and storm surges and levees overtopped and breaking. Dead bodies floating past, slamming into the Gulf. Would he still cry for the oil rigs? Would there still be the photo ops?

But given his mom, I almost think that recent issue of The Onion sums it up.

And you know what else? All I want to do, is go down to the shelters, with toys and books, and amuse children all day. Know why? Mom needs it. Really, she most likely does.

Think about that. Daycares in the Red Cross shelters. Woudn't that be something?

Outrage

What the fuck has happened to my country?

When the federal leaders blame the state and local officals for the poor response of a disaster that just about everyone, unless they lived on Mars, knew about, years in advance.

When said federal leaders blame officals who pleaded for fucking assistance since August 26? Apparently, states had applied for the State of Emergency status then. Oh, but the paperwork wasn't completed until Thursday after the fucking fucked up disaster. Does it not occur to a single person that the people who shoot at the rescue effort might not have had enough lithium or whathaveyou to see their mental illness through this tragedy? I mean, we're talking about a handful of people, most likely are mentally ill, judged ok to live in society, as long as they have their meds, and since it's mostly likely they don't, shooting at the black helicopters of injustice just makes sense. Not to mention that conditions there are so heartbreaking and vile that any person with an ounce of humanity (which does not include our psychopathic in chief) to crack like a ceadar board for a cheap rendition of a balsa wood airplane. We are dealing with the sad reality of "comapassionate conservitism" and "states rights" right now. This is our future...no help, or little help, from the federal governement because states are supposed to take it over.

Drown in your attics, motherfuckers. We don't care.

I'm sick of people apologizing for the failure of Bush. He's the first president since 1968 to cut funding so low for the maintence of the levees in NO that they couldn't fund the maintence. It's one thing to fund the flood prevention, another to fund the levee maintence. But that overshadows the whole of the Gulf coast. There are so many neighborhoods destroyed. There are so many people who are destroyed.

[Update: Deleted stupid petty rant. I can be a moron at times, especially writing while drunk and emotional.]

I honestly don't care if anyone on earth calls me insensitive anymore. Bush's world is a defeatist world, and only the cynics can survive. I thought, once, that I was that cynical. I can't be. I can't be that cynical when I read of a mother handing her child over to a complete stranger, not sure if she'll see her child again, but with the hope that her child lives...and then crying uncontrollably.

Fuck conservitism. Giving your child up to live is honest and true sacrifce, of the most hearbreaking kind. A few coins to Tim doesn't cover the lifelong devotions that his parents had. It'd be great if he walked again, but they still love him, working legs or no. They would give him up to the total stranger on the bus.

Bush doesn't understand it. You don't have to understand that to respect it, but he doesn't even respect that.

So many layers of wrong, I have outrage overload.

Blech

You think you got a stomach of iron?

I double dog dare you to click on this! Take that!

Muwhahahahaha.

Yet More Nuggets...

Apparently, I am now "bar family". It's nice to belong to something, but being family with the bar people? That's sooooo The Palace of Rock. But there I was, sitting with the owner, and he called me "family". And I got free shots. Now, I have bartenders who get me stools and ashtrays. Oddly enough, after I told them that I am no longer Mr AssHat's "girlfriend". Now I'm a celebrity. They always knew that I paid for the beer. I'm obnoxious occasionally.

But it still hurts.

"Girlfriend". Why did he have such trouble introuducing me as that? It was obvious to his friends, as well as complete strangers. Was I an embarassment? Did he not like me enough? What the hell? Once, he said, it was because he didn't feel we were boyfriend/girlfriend...because we weren't living together. Um, you can still be dating someone, not live with them, and refer to them as your girlfriend. What? Did he think his chances of getting chicks were worse by telling people that he had a "girlfriend"? God, that so annoyed me. Are we not dating? Or what? What do you think it was that we did? Just a distraction? Me, in quotes? Since he wasn't fucking me as often as I wanted, he wasn't a "fuck buddy" or "booty call". Both tems imply that the nasty is going on, on a regular basis, which it clearly was not. So then what was I? Thanks, I think, for eroding my self-esteem to that of a scone. That, if someone beat him over the head with it, he would concede that we were, at least, dating. Well, I'm so sorry I disappointed you. But you know what? That's why you don't get chicks. There's ownership, which is wrong, and then there's honesty, which isn't. Sorry that your definition of "dating" and "girlfriend" are so out of the norm of things that I couldn't possibly live up to that.

And if you ever try to kiss one of my friends again, I will kill you. It not only embarasses me, it embarasses them, and especially so if they're a lesbian. Maybe you're the Maxim guy who thinks that if you follow the tips, you'll score with a lesbian, and therefore will have more points than the other guys. To actual real women, you will be seen as mysigonist. Which, I really think, you are. The girl who left you because a guy convinced her that she was a vampire because he bit her neck? And that you're mad at him and not her as well? What? Do you honestly think we're all that STUPID?

Go on and search for your cow-like girlfriend. You'll be forty before you find the perfect 18 year old, and she grew up Christian conservitive upon that, thereby giving you full reign for whatever "naughtiness" your feebled mind could come up with.

What the fuck did you think I was? I mean that, and I want an answer. What the fuck did you think I was?

Just because I'm at a bar, and I'm "bar family" doesn't make me a drunkard or easily-taken-advantage-of whore. I've got brains. Those are only for the Zombie overlords, and if you're not anywhere near their calibre, then you treat me like a human being, and I know that you have trouble with that. Becuase unless they're you, no one is human. And then you're no better than the zealots.

What, for the love of god, did you expect?

More Nuggets

I did not realize, until that last post, just how much I hated Mr AssHat....

I messaged a friend, practically in tears, over how much I really resented him. I know that the last fight we had was over whether he wanted the "cow-like" girlfriend (hat tip to the angry lesbian over that phrase) he wanted. Because he wants adoring, not mindful. Really, he does. The whole way he shies from the truth about his past, plus his insistance at keeping his distance on conversations really leads me to believe that.

Think about it.

He can't contribute to the conversation, so he delves into his physics. The thing is, would it kill him to listen to someone say something that has absolutely no relevance to his life? In other words, he ignores these things because they don't interest him, but at the same time, he laments about how people don't have more discussions about what interests him. I'm willing to pay attention to someone as long as they pay attention to me. And that's not what Mr. AssHat is about, apparently, despite his defense. He just doesn't get it.

He can't possibly concieve that a girfriend might tear him a new one now because in the first few months of them dating, he couldn't be bothered with that sex thing. Had to pay attention to the computer. Not that I didn't walk into it, but I walked into it going, "If you're not interested in me, my body included, then forget about it" and he told me it really didn't matter when apparently it did. Maybe that's why I was blamed for all of the "bad sex" that we had and hearing the lecture on how I wasn't trying hard enough to get off, which was the point of such intimate encounters. Whereas, being a woman of the 21st Century, I knew that sometimes those things just don't happen. I will never forget being yelled at because I was drunk and in a self-pity mood. I will never forget being yelled at in the middle of having sex. I will never forget that he kicked me in the leg for no real good reason, and he never really showed remorse for it. (Somehow, it was "my fault". If I hadn't been waxing philosphic about abilites I may or may not have, he wouldn't have done that. Yeah, and I didn't get a black eye. I'm not that impressed.) What, on God's green earth, is he thinking that none of these things would ever cause the resentment of years to come bubbling to the surface for me to yell to at?

