Living on the edge

Unemployment is the most scariest thing ever. You think that maybe you can make it through but you can't especially when they screw you over on your severance. Sure 6 months but it's only 4 when you count the taxes and now you sit around and watch your bank account continually go negative and negative and negative and suddenly you get panicked and worried and you can't find a job because people will interview you but oh well, you know, you don't get the job.

Waiting for a check to arrive but damn it why can't it arrive sooner, I sent it in almost a month ago and and it's not even going to be there and now I have to sit and wonder when I can pay off my things again and when I can not worry about starving.

Hell in a handbasket that's where we're going.

Why we can't have nice things

The first thing I thought of when I heard this was that white people were trying to start a race war. Instead, people decided that it was a good idea to kill a bunch of cops.

We don't have just a gun problem in this country, we also have a problem with hate speech. The combination of the two breeds a particularly toxic stew.

This has got to stop. We can't keep killing each other. The othering of literally everyone but white American males needs to stop. Plenty of people were born here and they're not all white and why the motherfucking hell people can't just accept that angers me.

After Hurricane Katrina, I saw a message posted on a message board, presumably by a white person, who said "Now the country will know about the quality of our blacks". I wanted to say, "I'm sorry to shatter your illusions, sir, but the quality of white people isn't that great either, especially assholes like you." There has always been this type of culture in America and its poisonous, revolting, and vile and really needs to go.

As a patriotic American, I am appalled at the people who would steal liberty and freedom from other Americans and enjoy or justify it with glee. The problem with good guys with guns is is that the bad guys have them too, and nobody has a gun radar that goes off in the presence of a gun and tells you where it is or if a person is a good guy or a bad guy. Bullets don't care who the hell you are they just kill.

This is the flipside of stoking racial animosity toward anyone not white in order to get votes. Sure it gets you the votes, but how many votes are you really going to get when everyone's dead because we had to fight the Civil War all over again?

One Last Screw Before They Let Me Go

Every project, every stupid fucking project, I kept saying, "when it comes time for us to go, no amount of projects will save us".  And I was somewhat right - except for me.  Oh, it "saved" me - right into a job that I'd rather kill myself than take.  No, this isn't temporarily on the phones, and I honestly don't mind that.  So in effect, they hold my severance hostage because there's supposedly a "business need" of putting me in an area that I've very carefully chosen to avoid because I really don't want to do it.

I'm not knocking the CSRs - they're awesome people who are excellent at what they do.  But that's not something I want to do, even if I'm not given a choice.  I could use the severance money but how much is my soul and dignity worth?  Is that a fair trade?

I don't think so.  God, this is so horrible that I can't stop crying.

Happy Fucking Birthday To Me

The one thing I will miss, and will probably miss forever, is that Auntie Pillow would always take my dad and me out for our birthdays.  So many memories.  I miss the random lunches with her.  I miss going to festivals with her.  I think that this will be first year that I haven't thrown myself into so many projects that I don't have time to think so that now I have time to think.  And it's sad that I have to post this here because otherwise there will be excessive worry and it's kind of annoying because I like to share my thoughts but I always have to be guarded because then there will be excessive attention and I hate that much attention.  I'm okay, really, just let me get through it.  But I will so miss her and everything else, and right now I just wish I lived on an island alone and that I don't have feelings for people because apparently I can't manage my own feelings and I'll never be sensible about it and that really sucks because it would be nice to have friends that actually understand but sometimes that's a tall order, and I curse myself for believing people when they say that they take things seriously but then they don't, not really, not by any stretch of the imagination.  So I'll just have another margarita because tequila's been the only thing that's really ever been for me because there will never not be a moment in my life where I'm not lonely.

Insert Heavy Sigh Here

For once, I would like to be important enough in someone's life that they think of me first.  That I don't have to put up with the endless waiting and stupid "oh, I'm sorry" bullshit that seems to occur with stunning regularity.  For once, I want someone to stop paying lip service to me and actually demonstrate that I am, in fact, important.

Perhaps my standards are too high.  I hate lowering them, because that way lies madness, and I know it does, because that's a well-worn path and I'm damn tired of taking it.  I think I'm just going to have to adjust my expectations and live with the fact that nothing is ever serious and I'll just be doomed to 3 year relationships or however long it takes for me to give up on it, when I get tired of dealing with bullshit.

