The Anxiety- I've had enough. The insomnia, the nightmares, the hives, the ulcer, the migraines, the misery, I've had enough. So I broke down and decided it was time to go to the doctors and get my ass medicated.
Ok.
I go. The lady talks really fast and is Asian with a difficult accent to understand. I explain my deal-e-o. She asks me if I've taken medications before, I list all the ones that have not worked and why. I tell her the one that did work (Xanax) and she informs me that she "doesn't believe in Xanax- it doesn't work." I wonder what the fuck she is talking about, since it appears she has just told me I'm a liar. Which irritates me. She then tells me she's putting me on Zoloft and I ask her if it has sexual side effects (the reason Paxil wasn't an option) and she says yes. I tell her I don't want the sexual side effects, thank you very much. She says if it does then she can add Wellbutrin to it. I ask her, "Does that mean I'll be on two medications?" She says yes. Also, she is putting me on an ulcer medication, which then adds up to 3 medications possibly instead of just the one medication that "doesn't work."
I understand her point- that Xanax doesn't provide long term relief. Well, nothing does if you quit taking it, fucking DUH.
She then informs me there will be bloodwork to test for thyroid problems. I tell her I've been tested for thyroid problems and thats not it, they were negative. She says, "We'll do it again." Which of course is totally fucking awesome, I'm ready to freak out as it is and now you're going to stick a needle in me FOR NO REASON. (I don't do needles, people.)
She walks out of the room and I start crying. I realize I am a passive pussy that ought to stand up for myself but I feel so hopeless. She comes back in and I ask her how long this is going to take. She says it should kick in in 3 weeks. I feel like strangling her, or better yet, making her sit down and snort 6 big lines of cocaine and ask her how she's feeling. And tell her not to worry, it'll wear off in 3 little ole weeks. And wave some Xanax in her face and tell her she could take it but that I don't believe in it so no deal. Just stand there and try to breath and keep on telling yourself you're going to be ok, by the way, just go around this corner and we'll stab you with a needle needlessly. Just because I'm deaf and I can't hear what you're saying, or I can but I choose not to because I firmly believe that I know more about your anxiety in 10 minutes than you could possibly know in 16 years of living with it, because I went to school and read about it in a fucking book.
fuck.
I want to take that Zoloft and shove it up her ass.
It better fucking work.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
heeby jeeby?
Apparently the Eye of Sauron has recently been discovered!
That'll help you sleep a little bit better at night, no doubt.
That'll help you sleep a little bit better at night, no doubt.
Monday, June 27, 2005
rate my boob job
No, I didn't get one. I am astounded that there is actually a website called "rate my boob job" with, sure enough, endless pictures of women and thier boob jobs for you to rate.
What in the hell.
What in the hell.
Friday, June 24, 2005
in honor of the jet that flew over my house at 1 am...
...And left me completely fucking unable to sleep, here's a bunch of random shit...
The early signs of a problem child:
Awesome picture of an iceberg to boggle the mind:
And I forgot to wish you a Happy Summer Soltice so here's that, belatedly:
If anyone needs me, I'll be sleeping on my roof cuddled up with some anti aircraft artillery or something. Kidding! Kidding oh scary armed services. But seriously, I'm reasonably used to the jet sounds. This goliath thing had some crazy whining sound that freaked me out so bad I sat bolt upright in bed and frantically asked Mr. Wonderful, "What is that? WHAT IS THAT?" even though I knew it was a jet, I had to be sure. It was so...fucking...loud...
It sounded like somebody strapped on 12 jet engines onto a Wal-Mart and tried to fly that shit over my fucking house.
Look, I'm cool with you guys taking your local Wal Mart out for a fucking joy ride but NOT AT 1 AM!
Dammit!
ps) I should also pause to whine about the fact that I'm eating this here bowl of cereal because the jet scared me, thus making my stomach produce massive amounts of stomach acid (how this is useful in human biology I haven't a clue- hurry! digest your food! wolves are chasing us!) and I couldn't go back to sleep because it was helping my ulcer eat a hole in my stomach. Fucking. Totally. Awesome.
The early signs of a problem child:
Awesome picture of an iceberg to boggle the mind:
And I forgot to wish you a Happy Summer Soltice so here's that, belatedly:
If anyone needs me, I'll be sleeping on my roof cuddled up with some anti aircraft artillery or something. Kidding! Kidding oh scary armed services. But seriously, I'm reasonably used to the jet sounds. This goliath thing had some crazy whining sound that freaked me out so bad I sat bolt upright in bed and frantically asked Mr. Wonderful, "What is that? WHAT IS THAT?" even though I knew it was a jet, I had to be sure. It was so...fucking...loud...
It sounded like somebody strapped on 12 jet engines onto a Wal-Mart and tried to fly that shit over my fucking house.
Look, I'm cool with you guys taking your local Wal Mart out for a fucking joy ride but NOT AT 1 AM!
Dammit!
ps) I should also pause to whine about the fact that I'm eating this here bowl of cereal because the jet scared me, thus making my stomach produce massive amounts of stomach acid (how this is useful in human biology I haven't a clue- hurry! digest your food! wolves are chasing us!) and I couldn't go back to sleep because it was helping my ulcer eat a hole in my stomach. Fucking. Totally. Awesome.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
the trinity of Led Zeppelin, Tolkien and I
In honor of my never ending quest for total geekdom I have started reading everything I can find by J.R.R. Tolkien (Lord of the Rings, etc) I finished The Hobbit and am about halfway through The Fellowship of the Ring.
I have thus far learned a few things. They are:
1) The Lord of the Rings movies sucked compared to the book(s). There have been so many parts that they simply couldn't fit in, and so many detailed explanations that would have made the movie much less baffling. I always wanted to know why Gandalf didn't get off his lazy wizard ass and take that damn ring himself. What the hell? Just fly on over there, drop it in the volcano, badda boom, what's the big deal? I'm reading and there has been moment after moment of me saying, "OOOOoooooooh, so THAT'S it, I see..." The movies make way more sense in retrospect. Why the hell do Hobbits eat so much? Why does that Elven Chicky freak out and get all psycho? She scared the crap outta me. How did they know to not be in their beds at the Inn? Argh.
2) I am a total wuss. Last night I couldn't find a good place to stop reading cause it was too scary. And I've seen the movies. I know what happens. That, my friends, is truly wussy.
3) If I read some of the book and then fall asleep and have a fitful nap, I will repeatedly wake up with one part of Led Zeppelins song "Ramble On" stuck in my head.
Mine's a tale that can't be told,
My freedom I hold dear;
How years ago in days of old
When magic filled the air,
T'was in the darkest depth of Mordor
I met a girl so fair,
But Gollum, the evil one crept up
And slipped away with her.
Her, her....yea.
Over and over again. Which is ok. Because I LOVE Led Zeppelin.
So, to recap:
Books: better than movie.
I am a wuss.
Led Zeppelin loved Tolkien, I love Tolkien, I love Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin and Tolkien are infinitely cool, I must be too.
Thank you, that is all.
