Monday, September 29, 2008

A Broken Social Scene

I used to purposely avoid certain profiles of people.

Although I wasn't automatically programmed with the gift of common sense, God somehow bestowed upon me the ability to filter out the follies of mankind. I found myself hypnotically magnetized to the mentally/spiritually anguished:

Broken people like myself.

I, of course, had never realized this about myself in the literal sense until much later in life.

But I also found myself averting gorgeous jock types, popular rockstar types, infamous school spirited folk types, etc, etc.....

I was drawn to the broken social scene like a bee to honey. I fed on their brokenness, wanting so badly for them to cut open their vessels of insecurity unto me, as if I would someday become a saviour of their wasted youth.

I was allegic to people with self confidence. I avoided happily healthy people like the plague. Their gestures of uninhibited social awareness was just too much for my emotional/spiritual warfare.

They would approach me. Many of them, would approach me. It's not like I just never had the opportunity to be a part of whatever it is that they were a part of....

But I always found myself declining their invitations to come be a part of whatever they were a part of.

Regrets do I have, you say?

Repercussions, you ask?

Yes, of course.

But my brain was wired so differently from most. I sensed my difference from the second I stepped into my first grade classroom, 26 years ago. I lived with this evocation of abnormality for the rest of my educational progress. There were many times I chose not to give in to my insecurities, all and each of those instances in my life proving to be poor decision making on my behalf. So I chose to cower in the corners of those lowly halls that were to be my school for that year, and become the invisible entity.

I moved on and I learned some things, but never, did I learn that it was okay to be different. That doesn't say that I never chose to be different, because eventually, I did. But did it ever feel okay to be different? No. Absolutely not. Not then. Not know. Not ever.

But I've learned what feels okay to me. And this does. I've also learned that just because someone chooses not to accept me, doesn't mean that I have to choose to NOT accept them.

I'm happier this way.

I'm free from the prison that captured my joy so long ago, forcing me to eat lunch by myself everyday, commanding me not to speak out of turn or text, though I wanted to shout to all within hearing range, "Fuck you! I'm different and I love it!"

I remember there was this really gorgeous jock when I was a senior in high school.

He would approach me everyday and ask me why I always looked so sad.

Deep inside of me, I wanted to grab this young vessel of beauty, embrace his social awareness with my own awkward disadvantage, and embue within him with all the socially injusticed sorrows I had carried inside me those 18 years, and smother his tender lips with a french kiss of lust and ignorance.

I wanted to devour him in those moments.

But instead, I would look at him like he was a moron, tell him to fuck off, and after a month of this same everyday bullshit facade that was us, he eventually gave up on me.

I was really rather surprised that he even approached me at all. The fact that he continued to pursue me, (obviously), still haunts me to this day.

If this kid ever knew what his persistance did for what was my crushed self esteem then, he'd probably award himself the Nobel Peace Prize, no doubt.

I had several experiences all throughout my senior year that went very much like the one I just spoke of today....

I just couldn't envision myself enduring the agony of abandonment should one of these "proto-types" manage to crack the ignomious code that was me back then.

I instead looked for enigmatic soldiers like myself. These puzzles were much easier to solve for me than people with common sense. People with common sense, whom showed the ability to make good social choices with ease terrified the life right out of me, truth be told.

Jesus Christ.

They still do.

Friday, September 26, 2008

The Wind Cries Mary.....

My Grandmother's in town. Her name's Mary. My brothers and I were made to call her "GrandMary" when she was in Grandma denial way back when. I just call her Grandma these days.

I also call her beautiful....

And then....

That's my dad next to her. They look just alike in this picture with their beautiful eager eyes. I do so love that misleading look of innocence. Psssh. Who are they kidding???

She arrived here (GrandMary, that is) Wednesday afternoon. I knew of her coming, but didn't put too much stock in the hopes that she would come, because my aunt (her daughter, my dad's sister, the one standing next to my Grandma in the first photo) was in the hospital a while back, so I didn't know if it would deter her trip out her. But alas, when Wednesday did arrive, there she was.....

It's been so good to see her after all these years. I think the last time I saw her was almost 4 or 5 years ago, when Carmen had just first begun to walk. David and Mike Jr. were still really young too, so they didn't really have enough memory of her to conjure up a projected image in their processed memory. But now they will. And I'm glad.

Grandma had a tea party yesterday for Carmen over at my mom and dad's new house, and my mom and I were forcibly invited. It was rather adorable though, seeing the last fucking people on earth you'd ever dream of to get together for tea. Carmen even broke the rules and farted a couple of times. I even put my elbows on the table, cause I'm such a rebel.

But that's pretty much where I've been for the last 2 days. Over at my mom and dad's new house, soaking up all the attention and planting my head firmly up my Grandma's ass. Carmen was clomping around on my mom and dad's wooden floors with my Grandma's heels at 10:00 at night. It was so cute though.