It hurts, but you know, I guess I have to.  I probably shouldn't have jumped off that bridge again.  Shame on me for being that much of a fool.

In the evening

So there's the lightening bugs in the back yard and I'm watching them from my perch on the back porch and thinking, thinking, because it's a beautiful evening in a twilight in-between punctuated by dots of glowing green light and why wouldn't that make a person think?  Although sometimes I wish I didn't think because sometimes my brain is my worst enemy and I end up wondering if I am really the person I am or if I'm just pretending because sometimes I feel like a fraud, surrealistic and unnatural, a thin veneer of civility layered carefully upon a hopeless and insane core, a predatory disease waiting to surface and infect the people around me, and it compells me to want to hide myself from the world because that's how it should be if you're that horrible so that you don't rage out of control because no one needs to see that.

No one needs to see the messy feelings and the heartache and the pain and the suffering and the anger, not that anyone would care that much anyway, because people honestly will never care about you the way that you care about yourself, even if you say it, even if you demand it, but then if you demand it, it's not real and a mere chore for another person to perform, and then you're back to the quandary of being a horrible person again that no one should see when you're in that mood so bleak it threatens to break through whatever controls you've set up to maintain that layer of sanity.  And sometimes it hurts to be this way because you want to say everything but you can't not that anyone would truly listen, but still, sometimes you need to say it seriously and it just sits and festers and you feel like a fraud again, hiding behind the smile and pleasantries.

And that's why I think I write here.  To say the things I'd need to say, to a nonexistent audience.

Smiles Hide So Much

The manic pixie dream girl that's all you'll ever be the girl of good times cut off by the intense emotions you ever feel and never being able to tell tell them and you wonder how long it will last before you're discovered a fraud of who you really are inside. It always fels strange but it always will that person you are versus what you show to people and it will always be a surprise despite the clues you leave behind....

Laughing At The Trees

Do I dare jump off this bridge yet?  Would I yet again freefall into the water like a rock as has happened before?  Or do I dare think that this time, I will have learned to fly?

The Things I Know

I've just had a revelation as to why the whole situation with my aunt bothered me.

It was a Tuesday.  She'd gone into the hospital yet again, pain so unbearable, she couldn't stand.  That will sometimes happen with a stroke and given her health, it was only a matter of time before the stroke happened.  Luckily - or maybe unluckily - she survived the stroke and did well with rehab.

Until the pain got worse.

Maybe, just maybe, I would be wrong about my feeling, that complete dread, that this is the end and to say goodbye now before it happenes.  Grandma was there in the dream, that swirling dream about the place where my aunt had lived for many years, my mom answered the door, Grandma was there, my mom, my great aunt and uncle, dressed for a nice occasion, and my Grandma said to me, "We're waiting for Joan to come back."  She was not there yet...but soon would be.

I will mention now, I've never met my Grandma, my dad and aunt's mother.  She died before I was born.  But she still smiled at me and kissed my forhead in my dream.

It was Tuesday.  "Please call me back," I heard my dad's voice say in the voicemail, "I need to talk to you about your aunt's condition."

We'd go to lunch every so often, and in those days, many times, places I could not afford on my own.  We - and the whole family, actually - loved good food.  The Coast, Sabor, North Shore Bistro.  Red Lobster was always hilarious, as she'd bring her own kitchen shears to crack the king crab legs.  The plate would come, and she'd pull a plastic bag with the shears out of her purse.  The last year she went to State Fair, she had trouble walking even past the gate.  "I'm not going to make it," she said.  "Don't be silly," I told her, "they have scooters and wheelchairs for rent.  Let's get one."  As a child, I loved going with her on the bus to Northridge, I'd lean agaist her and say, "Auntie, you are really soft.  You make a good pillow."  She was my auntie pillow.

"So...I'm calling you back.  What's going on?" I said to my dad.  "She's decided to discontinue dialysis," he said, his voice cracking a little.  "She will be going into hospisce.  The doctors say it will take about a week."

I had called on a Saturday in September to see if I could do my laundry at their house because the people in my apartment building were assholes when it came to laundry.  "Hello," my aunt answered, pain evident in her voice.  "Are you okay?" I asked, forgetting about my laundry.  So from then on, almost every Saturday morning, I would go over and do her laundry, to spare her the pain of going up and down the stairs to the basement.  Of course, I brought my laundry over to do as well.  We'd sit and chat, watch How It's Made, munch on ten year old cheddar and crackers.