I have thus far learned a few things. They are:
1) The Lord of the Rings movies sucked compared to the book(s). There have been so many parts that they simply couldn't fit in, and so many detailed explanations that would have made the movie much less baffling. I always wanted to know why Gandalf didn't get off his lazy wizard ass and take that damn ring himself. What the hell? Just fly on over there, drop it in the volcano, badda boom, what's the big deal? I'm reading and there has been moment after moment of me saying, "OOOOoooooooh, so THAT'S it, I see..." The movies make way more sense in retrospect. Why the hell do Hobbits eat so much? Why does that Elven Chicky freak out and get all psycho? She scared the crap outta me. How did they know to not be in their beds at the Inn? Argh.
2) I am a total wuss. Last night I couldn't find a good place to stop reading cause it was too scary. And I've seen the movies. I know what happens. That, my friends, is truly wussy.
3) If I read some of the book and then fall asleep and have a fitful nap, I will repeatedly wake up with one part of Led Zeppelins song "Ramble On" stuck in my head.
Mine's a tale that can't be told,
My freedom I hold dear;
How years ago in days of old
When magic filled the air,
T'was in the darkest depth of Mordor
I met a girl so fair,
But Gollum, the evil one crept up
And slipped away with her.
Her, her....yea.
Over and over again. Which is ok. Because I LOVE Led Zeppelin.
So, to recap:
Books: better than movie.
I am a wuss.
Led Zeppelin loved Tolkien, I love Tolkien, I love Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin and Tolkien are infinitely cool, I must be too.
Thank you, that is all.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
no coffee for ulcer
My ulcer has reared it's hideously ugly (and painful) head again. And so it's back to tea, no coffee for me. Which is difficult, because I am 94% sure that coffee is one of the natural chemical components of my brain chemistry, and without it I am adrift in a sea of senselessness.
My neighbors children are on the porch below screaming incoherant toddler-speak and I think I understand them. They seem to be discussing the intrinsic nature of a caffeine-less universe. I grok.
My neighbors children are on the porch below screaming incoherant toddler-speak and I think I understand them. They seem to be discussing the intrinsic nature of a caffeine-less universe. I grok.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Happy Fathers Day/ There Are No Trees In Japan
It never ceases to amaze me how much busy work I can create when I'm feeling neurotic.
Here's a list of what I did today (feel free to scroll past it since this is for my benefit, not yours):
watered all the indoor plants
watered all the outdoor plants
repotted a few
went on a plant bug ridding spree (some strange pests I've never seen before...hmm)
washed the kitchen carpet, laid it out to dry
washed the garbage cans
resewed blanket
did 4 loads of laundry
made breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks, of course
did the dishes
put them away
did more dishes later
made some sun tea (my latest addiction)
researched weird plant bugs, learned nothing new at all
blogged (elsewhere, I know, what a blog whore)
read slashdot
started reading new Battlestar Galactica book from library
took a mini nap (cat nap)
talked to friends on phone
Man! Is that it? It seemed like so much more. Ahhh, well, it's only 5 o'clock. Still have all the ironing to do....
So what is the point of all this busy work? To not think about my dad, who I called this morning, who is indeed my father so calling him on Fathers Day is indeed correct, however what do I say? Thanks for nearly nothing? Thanks for the abandonment issues and the strange need to surround myself with dysfunctional alcoholics? Thanks for my fear and distrust of women and my subsequent inability to make meaningful friendships? Thanks for the decades of psychotherapy it's taken to undo the damage you've done? Good job....?
~sigh~
But I did call him. More so to get it out of the way so it wouldn't loom over my head.
The phone call went like this:
*ring*ring*
"Hello?"
"Hey dad, Happy Fathers Day!"
"Oh. Hold on." He immediately hands me to my brother who is standing there. I talk to him for about 10 minutes wondering what the fuck my dads problem is, since I called to talk to him, hence me dialing HIS number, not my brothers, who is indeed NOT my dad since he is my sibling...fathered by the same man who I am vainly trying to wish a happy fucking fathers day to...
Finally I tell my brother, "Uhhh...can I talk to dad? Since I was calling him to wish him a Happy Fathers Day and all...."
He hands me back.
"Hello?"
"Hey dad. So, I was calling to wish you a Happy Fathers Day..."
"Oh. Yah. Thanks. Your brother is here."
"Yah, I, ah, just talked to him."
"Right."
"So....hows it going?"
He then launches into a tirade about property tax in Detroit, some bitch he talked to at the electric company, and various car maintenance things. He asks me about my car, I tell him we just got something fixed. For some reason, this makes him start bitching about my mom (who divorced him 26 years ago and they rarely ever speak).
"Your mom is an idiot! I was always trying to tell her about how to take care of a car, but she never learned! You have to have antifreeze and oil and transmission fluid and extra belts in there at all times!"
(this has nothing to do with what happened to my car, by the way)
"Do you remember that time the belt broke in the car and your Grandpa had to come pick you guys up?"
"No..."
"HA! You probably weren't there! Your mom probably just TOLD me you two were with her!"
(He always thought my mom was cheating on him and would throw a fit if she wanted to go anywhere without dragging me and my brother along. God forbid she went to her parents to visit, he was sure we were left there so she could go screw someone else.)
"How old was I, Dad? Four? How do you expect me to remember that?"
He is dismissive and pissed off and shrugs it off with an irritated and sure-that-he's-been-done-wrong, "Eh!"
I take a deep breath and look at Mr. Wonderful while mimicking myself stabbing myself in the head repeatedly. Hello? Twenty six years ago? Let it go? Just a thought...
He then goes off about how hot it is and how he wants to plant a tree in the backyard but the neighbors won't like it.
"They want me to plant flowers. I'll tell em where to stick their flowers. Flowers! Ha! That won't shade the back of my house! Did you know foreigners hate trees? Yah. They all hate trees!"
"Uh, really?" I say, at a total loss on how to deal with such a bizarre statement.
"Yah...I think it's because they cut down all the trees in their countries for building and firewood and everything and they just don't like trees now. (pause) Like Japan. There's no trees in Japan. Well, those bonsais, but those are like shrubs, that's not a real tree."
I am completely dumbfounded now. There are no trees in Japan. Well, I can't come up with a single thing to say due to the overwhelming Sea of Stupid that is before me.
Luckily he interrupts my contemplation of the inane with, "Yah, well, I gotta go. If I don't talk to you before your birthday, (he doesn't ever call me, so this is quite probable) Happy Birthday. Bye."
"Bye Dad. I love you."
"Yah, ok."
*click*
Here's a list of what I did today (feel free to scroll past it since this is for my benefit, not yours):
watered all the indoor plants
watered all the outdoor plants
repotted a few
went on a plant bug ridding spree (some strange pests I've never seen before...hmm)
washed the kitchen carpet, laid it out to dry
washed the garbage cans
resewed blanket
did 4 loads of laundry
made breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks, of course
did the dishes
put them away
did more dishes later
made some sun tea (my latest addiction)
researched weird plant bugs, learned nothing new at all
blogged (elsewhere, I know, what a blog whore)
read slashdot
started reading new Battlestar Galactica book from library
took a mini nap (cat nap)
talked to friends on phone
Man! Is that it? It seemed like so much more. Ahhh, well, it's only 5 o'clock. Still have all the ironing to do....
