Monday, July 14, 2008

A day in the life of The Turner's humble abode....

So six o'clock in the morn' rolls 'round and rears it's ugly head.

"Sugarplump.....Sugarplump. You come lock the door? I'm leavin for work now."


"Sugarplump. I'm leaving. Come lock the door".

I roll over and strain my eyes. I see Snookms in all his working glory. My mouth wants to smile at his fortitude, but the body says otherwise. Why the FUCK do I always wake up feeling like I've been out drinking all night, when I haven't touched a drink in ages? But I digress. My brain forces my lifeless carcass out of body and commands itself to follow Snookms to the front door and kiss him goodbye for work and lock up. I hobble through the hallway and past the foyer where he awaits me with lunch in one hand and his nailgun/toolbelt/whatever the fuck else a framer takes with one's self on a daily working basis and I reach for the dead bolt on the front door. Then I undo the chain, then turn off the security alarm, (so as not to awake the rest of the young and the dead in the house) and then pucker up (but not too hard: morning breath; ICK!) and kiss my Snookms goodbye for the day. I watch him walk to his truck and pack it full of framer paraphanalia and then I do up the door the same way I did before, just turning everything the opposite, and head back to bed.

On "special" days, I'll stay up, and take the advantage of the beautiful and quiet summer morning and light up a smoke, preferably menthol, and inhale a few puffs of sweet, secretive, but ever so sinful delight, as my kiddos don't know that I light up on occasion. Snookms knows, but doesn't approve one bit, so I hide my sinful pleasures at my leisure, taking extra care not to smoke/discuss my wordly habit in front of him or the younguns'. Most mornings I'll take tea with my smoke, a perfect way to chase the nauseating taste of nicotine/cigarettes away. I usually head straight for my computer desk, once all the secret smoke rituals have been put into play.

-Kids still asleep? check.
-Snookms not lingering? check.
-Plenty of sugar in the tea? check.
-Something nearby to douse my cigarette out in should the kids decide to wake up? -check.
-Sliding door open? check.

It is then and only then that I can fully immerse myself in one of the last things I have left to call "my own" and feel sheer bliss in the moment of inhaling/exhaling. I breathe in deeply, allowing the smoke inhalation to take my breath away, hoping for one last "head rush". Something left of yore, an old and forgotten dragon to be chased when feeling adventurous enough. But alas, those are back in the olden days of cutting school and dodging the gym teacher back behind B-Wing at South City. Oh how I miss those days.

South San Francisco and it's "noteworthy" school systems had their way with me, and teaching me all the street smarts I would ever need to know. Fuck an education, I had bitchez to throw down with after 2nd period. Where the fuck was College Prep English gonna get my ass then? But thar she blows again, yet another smoke ring of false conceptions, derived all on her own by yours truly. I STILL beat myself over the head for not applying myself more to my photography classes and other such specials I had the pleasure of attending but didn't for the sake of alchohol induced drug orgies and the likes.

FUCK how I hate me sometimes.

So I sit. And reminisce with my morning smoke, knowing full well I'm not getting anywhere and realizing this.

....So I sign in to Myspace, checking for new shit, getting annoyed at the stupid assed mood updates everyone love to put on the ass suck that is Myspace. So and so...."in Jamaica and getting burned", Yet anoter dipshit "lovin' every minute of Washington DC", and then there's my personal favorite: Asshole #7 "is lovin' the beach right now".

"Kiss my crippled ass", as Lieutenant Dan so heartily states in Forrest Gump. They can all go to hell, every last one of em, I state mentally, blowing out yet another smoke ring of dissension. I move on. I check my emails, hoping to God that somehow PublishAmerica has somehow seen the light and sent me a full on apology, stating that they never realized my true potential, and that whomever looked over my submission with such carelessness has been impaled with a large 3-way dildo, and that PublishAmerica Management has personally seen to it that this person be hung by their balls/lips and be demanded of a formal apology to me for all my troubles and heartfelt tears of rejection.

My emails consist only of some fucking chain letter (oh how I want to wipe my ass on those and feed them to the maggots in my garbage can) and more dissapointment on yahoo, telling me how I can finally start up my own small business as a carrot cake vendor. Fucking communists.

I reach for one last star. One last hope, before I decide to call it a morning and go bury my head back into my Batman pillow and call it a morning.
Ah, yes. Blogger. Good ol' blogger. When all else fails, she never will. (Why is every inanimate object a god-damned she for me? I hate girls.) I laugh, I cry, I shit while I laugh and cry at the occasional pleasantries shared on Blogger. Only cause they are secret. Shared secrets, with a bunch of other Whatchamahoozits, who essentially don't know who the fuck I am. So I could get naked on Blogger for all I care and not give one flying fuck just who sees how saggy and "tribal" my tits have gotten.