It took forever for them to transfer her to hospice.  They wheeled her in.  "I'm so sorry," she said, "I never wanted to be a burden."  "You were never a burden," my dad told her.  "Because we love you," I said, "nothing was a big deal or a burden."  "Stay with me," she said.  "I will, Auntie, I will."  So every day for 7 days, I showed up with my lunch, watched TV, and talked to her, even when she no longer could respond.

There are times in my life where people disappoint me.  I'm okay with that, it happens, it's life.  But to be honest, there are some disappointments so horrible, I can never reconcile it with my soul.  It's like the chasm of disappointment creates a river of resentment so deep, that nothing the other peson says or does will ever repair it.  I recognize those moments when they happen; I'm just not good at letting go at that point and freeing myself from my feelings.  Oh, I loved Zombie, I really did.  He disappointed me often but I learned to live with it, even when he talked about himself for 20 minutes straight before I could blurt out, "Joan's going into hospice".

I flipped through the channels.  Nothing was on that I wanted to watch.  I touched her arm.  "I'm not good at this, Auntie," I said.  I spotted the CD case - the one she had always taken with her to dialysis - and flipped through it.  I don't remember what the title of the CD was, but it was all the church songs, some of them the ones that I had loved to sing when I was in choir.  I turned off the TV, put on the CD, and for the first time in a very long time, I sang church songs, touching her arm.  She was still soft.  Still my auntie pillow.

"All I need for you to do is my dishes," I told him.  "I've been so busy, I haven't had time to do everything."  My expectation was that he would do my housework while I was at the hospice.  I was so overwhelmed, so, so overwhelmed.  "Shouldn't I go?" he asked.  "No, I need you to help me here."  I will say at this point, I would have preferred he kicked me in the leg.  I learned a very valuable lesson that day - between physical violence/verbal abuse and emotional jackassery, I'd much rather be beat than have my heart ripped out of my chest and stomped on.  Internal bleeding goes away; looking at the person you once loved with all your heart knowing that if something horrible happens, it will be all about them and fuck you, wondering when that horrible moment will come again is heartbreaking.  And it will come again, only a matter of time.  Instead of saying, "Of course I will do this for you because I love you and you are facing an extremely difficult time," he said, "WHAT?  I didn't get to say goodbye!  Why can't I go with you?  She'll be gone forever.  Why can't I go?  I need to see her."  And on.  And on.  Insisting and pleading and insisting some more.  It wasn't until I had finished showering and crying in the shower, that I had decided that it was over between us and that all the feelings that I ever had for him had swirled down the drain, now lost to the sewage pipe.  "Rest assured," I told him as I getting dressed, "that it will be over if you make me do this."  Cue another round of tears.  Eventually, he relented and just let me go alone to see my aunt.

We were her children, she didn't have any of her own.  She spoiled us when our parents couldn't.  Travels to Disney World and a trip anywhere in the world when we were 16.  She was our Fairy Godmother.  And here Zombie was, demanding that I take him to the hospice.  Even Mr Kicked Me In The Leg had not been that much of an asshole when my mother died.

Looking back on it now, I should have just let the fruit flies take over, and kicked him out of my apartment, never to be seen again, except at my aunt's funeral.  You never expect the people you love to hurt you so badly, but it happens.  I kept the sweatshirts that I had painted for her and every so often, I pull them out and touch them, remembering the hugs and kisses and bus rides and lunches.

Look At Her Van Goh

(Taken from a writing on my phone, while at the bar.)

I used to know a lot of people but apparently I don't anymore.  Fun, I had fun once, but the deserts of time have dried up and I am alone in the crowd once again.  We used to take our fun seriously but as of late - ages later it seems - the fun well has dried up or withered or something egregious.  All that's left is cold doorwarys and beer.  And the arythmic cackles of whores cutting through the soft jazz, piercing eardrums and hopes to get laid.

It was a typical Friday night.  No different than the current Friday nights.  Eventually people would filter out - beer, the bar, the fading voices of lofty ideals for Saturday, it didn't matter.  Sooner or later, dignity came stumbling out a fustrated and forlorn mess.  You can cure the hangover but not the pathectic shell of a human being.