So what is the point of all this busy work? To not think about my dad, who I called this morning, who is indeed my father so calling him on Fathers Day is indeed correct, however what do I say? Thanks for nearly nothing? Thanks for the abandonment issues and the strange need to surround myself with dysfunctional alcoholics? Thanks for my fear and distrust of women and my subsequent inability to make meaningful friendships? Thanks for the decades of psychotherapy it's taken to undo the damage you've done? Good job....?
~sigh~
But I did call him. More so to get it out of the way so it wouldn't loom over my head.
The phone call went like this:
*ring*ring*
"Hello?"
"Hey dad, Happy Fathers Day!"
"Oh. Hold on." He immediately hands me to my brother who is standing there. I talk to him for about 10 minutes wondering what the fuck my dads problem is, since I called to talk to him, hence me dialing HIS number, not my brothers, who is indeed NOT my dad since he is my sibling...fathered by the same man who I am vainly trying to wish a happy fucking fathers day to...
Finally I tell my brother, "Uhhh...can I talk to dad? Since I was calling him to wish him a Happy Fathers Day and all...."
He hands me back.
"Hello?"
"Hey dad. So, I was calling to wish you a Happy Fathers Day..."
"Oh. Yah. Thanks. Your brother is here."
"Yah, I, ah, just talked to him."
"Right."
"So....hows it going?"
He then launches into a tirade about property tax in Detroit, some bitch he talked to at the electric company, and various car maintenance things. He asks me about my car, I tell him we just got something fixed. For some reason, this makes him start bitching about my mom (who divorced him 26 years ago and they rarely ever speak).
"Your mom is an idiot! I was always trying to tell her about how to take care of a car, but she never learned! You have to have antifreeze and oil and transmission fluid and extra belts in there at all times!"
(this has nothing to do with what happened to my car, by the way)
"Do you remember that time the belt broke in the car and your Grandpa had to come pick you guys up?"
"No..."
"HA! You probably weren't there! Your mom probably just TOLD me you two were with her!"
(He always thought my mom was cheating on him and would throw a fit if she wanted to go anywhere without dragging me and my brother along. God forbid she went to her parents to visit, he was sure we were left there so she could go screw someone else.)
"How old was I, Dad? Four? How do you expect me to remember that?"
He is dismissive and pissed off and shrugs it off with an irritated and sure-that-he's-been-done-wrong, "Eh!"
I take a deep breath and look at Mr. Wonderful while mimicking myself stabbing myself in the head repeatedly. Hello? Twenty six years ago? Let it go? Just a thought...
He then goes off about how hot it is and how he wants to plant a tree in the backyard but the neighbors won't like it.
"They want me to plant flowers. I'll tell em where to stick their flowers. Flowers! Ha! That won't shade the back of my house! Did you know foreigners hate trees? Yah. They all hate trees!"
"Uh, really?" I say, at a total loss on how to deal with such a bizarre statement.
"Yah...I think it's because they cut down all the trees in their countries for building and firewood and everything and they just don't like trees now. (pause) Like Japan. There's no trees in Japan. Well, those bonsais, but those are like shrubs, that's not a real tree."
I am completely dumbfounded now. There are no trees in Japan. Well, I can't come up with a single thing to say due to the overwhelming Sea of Stupid that is before me.
Luckily he interrupts my contemplation of the inane with, "Yah, well, I gotta go. If I don't talk to you before your birthday, (he doesn't ever call me, so this is quite probable) Happy Birthday. Bye."
"Bye Dad. I love you."
"Yah, ok."
*click*
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Living in forests far away from other people is not true seclusion. True seclusion is to be free from the power of likes and dislikes. It is also to be free from the mental attitude that one must be special because one is treading the path.
Those who remove themselves to far forests often feel superior to others. They think that because they are solitary they are being guided in a special way and that those who live an ordinary life can never have that experience. But that is conceit and is not help to others. The true recluse is one who is available to others, helping them with affectionate speech and personal example.
-Prajnaparamita
Those who remove themselves to far forests often feel superior to others. They think that because they are solitary they are being guided in a special way and that those who live an ordinary life can never have that experience. But that is conceit and is not help to others. The true recluse is one who is available to others, helping them with affectionate speech and personal example.
-Prajnaparamita
my own Prince Charming
One of the lifegaurds down at the pool let me borrow her copy of the book "The Notebook". She said it was romantic and that I would love it. Being a huge fan of science fiction and not romance, I doubted her but I read it this morning (it's a short book) and she was right, it is incredible.
Truly incredible.
What struck me most about it all was when I finished it and wiped the tears away, I got to thinking about how it would have been for me to read this book a few years ago, and how it would have made me feel so sad and remorseful to not know a love like that. A lot of women read romance novels and get wistful, wishing their lives could be like stories.
But when I finished the story I came back out in the living room and looked around. I sat down to make a grocery list and was suddenly struck by the realization that I have everything I've ever dreamed of. I was saved by the knight, the fairy tale came true, and I'm happier than I've ever dreamed of.
Aw, look. My face started leaking again...
Truly incredible.
What struck me most about it all was when I finished it and wiped the tears away, I got to thinking about how it would have been for me to read this book a few years ago, and how it would have made me feel so sad and remorseful to not know a love like that. A lot of women read romance novels and get wistful, wishing their lives could be like stories.
But when I finished the story I came back out in the living room and looked around. I sat down to make a grocery list and was suddenly struck by the realization that I have everything I've ever dreamed of. I was saved by the knight, the fairy tale came true, and I'm happier than I've ever dreamed of.
Aw, look. My face started leaking again...
Friday, June 17, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
hot or not?
I have looked at the goofy Hot Or Not site maybe twice in the last 4 years. What a goof ball idea. And how bizarre. The idea is to post your picture in there and other people get to vote from 1 to 10 on how hot (or not) you are.
What baffles me is that people would give a crap what a bunch of random strangers think of their looks.
That said, going through and rating them made me feel like the cattiest bitch ever.
What was interesting to me was that I rated the peole who were smiling as "hotter" and the people making stupid "I think I'm fucking sexy and evil" faces as not. So many people had these evil expressions that I'm guessing they thought came across and "cool". I thought they looked like grumpy constipated assholes, but then I've never been one for "cool." Cool is in the eye of the beholder, and it's a shallow stupid thing at that.
I gave one guy a 10 for wearing a bra on the outside of his shirt and grinning like a doofus. Oh yah. Self esteem and confidence? A sense of humor?
Now THAT is hot.
What baffles me is that people would give a crap what a bunch of random strangers think of their looks.
That said, going through and rating them made me feel like the cattiest bitch ever.
What was interesting to me was that I rated the peole who were smiling as "hotter" and the people making stupid "I think I'm fucking sexy and evil" faces as not. So many people had these evil expressions that I'm guessing they thought came across and "cool". I thought they looked like grumpy constipated assholes, but then I've never been one for "cool." Cool is in the eye of the beholder, and it's a shallow stupid thing at that.
I gave one guy a 10 for wearing a bra on the outside of his shirt and grinning like a doofus. Oh yah. Self esteem and confidence? A sense of humor?