But I'm the drunk and surly one. Apparently he doesn't remember the times where he was way drunker than me and that I had to deal with him and his temper. It came so close to the "Why don't you just commit suicide then?" comments, that I cried myself to sleep so many times. Did he remember it? Oh, no, and of course, because he was the drunk one, it was supposed to be forgiven.

Hate? That barely scratches the surface. Just once, I would like him to read this or any such rambling. Resentment? So much worse than outright hate.

Grow Up. Become a man. That's my only advice for the prideful waste of space he is. What could you possibly be prideful about? You have nothing....

No Wisdom

Dear Biker Guy At The Bar,

All I have to say is thank you for listening to a lonely woman. Even if you laughed out of embarassment, (which I didn't think you did), you made me smile once (many times), in a bar with friends and a poisionous ex-boyfriend whom I rightly dismissed. My friends, being adults, entertained themselves, and my ex mostly kept to himself. I have victrolic hate for him, but until you came along, I was mistaken that it was for all men and not just him. You, in your one moment of either pity or attraction or boredom, let me see that I can be actually be a person on my own terms and still engange the opposite sex in interesting non-sexual conversation and still have someone either listen to me or pretend to listen to me. Maybe illusion is great, but I would like to think that what I was saying wasn't all that bad or weird. You stayed until last call and didn't run away like you were scared, like so many horrible men I know -- I don't know how old you are, but if you're my age, I really admire that. People younger than me admire other people who are even slightly older than than they are, but still, you didn't indicate that you were going to bolt because I'm a damn liberal and can make funny jokes about the "Religious Nuts". And that I'm Northern born and bred, but can still understand honkey tonk, and don't really care if someone's experiences are so totally different than mine. For you, you may have been bored and in want of conversation with a pretty girl, and instead, you got me. Not that I'm not beautiful, but when a zillion gay guys tell you that, and the two men you've actually dated long term are split on that decision, as a women you may begin to doubt your attractiveness/intelligence in even talking to a random strager. Even if I never I never see you again (which is completely likely), or you never talk to me at that bar again (which, again, is completely likely), I would like it on record that I thank you for restoring just a smidgen of faith in me about men. After all, I have the guys I dated/slept with and The Rude Pundit to compare (the latter of which, from NYTimes review, seemed extrodinarily hot) other guys to, and most men don't live up (or down, depending) to that. By the way, I felt that you were really hot, even though most girls don't go for that Jacket/Headband/Long Hair thing. I'm a sucker for long hair, especially if it's brown in color.

When it all comes down to it, I'm just a girl, looking at a hot guy, and I guess the beer and your hotness is what made me talk to you. That, and the jacket. If I never you see or talk to you again (and I pretty much expect that), I hope you have the life you dream of. But thanks anyway for listening to a liberal girl bitch about the Redneck President. It meant a lot to me. One day, maybe, I'll get to kiss someone as hot as you are, but until then, I will just dream...

Sincerely,
The Infamous Bar Mouse

I Stop and Think

I once was a precocious child, curious and fascinated with life and why people do things. Heaven help my parents for some of the questions I asked must have left them wondering exactly where I picked things up. "So, what does that mean that guy on that movie 'kicked him in the nuts'? And why did Rick react like that." (I think it was before we lived on Downer, the second time. Maybe when we lived in Illiniois? Heh, maybe even when we lived on Maryland, when I was in kindergarten.) "So, what do people mean by 'red light district'?"

Then came third grade, and with it, the incessant teasing that marked my grade school life until about eighth grade. I kept so much hidden within myself. It's so hard to explain the utter pain and hopelessness that occurrs. When I see on the news of a fifth grader committing suicide, I have to cry. I cry for that poor child...and myself. That could have been me. I cry for their parents, who didn't know that it was that bad. Of course, the child probably tried telling them, but not in the most effective way, because he's a child. Heaven knows I tried to tell my parents. They didn't understand. They didn't understand that when the parents looked away, they tourtured me. "Ugly dog...Fat Cow...You're really dumb...Why don't you just go and commit suicide so that we don't have to see you." (Yes. Someone actually did say that last one. It's burned forever in my brain, said to me when I was sitting at lunch.) How do you even fight back? I tried, but when it's 20 to 1, it's rather hard. For all of the hours I spent in my room comtemplating suicide, I didn't want to. But I felt I had to, just to get rid of this enormous pain. I wanted faries or angels to come whisping down from the heavens and help me up, meanwhile bitchslapping the offenders. I wanted to run away. I would oscillate between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill them. But then -- a really sad fucking cliche, but for me, it's true -- I listened to the word of God. The words of Jesus. How hard it must have been, knowing that you probably would get executed for some stupid reason, and to not just start wielding knives like it's nobody's business. Maybe it isn't true, and the man we know as Jesus could be a criminal condemned or he died a rather unexciting death and it's all just trumped up. But if it's true -- a guy who really wasn't saying anything radical but the teachings among his group had caused a stir among the Romans, a guy accoused of a crime he didn't commit, trumped up charges against him to silent a movement, even leaving out the "died for our sins" stuff -- it's amazing. Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself together. If they wanted me to die, I wouldn't. If I'm so damn worthless, then why did they waste all that time and energy to destroy my soul? That's pretty darn pathetic when you get down to it. Wouldn't you just be fine with ignoring me? Would that not be easier than to expand all of that time and energy to berate me? And suddenly, I started laughing. They were the stupid ones, really. They're doing all this -- for what? What the hell are they trying to accomplish? If they're trying to make themselves look better to prop up their fragile egos, that's not only sad, but laughable. With the billions of people on earth, picking on one kid makes you better? Oh, please, tell me another! By eighth grade, I was done with it. In fact, I was done with the whole thing. Pretty much, just shut the fuck up if you don't have anything of value to say. I didn't -- and most of the time, still don't -- give a shit what people think of me. You can hate me, you can love me, I don't care what you do. I like who I like and I love who I love and I just don't give a shit about the rest. You wanna spread rumors about me? Go right ahead, I don't care. Rumorwhores will spread it around and around, giving a shaky straw prop to their glass ego. Anyone worth a damn won't automatically assume it's true and maybe will ask. Secretly, it actually amuses me what people will come up with. Man, if my life was as interesting as the rumors about my activities....