As far as shells go, though, it wasn't that bad.  It had yet to be hardened by motivational exercise, untouched by organic food, an organism purely full of refined chemicals.  Such beautiful chemicals they were!  Alas, they were the kind that ended one's lifewspan early, much to the chargrin of genetics that would otherwise last until 90.

And maybe that was everyone's story - the Story of Chemeically Induced Shortened Lifespans.  Who has the time far un UberChristain Lifestyle?  Certainly not the denziens of this great city!  Beer flowed like water, an artisanal well of failed hopes and dreams with a slightly hoppy flavor.  A delicate balance of sobriety and drepression, which most people decide to call "fun".

Which is all well and good, until you realize it isn't.

I Don't

So yesterday kinda sucked.  The theme for the day on PBS Create was "I Do" and while I can stand Sarah Moulton and her dinner for two show, the rest of it depressed the everliving fuck out of me.  I went from okay to THE WORLD MUST BURN in three shows.

Oh, man, was it a mood.  The shelf didn't work out so I had to go back to Menards to get a new one, crying the whole way there.  Luckily, I can hear my dad coming up steps, so I could stave off the tears.  Nobody needs to see me like that.

I thought about everything that happened - what he did that I couldn't stand the touch of him, how he proposed...and my mind starting connecting the other awful bits of this business, the way my mother treated me, during the wedding planning and the way she treated me after the breakup.  My head was swirling with the most depressing thoughts, floating around, knocking against my skull, and I was crying, crying because I didn't have anyone to talk to about this horrible thing, which is just as well, I think, because if I did, it would have been hours of whiny, and I hate that.  I hate that it still pops into my head, the clusterfuck of my twenties, how I wish I had broken up with him before we got engaged, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have done what he did, maybe then I wouldn't have learned that my mother would turn into Momzilla over my fucking wedding, more maybes that would never happen because it's in the past.  Even if I went back in time to my younger self, she wouldn't have believed what will transpire in her future because you never anticipate that your loved ones would hurt you so deeply that you wish you would die because suddenly the mask slips off and you realize that you've never been important, it's about them, it's always been about them, and they've never given a shit about you, and it just sits there laid out naked and raw, something awful that you can't look at but can't look away.  I had dreams once, but I don't even try to anymore because I hate feeling disappointed in something I can't control because it's a useless endeavor and why feel that when you can't change the outcome.

I knew it was there always lurking in a drawer, hiding, waiting for the random moment when I'd clean out my drawers and completely forgot I put there and then I'd see it and put it on, feeling sad and hopeless and angry all at the same time.  Oh, how that hurt!  I said I wasn't in the mood.  Did you enjoy yourself while I cried silently to myself hoping that this would be quick so that I could go kill myself?  I'm sorry you didn't realize that you hurt me until you saw me crying, and no, no apology in the world wouldn't work, it couldn't work, I was afraid and confused and scared that you just did that, I was ashamed and didn't want anyone to know, and hell, even I didn't want to know.  And being young and stupid I tried - oh, how I tried! - but it always lurked there in the back of my head that you were not safe and would never be safe and in twenty years one day I'd wake up and just kill you wearing a remorseless and resigned mask because my soul would have long been drained out of my body and all that would be left is a shell of a once carefree human.  And my mother would stand by and cheerlead it all with the unrelenting attitudes that made her annoying in the first place that we could finally bond as mother and daughter and I'd have to fake like I wanted the advice from someone who prided herself on how she was fierce mother and how she kept us safe when in reality every day at school was fresh new horror of how I'd be bullied by the entire fucking class...no, not just one or two bullies, but everybody, my pleas to switch schools falling on deaf ears, finally sneaking the rum from the cabinets at 11 because nobody believed me and I'd lost hope and resigned myself to this hellish existence, none of my teachers brought it up to my parents, and one said anything to my parents about it, not that she'd believe them anyway.  And this was the woman that would run my wedding and do everything that she didn't get to do, and was mad enough when her wish fulfillment vehicle struck back and broke it off with the fiancee that she made it clear that he'd always be welcome in HER house.