Now THAT is hot.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
nude bike riding for a cause
It seems I've missed it again. Sorry Asheville. I, uh...ok, I wouldn't have ridden naked down the streets of Asheville.
Looks like the one in San Fran was a lot hipper. Shocking, I know.
Looks like the one in San Fran was a lot hipper. Shocking, I know.
pheromones
Yah. It's ovulation time. And Yours Truly is a walking pile of pheromones. It's crazy.
This months Strange Man Approaching Me For No Reason moment is:
Today. I'm walking back from the gym. I start up the path leading away form the clubhouse and one of the maintenance guys comes rolling up in one of those carts they use. He gets right up next to me and just stops. I look at him. He looks me up and down, that slow lingering gaze that black men have mastered and white guys try to manage. (giggles) He says, "So......you get your work out on?" I raise an eyebrow and smile a bit and say, "Yah...uh...man, it's hot out here!" I'm kind of at a loss cause I have never spoken to this guy ever and he's suddenly stopping and trying for some idle chit chat. It's 94 degrees and I've just sweated for an hour in the gym, what the crap?
He continues with the slow sizzling up and down gaze and says, "You're looking good." I am taken aback and say, "Oh...thanks," and smile a bit and start to walk away. I figure maybe if I can get down wind of him he'll be fine and wipe that hungry look off his face.
I mean, hello? I'm in work out clothes, all covered in sweat, my hair is sticking up 8 different directions (that is, what isn't plastered in sweat to my face) and this guy is coming on to me?
I walk off chuckling, thinking that's not too shabby for a 30 year old mom. And that I really shouldn't leave the house while ovulating.
This months Strange Man Approaching Me For No Reason moment is:
Today. I'm walking back from the gym. I start up the path leading away form the clubhouse and one of the maintenance guys comes rolling up in one of those carts they use. He gets right up next to me and just stops. I look at him. He looks me up and down, that slow lingering gaze that black men have mastered and white guys try to manage. (giggles) He says, "So......you get your work out on?" I raise an eyebrow and smile a bit and say, "Yah...uh...man, it's hot out here!" I'm kind of at a loss cause I have never spoken to this guy ever and he's suddenly stopping and trying for some idle chit chat. It's 94 degrees and I've just sweated for an hour in the gym, what the crap?
He continues with the slow sizzling up and down gaze and says, "You're looking good." I am taken aback and say, "Oh...thanks," and smile a bit and start to walk away. I figure maybe if I can get down wind of him he'll be fine and wipe that hungry look off his face.
I mean, hello? I'm in work out clothes, all covered in sweat, my hair is sticking up 8 different directions (that is, what isn't plastered in sweat to my face) and this guy is coming on to me?
I walk off chuckling, thinking that's not too shabby for a 30 year old mom. And that I really shouldn't leave the house while ovulating.
the abortion rant
Yesterday I got to thinking about the pro life movement. And about people standing outside abortion clinics protesting, trying to woo pregnant women away from the choice they are about to make.
First, let me state that I am pro choice. I am not pro abortion. What's the difference?
The difference is that I have been there first hand and experienced it, and I know what a hideous choice it is. A rock and a hard place, as it were. Should I raise a child while I myself am one, utterly incapable of taking care of myself, mentally unstable, an emotional wreck, unable to hold down a job, really needing medication but far too young to understand that at all, no self esteem, endlessly picking drug addicts and alcoholics because I don't know any better, constantly moving and being evicted, wondering where my next meal is coming from, doing drugs myself because I can't deal with the horrible reality that is my life? Bring a child into my fucked up life to suffer alongside me?
Have the child in the hopes that someone else wants it, but if not it could spend it's life bouncing from orphanage to foster homes, never feeling loved and accepted, never knowing stability itself?
Or kill it, knowing that I've spared it from a potential life of misery, but also from a potential life of beauty and love?
The possibility that it could have a better life than mine didn't seem likely, so I aborted.
That was how it happened. That was the choice I made.
Looking back there is overwhelming remorse and sadness, but I don't regret the decision itself.
What I regret is that I didn't feel I had a choice.
(huge heavy sigh) I mean, what if I lived in an environment where mental health was considered paramount? What if I had a close family that I felt supported me emotionally? What if I had felt there WERE options, options that would enable me to make my life better, REALLY better, not just the "you'll find Jesus and everything will magically be ok" bullshit that the people outside the clinic were screaming at me?
They were the least helpful of all, despite their good intentions. I grew up in the church, and the deceit and schizophrenic multiple personalities displayed by the adults there turned me off forever. I've blogged about it before. While I can respect other people who choose Christianity, I personally feel like that religion isn't big enough to encompass the God I believe in.
But I digress.
When people are standing outside an abortion clinic and yelling at the women and girls to save their babies, I have the image in my head that these are people standing downriver of a broken dam, offering advice to the people of the flooded village, "Swim! Swim!"
Go upstream, fix the dam, that would be more helpful, no?
Likewise, the flood of women going to abortion clinics could be stemmed by making birth control more available, and offering mental health services free to all. These simple things would have saved me and my child from a horrible choice.
11 years of psychotherapy and self-help later, I can look back and clearly see the things that led me to that door. At the time I could not. And "finding" Jesus wouldn't have helped- anxiety medication, anti depressants and a shrink would have!
~sigh~
Alas. The worst part about it is: no woman wants to be there. Yelling at them while they're walking in that door may save a few children, but if a woman is walking up to that door there is a series of unfortunate events that lead up to that walk.
Please. If you want to save babies- help women. Before they get pregnant.
First, let me state that I am pro choice. I am not pro abortion. What's the difference?
The difference is that I have been there first hand and experienced it, and I know what a hideous choice it is. A rock and a hard place, as it were. Should I raise a child while I myself am one, utterly incapable of taking care of myself, mentally unstable, an emotional wreck, unable to hold down a job, really needing medication but far too young to understand that at all, no self esteem, endlessly picking drug addicts and alcoholics because I don't know any better, constantly moving and being evicted, wondering where my next meal is coming from, doing drugs myself because I can't deal with the horrible reality that is my life? Bring a child into my fucked up life to suffer alongside me?
Have the child in the hopes that someone else wants it, but if not it could spend it's life bouncing from orphanage to foster homes, never feeling loved and accepted, never knowing stability itself?
Or kill it, knowing that I've spared it from a potential life of misery, but also from a potential life of beauty and love?
The possibility that it could have a better life than mine didn't seem likely, so I aborted.
That was how it happened. That was the choice I made.
Looking back there is overwhelming remorse and sadness, but I don't regret the decision itself.
What I regret is that I didn't feel I had a choice.
(huge heavy sigh) I mean, what if I lived in an environment where mental health was considered paramount? What if I had a close family that I felt supported me emotionally? What if I had felt there WERE options, options that would enable me to make my life better, REALLY better, not just the "you'll find Jesus and everything will magically be ok" bullshit that the people outside the clinic were screaming at me?
They were the least helpful of all, despite their good intentions. I grew up in the church, and the deceit and schizophrenic multiple personalities displayed by the adults there turned me off forever. I've blogged about it before. While I can respect other people who choose Christianity, I personally feel like that religion isn't big enough to encompass the God I believe in.