People always say, "Oh, it looks like you've lost weight." "Thanks," I reply, smiling. Why? 'Cause I don't give a shit. Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. If I do, well then, that's fine. Only I know the answer to that one, and you know what? It's no one's fucking business. If I loose weight, it's only for me...and me alone. I am already beautiful, in all of my fatty glory. If I choose to loose weight, well, I do it for me and not some preconcieved notion that the world will be handed to me on a silver platter because I'm thin. I am beautiful because I'm a thinking, feeling human being. And if you don't like me being fat, well, Fuck Off. Like I say, I don't give a shit (let alone two) what you think. You're just a person, over there, who doesn't know me and refuses to see unmanufactured beauty in its own right. You don't have to look at me. If you can't stop staring at me because I'm fat, the problem is not me. It's you. So just shut the fuck up. Like short jokes. I know I'm fat and I know I'm short. And yes, I have heard every possible fat and short joke and insult that your feeble mind could possibly come up with. Like working at the flower building. Do you honestly think that I haven't heard the "Do you have any cannabis displayed?" joke before that idocy fell from your lips? Ha. Ha. It not that I don't laugh because I don't like you; I don't laugh because I don't find it funny, and really, am not about to laugh at something that I don't find funny because you embarassed me or thought that it was a good joke. I don't want to encourage you to tell another, although that never stops you. And I don't care if you think I'm an angry bull dyke bitch for...well, anything really. Because I don't care what you think about me. And my weight? It seems as if the standard greeting among certain parties is "It looks like you lost weight." You know what? I don't care. I'm not friends with hunks of muscles and fat stiched onto a skeleton with ligiments. I'm friends with the one muscle on which I judge most people: the brain.

The rest is just window dressing.

Interesting.

Read this post about Men vs The American Evil Feminist Influence.

I remember, having a discussion with Mr AssHat. One of the things he didn't like about me was that I am overweight. Oh, that didn't take away from the respect he had for my mind [insert a loud, resounding HA! here]. Oh, and he didn't like a post somewhere because the post pretty much talked about all of the mysigonistic characteristics of the Men Who Like Asian Women. Because, you know, he likes the Asian Woman. She's short, thin, and smart. But the whole smart thing, that Asians are smarter (or more math and science geared) than Americans, is a myth, too. Given that I've dated him, I also think the "won't challenge my brilliance and will put up my ridiculous shit" part appeals to him as well. Women are women, fer chrissakes. Some of us will give men blow jobs just so we have a crack at freedom (or just crack, but that's a whole 'nother story...). Others just won't put up with your shit. Women are women everywhere, and don't think that just because it's on the other side, that the grass is any greener (or if you're creepy, nonexistant). Women in Nigeria threatened to shame a company and the men by stripping...women demand respect for their rights the world over. Our message: We got what you want, and don't FUCK with us, motherfucker, and we know you are. We talked to her. How long would any patricarchial system last if every single woman in the world refused that seemingly basic desire? What if we, even in our horniest moments, refused to give out what some men so desperately seek? What if every single one of us carried a sign that read, "We Won't Put Up With Your Shit".

What does it take to get every single man on earth to realize that we are fucking people, too? Not the good ones, who know that we are, who are forced to raise their voices to defend us because other men won't listen to us. I want a world where these guys don't have to do that, where I can express an opinion without another person calling me an "angry lesbian", and that the guys who get it don't get called "pussies".

What does it fucking take?

Missive

I read and I see the ramblings of people whose depth is only skin deep. I envy how one can just skate through life, periodically and shallowly touching upon that brief idea that maybe life isn't their happy story, and Oh! to be happy! before they slowly slide back into their ignorant bliss. What shallowness for mind must release them from the tribulations of their morality! Would I not want to be blessed with such graceful and effortless shallow? That Love is simply silly things, a random occurance of touch and smiles? How I envy the shallow! For Love's sweet breath touched me but once, kissed lightly my cheek, a fair fairy with the kiss of a butterfly, with breathless wonder and I saw in that moment our lives forever intertwined, her smile showing the future of my indended and I. Try as I might, the fairy has not returned to bestow her blessing upon me, my heart heavy and my soul torn asunder. But to be shallow and never have recieved a visit from the fair fairy? Oh, such bliss! To remain ignorant of a real love that takes roots in the heart but transcends time. Such bliss to leave my dignity and identity at the threshold of the house, all for the sake of a shred of comfort that one would give me, the shred of comfort that I will not allow myself. It would be nice to walk the Earth in shallow, to roam the countryside without thought nor care of my personal being, to give up that which is solely me, so that I may have what all others want. Yes, to be shallow in love and life, to appease myself and my conscience. Alas, my heart has been torn, and now I must deal with just the reminants of love, reaching for tatters of hopefulness among the cloths of despair. If only I were graced enough to be shallow. ...

The Earth and Why

Sometimes I hate people. Not all of them, all at once, but certain kinds of people.

I was thinking about writing a letter to someone, because I'm really incredibly tired of them mocking my best friend. (I decided against it. Not worth my time.) Oh, they weren't outright mocking her, but their reaction to something she posted was so completely inappropriate and it really stepped over the line into threats. I'm so disgusted, I feel like throwing up.

First, this person overracted to a cartoon, one that my friend posted. Let's call this person Jane. Jane decided, that since it was her birthday, that whatever everyone in the world wrote that day was about her. What didn't help is that the cartoon had a birthday theme. The thing is, it had nothing to with Jane. Really. Let me explain...

My friend has a long and colorful history with belching. And not just some little girly belch, that you cover up with your hand while "tee-hee"ing and say "Excuse me" to. No, these were belches of epic proportions, ones that rattled windows...and my mother's nerves. I really felt sorry for my mom, who grew up in house that you weren't allowed to fart in unless you were in the bathroom, to have to deal my friend's belches. And when we were kids (I've known her for...oh, god...for almost twenty years!), it was particularily obnoxious. (Then again, who isn't obnoxious when they're younger?) So one weekend, around the time when we were, oh...let me think...10/11/12 (maybe?), when my family went to our timeshare/resort/scam of the month, my friend came along with us. And boy, was my mother pissed at her constant belching. (I know where I got the Look of Death, Laser-beam Style from, it must be a genetic thing.) Finally, my mother, having endured a weekend of this, looked at her, and said, "If you don't cut that out, I'm gonna hit you over the head with the frying pan." (My mother never would actually do such a thing. Instead, you get the Laser Beam Look of Death, which was just as effective.) So what did my friend absolutely have to do? You guessed it. Another awe-inspiring belch, one that I'm sure people in other campers across the park heard. My mother just looked her with seething frustration, and the Death Look claimed another vitcim. To be fair, I really, really tried not to laugh. From then on, we had the running joke about the infamous belches and frying pans ("She's coming over. Should I hide the frying pans?").

Fast forward to years later. For days, I rambled on to my boyfriend about how he had to meet my friend. I told him that her belches would put most of his dorm floor to shame...and she was a girl. (Hehehehe. Those engineering types, they have nothin' on my friend! I must have been the only girl clearly unimpressed with the finest belches from the best and brightest male students of MSOE). So we were sitting around at my house, my mom sitting on the couch, my boyfriend in a chair, my friend at the other end of the couch. We fed her all the warm (I think it was warm, but I could be wrong) Sprite, and my mom looked at us suspiciously. And then my friend let out The Belch of Belches, a belch like no other; one that poets would later describe as "magnificent in its awful and disgusting glory"; one that historians would include in their lists of the "10 Wonders of the Post Modern World"; one that, as the last chords of it slowly echoed away, literally rattled the windows of the curio cabinets in our dining room, the delicate wine glasses still trembling in awe. The look on my boyfriend's face was priceless. You could tell that he never had encountered such a beautiful creature before this. He fell out of his chair in both shock and surprise. He was completely awed by that ferocious work of art.