"I swear to God, Cuz, it's cursed or something," said after spending yet another day packing until 1 am.  "I mean, I don't believe that it is really but sometimes I think it is.  All of my relationships end like this, maybe it's keeping me from meeting someone who happens to know what respect means, but really, maybe not.  I'll never get that close to getting married again.  He's gonna have to be insanely exceptional for that to happen, and since my standards are apparently too high at 'basic respect' and 'actually listens to me', and not 'project assumptions on me even when I've said and done the complete opposite'.  I mean, why do they do that?  Why are they surprised when I say something, like we've never had this conversation before, because you know me, it's not like I'm SHY about my views or anything.  I just don't get why this is pattern with all of them.  I've done serious soul searching, and since I'm the only constant in my relationships, I'm the one who must be doing something wrong.  For the life of me, I can't figure it out.  So it's nice to sometimes think it's not me."

And in a flurry of boxes, papers, all sorts of whatnots, it was found after the move.  One last time, my brain said, one last time to wear it.  I put it on.  Do you really want to get rid of it?  It's so pretty.  You probably will never get another one of those ever.  Are you really sure?  Two pictures, then it was off my hand and into the box, off to the jewelers to be sold and never heard from again because it had to go and it was very ridiculous that I'd had it that long.  "Are you sure?" the lady asked when she told me the price.  I hesitated for a moment - gone forever whispering in my head - and said "Yes".

In the car, I shed a few tears.  "It's okay to cry," my cousin said, "he was a big part of your life at one time."  I was quiet for a moment, wiping away a tear, then said, "I remember when he gave it to me.  It was just like him not have the ring sized or how it would look.  It was all diamonds and too small.  When I put it on, I said, 'Is this for your other girlfriend?'  And then I went home and my mother freaked out.  'Is that a friendship ring?' 'No, mom, it's an engagement ring, but it's not completed yet, there's rubies that go here and here.'  'What, it's not ALL diamonds?'  I just stood there for a moment because that was silly.  She was so mad at my dad for keeping it a secret from her."

And then I started the car to head home and unpack the boxes, thinking about how I was going to arrange all of the furniture I had crammed into the computer room.

(Updated for spelling/grammar/memory errors.)

What's In A Name? Cheese.

"I hate it when people call you Mouse, don't introduce yourself like that."

Perhaps, but not really. You see, the origin of this name isn't because I'm short and like chesse. It's not because I'm "mousy" or anything.

It has to do with a conversation I had very long ago with friends. As in, almost 10 years ago long ago. We've long moved on to other bars, lives, genders, but at the time we were sitting around and talking. And when you engage in such endevors among friends, you end up with strange topics of conversations such as "If you were named after a cartoon character, who would it be?"

Now for some bit of background. When I was a child, I had a fascination with all things Cartoon Mouse. From Disney's Cinderella to Tom and Jerry and anything that had a Cartoon Mouse. Since I was a child, I was rather annoying about it. I made my parents hold the door open for all 27 of my Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends. My mother thought that maybe a dose of reality would quell my fascination with Cartoon Mice by making me check the pantry for dead mice in the mouse traps that we set. Unfortunatly, my imagination is stronger and more stubborn than mere reality. When I checked the traps, there wasn't any mice...until one jumped out from behind the cans. Because I was 5 and startled, I slammed the pantry door shut...on the the mouse's tail. It was stuck trying to scurry away and I was glued to the wall screaming in terror. After my mother's eyes rolled straight out of her head, she went and got my father to get rid of the mouse. He came back in, bitten and annoyed, and said that he'd killed it. Cue an overdramatic 5 year old wailing over a dead mouse. And it was another year or two that they had to hold the door open for the 27 Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends.

Mouse. It's my thing.

My second favorite cartoon ever is this one:

I LOVED that episode. I don't think of myself as a mouse, per se, but The White Mouse. The Explosive Mouse. So when I say "I'm Mouse", I'm saying that I'll blow you up if you try to hurt me. And there's nothing mousy about that bit of badassery.

Bring it, motherfuckers, I'm Mouse.

Adventures At Work

Source: someecards.com via Jodi on Pinterest

I definitely had someone like that...I could feel my brain cells sliding out the wood plank to jump off of. Now I must send it around work.

Just Laugh, You Silly

In the middle of the street, this line just sits there.  l really try not to take myself seriously. I mean, yeah there will be times that l have to be serious but fuck it, doesn't have to be all the time.