But I digress.
When people are standing outside an abortion clinic and yelling at the women and girls to save their babies, I have the image in my head that these are people standing downriver of a broken dam, offering advice to the people of the flooded village, "Swim! Swim!"
Go upstream, fix the dam, that would be more helpful, no?
Likewise, the flood of women going to abortion clinics could be stemmed by making birth control more available, and offering mental health services free to all. These simple things would have saved me and my child from a horrible choice.
11 years of psychotherapy and self-help later, I can look back and clearly see the things that led me to that door. At the time I could not. And "finding" Jesus wouldn't have helped- anxiety medication, anti depressants and a shrink would have!
~sigh~
Alas. The worst part about it is: no woman wants to be there. Yelling at them while they're walking in that door may save a few children, but if a woman is walking up to that door there is a series of unfortunate events that lead up to that walk.
Please. If you want to save babies- help women. Before they get pregnant.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
a wet Bianca
My friends little doggie, after swimming in the ocean.....
everybody, altogether now, "AWWWWWWWWWWWW....."
writers constipation
I've been having the worst time trying to write today. I have so much to say and (argh) so little brain to do it with. It may be that I am hungover. Which happens, oh, say, never? It may be that it is the last full day of school before my son is out of school for the summer, and I'm trying desperately to get a lot of writing done today, which is of course, making me too uptight to write. It also may be that I am ovulating and therefore insanely turned on and it's hard to concentrate on anything at all.
Eh. (shrug)
Eh. (shrug)
qoutes to soothe the OCD
Negligence produces a lot of dirt. As in a house, so in the mind, only a very little dirt collects in a day or two, but if it goes on for many years, it will grow into a vast heap of refuse.
-Commentary to Sutta Nipata
-Commentary to Sutta Nipata
the ocean seeps in
It is 1am and 81 degrees.
I just got back from drinks with friends (another post entirely) and I had the windows down on the way home, rocking out to the Stray Cats and smelling summer and salt water in the air. It's so bizarre to me to live at the beach. I think maybe the chill beach vibe is started to sink in. Driving home with this hot beachy beautiful air blowing my hair around I just felt so oddly free.
Then I check weather.com and see it's 81 degrees. At 1am. Insanity.
Beautiful, beautiful insanity.
I just got back from drinks with friends (another post entirely) and I had the windows down on the way home, rocking out to the Stray Cats and smelling summer and salt water in the air. It's so bizarre to me to live at the beach. I think maybe the chill beach vibe is started to sink in. Driving home with this hot beachy beautiful air blowing my hair around I just felt so oddly free.
Then I check weather.com and see it's 81 degrees. At 1am. Insanity.
Beautiful, beautiful insanity.
Monday, June 13, 2005
the hidden joys of blogging
I've been pondering the world of blog. What it means to blog, who blogs, why they blog, and most interesting of all, the friendships created through blogs.
You see, I've made quite a few friends through blogging. Mr. Wonderful marvels at my ability to make friends online. I told him I figured out the secret to online friend making: approach from the side.
If you walk up to someone on the street and gaily state, "Be my friend!" they're likely to squint and ponder your sanity, maybe even shake your hand but quickly trying to sterilize it as soon as possible. I suppose in another less cynical country this approach may go over better but here in the States that wouldn't be considered friendly, it would be considered deranged. One must not approach people so enthusiastically, one must play hard to get.
I discovered through experience that you can leave a comment on someones blog and if they like it, they'll seek you out. Maybe leave a comment on your blog. And this extremely passive form of communication will continue until one decides the other is worthy of friendship and will ask for an actual e-mail address, eventually IM, and then who knows?
Do you see? It is the perfect friend making tool for the chronically shy! And those otherwise socially impaired. To comment on someones blog does not require that they answer you, acknowledge you, look you in the eye, laugh at your stupid joke, smile or even fart in your general direction (Monty Python moment, forgive me). Commenting on other peoples blogs is nearly like throwing Valentines out of an airplane and see who bites. The other people have no social obligation to do anything at all. Your comment comes out of the clear blue sky and they can pick it up and marvel at it or just walk on by.
Fascinating, no?
Anyway, it works. For someone who stays at home and writes all day (moi) I don't ever feel lonely or isolated. I have a few good friends, I rarely see any of them, most of my friends I e-mail or IM with and other than that I'm content. Being able to read the inner lives of people is so intimate, and likewise I'm sharing my own. It's the give and take of friendship but toned way down. There are no awkward silences in blog. It's beautiful.
I only wish people would comment more. People rarely do, despite the amount of traffic I get. Eh- whatever. I enjoy the comments. Even when they're from right wing jackasses. Knowing that I'm not sitting here talking to myself is comforting somehow. Although really, that is the gist of it.
It's catharsis. And I end up with a few really great friends. Fabulous. Just fabulous.
You see, I've made quite a few friends through blogging. Mr. Wonderful marvels at my ability to make friends online. I told him I figured out the secret to online friend making: approach from the side.
If you walk up to someone on the street and gaily state, "Be my friend!" they're likely to squint and ponder your sanity, maybe even shake your hand but quickly trying to sterilize it as soon as possible. I suppose in another less cynical country this approach may go over better but here in the States that wouldn't be considered friendly, it would be considered deranged. One must not approach people so enthusiastically, one must play hard to get.
I discovered through experience that you can leave a comment on someones blog and if they like it, they'll seek you out. Maybe leave a comment on your blog. And this extremely passive form of communication will continue until one decides the other is worthy of friendship and will ask for an actual e-mail address, eventually IM, and then who knows?
Do you see? It is the perfect friend making tool for the chronically shy! And those otherwise socially impaired. To comment on someones blog does not require that they answer you, acknowledge you, look you in the eye, laugh at your stupid joke, smile or even fart in your general direction (Monty Python moment, forgive me). Commenting on other peoples blogs is nearly like throwing Valentines out of an airplane and see who bites. The other people have no social obligation to do anything at all. Your comment comes out of the clear blue sky and they can pick it up and marvel at it or just walk on by.
Fascinating, no?
Anyway, it works. For someone who stays at home and writes all day (moi) I don't ever feel lonely or isolated. I have a few good friends, I rarely see any of them, most of my friends I e-mail or IM with and other than that I'm content. Being able to read the inner lives of people is so intimate, and likewise I'm sharing my own. It's the give and take of friendship but toned way down. There are no awkward silences in blog. It's beautiful.
I only wish people would comment more. People rarely do, despite the amount of traffic I get. Eh- whatever. I enjoy the comments. Even when they're from right wing jackasses. Knowing that I'm not sitting here talking to myself is comforting somehow. Although really, that is the gist of it.
It's catharsis. And I end up with a few really great friends. Fabulous. Just fabulous.
Friday, June 10, 2005
red rover red rover, I'm gonna freak the fuck out if any more jets fly over
hmph.
I feel all puny today. I haven't really written anything. I finally went to go work out and that felt pretty good. Then I waited outside for my sons bus to come, and the sun was beating down on my sweaty self and that was nice, too. I found myself looking around at the trees...with all the leaves in they have managed to completely change the way this apartment complex looks. I thought about going swimming. Then I thought I'd rather just come inside and stare at this damnable computer, I really don't know WHY I thought that would be a good plan because I'm more frustrated than ever!