Physical nakedness has never been one of my stronger points, but verbal nudity is quite another thing, mi amigo/a.So there I will-a-go, ranting on. About this and that and that and this, and what does to who and where I'd like to slice myself six ways to Sunday before I die a thousand deaths over and over....blahblahfuckingblah.....

I take complete comfort in knowing I can be undressed in this way. I get carried away with my words, far and beyond. I take it a step further and then some. There's even personal insult to injury for good measure. And then I say, with grandiose notion, "I think I'll post this on my Myspace Blog instead!".
To which I reply, after it has all been said and done, "You stupid fecking bitch". Look what you just said about your mother".
And "You really gonna let everyone see that?"
Then "Just hit X and go the fuck back to bed already".
"Al-fucking-right!!", replies my wounded but maniacal ego. "To bed I shall go, fucker".

Jolly and joe do I trundle on to my bed, ready to snuggle nose deep into my Nightmare Before Christmas comforter, kissing Jack the Pumpkin King's adorable face because it reminds me so of my Snookms, all tall, pale and dark persona'd-like. I dream of all the wonderfully/potentially hazardous blog comments that may be in ascension as we speak, (so to speak) and fall into a hazy sleep, drenched with instructional computer tech symbolism and hints of purple cow sex and lots of friend's list invites. People I don't even know, for heaven's sake. But they wanna read me, and that's all that matters. They wanna stop in the middle of shopping for a band saw and a tape measure at Menard's, and they wanna read me. Cause I'm hotter than hot, and everybody who's anybody knows I belong on every god-damned shelf of the free world, not excluding the shelves of Dollar General, proclaiming my existence to the essence of humanity.

I am here!!. Hear me roar!!. (Or read me roar).

3 hours later I awaken to Interpol's Heinrich Manuever playing as the alarm clock ring for my cell phone. I hit snooze the first 40 times and then pride myself for waking up before 12 noon.
But fuck!!
The kids are still asleep.

"Wake them!" my churned brain commands.

So I do.

They look just about as fucked up as I, their eyes begging for one last shot of somthin' or another, just to get the juices flowin'. "How bout a shot of milk and Waffle Crisp sarge? It's on the house!!", I banter away sarcastically.

Carmen shoots me the same look Linda Blair's character shoots Father Merrin from the Exorcist when the power of Christ is compelling her. David's is one of sleep-induced amusement, as he revels in his sister's displeasure, mouth all a-smilin', eyes still closed. The "Jr." is a persona all his own, and will one morning wake up with his foot up his ass and the next be serving me Honey Bunches of Oats in a bowl with some milk and a spoon.

We all scramble to get dressed and packed into the car before 12:30 p.m., to make sure we can still get free lunch at their school, and always make it just before the blessed lunch ladies are ready to shut down for the afternoon. I attempt to conceal any evidence of the "we just fucking woke up" look from our appearance, and just try to act "natural", but I can feel them. Those eyes, those accusing fucking eyes, of the thousands of mothers, burning a hole through my soul, wretching in their capri shorts and baby doll tops, angry and dissapointed that I have fallen to "the dark side of the force". They sit and fester in their Lee Dungaree stews, plotting their next move to make me one of them. And as I sit in earnest waiting for each of my offspring to consume their daily recommended amount of 5 pieces of makeshift chicken nuggets, I can't help but undress them with my eyes, mentally trading in their Mudd brand jeans and their Aeropostle hoodies for a bondage choker and some knee highs.

There's this one asian mom in particular that I always come back to. Never fails. She's the perfect fucking candidate. I tear that olive green colored button up polo off with my teeth, and mentally dress her in my boisteire, and strap that spiked choker on so tight it makes her thighs turn purple for Christ's sake. I throw in a few teachers for good measure. The hotter ones. Not neccessarily the younger ones, because the younger ones aren't always neccessarily the hotter ones. The WISER ones. The curvier ones. The bitchier ones. What they wouldn't do for a visionary night of bondage, my imagination tells me. Not to fuck em. Nothing like that. Just to put them in their fukkin place is all. Damn them and their capris and Nike's and clean smelling children. And their SUV's and their soccer mom bumper stickers. Why must they always be "the better ones"? The "successful ones"? I guess if I wouldnt've kept muh face knee deep in chicks n dicks, I'd have me a taste o' that as well.

But I sit, nonchalantly, and piss the day away, wondering why I even felt such a strong desire to drown my sorrows in a 40 ounce of Old English 800 at the ripe age of 15 in the first god-damned place. I then begin to ponder my folly even further, wondering if indeed this was any of my "fault" in the first place?.....I had issues then. Deepseeded issues that I didn't understand for the life of me, that I still don't quite understand to this day. Things that haunt me, leading me to question their existence.