What was my mom's reaction? "Don't make me get the frying pan." Along with the Death Look.

It's not that Jane took the cartoon in the wrong way. It's that she took a private joke between longtime friends and twisted into some horrible alterior motive against her. If she had wanted to know what the meaning behind it was, she could have asked in the comments. I certainly would have explained it to her. But instead, she twisted it around, selfishly assinging motives to my friend that clearly weren't there. But that doesn't piss me off. People do that all the time. Misunderstandings happen. And sometimes, people just get an idea in their heads and, even when confronted with actual evidence to the contrary, run with it as if it's gospel truth. It annoys me, but I can't be responsible for everyone's thought (or lack thereof) processes. What really pisses me off is that some little rat had the audacity to post about "angry lesbians" (Not a dig? No, it is, but that's another post. You are a syncophant for the patriarchy, and do not deserve any respect whatsoever if you dare say that) and how such a loooooser my friend is in a public blog, seen by a lot of people. That's over the line. Put it in your own blog, if you want to. Say it over the phone. But in a comment thread, where it's glaringly out of place in relation to the post? Really, it sticks out like a sore thumb among the other comments. And then, of all things, to write "What's her last name?". That is a threat. In the world of the Internets, where most people want to be anonymous, that is a threat. Taken in context, it's absolutely hostile. And that, dear friends, is what pisses me off. That some little rat is threatening somone over the motives of posting a fucking cartoon that someone found funny. I don't care if she had no intention of ever doing anything, a threat is still a threat. And it pisses me off. My friend did nothing to this little rat, and she retaliated by threatening her:

Wow, she is being a bitch. That was a slap in the face. Dont let it bother you though. She's an angry lesbian, (the lesbian part is not a dig, just the angry part) almost 30, living at home, and has all of 2 friends on her xanga (and in real life?). Who cares what she thinks. She is taking out her issues on you. Im proud of you. I couldnt sit in the sidelines and read that shit. What is her last name?

(Of course, when my friend politely asked her to stop on the rat's blog, she proceeded to delete every single comment that my friend made. Oh, and this rat, in any conversation of my friend, would preface it with "fucking bitch". As in, "Oh that fucking bitch [my friend's name], ..." or "Well, why don't you chat with so-and-so about the weather, [other stuff], how much of a fucking bitch [my friend] is....". Was my friend at times a fucking bitch? By her own admission, yes. The truth is, is that my friend is not a Fucking Bitch. At times, yeah. But not always. And that pretty much describes a lot of people. I am, however, a loud and proud card-carrying three-star member of the Fucking Bitch Club. So I know my friend's not a Fucking Bitch. The rat's not a member either; to earn your ranking, you have to express opinions that make people -- men and women -- call you an "angry lesbian", no matter your sexual preference. I can only hope to aspire to Hillary Clinton's four-star rating, the highest honor you can recieve. But I digress. The lapdogness of this rat is truly amazing. One has to wonder if she was, oh, maaaaybe, jealous of my friend? Putting stuff into people's heads by repetition? Are you pondering what I'm pondering?)

I would not want that person as a friend. In fact, I have known people like this. They are nice to you until they don't like you anymore. And they'll come up with some of the dumbest justifications to hate you. Because if they don't like you, they hate you with a bottomless pit of seething hatred. They say one thing, profess to never do something like that, but then they go ahead and do it. Where do I know people like that from? Ah, the coffeeshop. Yes, the same coffeeshop with The Artist, The Texan (who's now The Gay Texan), and The Writer. Scary Eyes and Creepy Girl. There was also the self-righteous pompous ass who felt threatened by two sixteen year olds talking to her 27 year old boyfriend. God, she had a lot of people who worshipped the ground that she walked on. And it took very little for her to hate someone. You could just look at her wrong, or say "Hi" to her boyfriend, and she would get pissed at you. No, wait; not pissed at you, she hated you. The shit she said and did to people she didn't like was amazing.

There was a girl that would hang around. One day, she was sitting at their table. She made the mistake of picking up The Bitch's book, looking at it, and putting it down. She also laughed at a comment The Bitch's boyfriend made. (I never really found anything he said to be funny, but apparently, that was just me.) It didn't matter that The Bitch had laughed at the comment too, nor did it matter that The Bitch was always going through your things. But because that girl did it, OH MY FUCKING GOD, WHAT A SELF CENTERED BOYFRIEND STEALING WHORE she was. I'm not kidding you, that was what was said. Then, she proceeded to tell everyone how much of a boyfriend stealing whore this girl was, and not only that, told total strangers (who had no clue that the girl existed) that they shouldn't talk to her. It was so bad, that The Bitch threatened to get a restraining order against this girl. The Bitch tried to get her kicked out of the coffeeshop permanantly. The thing is, the girl didn't DO anything to her. The girl was just trying to be friendly. I saw this happening, and I knew I did not want to be friends with The Bitch. In fact, a former friend of hers came up to talk to me (she had been The Bitch's best friend, and when she didn't like her anymore, proceeded to broadcast to anyone in earshot -- a full city block, mind you -- that she was a whore and a bitch), and we had a pleasant conversation that revolved around all of the lies that The Bitch was spreading about her former friend. "I know that [The Bitch] is saying all of this stuff about me, and I don't really care for the most part. I only want a few people to know the truth." And I was one of those people. Why? Because I didn't worship the ground The Bitch walked on. And I wasn't going to be her friend out of fear that she would do that to me. I kept a distance because I didn't want to be dragged into such a vile, repugnant pile of waste, meaningless and senseless cruelity, all for The Bitch's approval. I had better things to do. I think the thing that really disgusted me was the fact that when the girl (the boyfriend stealing whore) was raped, it wasn't even 24 hours before they were telling every single in person in the coffeeshop that she was a liar and a whore. They were yelling it in front of the shop, at the top of their lungs. I'm not kidding about this either.

Which brings me back to the rat. Granted, not everyone of this genre is like The Bitch, but the potential for such things to get to that point is HUGE. And it starts with something made up out of nothing. It's not enough to make fun of someone; oh, no, they have to be destroyed. The rat can tell whatever lies she wants to herself to placate the small shred of whatever resembles her conscience, but it doesn't fool me. One look at her blog, and I see shades of The Bitch. The people who worshipped The Bitch? They were varying degrees of the same thing. So yes, she is a rat, of the same type of people who swim in a cesspool of cruelty, condemned to only be happy if they get their way all of the time, and burdened by the many imaginary enemies that they must anhilate to make their planet a perfect, happy furry puppy place with rainbows and unicorns.

I am not a violent person. But these people will provoke you to the point of violence. They are insanely jealous people who, once they don't like you, will set out to destroy you. I hope that the rat wouldn't do that to Jane, if it ever came to that. I would hate to see a seedling struggling to grow get cruelly yanked out of the ground because someone didn't like the fact that it was there.

