Monday, November 30, 2009

Rabbity Must Read: Tremendous News

I get tons of hate-mail.  Especially from Rabbity Things.  I just don't think people "get" my lack sense of humour - either that or they've got their Nuva Ring twisted.  Oh well, fuck 'em and feed 'em fish.  Most are incapable of conjugating an actual sentence anyway so I don't think the skin on my back is going to curl up and run away any time soon.  Anyway - today's Rabbity Read is the perfect post addressing how to write proper hate mail.  It's brilliant.

Go.  Read. Now!

Don't make me throw my spoon at you!!!

A threat well-known and often ushered at our house.  Back when the kiddos were teenagers and we were ALL living under my mother's roof (I think my grandmother was residing with us at the time as well - imagine the festive atmosphere - 2 cats; 4 kids; 3 dogs; a grandmother; and a mother...)  we were having a lovely Southern afternoon as we were wont to do.  For whatever reason, Belle and I got into it.  This usually happened on days that ended in "Y" and on hours that ended in zero.  She was sitting on the couch about to feast on a nice hot bowl of Chicken & Stars soup.  Well WHATever it was we were going on about, I just wouldn't let it go.  I know, shocking!!!  I popped off one last time, and Belle had enough.  The bitch threw her spoon at my head.  Fortunately, Belle has about as much aim as she has sense, so she missed.  Me, at least.  Layne from coming through the door that lead out to the garage.  The spoon zinged past my head.  Bounced off the door.  And beaned Layne right in the chest.


Now Layne is - how do I put this? - a little....  High Strung.  Getting thwucked in the chest by a flying spoon is a recipe for diaster.  And much hilarity.  I was already in tears laughing and trying not to pee myself.


Laynee proceeded to pick up the offending spoon at hurl it back at Belle with the force of a Taco Bell turd shot from an angry butthole.  And hit her target.  Bullseye!  The spoon hit the bowl full of Belle's soup and the bowl exploded - right in half!   Spoon goes FLYING over Belle's head and chickeny stars are EVERYWHERE!  Mostly in Belle's lap and all over the couch and - Gawd Forbid! - on her shoes.  She freaks the fart out wailing about "My Shoes!  My Shoes!" and hopping about trying to get hot stars off her hoo-hoo.  The dogs are going apeshit trying to munch up the mess.  I am about to have a freakin' heart attack from laughing so hard.  Did I mention James David had a little friend over?  First time visiting our house (and I think his last) and he is now plastered back up against the fireplace in terror.

And then came Mimi.  We only thought all hell had broken loose before.  Mimi is none too amused with us or the new design that is now dripping off her couch.  New couch.  Belle is still hopping about and wailing "My Shoes!  My Shoes!"  And Mimi HAD it!

"I dont' give a [BLEEP] about your shoes! 
Look at my [BLEEPING] couch!!!!"  

Chaos ensued.  I ran (and laughed).  Mimi cussed.  Belle screamed some more about her shoes.  That neighbor kid never left the fireplace.  Mimi threatened to kill us all with said spoon.  It was pure and total pandemonium.  It was hysterical.  I think the dogs cleaned up most of the mess but we certainly got it tidied up with a quickness.

But that is why forever more, always, and to this day Belle is (affectionately) known as StarrPussay!  And if ever you piss any of us off and are warranted the warning "Don't make me throw my spoon at you!"

Stop what you are doing.

Back away slowly.

And run for your freakin' life!!!

Echoes from the Rabbit's Den

"I don't like anything that's rubbery - or grows - in my mouth..."
- my mother. Calamari, anyone?

I WON!!! (Well, kinda sorta..)

The gossip site Gawker was holding a Thanksgiving Horror Story contest last week for the most outrageous holidays tales.  On a whim, I decided to submit one I had written a couple of years ago inspired by the lovely antics of my family on the holidays!