And then I start to feel it:
The anguish of the masses. Of the thousands upon thousands whom have suffered the same fate as I. And I wonder. That's all I do for the remainder of the day, is wonder. About so many things, and how they COULDA been if this hadn't happened, or if that hadda happened, or in ways out, or out ways in. And I am driven mad by this drivel. It leads me to tears, unchecked, slowly flowing down my forearms like the roots of a tree follow their path to the grounds beneath.

They lead down a single trail, and branch off to other pathways down my body, some tears falling on my Vans, others dripping down my Hello Kitty purse. Most of them just ball up in the pit of the fist I have made, while in my questioned position of angst, and I just let them fall where they may this time.
Fuck Snookms if he sees me.
And fuck the kids too.
I need these tears like Mr. Bean needs an attentive audience, and if I hide them away like I do every god-damned day, well then, here lies yet another day that I am again invisible to the fucking world around me.

As I come to, I realize I am all alone in the house, Snookms having left me to my own devices again, and I, him too. When one is this miserable, it's easy to emotionally abandon ship and make others want to set sail and get the fuck off the boat as well. So he and they left me. They gave up. And I'm alone in the house in the kitchen doorway with a thousand tears leading this way and that, and all I wanna do is call Snookms.

I've got the phone in my hand, my OTHER hand that isn't balled up in a fist of quiet pain and rage. My body is morbidly stiff from trying to blot out all things emotional, and with each word mouthed of "Snookms, can you come back and pick me up please, so I won't be lonely anymore?", I feel another staggeringly painful deathblow to the senses:
Too much hope is a terrible thing for me, but it's all I can do to hold on in this moment. My survival instincts kick on, and my brain is obeying all kinds of commands that my heart is unable to make. I stand back, astonished at this new feat that my body can pull off. My emotions stand beside my body and literally WATCH as it takes over me, pushing "talk" on the phone,dialing the appropriate "Snookms to the rescue" numbers, and mouthing the words "Yes", as Snookms asks if I want him to come back and pick me up.

My emotions fail me this time though, and they collapse into themselves and join with the rest of my body as more tears travel down the many paths it has made for itself. I stand there and curl up in a ball, trying to recollect some of what went on, what led me to this point in the first place. I remember vividly Snookms wanting to get out of the house, but where did the rest of the story go? I was at school, with the kids, getting free lunches, remember? How did it get to all this? It's Sunday now. Friday was the last day for school lunch. How did I get here, from point "A" all the way to point "F"?

None of that is answered as I hear the dead bolt on the front door undo, and Snookms comes to the rescue, with his strong but gentle arms to hold me in check as I crumple to the floor once again.
But this time, he holds me up.
This time, he doesn't let me fall.
He kisses me with those soft full lips of his, a gentle, fuck-free kiss, that tells me he doesn't want ANYTHING from me. Nothing but the pleasure of my company. And with that, I get in the car. We drive. The kids, I hear laughing in the back seat. I hear myself laughing. We are one again. We are a family.
We go to the park.
We get ice cream.
We shop at K-mart, and buy things, and cook out.
We don't live happily ever after, but we live day to day and get through each moment as it passes and maybe hope there's another day like it somewhere out there in space and time and free love and all that jazz.....

But for now, here's some pictures:

Pictures of what my kids do best; them at their "finest", if you will....

This is Mike, doing what he does best, building intricate train tracks for his many many many many Tomy Thomas The Tank Engine trains that he has collected over the years. (Damn those autistics and their intense interests and love for trains) You GOTTA love 'em.....

And then of course, here we have David, in all his tech geek glory: He's a potential computer whiz, whipping up yet another video on Youtube, of either how to build an efficient Lego Go Kart, or singing along to the lyrics of Dragonforce's "Through the Fire and Flames", or just plain ol' youtubing, finding the ridiculously ridiculous shit that kids manage to find on youtube. Like, for instance, youtube poop: the mask of gay Luigi. Type that bitch on the search engine. I fuckin dare ya....see what your ass finds.

Last but not least, my mini-me, my other half that's not a Snookms, in all her turtle glory. She's the spittin image of me when I was her age, aside from her dad's personality raging within. The cruel turtle-age of Carmen. I call her Cha-Cha, don't know why, it just SOUNDS right damnit. We so need to start a shelter for the homeless turtles of today's youth.

One last one: (just couldn't find the resistance)
The Snookms in all his working glory:
(Being silly, of courseness, work could NEVER be this much fun OR gorgeousness)

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