[Updates]: Turned on the comments, because if asshats comment, well, I can delete or ban them. Hopefully, they won't see this, or comment, for the reason that THIS IS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION between two friends, and doesn't involve them at all. THIS IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU AT ALL. And if you do comment, all I have to say is this: Why? Why are you commenting on something that's PRIVATE? GO AWAY. This site is meant for the whole 3 people who are my friends, or someone who totally is in no way, even tangentally, connected to me. There is no inbetween here. That said, for my friend, you can liken the rat to this person: Helaine Olen, who wrote some scathing and untrue things about this person, only to be reprimanded of such patriarchial behavior. Real life, in your fucking face, baby, kinda stuff. Luvs~~

"Memo to myself:

...Do the dumb things I gotta do. Touch the puppet head."

So I've been doing a bit of hiding out. I'm torn between wanting to talk with friends and just being alone. In my space, alone, the glorious freedom of not doing a damn thing except romping around in the playground of my imagination, semblances of visions and hopes for a better world. I keep thinking about these things that roll around in my head. The black haired girl, the victorian people, Black Jacket, the young Hosea...all of these images roll around and around, and I want to understand them better. The thing is, who the fuck is going to believe me? It sounds so incredibly crazy.

That is the one thing I don't get. How do I know certain things, out of thin air? Why do I have dreams about things happening to me, only to find out later that they actually happened to someone else? And it's not random, these dreams, it's really specific. Or that I just know stuff. It's something that's always permeated my life, a force that I really cannot explain. And what's worse, is that not many people understand it. Especially the logical ones. But then again, as I've explained to certain people, just because they don't understand it and can't doesn't mean it doesn't happen and that it's not real to me. If you want to think I'm crazy, well, fine, but the next time I say, "You have at least try to get medicaid", that's not a suggestion, it's a warning. I warn the people I care about. Because it's a whole lot more than the people I know, it's the people I don't know, too. God, what would I give to have this only for friends and not also for random strangers. Sometimes by touch, even. It grates on your soul sometimes, and then you have to listen to music or play games or visit children just to get it off for awhile. But it will be back. It's always there, in the background.

And I just want to know if these people exsited. I really wish I knew.

A Difference

He said that reading this would help me to better understand where he was coming from. There were also several other links, but the main one was the gist of it: he belives in logic. He is logical.

Thanks. I'm just nothing but last year's Christmas fruitcake. AssHat.

But I have found a definition of me, without any fancy articles. And I'm not talking in the Phlosophy movement sense. I'm talking just strict definition. Or not, if you focus on certain aspects of my character.

But that wasn't my main point; the point is, is that it took me this long to figure out that he was saying that I was not logical. That what, I have absolutely no capacity for logic? That I wouldn't have any understanding of it? That I don't at least have a passing acquaintace with logic?

I am a practical person. I can dicuss myself in ways that many, many, many people cannot. I can predict things about people and their behavior. The thing is, why is that illogical? Or was he talking about the fact that he's science based and looks at stars because looking within and doing something about it would be....too...hard. It's not difficult to do it. Hell, with practice, it's easy, and the same goes for talking about it.

And, after all this time of saying the same fucking things over and over again, and them causing fights, two weeks ago it didn't. And hasn't since then. What happened? Really, what did? That he said something unpleasant about me and I acted like an adult about it, which was way more than he'd ever do for me? I don't get why sudden he can talk about it.

Oh, well. I just wish I could find my delicious man.

I Know

I knew you when you were oh-so-high, by your polish relatives, by your dark hair. I knew you when you had the female friend you had, to play and taunt, as she would you.

I know you from some other place, some other demension, some other time. Do you remember, the girl, Deutschland, in the polka-dotted dress? With the dark hair? What was her doll's name? I would know if I could remember, but she was a ghost. Hilde? "Die Schoeneste"? You know. Her name. The name of the doll. She spoke to the man. At the camp. "Arbeit Macht Frei". That camp. Im Potsdam. "Die Russen sind mein Fruend nicht" or something along those lines. I studied "Deutschsprache" to know what the fuck she was saying. Because she haunted me. Am I her? Am I someone who knows? Or do I not know, being born into someone else who seemingly won't see it? Was there, in Berlin, a mass riot that no one knows about? Was that me, to see the things I didn't want to, or is it a future? I don't know. All I can see is the riot. And before that , the girl, in the polka-dotted dress, with the doll, with the long black hair. What, if anything, does it fucking mean?

I do not know. All I see are visions, versions of the past or of the present, I do not know. Sometimes I wish life was sci-fi, because then, I would know for sure. Or is it just me? And now do I have to learn Chinese?

I sincerly, and deeply, hate being me. With all my heart. I want to die. But to die would be them, to find out who is haunting me with these images. To die is to know, and to know for the little I do would be a travesty of justice. Or so...I would like to think. How many people do you know, that would like to die, to find out why the ghosts of years ago haunt them....

Pastime or Habit?

I have this habit, or pastime, of challenging people.

No one ever loves me enough, so then I have to stretch their limits....how far will you go to hang out with me? To like me? To tolerate me?

What's odd is that I find that bar is surpisingly low. It could be my sense of humor, or it could just be the internet. I recently made a comment on a friend's blog that was meant as purely sarcastic, but I don't think that it really came across that way. I didn't mean it to sound snipy, but I did mean it as a "of course you're part of the human race, um, that's how we all feel at times, it's not that unusal" kind of thing, other than the way it sounded: "uh, asshole, yeah, you and what army?" kind of way. And now I feel bad. I didn't mean it in a horrible way, and I hope she understands that, so not in the "Letters to AssHat" kind of way, but in the snarky, "what the fuck do you think my blog is about, anyway?" kind of way. There's a difference, at least to me. But I do understand, and given the people that she's been about lately, I can see how that would be very misinterpreted. Or maybe I'm the asshole, in not thinking that she would know and the response equally snarky. But that's the whole fucking problem with the internets; what's the snark/snark, what's serious? Sarcasm, especially the brand of sarcasm that some of us are soooo fond of, does not play well in the realm of just words. If we are who we are by words, then we are all such a sorry bunch. Because it's not so much the words, as it is the tone. And it's really, really hard to convey the tone....

Because I'm constantly on the edge of a forest fire, knowing that I could put it out, but also knowing that sometimes it is beneficial to let it burn, to use an analogy.....

Please don't judge...

someone because of my dealings with them.

Dear Mr AssHat.

You get defensive when I point out anything wrong with you. You yell at me, you insult me, and well, I guess that's okay. I may get like that.

But that doesn't change the fact that you are an out-and-out asshole.

Women run away from you, not because you're geeky, but because you're an asshole. If I was smarter than I was, I would have realized that a lot sooner, and left your ass hangning. But no. I am the "fucking moron" who didn't realize that you were a snob. What was that you said? "Oh, hello. Yeah, I'm a snob." You know what? I knew your kind, when I went to grade school. Oh, pity you, teased for being a geek. Oh, let me shed a tear. I almost feel sorry for you.