AND I WON!  Well, I at least got mentioned.  I about crapped myself!!!  I really thought I had won won at first but then I had to calm down and realized I was an honourable mention for The Overly Dramatic Oscar.  Still a big deal to get mentioned.  Gawker is a pretty well known site!  I am so excited!!!

You can check out the Gawker page here (I'm at the end of the list just before the grande prize - gotta love the new title they gave it) - or you can read it on Redhead Dancing here The commenters on Gawker thought I should have won - AND I was compared to Flannery O'Connor

That's winning in my book!!!

Sunday, November 29, 2009

A Sign of the Times?

The New Oxford American Dictionary has picked its Word of 2009. The choice goes to show you the ubiquity of Facebook (and MySpace): the word is "unfriend."

Oxford University Press made the announcement on Monday, saying that it's Word of the Year (or WOTY) time around the office. The definition is:
unfriend – verb – To remove someone as a ‘friend’ on a social networking site such as Facebook.

As in, “I decided to unfriend my roommate on Facebook after we had a fight.”
Other candidate words (I guess you could call them runners-up) were:


hashtag – a # [hash] sign added to a word or phrase that enables Twitter users to search for tweets (postings on the Twitter site) that contain similarly tagged items and view thematic sets

intexticated – distracted because texting on a cellphone while driving a vehicle

netbook – a small, very portable laptop computer with limited memory

paywall – a way of blocking access to a part of a website which is only available to paying subscribers

sexting – the sending of sexually explicit texts and pictures by cellphone


freemium – a business model in which some basic services are provided for free, with the aim of enticing users to pay for additional, premium features or content

funemployed – taking advantage of one’s newly unemployed status to have fun or pursue other interests

zombie bank – a financial institution whose liabilities are greater than its assets, but which continues to operate because of government support

Politics and Current Affairs

Ardi – (Ardipithecus ramidus) oldest known hominid, discovered in Ethiopia during the 1990s and announced to the public in 2009

birther – a conspiracy theorist who challenges President Obama’s birth certificate

choice mom – a person who chooses to be a single mother

death panel – a theoretical body that determines which patients deserve to live, when care is rationed

teabagger -a person, who protests President Obama’s tax policies and stimulus package, often through local demonstrations known as “Tea Party” protests (in allusion to the Boston Tea Party of 1773)


brown state – a US state that does not have strict environmental regulations

green state – a US state that has strict environmental regulations

ecotown - a town built and run on eco-friendly principles

Novelty Words

deleb – a dead celebrity

tramp stamp – a tattoo on the lower back, usually on a woman

It's all rather telling, don't you think? Though I am pretty sure Teabagging and Politics should never be married.  Look THAT up in your Funk & Wagnalls!


Saturday, November 28, 2009

Six Words Saturday

I wish I knew the words...

I found out last week that my childhood/teenage girlfriend killed herself back in October of last year.  I have been hunting for her for more than a year now.  The last time I spoke with her was in October of last year - had to have been within days of her taking her own life.  I wish I would have known the words then to help her heal.  I wish I knew the words now to express how I feel...  In many ways I am happy than she is no longer suffering.  In many more ways, my heart aches for all the suffering she went through.

I just wish I knew the words...

That's all.

Promise To Try (Album Vesion) - Madonna

Echoes from the Rabbit Hole

"I don't like anything that's rubbery - or that grows - in my mouth."
- my mother.  Calamari, anyone?

Echoes from the Rabbit's Den

"I bet it sure would be a lot of fun to ride a Sour Cocky!"
- my grandmother, proclaiming her interest in motorcycle riding...

Excuse me Ma'am, Your Puddin' is Smokin'!