I think it's the jets. They've been blasting over our house for 5 days now and it's making me crazy. Usually they rotate and I only hear it for a day or two (we live in the direct flight path of Ocean Naval Air Base- these aren't commercial planes they are screaming loud JETS and OH HOW I HATE LOUD NOISES) but this has been going on for 5 days and I think I'm going to need heavy sedation if they don't go away soon.
I want to spend the weekend out lounging by the pool, enjoying the summerness of it all, working on a tan and enjoying the sexy fruits of my working-out-labors. A girl can't get her chill on with a jet screaming overhead.
Argh. The noise of it all is actually exhausting me. For someone with PTSD, this has been an exercise in not freaking out. I'm so done with this exercise. If one more jet screams over my house at 2am I'm going psycho. I'm just saying.
I feel all puny today. I haven't really written anything. I finally went to go work out and that felt pretty good. Then I waited outside for my sons bus to come, and the sun was beating down on my sweaty self and that was nice, too. I found myself looking around at the trees...with all the leaves in they have managed to completely change the way this apartment complex looks. I thought about going swimming. Then I thought I'd rather just come inside and stare at this damnable computer, I really don't know WHY I thought that would be a good plan because I'm more frustrated than ever!
I think it's the jets. They've been blasting over our house for 5 days now and it's making me crazy. Usually they rotate and I only hear it for a day or two (we live in the direct flight path of Ocean Naval Air Base- these aren't commercial planes they are screaming loud JETS and OH HOW I HATE LOUD NOISES) but this has been going on for 5 days and I think I'm going to need heavy sedation if they don't go away soon.
I want to spend the weekend out lounging by the pool, enjoying the summerness of it all, working on a tan and enjoying the sexy fruits of my working-out-labors. A girl can't get her chill on with a jet screaming overhead.
Argh. The noise of it all is actually exhausting me. For someone with PTSD, this has been an exercise in not freaking out. I'm so done with this exercise. If one more jet screams over my house at 2am I'm going psycho. I'm just saying.
chewy paranoia
One of my sons teeth broke last night (thank you rock hard Starburst!) Luckily, I suppose, it was one of the ones he had crowned, so the cap popped off and the crown itself is broken. Luckily meaning it has a baby root canal, so he isn't in any pain whatsoever.
Well.
I covered it with temporary dental plaster and now we have to get it fixed.
And....I am completely wigging out over this. Because I do so LOVE going to the dentist. Yes. It fills me with so many happy memories. Ok, I'm terrified of the dentist, and more so than anything else I'm afraid of anything harming my child. Put these two together and you have one Borderline Freakout.
Mr. Wonderful says it's nothing serious. I think he's being honest. I'm pretty sure. But it's like he's telling me this from some alternate reality, like he's trying to yell, "Don't worry everything is under control!" but then I look down and realize I'm holding onto a tin can with a rope attached.
Why, yes. I also wonder why I am not on medication.
Well.
I covered it with temporary dental plaster and now we have to get it fixed.
And....I am completely wigging out over this. Because I do so LOVE going to the dentist. Yes. It fills me with so many happy memories. Ok, I'm terrified of the dentist, and more so than anything else I'm afraid of anything harming my child. Put these two together and you have one Borderline Freakout.
Mr. Wonderful says it's nothing serious. I think he's being honest. I'm pretty sure. But it's like he's telling me this from some alternate reality, like he's trying to yell, "Don't worry everything is under control!" but then I look down and realize I'm holding onto a tin can with a rope attached.
Why, yes. I also wonder why I am not on medication.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
processing rape trauma...
I've been trying to figure out what my deal is with shorts.
Shorts: I fear them.
They fill me with anxiety.
No kidding.
I hate summer because summer is hot, and when it's hot you have to be totally retarded to wear pants all the time but that's what happens to me. For some reason, when I wear shorts I get all freaked out and my legs end up covered with hives and I scratch and freak out some more.
Anxiety: Great For Provoking More Anxiety!
The crazy part? (no, a fear of shorts is not crazy, piss off) Wearing a bathing suit doesn't bother me at all. Yah. I can go out in a little bitty bikini and have no anxiety about it at all.
Hmmm. So. At first I was thinking that maybe it's just anxiety about having little clothing on, working on that whole "Men scare the fucking crap out of me since they're all potential rapists" thing I have going on, but then I realized I have no problem laying around in a bathing suit.
So...what the hell?
Now, the legs-n-hives thing started back when I was fourteen, and I noticed it maybe 6 months after losing my virginity to the boyfriend that raped me. Ok. One could resonably deduce these things are connected. And it has only gotten worse and worse over the years.
Once in a great while the hives come up elsewhere but it always starts in my legs. No, it is not an allergic reaction. The last 16 years of this have provided me with plenty of time to do a lengthy process of elimination.
It's anxiety. And it doesn't happen in the winter. It starts in the spring. But only when it gets hot. Hot enough I am forced to wear shorts....and it goes away when it's cold enough to start wearing pants in the fall...
>scratches head<
Skirts bug me too but not if they're skorts. Likewise, what the crap is the deal with that extra flap of fabric making it ok? Shorts, bad, skort, ok?
In my crazy defense, skorts are ok to a point. I will get itchy in them, too sometimes.
Really wearing anything that comes above the knee much just freaks me out. Unless its winter and I can wear stockings with them. Yep. A miniskirt with stockings is no problem. (shrug)
But I can go to the pool and lounge around in almost NOTHING and it's no big deal?
Argh.
So this morning I got to thinking about it and told Mr. Wonderful it has to be something stuck in my head from the rape. Considering the time of year, it's very likely I had on shorts. But why did I fixate on the shorts? Why are my legs so sensitive?
And I tried to look back and remember what might have caused such a thing but I can't remember. I've blocked so much (read: all) of it out of my head that I can't access anything to find a clue.
I mean, a lot of the trauma things I tweak about I can understand. Having my legs pushed apart freaked me out for years; I've gotten over that. A dick near my face? Oh hell no! (Got over that years ago, dear dear things those weiners are!) But those things make SENSE to me because they are actions ...well, that I remember. Was there something about my legs?
Something small, maybe. Something that registered only subconciously? Maybe that bed was scratchy?
I remember we all went to my friend Daves house afterwards. I remember sitting in his garage on the floor while the guys were outside skating. I remember feeling grossed out and ashamed. It seems like I was sitting there hugging my knees. In shorts? Maybe the exposed legs mixed with the shame in my head?
That seems to touch an icky spot. It rings a bell ringing but it's a bell in a creepy horror flick. Like the soundtrack for a scary movie about spiders (all scary movies with spiders have the most fucked up psycho music).
Why not bathing suits? Why am I so attached to clothes that hit between my knees and thighs? What the fuck?
I don't know.
Shorts: I fear them.
They fill me with anxiety.
No kidding.
I hate summer because summer is hot, and when it's hot you have to be totally retarded to wear pants all the time but that's what happens to me. For some reason, when I wear shorts I get all freaked out and my legs end up covered with hives and I scratch and freak out some more.