So. Let's say that everyday from 3rd to 7th grade went like this:

Go to school. While waiting for school to begin, someone hovers over you, and calls you a) a dyke, b) a slut, c) a fat-ass whale that couldn't even get through the straight of Alaska and finally d) the biiiiigggggest loooooooooooser on the faaaaaaaace of this plaaaaaaaaaaanet. Every school day.

Get into school. Not only is a-d repteated, but more insults. Oh, and how dare you answer a question right -- even though you've contracted a mysterious illness that has kept you out of school for weeks, and no one would bring you your homework, and you still manage to figure out the answer to the math problem. Repeat a-d again, plus the added insults, oh, and add even more to that.

Lunch. No one looks at you. You are insignifigant. You are scum. Plus a-d, and all of the forty-two insults from the beginning of the day. You are nothing.

Back into school. At least the class clown is clowning around, and a few precious moments are spent laughing at someone else. But then, it's back to you, as you are the Looooooser of the Eeeeeaaarth.

Once school is over, then you have to make the arduous trek home, where people will throw things at you, a) because people from your school have told everyone else in the school district how you're a-d, and then some, and b) you're wearing a Catholic school uniform.

You fucking snob. Do you even know what's it's like not to be there. No, you don't, given that you're a goddamn snob. You insult my intelligence, just by talking to me. You have no fucking clue what the real world and its true harshness is like. Have you ever really worked a day in your life, that wasn't handed to you a silver platter? Asshole.

Oh, I'm sorry, was that me being judgemental? I know I'm female and all, so I guess it was just a simpleton mistake....

I won't speak to you agian. I won't make that mistake twice.

Dear James,

For the love of god, please come visit me soon. I am soooo bored, with just about everything. And the Puppy-Dog is following me around, it's very annoying. I need you to visit, and give me some much needed laughter...at myself, the world, whatever.

I've been having odd dreams lately. One involved a guy, with long hair, medium brown, and we were at a party. He asked me if I knew Mr Blond, but he didn't know that it was Mr Blond. I told him the truth, that we'd been dating, and he cringed. "I really feel sorry for you," he said. Later, for some unknown reason, we ended up sitting in a hot tub, naked. Of course, there was no hanky-panky, because in my dreams, I'm only naked when I'm confident.

And then there was this dream about a guy. He kinda looked liked you, except thinner and with much darker hair. He was wearing black, and he quoted an Audioslave song to me, and then started dancing with me. Which, I suppose, is not odd...except that we were in a bar I've never been to before. And later, he argued with Mr Blond. But mostly I remember the hair. Short, dark brown, almost black, styled kinda spikey. Goatee. But really charming. And passionate. And he talked about something which only you and I really ever talked about...the playmate. You know what I mean. And that was soooo odd.

But admist this, I'm doing okay. Give Celia a hug for me. And you should visit soon.

Love,
Sporkester

Yeah.

Audioslave=crack.

Really. I can't go more than a few hours.

It hasn't been that bad since...since I don't know when. Soudngarden? Ok, some really good songs I liked. But not like this. Not this obsessiveness. Not this "oh-my-god-it's-seeped-deeply-into-my-brain" kinda thing. Like I say, What The Hell Is Wrong With Me.

It's just as bad as Eminem's Encore. Crack, I tell you. In the form of music. But crack nonetheless.

Ok, so I do know since when. But still...Must listen obsessively. Can....not....stop.
It's either the music or the dreams it gives me.

ARG!

No

Nobody can make me talk. Really. I am exceptionally good at things being perfectly fine, especially when they're not. But on the other hand, I want to talk. Really. I always feel, though, that I'm saying the same things, over and over again, and can't stop. I feel that I can't make a point to save my life. So, I'd rather not say anything than chip in, keep quiet rather than say the same stupid fucking thing over and over again. What's on my mind? Nothing new. Same old shit. How to get from Point A to Point B. That's it. It's incredibly dull, and don't try to ignore or downplay that fact. I know it. You know it. It's obvious. And when I try to have a discussion, well, I feel that my points are somehow invalid. Like whatever point I'd like to bring up is either wrong or unrelated. Doubly worse if it's the same shit AND unrelated to anything. I'm not even sure if it's just me right now or not. Did I learn this from somewhere? Did I learn to be boring? Is the blame to be put on my shoulders or someone else's? I just don't know.

The Murmers: "Right now there's dust on my guitar, you fuck/and it's all your fault/you've paralyzed my mind/and for that, you suck..."

And then there's this crazy Audioslave kick I've been on. It's like an addiction. And it's making me have weird dreams about meeting men. I'll post about my dreams at a later date, but right now, either I'm getting messages from my mom, or my mind is cruelly torturing me. And it wasn't like that before I was listening Audioslave everyday at work. GOD. What's wrong with me?

Just a note...

I am sure that in addition to drug dealing, my mom would've gone for this. You know, to supplement the income.

Wow!

This is kinda surrealistic.

I was in a very, very large church. It was built in a semicircle, and there were endless rows of chairs, much like a movie theater. The carpeting in the church was red. The most striking thing about it, next to the caniverousness of the place, was the where the altar and pulpit where: on the red carpet, the bright white of these objects stood out starkly, and the black accents stood out nicely. The wall was a bright white, and you couldn't help but look at it. The rest of the church walls were darkly colored, although as I took my seat, I took no notice of them; instead, I was transfixed by the whiteness of the wall, and the chair for the preacher, and the pulpit.

The chairs were plush and very comfortable. One could almost fall asleep in them. Once everyone was seated -- and really, it took awhile for that, with all the visiting people tend to do when they enter church -- the service began. The presider walked in, wearing a vestment of white and black, and began to preach.

And then wall lit up. Which would have been a really neat Jesus effect, like a sermon with a Powerpoint presentation, ("You are going to hell in these ways..."), if the screen wasn't showing commercials. Coke, I remember, was advertised, among other things. Oh, and there was trivia, which the congregation could participate in, using a little hand-held number pad that pulled out of the armrest.

Needless to say, I was stunned.

I looked around, finally noticing the people. They were nodding rhythmically to the preacher's voice, while trying to beat their neighbor at the trivia questions. And then I started to listen to what he was saying. Horrible things. Unchristian things. I had to get up out of my seat. I made my way to an aisle, and then started walking down it, staring at the preacher with horrific fascination at this whole ungodly spectacle. Suddenly, he picked on a parishoner, saying their name, and telling that person exactly why they are going to hell. I couldn't take it any longer. I started yelling at him at the top of my lungs, about how horrible he was and that he was misusing the words of Jesus and the Bible. At first, he didn't hear, but as I got closer, he noticed me. I was yelling and yelling, trying to get someone in the congregation to hear me, but no one did, they were all too busy with the trivia, and TV, and the preacher. Even as I stood next to someone sitting in an aisle seat, they paid me no mind. And then the preacher did a funny little hand signal, and suddenly there were several men coming up and down the down the aisle at me...

And then I woke up.

To this day, I have no idea what posessed me to dream that. It felt so real and I was so relieved that it had just been a dream.

WiFi in the church? What's next? Powerpoint? Coke commercials?

Dear Mom,

Can you believe it's been a year? Good lord.