Inspired by Georgina's post about Odd Family Recipes, I just had to share this one.  It's really not the recipe so much as the cook, but it was hilarious none the less.  Last year during the holidays, KaLynn and I had been remodeling her house - painting, laying floors, et cetera - and I think we were about at wit's end both mentally and physically by the time Eatin' Day got there.  Not that it's all that terribly far to the end of our wits for either of us...  Every time I go home I HAVE to have this gawd awful desert that is nothing but piles and piles of puddin' and cream cheese and whipped cream - it's insane - and I will eat the entire thing all by myself.  Well, KaLynn - being the good mama that she is - was up early the day of getting this mess ready.  We were down to the last couple of layers - chocolate I think we were at now - and she's spreadin' spreadin' spreadin' the puddin' on and gets this horrified look on her face...  She looks at me.  She looks at the puddin'.  She looks over her shoulder.  I thought for a second she was about to cry.  WTF???  With Mom, I never get too terribly alarmed until a wall falls down because she generally lives in her own world universe that has little to do with the one the rest of us reside it.  But there for just a second I almost thought something was really wrong.  I looked at her as if to say, well...  WTF?!?!?  And then she blurted out:

"I thought the puddin' was smokin'!"  And explodes into hytserics.

Now my mother's laughter is more insidious than many things you will ever come across in your lifetime.  You can not help but to join in, even if you haven't the foggiest idea what on Earth you are laughing at.  Such was the case here.  I lost it.  We were both weeping in laughter.  I had not a clue one why the puddin' was on fire - or so she thought - or WHAT she was talking about.  But damned if it wasn't the funniest thing since Lucy and Ethel's employment fiasco.  (And relatedly, when she and I get together, it is always a bit like Lucy and Ethel anyway.)

Turns out, she was seeing the reflection of the ceiling fan about her in the surface of the puddin' and the fan blades moving undoubtedly (to her at least) looked like smoke.  Hell, I dunno!  Thank goodness this was not a case of 'where there's smoke, there's fire!"  I don't know that Puddin' a la Flames would be the best desert.  Makes you wonder though if there weren't some other kinda smokin' going on that mornin'!

Dear Santa...

Can I have this for Christmas?  Please?

I've been (relatively) good this year.  I have not punched any very many stupid people (very hard). 


p.s. They're only $10 at Walgreens.

Friday, November 27, 2009

WTF (Black) Friday

One of my favourite bloggers, and dearest people I have met in a long time, Menopausal New Mom, has started a new tradition called

"WTF Friday."

She's out this week with the holidays and all, so I am carrying the torch this week - and passing it along to any of you that would like to participate.

From her blog:
WTF Friday

Might be one long bitch session or rant, could be a break down of several annoyances that have accumulated all week or an injustice or rip off.  Like the idea?  Then join in and let the bitching begin!

WTF is wrong with people that they lose their ever-loving minds - completely and totally - for one day each year just so they can get shit they don't need for people that don't want it for a little less coin?  Really?  Does Aunt Mabel really need the Enema Bag Jewelry enough for you to mow down Grandma Jolly just trying to get her pain meds for her hip-replacement, her ol' school TV Guide, and 97 cans of catfood for her tribe of anorexic and feral pussies?  Chill the hell out people.

I am not a big fan of shopping on a good day.  Not by any means.  Crowds and noise make me nervous, and people - as a general rule - smell funny.  No thanks.  Here in Texas it's even worse.  There should be a sign at state line that says "Welcome to Hell.  Evolution stops here."  There are more snot nosed, pimple faced, scary ass, inbred, mullet-rockin' rednecks in clothes that don't fit, aint never fit, and should not be worn even in private - much less in public - slothing their way through the halls of Wal-Mart like a Punched-in-the-Face Igor on crack.  Add to this the mayhem and madness that Black Friday induces and it's makes the Seventh Rung of Hell look like Disneyland.  Don't even think of wrasslin' Hateful Head Helen for that box of 93-for-a-Dollar Ho-Hos. Bitch will take your ass down - and never stop chewing while she does it.  Such a showing sign of the gimme-gimme society we now live in.  Fuck dude, you can have it.  Knock yourself out.  I will be the one backing slowly away from the end-cap of discounted Lard and the pallet of B1G1 exploding tampon strings and not making any sudden moves so as not to lose any of my appendages in the fray.  (Actually, this bunny will be riding out the storm under the sofa cushions with the Cheetos and change and saying the hell with it all...)

