Don't make me get the flying monkeys!!!

Good grief what a week or two it's been.  I have totally neglected my blog - neglected commenting on y'all even more so.  (Sorry!)  Lately I don't know which what is up, down, or under - and I keep checking the sky to some if some caterwauling heiffer and her mangey ass dog are fixin' to floop down on my head and steal my shoes...

Between the damned constant migraines, insomnia, Kik's PMS, this damned weather, my claustrophobia from being stuck in this motel, chronic insomnia, crackhead tweakers living nextdoor, nightmare nitpicky clients, gimme gimmes with their hands out - all on top of my usual neurotic madness - it's a wonder I have not climbed up on top of the building and started flinging poo at the passing train...  Splat! Splat! Mother fucker!  People really don't know how lucky they truly are.  Of late, I could chunk a turd hard enough to send your left nut flyin'. Trust.

But all in all, it's progress.  The influx of work - not matter how frustrating it may be - is coin in the purse and one step closer to moving this summer.  Just have to keep it all in perspective and remember it is for the greater good and soon I will be out of this gawd forsaken infected twat of a state and can bid adieu to the whole graphics world once and for all.  It's all steppin' on babies and doin' the fukkit dance to get to the life I will soon be living.  Nothing in this world is free (unless I am designing your blog, apparently) and this is just me earning my keep for the world that is about to open up.

And no I am not medicated.  Ha ha ha!  I am really just trying to keep the positive energy flowing and moving forward - and since my Give a Damn has, in fact, busted, hopefully it won't be too hard a row to hoe.  It's much easier with a goal and something to look forward to.  When one can say only "X" more months or "X" more jobs, et cetera.

I've got jobs lined up and somewhat organized now, so perhaps I will be able to maintain my presence here a little better.  I miss hearing what all is up with all of y'all.  I have dozens of unfinished drafts to post, so perhaps I will go back and revisit some of those and try to breathe a little life into this sad little blog again.

I hope all is well in your worlds.  Stop in and leave a comment or two.  

Would love to hear from ya!

"I'm a Radiant Asshole and I'm Happy!"

This is in honour of the ever amazing Lady J at Pen to Pages.  She, like I, had a bit of a rough day yesterday with the every elusive little bitch called Happiness and is a Spoken Word fan like myself - so I thought I would post this for any who may need a little pick me up.  The artist in the video is the fucking fabulous poet and author, Maggie Estep.  She put out a few albums back in the '90s - No More Mister Nice Girl ("I'm not a normal girl.  I'm an angry, sweaty girl.  So BITE ME!") and Love is a Dog from Hell ("I'm an emotional idiot, so get away from me - I mean, come here.") - but her magic is really in the words.  She is also one hell of an author.  If you don't know Maggie - seek her out.  I know if you are a fan of this blog, you will fall in love (with her).  The video is only a minute and a half long.  Take the time.  Trust.

Okay. One more.  As charming as y'all seem to think I am, THIS is what it's REALLY like living with me.  Nail.  Head.  Bingo!

Something it would behoove us all to remember more often than we do...

Jay Brannan, "Man in the Mirror"

There's eyeliner on my knee and blood on my elbow. I am funky. (And no, my name is not Prince...)

It seems like the proverbial, universal funk has taken over the planet lately.  Is there another damned retrograde going on?  It's workin' my tits if it is and it needs to get its ass spinning back the right way before I climb up onto the roof of this crack hotel and start flingin' dingleberries at all the junkies and hookers.

I don't know what pterodactyl has crawled up my twat lately, but I am just not havin' it.  "It" being ANYTHING.  At. All.  I have 117 and half blogs bumbling about in my head but don't feel like writing any of them.  The one on Christmas day alone is a doozy.  I read all of y'all's posts, but haven't the gumption to comment (sorry).  I barely want to cook - much less eat.  I don't want to talk to anyone.  Have had my web messenger hooey thing set to invisible and I just sit there snarling at it as people come and go - hoping to hell they don't decide to message me even though they can't see me.  T.V. annoys me (not that that's a big stretch).  Hell breathing lately annoys me - mine or that of anyone else.  I am one funky, cranky bitch.

Roots and Wings

"If I could wish you just two things:  To give you roots; To give you wings."

This must have been someone's wish for me in 2009.  I first recall that quote as a teenager from the tv show Designing Women.  Julia had passed it along to a little girl going forth on her own journey and it has stuck with me all these years.  2009 was a difficult year for me.  I began the year violently ill, and it just seemed to fan out from there.  I learned so much about myself.  Some good.  Some bad.  But more so than anything, I learned a lot about my own foundations.  I learned who I really had to depend on.  I learned some ugly truths about the people and energies in my life.  I learned some beautiful revelations about my own self.  I put down roots.  I began to stand tall.  I realized through trial and error that it really IS all about ME - and what I am capable of...  Not what pleases everyone else.  The mother's words from the book Joy Luck Club (by Amy Tan) echoed in my head all year:  "Do you know your worth?"  And I began to understand what that means. 