I'll be spending Memorial Day with Dad. Aunt Joan wants to make potato salad, but you can best bet it won't be anything like your potato salad. For the love of god, can't we make something the way you did?

I've been talking to Erika more. Oh lord, do you know what you're sister's been up to? Holy Jeebus, she's gone completely crackers. Mom, you gotta help her. Really. Before she messes up her family. Does she even know what she's doing? And I'm being serious here. I feel like going over there and confronting her with every little nasty detail I know and giving her a real slap in the face. Talk to Grandma Serwin about this, you gotta help stop this. Remember when she called you about Ron and I was very, very angry and upset? I'm even MORE angry and upset now. She really needs help...both of them do. It's both disgusting and ridiculous.

What's really, really funny is that she offered for me to turn to her when I need motherly advice. Hell, no! You are my mom, and there's no substitutions on that one. We'll just have to continue communicating the way we have been now. Not exactly a sure thing, but enough.

I keep being a jerk to John, but you know what? He's done that to me plenty of times. He knows what the laser-beam look is. Why does he continually do something to piss me off that much? And I've realized, he's a snob. Not a full out snob about everything, but some of the time he is. And you know how I feel about that. But I think the thing that gets me angry is that he's always bringing up the fact that I sometimes act like a jerk...and if I bring up his being a jerk, well, dontcha know, he's got a reason. What the hell is that? Is that what guys do? Because, and I'm sorry for saying it, I don't want to get married then. That's just too much to deal with for an entire lifetime. He can be cool, but he doesn't understand that when I get mad, I'm mad for quite a while before I cool off. You would think he would have got that point in the few years we were dating. He does things to get me mad, and well, I'm obviously going to yell at him. He just doesn't get that. Why? WHY? I do feel kinda bad for it, but still...remember? "I know my daughter, and that look means she's going to kill you." That was really funny, Mom. You called it like you saw it. But still, that didn't stop him.

I hope I'm not the one who has to go "anger management" classes. You know what I'm talking about.

Ah, I still miss you. I keep trying to remember you, and it's hard, because for a very long time all I could see was you lying there in the hospital bed, with all of the machines and tubes and such. Were you really responding to us? Or was it like when Grandma Schallack died and you were just going through your life like she did? I would like to think you could hear us, but I just don't know. I can't stop thinking about the hospital, and being there, watching you with diminishing hope, trying to prop up Dad and Ja. I knew, but they didn't. And thank you for listening to me. Even if I never do anything special, Mom, I'm still you're "Golden Child".

I was at work, forgot my ID, so I had to sign in. I figured that I would be the only one in there now. I only gave the guard my last name. "Kathie?" he asked. That startled me a moment, and then told him no. (Of course, I didn't tell him my name then.) Then he got to my name. The thing is, if it was in alphabetical order, my name would have come first. I don't get it. Oh, and the other day was talking to someone somewhere. They said I must be a Kathleen. It made me a little sad, your Kates. No wonder I feel like I've got two peronalities. You called me Kates for a while before Dad got the bright idea to give me my name when I was born. And it was all odd, given that those two moments happened within a week of each other.

Oh, and your toe was actually skin colored after the surgery. Just thought that you'd like to know.

Well, I've got shopping to do and stuff, so have I have to go. Hope to talk to you soon.

Love,
Me

ARG

Today I'm up ungodly early. My body said, "HA! Wake up NOW!!!" There's several things that I could do that I've been meaning to do but I don't feel like doing them. So instead I'll listen to the new Audioslave CD (well, I downloaded it, so not really the CD, per se). This would be the third time listening to it since last night. I'm having enough fun with my free trial at Rhapsody that I might just pay the $9.99 a month to keep it. Wow....legal downloading....me? Who'd've thunk it? OOOO...wait...there's Peter Gabriel! Too much fun. And the new Wheezer? Most of it sucks big, fat, hairy, ugly donkey balls. And as much as I have a deep, deep loathing for Green Day, I do like their new concept album, and actually am interested in seeing the movie. The music itself isn't too bad.

Tomorrow will be a full year.

Dear James.

My friend, you look to me, to judge the other half of honesty,
and here I sit, all complacent, to which I am not,
But with understanding, you realize,
the person oft forgot.

A smile that half realizes
sane and stupid compremisises
for what I look for,
and yet not,
I am who I am.

I am one person
No, I am onother,
But that is me.
Can you, dear James, understand?

I Could Go to Bed Right Now...

But I won't.

Oh, Erica, you have it right. I want Hot Sexxxy Fighting action! And there better be some!

The Booze Factor

Popcorn! How I love thee!

Sadly, my body's like, "So you have a diet of booze, I don't care!". Actually, my body has been craving booze more than actual food. I could live off of beer and still be functional. Really. It's odd....I go out, have beers, then get home, have tequila, then eat PB, and my body doesn't care. And I don't wake up hungover, like I have been for weeks. Now, I wake up, and dammit, it wants the tequila. If I were to go ahead and do that, my body would not mind. Seriously. I could live through the whole week, a sip (and really that, a sip) of tequila a day. I've thought about it, so I guess that makes me an alcoholic, that I would replace actual nutrition with booze. THAT I COULD LIVE OFF OF BOOZE. And it's been so tempting to me right now. To live off of booze. Who the hell at work is going to oppose me? No one, really. I'm genious at my job, oh, wait, and at OTHER people's jobs too. And with tequila, I can cope. I can be the alcoholic that I know rests inside. And I know I won't loose the pittance that they call my pay.

I have a college degree, and they don't acknowlege that. But it's the same for everyone. It doesn't matter how much schooling you've had, can you come in on time? They are loosing the best and brightest to other jobs, which are higher paying, than looking and developing a person's potential. Because I'm a "clerk", I can't break into underwriting. Because "I don't know enough". Excuse me? I have a college education in diplomacy...and I've heard the underwriters. You don't say, "no". You say, "let me look into this, and I'll let you know in 24-48 hours what the decision will be." My whole major is about diplomacy. WTF? And I have to be a CSR or a UT before I can be an underwriter? Um, Hello, International Relations? As in, "Well that's good that you lost a lot of weight under your diet, but I still have to look at the guidlines" kind of thing? Uh, I majored in diplomcy. A graduate, in fact. But I still have to maintain a monkey postition to get anything? Yeah, and management learned from the Zoo. I'm not stupid, but there aren't enough jobs for me. Gonna take advantage of that? Oh, hell, then I'm looking around for something else. HA!

Okay...

for the people who want to take the "How republican am I?" test, I have a link to a site at http://www.pandagon.net/archives/2005/04/why_yes_that_is.html#more Pandagon for you. They're worth checking out on a regular basis, actually. Hopefully, it works.

The Year

No one knows. The Year.

I'll be at her funeral. Really, I will. And all I will do is touch your arm. "Next year," I'll tell you, because I know, "I'll still be here for you."

You won't know it then. Too confused and saddened. But a year after, a bit different. What all of you do for me now, you don't really know what you're doing. Oh, but you will know. You will know the pain and the suffering. After that first year. Parents go before children. If you want the recipe, do it now. Not Later. You don't have later...I thought I did. I didn't. And in the broad stroke of an artist painting a watercolor, she was gone. Art is life, it's all around, and I can't explain it. It just is.