I guess it's the appropriate follow up to National Steal-Your-Land, Rape-Your-Women, and Kill-You-All-If-You-Disagree Day.  Death by Wal-Mart.


GOOD NEWS UPDATE via Gawker: Good job, shoppers: You didn't trample anyone to death this year. Things are looking positively lackadaisical out there. The Times even quotes a shopper as saying, "Everybody has been really pleasant." But what are we going to write about!?

So, does this mean people have come to their senses? Or are we all just that flat-ass broke?

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

New Design Projects

Couple of new designs, and an oldie-but-goodie.  Click on images for full size view of screencaps; live links below each.


Hope those of you celebrating this weekend have a fab holiday. 

And remember:

Just keep dancing!!!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I must have missed the memo for today.

Speaking of Flushing...

I found this via a friend's blog and it has quickly become one of my all-time favourites!  I laugh hysterically every time I watch it - mainly, I think, because were there cameras at my house, this is the kind of insanity you would be witness to.  Sometimes ya just gotta sing (and dance) about it.

You've been Swushed!!!

 Swushed: Swept & Flushed

I do design work to (try to) make a living, but I have a whole lotta "Gimme Gimmes."  (Well, had, but that's coming.)  You know the type that sit there with their hand out goin' "Gimme! Gimme!" all day but don't want to give you a reach around or one wet squirt for it?  Yeah... Those...

Well today, the Universe musta punched my Fukkit Button because I just went through and Un-Gimme'd the bulk of it.  Done.  Whoosh.  Delete.  Sorry for ya.  Hope you win.  Go (don't) pay someone else.  You couldn't afford me anyway.  I went from maintaining 40-ish sites, to Eight in a matter of minutes!  Click!  Click!  Click!  FLUSH!!!  Whooo Haw!  I just feel like shouting:  "Free at last!  Free at last!  This cranky faggot is free at last!!!"  (Actually, I just did, with a couple of "Yee-Haws" for good measure while doing the horsey gallop and smackin' my own ass around the room...)

The free feed trough is closed.  Belly up to someone else's bar. 

This new found liberation I am going through here lately is quite enjoyable.  I seem to have gone from Doormat to Bouncer - and I'm lovin' it like some Justin Timberlake at Mickey D's!!!

Who's next????

Saturday, November 21, 2009

New Blog Alert!

When y'all get a chance, check out my baby sister's blog

"I would describe it as RAMBLING or RANTING!
and possibly me writing about losing my mind! Ha ha!"

Lawn Mowing Mazdas

Recently, it seems I have created a whole blogging brigade of friends and family.  Fabulous.  However, there's been some story tellin' goin' on that needs some clarification - in other words, it did NOT happen like that!!!

First of which is a blog about my mother's impeccable driving skills.  Somehow her definition of wonderful driving translates into me ruining a brand new pair of Calvin's every time I get in the car with her.  She can offer you a religious experience and a bowel movement with her driving all in the course of one city block.  The story in question (one amongst many) involves us returning home one day after a harrowing trip into town - in my opinion, most - if not all - trips in the Mama Mobile are harrowing, but that's neither here nor there.

I digress...  Since we had been in town most of the day, I was not nearly as drunk or medicated as one needs to be to enjoy a leisurely ride into town with this woman.  I was quite sober, and even more terrified.  Now my mother likes to talk - a lot - almost as much as she likes to drive at Mach 10 and not pay attention to where she is going until we are either there, passing it, or have already passed it 17 times whilst taking what she likes to call "the scenic route."  On this day, we were just about home.  You could almost smell the fish fryin', so I thought I was good.  I had managed to get an actual breath or two in...  I could see the exit.  Moms, however, was NOT seeing the exit.  She was talking.  And NOT slowing down.  I am thinking to myself, "Exit, Ma!  EXIT!"  Just as we are IN LINE with the exit, she realizes that perhaps that might be where we were planning on going.