My presence was demanded yesterday at 11:00 a.m. by my Grandma. She called in the middle of me getting dressed to go see her, asking "when are you comin' over?? Get over here!!". So after I was done pretty-ing myself up, I rushed over to my mom and dad's with the quickness, expecting my mom and dad to be up and awake with her. But there she was, creeping around like a sneaky little mouse. I was amazed she even found my phone number to call me. I NEVER talk to her on the phone.....

She greets me with so much love and enthusiasm whenever I see her. She's just like that. She can make you feel like the most wonderful person in her life. And you don't get jealous when you see her greeting others with that same love and enthusiasm. You only feel happier, because you know someone out there is receiving that same love you just got yourself moments ago. Everyone who meets my GrandMary falls in love instantaneously. Even Marlon Brando. But alas, that's another story, for another time.

She used to go to elementary school with Elvis Presley. Before he was all rich and famous, obviously. She said he's nothing like the Elvis everyone knows and remembers him for now. She said he was obnoxious, ran around barefoot and dirty, singing songs to everybody that nobody wanted to hear. And since this was the South we're talkin' bout here, and way back, when people were just horrifically racist, I guess Elvis was frowned upon for hanging with "colored folk". (Not my Grandma's view of things, just a general perspective we're speaking from here people.) I guess she had him sign her yearbook at the end of the year, like everyone else, and it said something like "Roses are red, Violets are blue, sure hope I don't end up like you"....Ha!! Some smart aleck shit like that.

But anyhow....My Grandma and her sister were able to keep this yearbook after all these years, and they eventually wound up selling it to some museum for like, $5,000.00 fat ones. That's just fucking crazy. My Grandma's real modest though. She's says, "Yeah. It was just enough money to remodel my kitchen."

Funny. Strange. I dunno....

So like, I finally arrive at mom's and dad's around 11:30 a.m. or so, and there she is, showering me with affection. I feel all befuddled and self concious, but suck it all up like a Hoover Vacuum cleaner. Then she sits me down on the couch. She shares with me her trip to China, (she ministered to many women down there and eventually started an orphanage there after her husband Bill died years ago) and showed me pictures and spoke of her personal experience of baptizing all these forlorn orphaned Asian girls in the Blood of the Holy Spirit. I guess the interpreter said that most of these women had never been hugged or touched in their life, and for my Grandma to come and show her love and affection, (as doting as she is) was almost too much for these women. Keep in mind that this shit is against the law in this part of China that my Grandma's in. Communist China, I guess? Or is all of China like that? Fuck. I dunno. But anyway, we get into a bunch of spiritual talk. And then she has me read some scripture from her bible out loud. So I do.

First, she asks me if I know what a "jewel" is. I tell her "yeah", in a "naturally" sort of manner. And then she says, "It's a stone, that's had lots of pressure and rubbing. But the outcome is beautiful:

A jewel.

And then she says, "And this. This is for you."

Isaiah 54, verses 11-17:

11 "O afflicted one, storm-tossed, and not comforted, Behold, I will set your stones in antimony, And your foundations I will lay in sapphires.
12 "Moreover, I will make your battlements of rubies, And your gates of crystal, And your entire wall of precious stones.
13 "All your sons will be taught of the Lord; And the well-being of your sons will be great.
14 "In righteousness you will be established; You will be far from oppression, for you will not fear; And from terror, for it will not come near you.
15 "If anyone fiercely assails you it will not be from Me. Whoever assails you will fall because of you.
16 "Behold, I Myself have created the smith who blows the fire of coals And brings out a weapon for its work; And I have created the destroyer to ruin.
17 "No weapon that is formed against you will prosper; And every tongue that accuses you in judgment you will condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, And their vindication is from Me," declares the Lord."


My face is smiling outwardly while my heart is crying inside.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Shh. It's a secret.

It's what I've been "working" on. Thank God I haven't crossed over communication the lines of Myspace to Blogger yet. I'm such a sick and twisted fuck and nobody knows just HOW BAD.

Woe is me.

A Fantasy/Horror/Porn-schmut Novel By Rachel Turner.....

For starters:

This is going to be an epic of sorts.
Yes. There is going to be minotaurs.
Yes. There is going to be faeries.
Yes. There is going to be detailed, hardcore, pornographick like sex.

On a lighter note:

Yes. It will be full of the trials and tribulations of the eternal emotional struggle that all humankind goes though.
Yes. It will invoke in one a feeling of internal spiritual struggle.
And Yes. It will have zombies. Maybe not the kind you'd expect. But yes. They'll be there.
And bloodshed. Lots of fucking bloodshed.
So there.

Character Plot:

So far I have a minotaur in faithful, lustful and loyal love with this poor faery maiden. There's far more than meets the eye with this chick though. Just when you think you've got her figured to a "T", she lops your fukkin head off with a samurai sword and doesn't have one last regret. But she's the type of gal you'd want to hire to do your laundry and dust your million and one knick knacks that you've bought from the local Once Pence Makes Cents. And whenever she does kill aimlessly, you only love her all the more for it. Yes, my friends. She's just THAT KIND OF VIGILANTE.