I just want want one time where I can talk about her, without the interruptions, and about her funny stories. And if "He's" out there, I know what loss is.....

Reminders

You are like my friend Carla. You are like Leigh. You are like all of my friends. Well, at least most of them.

I asked John if he considered himself a feminist. He said yes. He is not. I cannot interrupt him, yet he feels he can interrupt me. I may make snide comments, but it's bad, and I'm being a bitch for doing so. When he does it, it's okay. He can interrupt my thoughts, and I can't interurrpt his. I must pay attention to him. I gave a scathing anyalsis of his family, and I was wrong and/or horrible and wrong for doing so, but it's okay to do that to my family. That's like sooooo Brendan or something. Oh, but he can't live with that once a month PMS. He put up with it for 2 years....why now? Something odd happened to him...how else to explain the awkwardness? He dosn't understand how odd he is...and it has nothing to do with the intelligence.

It's just him.

There are a certain set of people out there, in the world, who can't think beyond themselves. Actually, that's most of the people. They really and honestly can't think about things other than themselves. They can't think in terms of how/what other people can feel. And that's about 96% of the world. They can't even imagine that other people have feelings vastly different than their own. They are locked in their world. And that's him. Really, it is. He portrays himself as Not Normal, and he's entirely normal. That's what makes me mad. And he won't admit, even though he's in the top 5% of intelligence, he's so NOT in the top 5% for emotional intelligence. I have way more knowledge of people than he does. I'm not smart in the way he is, but he wants to guadge it that way, so that he actually appears smarter than he really is. Even though that's not what he claims to do, it is what he does. But he doesn't like it if you point that out to him. If I was a man, and said something, he'd remember it. But because I'm not, it's not worth noting.

What makes me bitter is that I can forgive hin for kicking me in the leg. Not forgotten, but forgiven. And a single bitter episode of PMS makes him not want to be with me?

Asshole. Major Asshole, First Gunner.

Arg.

Wow! Don't you know...

It's easier to think about a diet that has you eat six times a day than about the mother who died almost a year ago, who sits in a crystal urn on the mantelpiece so that she can see the TV. Is that what it is? I really think so. Until the note from my aunt, I thought it was because I wanted to be healthy. Not die. Not die of heart problems. For the love of God, I think too much. Raise the pineapple rum in salute. Gone. Away.

I lost 20-25 pounds just on my own, with a few simple changes to my diet. Granted, it took 6-8 months, but that's what happened. And I had butter. And salt. The thing is, I may cook with a bit of butter, but practially no salt whatsoever. And water? I drink a lot of that. So why am I so gung-ho with the diet this week? My mom...mother's day...which leads to...her birthday...which...oh, dear god, the 27th, died then? This year she would've been 61, one year closer to retirement. Lord, I'm not holding up well. But mother's day was interwoven with her birthday, and that, in and of itself, is intertwined with her death. All in ONE FUCKING MONTH. She died as Grandma Serwin died, but there's still a hole in my life. Oh, Mom, I wanted you to be here, to see me move out, and even to make my own meals. Mom, I wish you were here, bringing me stuff, making sure I had enough. God, I miss you. Really, I do. You'd have me over for Sunday dinner, no getting out of it, and of course, we'd watch the food network. I love you. Always have. If I didn't, I wouldn't have told you what I did. Given what I knew, why do I still feel this way. Oh, Lord, it hurts in ways unimaginable.

I want it to stop. But I can't help but feel it.

I am: -20% Republican.

"The Marxists are too reactionary for you. With people like you around, America collectively thanks God for John Ashcroft."

Are You A Republican?

Here

The Inbetweeners

I'm an inbetweener. I was born within 3 years of the Gen-X and Gen-Y (or whatever you call them) division. We are one, but we are the other. We're a blend, a melding of two philosophies, a distinct in the indistingushable. Technically, I'm Gen-X. But I'm not, but I am. Being born to parents of inbetweeners, I am who they are. I refect the inbetweeners philosophy. Inbetweeners are very distinct, in that they are not entirely of one or the other societal generation. We like Blondie as well as Eminem, because we understand both.

Marshall Mathers, Eminem, is but one year older than I am. And yet, I can relate to his music. Because it's not black or white, it just is. Inbetweeners grew up with all sorts of stuff -- folk music, pop music, and the rise of rap, the real rap that pointed out the social ills, and in a way, for us, rap is the social extension of folk music. Public Enemy. In the Time of Metal. Metal is very male dominated, but rap at that time, while it did exhibit some maleness, was about something social. "Cop Killer"? A refelction of someone's psyche. Only the easily duped believed it was real. Who are the real "Cop Killers"? By default, the white man, because they're allowed to carry guns. And vote. And will shoot you to make sure that they have the right to vote AND bear arms. Those of a lesser color are not allowed to carry them, because, you know, they're not white. And they might cause trouble, just because they listen to rap and well, you know, they're not white.

It amazes me, the level of subtle racism that there is. I'm white, but I've been edumacated, so I come across things uttered that would not "normally" be considered "racist", but in fact are so terribly rascist, it disgusts me. But then again, I believe it's a class thing, that if white people think that they are living middle class-like, but really aren't, then they're okay, not like their black neighbors. Who, don't you know, are black.

As someone who believes in science, judging someone on the color of their organ is a bit weird. I mean, we don't really discriminate between the color of the liver or the spleen, and it makes just as much sense judging that way as on the color of someone's skin. The only difference is the pigment, and that can be altered. So why is it soooo important? If you do that, you are but a mere half-step from the monkey that we evolved from. And then, why does that concept upset people so? For the love of god, the good Lord gave you a brain...and you can't fucking use it? You have to waste it on mere superstition and organ discrimination? Man, apes are like that. I would love to think the average human's beyond that...but that might be wishful thinking.

And this post is dedicated to a person I knew, who once remarked, "Why is that white girl holding hands with that black boy? What does that say about her?...."

The answer, in my head at least, was "NO! What does that say about you?"

Never got an answer. He ended up committing suicide, but that's a whole 'nother post....

What?

All I want is some guy who really, really wants to have lots of sex, and doesn't mind the baby aspect of it...who is willing to take care of children....who will teach their offspring about thwarting the propaganda....who is a mirror of me.

I want someone who not only understands the intensness of me, but can bring it into frivolity. A man who can make me laugh at my seriousness, despite myself, and with longing. A language of emotion. Of me. That takes time, time which I don't think, nearing 30, I have....

For where I am in Now

So you've gone away. No one, apparently, trusts me to make the Easter menu.

"So I'll continue to continue to pretend
Our life will never end
And flowers never bend with the rainfall"

I still love you. Thank you for the memories of your mother and the Tom Collins that she poured into the iron so that your father didn't know that she was drinking. It was delightful, funny, and sad.

And, if you could, steer me toward a good guy. Please. John Edwards was on Fox News, about Terri Schiavo, so I don't think you should trust him. I know you have other ways, so please try to use those. I would be greatful for your help, Mom.

Love,
Your darling daughter, the one you prayed for