No worries (to her at least).

At 97 miles an hour here we go!!!  YEE-HAW!!!

Missed the exit!  NO WORRIES!

Missed the City Titties!  NO WORRIES! 

I half expected her to shout "TOWANDA!!!" at the top of her lungs like Evelyn Crouch in the book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.  I had always expected to die young, but never by Dukes of Hazzarding across an access road and landing on a cow on the side of the road outside of Bubbaville.

Everyone has their time, I guess.

Anyway, across the median we go.  Grass and dirt is flying up everywhere!!!  We miss the big ass sign that says "This is your exit, Crazy Lady" by mere inches.  Had I not been frozen in fear I could have reached out and touched it.  I still have whiplash to this day and a lazy eye that now rotates in an orgasm of fear every time I hear an ignition start up from this ordeal.


We land on the access road like a giant metal turd shit from the Mothership - screeching and skidding up to the intersection to turn home. 

We finally did in fact make it home.  I fell out of the car and laid in the driveway licking the gravel and weeping in uncontained joy that my life had, in fact, not ended in a dried out patch of grass on Highway 6.

What's that smell???  I think I need to change my britches...

It reminds you what to be thankful for.

Stay tuned for Tales of the Flying Fishstick.  It's a good 'un!

Thursday, November 19, 2009


... Miss Thing's workin' with some demons there!!!"

~ "Noxeema Jackson (Reggie's Daughter)" from the movie,
 To Wong Foo, Thanks for everything.  - Julie Newmar

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Coming Out of the Pain; Umbrella at the Ready

"It's very difficult keeping the line between the past and the present."
- Edith "Little Edie" Beale of Grey Gardens

My life has never been one of luxury. I have never been one to take the easy route - or even known where that route might be if one such exists. The bulk of my life has been a succession of hand offs from whomever wanted me the least to whomever could stand me for the time being. There was never a lot of effort made to actually rectify the problem(s) as much as it was just "Here, you deal with him." As an adult, I am coming to understand just how much that really has shaped who I am and how I deal with things. Or, don't deal with things as the case in point and truth may be. I just walk away. Let it be and watch it fall all to hell and go down in flames. And always from a distance.  Distance being key.  Next.

So the grande finale of questions now is: "What do I do about it?" How do I stop the cycle? It's all I have known - starting with the funny farm; then my grandparents; my sister's father; my mother; my mother's husbands... Nothing was ever permanent. Nothing was ever dealt with. An endless series of shuffle the problem child. If they couldn't beat it out of me or shout me into submission, I was passed off like a hot and fetid potato gone to mush. Even in school they didn't know what to do with me. I was dubbed Gifted & Special (heavy on the special, I think) and handed off to the Retard Teacher(s)... Lot of good that did, too.

I know this now. I recognize it. It has destroyed what life I might have had up until this point and in its wake most of the relationships therein. I just haven't (had) the tools - or even the knowledge of the tools - to begin building something better. I've needed a raft and have been standing knee deep in the river and dying of thirst... Filthy and unable to scrub away the funk. Unable to float away from it all without the fear of drowning in it.

I often feel like I got beat down with the short end of a shit covered stick engulfed in flames. Like it was all denied me before I even got some vague modicum of a chance to have a go at it. I was described today as Gay (which I am - fine - sobeit) as a negative - in contextual comparison to unwed teenage mothers and cutters; and likened to all as being "trashy." It was a big slap in the face - and quite a wake up call. I forget that such is how people view me. Even, apparently, those closest to me. Just yet another in a string of black marks that I haven't much (if any) control over, I guess...