The thing about fun is that it's addictive.  I always fall for that moment when you click with someone and can't stop thinking about them but I'm always cautious with myself because I know I'm awkward and weird and a little offputting at times.  It doesn't help that sometimes my enthusiasm is mistaken for desparation.

[pensive acoustic guitar music]

(I love closed captioning, especially descriptions of the music playing...I wouldn't have described the music as "pensive".)

But I am me and there's not much I can do about it.  So I'll just laugh and see where the journey takes me.

Real Tired of Your Shit, Life

So I'm sitting here, bored, got work to do, but still, once the work is over, then I've got nothing to do and who the hell wants to sit everywhere bored to motherfucking death on shit.  Yeah, I can read Pinterest but fuck, "humor" is anything but, it's all not funny anymore and dammit facebook is just a great wasteland of crap.  I've never been one for social media.  Sure, I'll bear my soul here and write drunken screeds decrying the lack of penis in my life, but shit, better here where random strangers stumble upon this by surprise and not something that my friends and family see.  Well, okay, the three "friends" I have.  Since you can't really delete your shit, but only "deactivate", well, fuck that.  I'm thinking of deactivating because shit, I'm only on once a week for 15 minutes because my attention span is precious and I've got better things to do, like search for the coveted Golden Penis or playing a MMO or something - anything really - that's way better than this shit.

And I keep forgetting that this is here.  I always forget this is here.  Social media is for people who like to pretend staring at pixels is something social.  Social is taking a walk.  Social is going for coffee or a drink with friends.  I will say it's not all bad, sometimes after a grueling day of people, pixels seem ideal.  So I'm dusting off the box labeled "Old NY Resolutions" and dragging this one out.  I have a feeling that from here on out, it's going to be one hell of a wild ride.

I just realized that it's been less than 6 months since I broke up with the Zombie.  Why was I acting like a crazy fucking bitch?  Really.  I'm not dumb enough to go back to Ragemonster.  I'll stay out of the orbit of idiots and racists.  Sometimes, in my lowest moments, I think "I have to put up with people who are scary insecure because I wouldn't have friends otherwise" and old me with the crazy hats singing TMBG gives me a look as if to say "seriously, y u that pathetic".

So I'm going for writing again until my brain gives out.  I may be afraid to speak - actually, not afraid, but if I want people to not spit on me on sight, I have to keep my mouth shut - but I have to have somewhere to empty the basket of language that I'm carrying around, spilling over, trying to stumble along and clutch the larger words and phrases to my chest while I carry this heavy basket precariously balancing in my hand, awkward and confused and struggling.  It'd be nice if someone was there to help me but I can't hold my breath waiting for people who say that they'll help and they don't.  All I'll get is winded, gasping for breath, and still have all that shit I need to do.

It's not that I have low expectations of people, it's that people have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only thing they're good for is just light talking, not doing or serious shit, so the doing will be left up to me.  It always annoys me when someone says "you can't do it all" because hell, I'd LOVE not do it all but that's just impossible because people can't be there for you when you really need them.  The worst part about life and shit is that the reality of all of this is that you can only count on yourself because that's the only consistant in your life.  And if you're going to be fucking insecure about it, no thanks.  I hate hanging my shit on other people's hooks but sometimes the temptation is there because other people seem to think that that's okay but when it comes to me, all I get is the "oh, no time for you" and well fuck it, if I'm going to be alone, I'm gonna do that shit properly.  Sure, I'm just there for you to unload, but I've got it all in my head and nowhere to go, and I've given up trying to make people understand the whole concept of "give and take" and well, might as well talk about shit that don't mean anything anymore, right?  Why even start, when it will end quickly?

And speaking of, I probably should at least begin my work.  Hopefully this bad mood of "FUCK EVERYTHING" goes away.

This Was Inevitable

So it's over.

You remembered my birthday two years in a row.  Why you forgot this year, I don't know.  But that hurt.  I would say that hurt almost as much as demanding to be taken to the hospice to see my dying aunt but only almost because it isn't as dire or serious.  You had a million chances to come with me when I did her laundry every week and see her before she passed away but you did not take them because you wanted to sleep.