It was difficult.  But often times growing is.  I have a tattoo over my heart that symbolizes chaos - not for the melodramatic affect - but as a reminder that even that which is most beautiful must fight through the ugliest of circumstance to bloom.  The I-Ching relates the story of the Lotus blossom and how to grow and become the glory that it is destined to be, it must fight through it's hard shell and all the mud surrounding it to spring forth.  This has been my year.  There's been a lot of shell - and A LOT of mud and muck...

And in the midst of all that I felt something shifting.  Something changing.  Something growing.  I realized last week it was my wings.  I had, in the course of 2009, begun to grow wings.  I was becoming ready - and able - to fly.

2010 is a year of promise.  The end of an era.  The beginning of a new one.  A new decade.  A new start.  It's time.  I have always been afraid of heights.  I have always been afraid of falling.  I clung to my nest of brambles and negativity because, as bad as it was, there was a safety there.  A comfort in the uncomfortable.  As bad as it was, it was familiar and for me, then, that was okay.  I knew what to expect.  But at some point over this past year, I began peering over the edge of that nest high up on that cliff and I saw horizons and sunrises and new voyages waiting...  And I began flexing those newfound wings.  I am still flexing - but my days of soaring are now at hand...  I am ready to jump.  I am ready to give it all I've got.  No risk.  No glory.

“Sometimes the fall kills you. 

And sometimes...  

when you fall...

you fly.”

Here's to flying high in 2010.

Yeah? Well you stink like a sneaker, Pal!

Been kind of a shitty week...  Haven't felt like blogging and smearing the poo into the virtual rug, so I just haven't posted much of anything.

Am looking forward to the Blue Moon and the new year.  Good things to come.  Onward, upward, and forward.  I think this past decade has been enough mess to last a lifetime.  Nuthin' but net from here on out.

Post tomorrow on the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. 

Cheers.

A Ten Year (or so) Collective

This was inspired by several blogs out there that are doing their Top Ten-slash-Best of '09 posts.  I decided that since it's not only the end of the year, but also the end of a decade, I would look back at some of the blog posts over the years and see what my journey has looked like in words...  It's an interesting one, to say the least...

Once (A Poem), September 25th, 1999 - Hard to believe I was this happy at one point, as sad as that may sound.  I thought this was it.  "The One." The addressee and I are still (now) great friends, but the whole relationship went terribly awry.  It's nice to see this and remember how good it really and truly once was.

Drunk and Almost Dead, June 30, 2001 - And from that to this.  This one really shook me.  I don't even recall writing it.  I do recall, however, writing my own obituary (I used to work at a newspaper writing them), and toying with the idea of publishing it.  I even went so far as to place it on the page to see what it would look like.  The damn thing almost DID get published on accident by our idiot assistant at the time...

Go Away, October 15th, 2003 - I think sometimes, despite it all, we just yearn to be left alone.

Eggshells (A Poem), February 23, 2004 - This has always been one of my favourites.  It still holds true.

Travis (A Poem), March, 16th, 2004 - This is dedicated to a dear, dear friend of mine, Travis.  It was written the day he returned after being gone for a year when the war first broke out.

The Bug, April 22nd, 2004 - A funny.  (At last!)  I SOOO remember when this happened.  I got tickled rereading it.  It was pure bedlam!

Disowned & Owning It,  February 15th, 2007 - This is included because of its mention in my other post on lessons learned.  I think it is good to remember how real it all was.  And how hurt I was.  I am real bad to "it's okay" everything to death and gloss it over.  It's good to remember the truths of it all at the time it all went down.

Roscoe Jakob, June 9th, 2009 - Because he will be always remembered

Attack of the Suprise Doodie, August 6th, 2009 - Another funny - this time about Poo.

Coming Out of the Pain, November 11th, 2009 - This is one I really need to focus on.  Coming in out of it all and healing.  Moving forward.  I think it is a great summary of all that has passed and a beacon of hope for the future...

Wow.  One hell of a damned decade!!!  What a journey.  There were so many more than didn't make the inclusion - but if y'all are interested, it's all here (well, online somewhere).  I am not much of a packrat.  I don't often keep people for longer than they are worth.  But my words and memories stay with me always.  Those are worth keeping.

A Year in the Life of...

A little bit of seriousness (it happens) from the tidelands of a mad hatter with no head gear (that would be me).  No snark; no sarcasm (well not too much, anyway).  And I don't think there is a single "fuck" in the whole drawn out diatribe.