But perhaps, this new found knowledge - this recognition of it all - is my power. Perhaps this is my key. In knowing, maybe I can somehow stop it. No one wanted to deal with me then (not that anything's really changed in that regard). It's a harsh truth. But that was then.

This is my now.

Mine and mine alone.

I needn't anyone to deal with me any longer. I am my own man, standing (or trying to) on my own two feet - albeit a bit wobbly in my stillettos - but hey, you try standing on Size 12 feet in 8 inch heels. I am standing, damn it. (Okay, maybe I am just on hands and knees, and learning to crawl but it's progress.) The Child Called It became The Man Named Dave and he did alright for himself despite it all. He endured horrors not completely dissimilar to my own and came out on the other side. It was a struggle for him as well, but he prevailed. I believe - I hope - that somehow, someday, I can also.

I just don't quite know where to start. I do know now that I WANT to start. I want to begin to end all this horseshit and drama. First instinct, of course, is to start cutting... Break out the knives and start hacking away like a crazed and hungry hunter salivating over a fresh kill... But maybe all those melodramatic razor blade kisses of the past are part of the problem in the first place.

Who knows, really? I find myself in such a vastly different place for this part of the journey - for this leg of the race.

I have followed a hundred and two roads less taken for my entire life.

Perhaps now it's time to put on my waders and big boy britches and start trudging through the ruts that others have made in their own paths to salvation?

Perhaps if I want to get to the other side, the only way to get there is to go through it? Heavens knows all the bridges have been burnt at this point.... And I sure can't seem to get around the son of a bitch...

Perhaps... Perhaps...


But, I'll tell you this:  I am bringin' my own damn flashlight, though. That tunnel sure looks pretty fuckin' dark to me.


After a While
by Veronica Shoffstall

After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean learning
and company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeat with your head
up and your eyes open,
with the grace of an adult,
not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all you roads on today
because tomorrow ground is too uncertain for plans.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns
if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own
soul, instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong
And you really do have worth.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

10% Rule and the Toaster from Hell

Some days I really should NOT even get out of bed, seriously.  When you lose a battle with a freakin' TOASTER, you know it's gonna be one of THOSE days.

I do not own a toaster.  I don't know that I have ever owned a toaster.  I didn't get a microwave until well into my 20s and that was a gift from my mother (and then it sat in the box for almost six month until my roommate decided she wanted to use it).  I am a bit old fashioned that way.  I make everything on the stove or in the oven; it's just the kinda girl I am.  Though I have recently  discovered the wonderful art of Crock Pottismery!  Fabulous...


The place I am staying at has a toaster, free for my own personal use.  How charming.  I decided I wanted a lovely toasted ham, egg, and cheese sandwich.  Seems easy enough.  Or so I thought.  I drag the toaster out from under the sink where it - I now understand - was actually lurking like a crazed New Orleans street rat for it's next victim.  Guess who that ended up being...

Okay, so got the little bastard out.  Now where is the damned cord???  What is this?  Some tree humping neo-hippie solar powered green Earth bullshit?  Do I have to find a hamster to haul ass on a little metal wheel to work this damn thing???  Already the annoyance is setting in.  High strung rabbits and cordless, non-functioning toasters are not a good mix.

Finally found the cord.  It was curled up and wedged into the equivalent of the toaster's butthole on the back/bottom of the contraption.  Yank it out of there and the damned side falls off.  Crumbs everywhere.  Who puts away a dirty toaster?  What type of shit is that????  Okay.  Cord?  Check.  Crumb barfing door closed?  Check.

Bread.  At this point I am about ready to just forego the whole damned sandwich and have a cocktail instead.  Shove the bread in the little toaster twat slots...  Push the little button hooer.   Nothing.  It just sits there.  Mocking me.  I literally scream out loud.  I am now determined to win.  This little son of a bitch is going to toast my bread if I have to set it on fire to do it.