Anxiety: Great For Provoking More Anxiety!
The crazy part? (no, a fear of shorts is not crazy, piss off) Wearing a bathing suit doesn't bother me at all. Yah. I can go out in a little bitty bikini and have no anxiety about it at all.
Hmmm. So. At first I was thinking that maybe it's just anxiety about having little clothing on, working on that whole "Men scare the fucking crap out of me since they're all potential rapists" thing I have going on, but then I realized I have no problem laying around in a bathing suit.
So...what the hell?
Now, the legs-n-hives thing started back when I was fourteen, and I noticed it maybe 6 months after losing my virginity to the boyfriend that raped me. Ok. One could resonably deduce these things are connected. And it has only gotten worse and worse over the years.
Once in a great while the hives come up elsewhere but it always starts in my legs. No, it is not an allergic reaction. The last 16 years of this have provided me with plenty of time to do a lengthy process of elimination.
It's anxiety. And it doesn't happen in the winter. It starts in the spring. But only when it gets hot. Hot enough I am forced to wear shorts....and it goes away when it's cold enough to start wearing pants in the fall...
>scratches head<
Skirts bug me too but not if they're skorts. Likewise, what the crap is the deal with that extra flap of fabric making it ok? Shorts, bad, skort, ok?
In my crazy defense, skorts are ok to a point. I will get itchy in them, too sometimes.
Really wearing anything that comes above the knee much just freaks me out. Unless its winter and I can wear stockings with them. Yep. A miniskirt with stockings is no problem. (shrug)
But I can go to the pool and lounge around in almost NOTHING and it's no big deal?
Argh.
So this morning I got to thinking about it and told Mr. Wonderful it has to be something stuck in my head from the rape. Considering the time of year, it's very likely I had on shorts. But why did I fixate on the shorts? Why are my legs so sensitive?
And I tried to look back and remember what might have caused such a thing but I can't remember. I've blocked so much (read: all) of it out of my head that I can't access anything to find a clue.
I mean, a lot of the trauma things I tweak about I can understand. Having my legs pushed apart freaked me out for years; I've gotten over that. A dick near my face? Oh hell no! (Got over that years ago, dear dear things those weiners are!) But those things make SENSE to me because they are actions ...well, that I remember. Was there something about my legs?
Something small, maybe. Something that registered only subconciously? Maybe that bed was scratchy?
I remember we all went to my friend Daves house afterwards. I remember sitting in his garage on the floor while the guys were outside skating. I remember feeling grossed out and ashamed. It seems like I was sitting there hugging my knees. In shorts? Maybe the exposed legs mixed with the shame in my head?
That seems to touch an icky spot. It rings a bell ringing but it's a bell in a creepy horror flick. Like the soundtrack for a scary movie about spiders (all scary movies with spiders have the most fucked up psycho music).
Why not bathing suits? Why am I so attached to clothes that hit between my knees and thighs? What the fuck?
I don't know.
cheese inspiring asshead
Just sitting here reading Jason Mulgrews post about "bbq, I guess" thinking what a huge asshead he is for making me want to eat all this food. I just got back from the gym. What the hell did I sweat for an hour for to just eat all this cheese? You made me eat cheese. You asshead.
But I will forgive you because you wrote this:
Hot Girl at BBQ #1: “Hey, do you see that fat guy over there eating three cheeseburgers piled on top of each other?”
Hot Girl at BBQ #2: “Yeah. Earlier I went to pee and caught him in the bathroom drinking maple syrup.”
HG #1: “Ewww. I bet his balls smell like lunchmeat.”
HG #2: “They do. Just walk by him and take a whiff.”
HG #1: “I thought I smelled deli meats!”
and
Of course, one has to eat at a barbeque. That's sort of what they're all about. But whereas I'd normally eat something like two burgers, two hot dogs, a half a bag of Tostitos and anything that was in my line of vision while I ate these things, at this particular barbeque I had only one measly burger (which was delicious). And I did so in a very slow and tasteful manner, resisting the urge to shove the whole thing in my mouth, then running over to the grill to pull half-cooked burgers right off the hot grill, stopping only when being tackled by my friends, and then scanning the area around the grill for any dropped meat or cheese, all the while screaming, “Why do you fear what you don’t understand? WHY DO YOU FEAR WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND?” at the top of my lungs with tears streaming down my face.
How I love you. Sort of.
But I will forgive you because you wrote this:
Hot Girl at BBQ #1: “Hey, do you see that fat guy over there eating three cheeseburgers piled on top of each other?”
Hot Girl at BBQ #2: “Yeah. Earlier I went to pee and caught him in the bathroom drinking maple syrup.”
HG #1: “Ewww. I bet his balls smell like lunchmeat.”
HG #2: “They do. Just walk by him and take a whiff.”
HG #1: “I thought I smelled deli meats!”
and
Of course, one has to eat at a barbeque. That's sort of what they're all about. But whereas I'd normally eat something like two burgers, two hot dogs, a half a bag of Tostitos and anything that was in my line of vision while I ate these things, at this particular barbeque I had only one measly burger (which was delicious). And I did so in a very slow and tasteful manner, resisting the urge to shove the whole thing in my mouth, then running over to the grill to pull half-cooked burgers right off the hot grill, stopping only when being tackled by my friends, and then scanning the area around the grill for any dropped meat or cheese, all the while screaming, “Why do you fear what you don’t understand? WHY DO YOU FEAR WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND?” at the top of my lungs with tears streaming down my face.
How I love you. Sort of.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
things you really didn't want to know but I feel compelled to inform you of anyway:
A pig's orgasm can last for up to half an hour, producing up to a pint of semen.
To that I say, GO PIG!
To that I say, GO PIG!
cheater cheater pumpkin eater
I recently found out a friend of mine has been/is cheating on her husband. She did not tell me, but she did tell a mutual (and reliable) friend, who informed me in a rather off hand way. In her defense (of rumor mongering) I think she thought I was aware and my shock surprised her.
Now, the cheating friend knows all too well how I feel about such things (read blogs from Valentines Day 2004) and knew better than to tell me, for fear I would
a) kick her ass personally
b) rat her out
c) never speak to her ho-ing ass again
And so she has never clued me in. I can't blame her for that. However, I am fucking irate that she has tricked me. The truth of it is, I feel deceived. She frequently mentions how loyal and loving a wife she is, and maybe that should have been my first clue, but I am a trusting and naive idiot, who likes to take people at their word until proven otherwise.
>scratches head<
Well, she has proven otherwise. The predicament: She doesn't know that I know. And should I confront her, she will be quite angry with Innocent Informant, and I have no intention of creating more drama. Of course, the reality of it is that Cheating Wife should be angry with herself for being a lying cheating ho and a blabbermouth to boot, but we all know that guilt makes people do stupid things and that she's not going to blame herself should she be confronted SO...
What to do?
It's gone on for weeks now. Every time I talk to her I don't know what to say, and the more stories she tells me that involve other men now I just ASSUME she's fucked them all. She recently told me some story about some guy that came on to her at a party and her husband wasn't there and how she fought this guy off and...
she's laughing while she's telling me the story and I laugh too while thinking, "Whatever, I know you fucked him, you fucking whore."