With 2009 coming to a close, I have been reflective of all this year has been.  This was to be a "top ten" of the lessons I have encountered over the course of the last year.  I don't think I quite made it to ten, but I have certainly unearthed some very valid realities to give me pause and to consider for the year to come.

It's funny how clearly we can see toward the future in re-examining all that has passed.

Look Around, Rabbit!

I often sit here in front of the computer perplexed about what to blog. I am one of those people that writes everywhere - and on everything. I keep a stash of pens to make your supply closet look empty (which, if I have been near it, it may well be). But the creativity doesn't always flow in front of the computer. I need the scritch-scritch-scritch of pen on paper...

Which is ironic, because my world is a plethora of stories... I see the strangest things that most people miss. It's like the Universe is just quietly handing me material. If I would just look around and use it.

I was telling my friend about my afternoon today - and she was like 'there's a blog post!' and the light over my head flickered.

I was sitting outside watching the cars go by like I am wont to do - looking much like a lunatic in my own right: red einstein hair (I have a bad habit of pulling it every which way); Buddy Holly-esque eye glasses; hot pink fuzzy slippers; blue plaid capri pajama pants; black t-shirt; and a horrendous Oriental red kimono print robe; dragging a kitchen chair down the balcony to watch the cars. There's an image.

The Smoking Bun

Ever wondered what physchotic looks like?  Visit my house in the midst of one of my nic fits.  It aint cute.  Lack of nicotine turns me into something that Stephen King would tuck tail and run from.  I can't help.  Actually, in my own defense, I do make an effort to not be such ;and inversely I just get real, real quiet.  Creepy horror movie quiet.  But it's better than me biting everyone's head off because they said "Good Morning, Rabbit."  To which my first instinct is to hurl a large, heavy object at their face and reply with a "Leave me the fuck alone and die horribly in the night with your flesh erupting in boils."  Like I said, NOT CUTE.  So I just STFU and try to avoid everyone that breathes.

Cigarettes are my last vice.  I am an alcoholic in the WORST way - if it's there, I will drink it.  Same way with drugs.  It's like I turn into Mr. Vacuum Cleaner Sucker Guy and all the vodka and coke just magically disappear.  Poof!  So the fact that all I do now is smoke, I think I am doing pretty alright.  There were times when I really wasn't sure I was going to survive my addictions.  For better or worse, I did.  Now I just want a damned cigarette.

I have a friend who is obese and becoming more so.  His addiction is food.  Which is a great one to have if you're gonna have one because it's acceptable.  Society still laughs at you or cringes when they see you, but it's food.  Everyone has to eat.  He eats constantly and eats nothing but crap.   Junk food; chips; sodas; candy... Dinner when he comes home.  Then like clockwork a few hours later he's back at the trough rummaging and foraging and eating again.  It's one I don't understand because it manifests so obviously on the outside of your body.  Everyone can see that you are addicted to anything you can shovel into your face.  I would rather lose a limb than be obese.  It's my own fucked up vanity, I know.  And I know with the drugs and the drinking, it too manifests but it takes a minute - and even then, though you look like hell people aren't always 100% sure just exactly WTF it is that is wrong with you.  With being fat, there's no doubt.  When you squish into that booth and Greasy Bob's Burgers and flip your switch and the food starts flying into your pile hole like the tractor beam on the Death Star, everyone knows just exactly how you got there.  Good diet tactic for others, though.

I dunno.  I think I had a point at some point.  I just had this nicotine addiction.  I hate the headaches.  I hate the shaking.  I hate the mood swings.  One of these days, damn it.  One of these days.  Surely if I can kick coke, meth, and heroin - AND drinking - I can eventually stop smoking....  RIGHT????

Now, can I bum a cigarette from someone???

Hello, Pot???

 I was going through my TwitterFox (or Echofon or whatever it is this week) and cleaning out all the old tweets and mentions and DMs - which I haven't done in ages and came across one that said something to the effect of "oh. well you're always so negative..."  and I just had to laugh.  I no longer follow this person because of all their hateful, passive agressive jabs that I would get on a constant and regular basis ALL DAY LONG that had little to nothing to do with the actual tweets they were replying to - other than to just be passive aggresive and hateful.  So, rather than be annoyed I just quit following them and I don't have to hear about it anymore.  However, in cleaning everything out today, their page popped up.  There is not ONE tweet - not one - that is anything even remotely positive.  "I fucking hate my life..."  "I really hate being sick"  "marriage sucks"  "i'm getting too old for this crap"  "Fucked up parenting..."  "I seriously need to find some friends"  Granted it's all out of context - but SHIT...  STFU and have a moment, folks!  And I am the negative one???  Well I guess they would know, by comparison, more than most.

(Is that irony????)