I give it a good smack or 12.  Bang it on the counter.  Fling the bread onto the floor in the process.  Five second rule.  Try again.  Back in the twat slot goes the bread.  I force down the jackass level thingie and VOILA!  it's toasting.

I grab a plate and the luncheon meat and hear pah-chick-clunk-phlam...  Awww shit...  I turn around and the effin' thing has not only BURNED my damned toast in 2.3 seconds to a black and charred crisp, but it upchucked it right the hell outta there like a baby eating brocoli - and the damn crumbcatcher door thing has fallen open again!!!

One piece of charcoal landed in the trash.  The other flew up into the open freakin' cupboard and landed perfectly on a plate, leaving little black charcoal crumbs all over the place in its wake.

Needless to say, I busted out with my trusty cast iron skillet (and no I didn't pummel the evil toaster with it) and made some charming toasted bread on the stove top.

As for the toaster from hell, I duct taped that damned door thing back on; shoved it's stupid cord back up its little toaster butthole, and CHUNKED it back up under the sink where it can rot and die for all I care...

I may be having to replace a toaster though.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Life is not meant to be...

...a journey to the grave with the
intention of arriving safely in a pretty
and well preserved body,
but rather to skid in broadside,
thoroughly used up,
totally worn out,
and loudly proclaiming,

WOW! What a ride!

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Mask of the Hare

"He may not only reject the praise but may have some second thoughts about
those who have praised him: "If they find me so great, they cannot be so smart."


I'm a Cutter

My sister toyed with the idea of "cutting" at one point, though I think hers was more for the dramatic license of teen angst bullshit and a middle child's look-at-me antics than anything. My ex went the cutting route on a balcony in California, bathed in the spotlights of a frantic SWAT team in a broken culmination of an unloved life. I am a different (and worse) kind of cutter - too vain to wear my scars on the outside for all the world to see. It's hard to rock a poker face when you look like you've been gangbanged by a pack of hungry Exactos. I do not cut myself.  My cutting is more permanent.  It leaves no marks.  It does not grow back.  I cut people - entirely and completely - off and out of my life.  It's a cut that seldom heals.

Despite my oft perceived Surly Demeanor, I really do have a big heart.  Huge.  And of Gold.  It bleeds for more lost causes than Saint Jude.  It weeps for more stray and lost children than Sally Struthers.  And it often costs me dearly.

But, when It is over.  It's Over.  I. Am. Done.  Deb asked me yesterday what the song I posted meant to me.  Initially, when I put it out there, it was directed with vehement intent at one person - an ex.  But upon listening to it - really listening to its message - I came to realize that it was something else entirely.

It is my Modus Operandi for failed - or fed up - relationships.  It is my blade.  I have a hard time saying "no."  I have a hard time being ugly.  So I push and I cut.  I hack and dismember.  I make YOU hate ME so I don't have to deal with it.  If I succeed in making you hate me and you walk away from it all, I don't feel like The Bad Guy.  I feel validated in taking my knife and carving out the chunk of my life in which you existed.  You left me.  And now you are gone.  You are no more.  You no longer exist.  So many people in my life have fallen prey to these tactics.  Bled dry and eliminated.  Never to return.  I don't look back (often).  It's what I do.  It's how I operate.

It's how I survive.

Sane?  Probably not.  Healthy?  Not in the least.  But how often is self-preservation really either of those things?  Sometimes, be it good or bad, we all have our own fucked up ways of getting through a day - a lifetime - a cess pool of broken hearts and open wounds.

For me, it's cutting.  (But...  I'm working on it.)

"Maybe I aint used to maybes smashing in a cold room
cutting my hands up every time I touch you...
Maybe it's time to wave good-bye now..."
~ Tori Amos, Tear in Your Hand

Six Words Saturday

Six Word Saturdays is a weekly series over at Call Me Cate's very funny blog, Show My Face.