It's stressing me out.
Sometimes secrets are heavy.
Now, the cheating friend knows all too well how I feel about such things (read blogs from Valentines Day 2004) and knew better than to tell me, for fear I would
a) kick her ass personally
b) rat her out
c) never speak to her ho-ing ass again
And so she has never clued me in. I can't blame her for that. However, I am fucking irate that she has tricked me. The truth of it is, I feel deceived. She frequently mentions how loyal and loving a wife she is, and maybe that should have been my first clue, but I am a trusting and naive idiot, who likes to take people at their word until proven otherwise.
>scratches head<
Well, she has proven otherwise. The predicament: She doesn't know that I know. And should I confront her, she will be quite angry with Innocent Informant, and I have no intention of creating more drama. Of course, the reality of it is that Cheating Wife should be angry with herself for being a lying cheating ho and a blabbermouth to boot, but we all know that guilt makes people do stupid things and that she's not going to blame herself should she be confronted SO...
What to do?
It's gone on for weeks now. Every time I talk to her I don't know what to say, and the more stories she tells me that involve other men now I just ASSUME she's fucked them all. She recently told me some story about some guy that came on to her at a party and her husband wasn't there and how she fought this guy off and...
she's laughing while she's telling me the story and I laugh too while thinking, "Whatever, I know you fucked him, you fucking whore."
It's stressing me out.
Sometimes secrets are heavy.
Introspectres review of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.
Here it is:
Anakin, you little bitch. Your self centered short sighted egomaniacal qualities have caused you to help kill all the Jedi (save two) and crumble the Republic. Good job you arrogant little asshole. You suck ass. I'm gonna call you Darth Asshead and bitch slap you first chance I get. You whiny little fucker. At least we know Luke came by that whining honestly. Ugh.
The rest of the movie was superb. But Anakin? What a bitch.
That is all.
Anakin, you little bitch. Your self centered short sighted egomaniacal qualities have caused you to help kill all the Jedi (save two) and crumble the Republic. Good job you arrogant little asshole. You suck ass. I'm gonna call you Darth Asshead and bitch slap you first chance I get. You whiny little fucker. At least we know Luke came by that whining honestly. Ugh.
The rest of the movie was superb. But Anakin? What a bitch.
That is all.
Monday, June 06, 2005
To all those who own a gym or other work out facilities:
If your air conditioning is broke, hurry your ass to a store and at least buy a couple of fans for the hard core bitches who come in and work out anyway.
If not, have a paramedic or two on hand for when we drop dead.
You bastards.
If not, have a paramedic or two on hand for when we drop dead.
You bastards.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
I love a good translation
One must note that Mr. Wonderful is standing butt naked in the kitchen making me coffee. Oh how I love that man of mine!
Friday, June 03, 2005
love the dog fur when attached to dog body
Me and my crazy.....
Mr. Wonderfuls brother, brothers girlfriend and girlfriends dog just left. They were, I am happy to report, just fabulous, other than the moment when they left and the brother states, "Yah, sorry I didn't meet you sooner, I just hate kids," to which I raised an eyebrow and left it at that. Honesty is great and all, but when referring to anothers persons offspring it usually is best to temper it a little, say? Just a thought. (Nothing will raise my hackles and make the claws pop out faster than any possible threat- real or imaginary- to my child.)
Anywho, I totally love their dog. Big old pit bull puppy, sweet as could be and with a temperment you would expect from a labrador maybe. Just a big softy. Gorgeous. And so I decided to set aside my crazy and ignore the fact that his hair was on everything, everywhere, seeping into the cracks of my existance.
Hey, I love dogs. I mean, really really really love animals, but dogs are the greatest. It's just that they don't mesh with my obsessive compulsive cleaning habits so well....(cringes a bit)...
So they stayed for two days and I rolled around with the dog and snuggled the dog and even took a nap with the dog, and then they walked out the door and *ping*twitch* the cleaning began. I have vaccummed and dusted everything possible and am now in the process of washing everything else. Everything. If I could strip the entire carpet out of my house and set it outside in the rain with the living room carpet (currently being poured on in a fabulous thunderstorm) I just well might.
It's interesting to me that I can unplug the crazy for a few days when needed. Well, it was there, whispering to me the whole time but I managed to mostly ignore it and not freak out and scratch (myself). Now I'm crawling around the floor sniffing things and piling all dog hair contaminated items up in one corner, making sure it doesn't mix with the non-contaminated items.
(rolls eyes)
Sheesh.
>insert comical psychotic song and dance about OCD here, complete with tophats and dancing monkeys<
Thank you.
Mr. Wonderfuls brother, brothers girlfriend and girlfriends dog just left. They were, I am happy to report, just fabulous, other than the moment when they left and the brother states, "Yah, sorry I didn't meet you sooner, I just hate kids," to which I raised an eyebrow and left it at that. Honesty is great and all, but when referring to anothers persons offspring it usually is best to temper it a little, say? Just a thought. (Nothing will raise my hackles and make the claws pop out faster than any possible threat- real or imaginary- to my child.)
Anywho, I totally love their dog. Big old pit bull puppy, sweet as could be and with a temperment you would expect from a labrador maybe. Just a big softy. Gorgeous. And so I decided to set aside my crazy and ignore the fact that his hair was on everything, everywhere, seeping into the cracks of my existance.
Hey, I love dogs. I mean, really really really love animals, but dogs are the greatest. It's just that they don't mesh with my obsessive compulsive cleaning habits so well....(cringes a bit)...
So they stayed for two days and I rolled around with the dog and snuggled the dog and even took a nap with the dog, and then they walked out the door and *ping*twitch* the cleaning began. I have vaccummed and dusted everything possible and am now in the process of washing everything else. Everything. If I could strip the entire carpet out of my house and set it outside in the rain with the living room carpet (currently being poured on in a fabulous thunderstorm) I just well might.
It's interesting to me that I can unplug the crazy for a few days when needed. Well, it was there, whispering to me the whole time but I managed to mostly ignore it and not freak out and scratch (myself). Now I'm crawling around the floor sniffing things and piling all dog hair contaminated items up in one corner, making sure it doesn't mix with the non-contaminated items.
(rolls eyes)
Sheesh.
>insert comical psychotic song and dance about OCD here, complete with tophats and dancing monkeys<
Thank you.
pine youth
Man I miss having a camera.
At the highway exit ramp near our house there is a stand of pine trees and honeysuckle. I have been rolling down my window while I stop so I can stop and smell the posies, dontcha know. (chuckle) Then this morning I noticed the most beautiful and delicate pine tree coming up, maybe a foot tall, and gorgeous and light green in the way that new growth is. It was so soft and fresh and I wished I could take a picture of its delicate beauty for you but you'll just have to imagine...
At the highway exit ramp near our house there is a stand of pine trees and honeysuckle. I have been rolling down my window while I stop so I can stop and smell the posies, dontcha know. (chuckle) Then this morning I noticed the most beautiful and delicate pine tree coming up, maybe a foot tall, and gorgeous and light green in the way that new growth is. It was so soft and fresh and I wished I could take a picture of its delicate beauty for you but you'll just have to imagine...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