But, the point I was rambling toward is that the things we dislike the most about people in our lives are often times the things we need to work on the most.  I love to bitch.  LOVE to bitch.  I am great at it.  It's usually quite hilarious.  But I HATE listenin' to it.  I kind of touch on it in a previous blog.  So thusly I have made a real conscious effort to NOT bitch so much - trying to take my own advices of STFUing and going to sit in a corner somewhere.  I figure if I don't want to hear it, y'all don't either.  I am also trying really hard not to complain so much.  I asked said friend the other night, "Do you have any good memories?"  Because, again, all you hear is the woe-is-meisms all the time.  And this was a privileged brat growing up.  My childhood sucked ass.  Often times, when it came to suffering I thought I was going to give Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money.  But I had good times.  I made the best out of the hell that I knew.  And those times are what I chose to remember.  Not all the morose and mundane.

Gawd, people.  Get over it.  Or go tell it to Tyra and have her buy you some fuckin' crazy pills.  Sumpin'!!!

My question is, when you hold up the mirror that is your environment and dislike what you see, what is it that you need to work on?

My list is long...

But I am getting there.

[Facebookers, please comment at the blog:  Redhead Dancing - Thanks!]

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.

Whump-phlunk-BLAM! 

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!

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...

Perhaps...

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

Relatedly:

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.

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...

Anyway...

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.

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!

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

Quote of the Day

"When I was a boy I fell out of a tree but I managed just to grab a branch. I hung there for a long time, terrified. The silence and the pain in my arms. And the pounding in my ears.

And then I fell.

I don't remember what happened when I hit the ground.

All I can remember now is the agony of holding on..

And the wonderful feeling...

The wonderful feeling of letting go."

- from the movie, The Wisdom of Crocodiles

A Rabbity Defense

This blog is my vent.  I am not psychotic and all Sylvia Plath with my head in the oven (it's electric, anyway) or toilet and suicidal.  I am just ranting.  I am getting it out, and working through it.  It's not unlike taking pen to paper in a journal - which I do also.  I just prefer this medium because of all the feedback I receive.  It often helps to hear your comments and thoughts and [it] gives me a new perspective I might not have considered otherwise.

Some people drink.  Some people dance.  Some people punch things.   Some people scream at the make-believe.  I blog.  I howl...

All is (relatively) well in Rabbitland.  I am just howling.  Wading through the bullshit...  "Makin' in work," as Tim would say.

But I thank you all for all your concern and feedback and input and shut-fuck-ups.  It really does help more than you know.

Rising on the Winds of Self

I've been reciting this all day today. It's very empowering; magical. Thought I would share...

Enjoy.

[Image: Rise of Dream by "Moroka323"]

Still, I Rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Flying into the light of the dark, black night.

"It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything."

- Chuck Palaniuk, Fight Club

I just feel broken.

This whole disastrous moving process has really put an incredible spin on the ways of my world.  In so, so many ways, I have never felt more alone.  Inversely, I have never been more aware of who I am, what I can do, and the harsh truths that are my life.  It's a good thing.  I think alone is far better that a festering cess pool of bullshit.  This ordeal has broken my heart, my faith - even my misguided belief system - and believe you me, it needed breaking.

It's made me sit back and realize so many things in the course of the last two weeks.  All the advice and seemingly well-intended suggestions, offers of help and support, so on and so forth, I know now are nothing but empty promise, self-gratifying goodities so YOU feel better about yourself, and so much as whispers on the wind...  In essence, it's all a crock of shit.

"You should do this, Rabbit."  "I'll help, Rabbit."  "If you ever need anything, Rabbit..."

Yeah, well...  When it came down to it, who is actually here?  No God Damned Body.  Yet again, I am on my own.  It's all on me.  I don't know why this struck me so alarmingly this time around.  Maybe because for once I had allowed myself to believe people.  To believe IN people.  I don't know why, really.  As a kid, I was shipped around to whomever hated me less at the time, dropped off at random hotel rooms, left to fend for myself when I made a mistake.  It's the way of things.  It always has been, and - blaringly obviously - it always will be.

And I hate to feel this way, but I am done.  If it is to be only me, the damn it to hell, it's going to be all ABOUT me.  I'm over it.  I. Am. Done.  Remember this folks, when you want your carpet laid, or your car worked on, or your obnoxious snot-oozing child babysat...  When you want a free haircut or website or makeover for your whore of a sister's 19th wedding...

Hell.  Fucking.  No.

I am saying it now.  Take note.  Tweet it.  Post it.  Broadcast it.  Scream it from the fucking rooftops.  Roll it up and stick it in your squishy places.  I really don't care.  You'll all taken all you're gonna get.  It's over.

And from the ashes of all this bullshit, I will rise.

So thank you, and good-night.

I'll fly above.

It's beneath me.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

Take these broken wings & learn to fly...

All your life, you were only waiting

for this moment to arise.

Blackbird, fly.

Into the light of the dark, black night."

- John Lennon, Paul McCartney