Mine for this week are:

I'm ready for the next chapter...

It's been a rough road these past few months - this entire year, to be honest - but I am looking forward to what lies ahead. I have realized so much. Past people have wandered into my world again; present people have faded out. Priorities have changed. And the possibilities are seemingly endless. "It's all happening..."

And then, this morning, this gal made an appearance... Scritching and scratching her way out onto the page. I hope you enjoy it!

Untitled (as of yet)

In my tree with Natalie
spying on packed bags
and promises broken
I climb a ladder
of stolen pens
and paper scrapped
for inspiration
scrubbing free the
i revel in you as
eraser dust
blown away
nothing more now
than shadowed smudges
on parchment weathered

Friday, November 13, 2009

Hate Me...

If you're sleeping, are you dreaming?
If your dreaming are you dreaming of me?
I can't believe you actually picked me.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There's a burning in my pride; a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you. Will you never call again?
And will you never say that you love me just to put it in my face?
And will you never try to reach me?
It is I that wanted space

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

I’m sober now for three whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In a sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicide and hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered:

“How can you do this to me?”

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

If you're sleeping, are you dreaming?
If you're dreaming are you dreaming of me.
I can't believe you actually picked me.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Please Pass the Acid (or: An Unbalanced Balancing Act?)

More than a decade has passed since those days on the river, with the smell of desperate chance, chickory and ganga in the air. (Jackson Square at its finest.) Though we were fearful and homeless, in those days we still had hope.  The world was smeared out before us for our bleary bidding.  Our cares were minimal.  Our needs, basic at best.  Our greatest concerns were who was holding what that night and what wig to wear with those shoes.  We were tactless and tacky and we wore our own inane - if not insane - brand of five-and-dime fabulosity on our sleeves with pride.

We were The Young Ones.  We were the Lost Boys (and gurrls) of the Big Easy:  Livin' it hard, burnin' it up, and tearin' it down.  What ever it was.  Our stage was The Streets.  Our cast, a cacophony of Gutter Punks and Drag Queens; High Rollers and Hookers; Poets, Potheads, Vampires, and Waitresses; Runaways and Royalty.  We were addicted to the gutted and glittered glamour that was the tourist's Bourbon Street.  We were addicted to the rough trade in the back rooms of Rampart.  We were addicted to everything in between, never realizing it was all one and the same.

Looking back now, as what passes for an adult, I often wonder how we survived.  We were kidnapped.  We were drugged (irony, I know).  We were held at gunpoint and raped over the hood of a beat up Chevy, only to learn the gun wasn't loaded.  We were arrested; we were released.  We stole.  We drank.  We partied.  And eventually, we all turned on one another...

I guess it's all part of the process.  It became the journey that brought us all to the crossroads at which we now stand - good, bad, or indifferent; for better or worse.  The destruction was the creation (or was it the other way round?) that destroyed us all, and created the monsters we have become.  We are our own end result in whatever medium we now choose to exist...  Looking out at yet another smeared world and its own hot mess of possibility.  Of promise, perhaps, even?

Are we really any more the wise now than we were then?  Did all the bloodshed and tears and accompanying battle scars really leave us any wisdom in its wake?  Or are we just stuck in an obligatory purgatory of all that is expected.  In running from that life, did we run headlong into this one - in a losing game of tit for tat???

I really don't know anymore.

The most disconcerting aspect of it all, though, is that I don't know which is worse:  this life, or that one.  In this new world, I feel caged.  My spirit feels bound and gagged; tethered to a life I don't understand and can not seem to make a go of being a part of.  Inversely, who in their right mind would long for a world of park bench amenities and laundry mat Christmases just so their soul felt free?

Surely there has to be a balance in it all somewhere...  Or is She Who Holds the Scales just as tipsy, fucked up, drunk, and crazy as we all once were.

Someone please pass the acid...  And go ask Alice.

I think she'll know...