I can't stand by and watch you defeat yourself.  Perhaps you do need therapy.  Maybe you don't.  I don't know.  I know your medications cause you to forget things and to sleep a lot, but seriously, 5 minutes out of your day not to pick up the phone and say "hello"?  Even if it was a day early, I'd be okay with it.  If you hadn't remembered the first two years, I'd be okay with it.  But no.  You fucked up big time, and I'm not as forgiving now, and what's worse, is that I told you that after the thing with my aunt.

Maybe it's time for you to learn that actions have consequences.  Pity that your parents didn't teach you that lesson.  Pity that you didn't learn to be nice to people.  That's not a part of your condition; I know bipolar people and schizophrenic people who've learned manners, even if occasionally they're awkward.

But you?  You don't take the time to care or listen.  And while I hate to say this, no, you do not get to tell black people what's racist or not.  It's up to the person to decide what they're comfortable with.  Asking stupid white questions is one thing, but saying that someone shouldn't find things racist is another.  Build a bridge and get over it.

I'm done.

Seriously?

Sometimes I wonder why I talk to you on the phone.  I feel like it's a fifth grader recounting his day at school, except with crap from the History Channel or Fox News.  It bores me.

*sigh* And he seemed so good...

Open Letter

Dear People On Pinterest,

Just stop.  No, not with the pinning of unfunny jokes and recipes that look like something a cat threw up, but the stupid "yer a hoor" bullshit.  As someone who has occasionally dresses like a slut and has a lot of sex, I would prefer that you keep your jealousies to yourself.  Just because you wear tents and chastity belts doesn't mean I have to, and further more, doesn't mean anyone else has to, either.  If your immediate opinion of me is "stupid whore" when I wear a short skirt and show my ample cleavage, the problem is with you, not me.  You know what you sound like?  That one really drunk guy at the bar who was throwing a fit because no one was paying attention to him and he decided to lean over to one chick who was obviously part of a girls' night out, grabbed her shirt, and loudly proclaimed, "THAT'S A SLUTTY MATERIAL YOU'RE WEARING!"  Yes, you're that guy.

Likewise, can we stop with the "skinny bitches" remarks?  Even though I am no where near a skinny bitch size, I know plenty of skinny bitches, and they're that way because even though you manage not to call them a skinny bitch, it's written all over your face.  Some people won the skinny in the genetics lottery.  Get over it.  In the words of Rosanne Barr, "It's okay to be fat.  So you're fat.  Just be fat and shut up about it."  Also, if you don't want people to call you a "skinny bitch", don't imply that fat is the worst thing you could possibly be.  Many, many things are worse than being fat.  Death of a loved one/pet, splinters, car accidents...I could go on.

In other words, don't be a dick.  Thank you.

Hints

I really hate it when you sit by the supervisor at work. You hear almost everything in a cube farm, even if you're trying to be quiet. But the one thing that should be obvious to everyone is that if you are a supervisor, and you are bitching about an employee, and said employee sits right next to your cubicle, you may not want to bitch about them while they are at their desk. Especially if you say some very specific things that they can hear and reasonably assume that they are the subject of said bitching. At the very least, carry on that conversation elsewhere when said employee promptly comes in at the same time every day.

I guess it's time to dust off the old resume and update it. For the record, I don't care if people bitch about me, but for the love of dog, at least have the decency to do it out of earshot.

So I guess this is it.

I remember when I was younger and my aunt lived with us. I remember all of the bus rides as child, going shopping with my aunt.

Northridge Mall - I was very young and well, somewhat stupid. I was on the second floor of the mall and the typical upper floor had railings that you could look down to the first floor. Railings that were metal, and spaced just far enough for a child's head to pass through. I know this, because that's what I did. Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on ears. It scared the hell out of my aunt because she was ready to call the fire department to get me out. I did get my head on my own but because of said ears, it hurt.

There are so many memories swirling about in my head. I know that she had a good run, and that the last few months have been really, really hard on her. She does not want any life-saving measures anymore and just wants to be comfortable now. This is the part of life that's the hardest - the goodbye. It's so very necessary but so very sad. I will miss her. We all will.

The part I hate the most about this is that life goes on. It would be nice if time stopped just for a brief moment so that you could collect yourself so that you could move on easier. Second best, though, is being able to say goodbye. And now, this death will be about holding a hand, stroking hair, and saying "I love you". If only every person could die so comforted.