~Mushroom Tattoo artist. (this occupation is pending)Not by any means a great way to earn pence, but it's what's in her heart to do. Damn those artists and their fanciful needs.
~Mind reader: 'Nuff said.
~Psychological warfarion: Oh yeah. She's a mind fuck. She can Make you cry reading Charlotte's Web out loud to you, for Christ's sake.
~The ability to change all bad things for the good. Not magicks or summoning of any sort. Just plain ol' human ability.
~Hyper Flight: Of fucking course.
~Twilight Phantom Changer: She sprouts wings at midnight. Not a pretty sight, by any means. Ever watch American Werewolf in London? Sorta like that transitioning. But the end result is always nice. (As is with American Werewolf as well. Woot.)
~Other people's weaknesses. She somehow gathers them all upon herself and uses them to turn them around for the better.

~Vlad's cock.
~Early bloomer in the way of sexual awareness. (she's got a few skeletons in her closet as well.Not demons, like Vlad though.)
~Curse words. Uses them like a sailor. Sends Vlad to the SevenSeas. (But you KNOW he secretly LOVES it.)
~Other people's weaknesses. Yep.It's a 3 fold utopian nightmare here.
~The human condition.

And this minotaur fellow. He's got demons. Fuck skeletons. Those break easily and faulter at moment's whim. Yeah. Demons in the abyssmal closet of Vladmir's soul. They stretch far and wide. And nobody knows. 'Cept him. Good ol' Vlad. He holds his shit together with astute observation. He looks for people that are outwardly a mess, to cover up his own god-damned mess that festers within. Only to find Tristan in his wake. Her four cornered wings, lavendar brazened mane, and pale lavished skin makes not only his blood boil, but his loins as well. She manages to bring out the fuck up in him, which Vlad hates with a fucking passion. But Tristan knows what no one else does. She's got that pyschological gift that mom passed down to her, and an uncanny sense for mind reading, without the traditional sense of Magicks that WeenRealm has managed to conjure up for itself over the centuries. So when she's able to delve into the seemingly stoic nature of this quasi-modo beast, it not only sends tingles up her spine, but her cunt as well. For we women folk ALL love a scarred man, do we not?

~Level 100 skill-crafted warrior
~Wields: Axe. Big one. Very fucking big one
~Dabbles in alchemy. Doesn't like to remember the experiments father used to perform in the past, using mother as a control, so he minimalizes the triggers of his past by dismissing this ability altogether.
~Can fuck like NOBODY'S business. Not something he knows about himself. You'd have to ask Tristan about this. She's still in orgasmic shock and has to change her panties daily over the mere thought of Vlad's cock between her thighs. She can't shake the thought so much that she sometimes finds herself entranced at the secretive thought of Vlad's huge schlong inside of her, even in the midst of saying Grace on her mum's cleanly shaven oakswooden table. But that is, however, where the deeds were done in the first place.*OIK!!*

~Curse words. The fucker hates em. With a passion. Saying anything worthy of satan's tongue is blasphemous in the presence of this 2 horned gentleman. Be prepared to get both formally and verbally bitchslapped by this man if you should ever chose to use your words so carelessly around this muscular entity of a creature.
~Triggers: These also send Vlad to the sevenseas. He usually has to excuse himself to the bathroom when they become too inherent.
~Watching Tristan transform. It's a sick, sadistic pleasure of Vlad's and he only self-loathes all the more as a result.

"Johnny B. Goode"
Yeah. He's good alright. Good at casting summon spells and necromancing. He loves to command the dead. And the dead do love him. They are a faithful and loyal bunch. Wouldn't necromance for anyone else. Ever. He's just that kind of feller. Lots of people have formed misconceptions over him, what with summoning of the dead and all. But there's a reason for it. A reason so beyond you, that you'd drop on all fours and beg forgiveness if you realized the truth behind his so-called "folly". He's one of the saviours of the bunch. Not a conventional one by any means. But are any of us really? Not so great with the ladies. Or guys. He wants love, but not at the cost of relinquishing his majestic powers. Love is on the backburner for this guy. Hellaciously tall, pale and gaunt. Friendly too. Raven black hair. Forest green eyes. Freckles. Loves capes.

Strengths: Duh. Didn't I just lay it all out for ya?

~Men. Shhh. It's a secret to everyone.
~Poor fashion sense. He hates that shit. Nothing worse than a polka dot cape and striped knickers.
~Axe wielders. Any weapon wielders as a matter o' fact.

"Malovent Evil "
Fuck you. He ain't got a name yet. He's the bad guy though. He's the villain. He's the one that MAKES things go bump in the night. And then he secretly smashes them together and conjures their hatred and angst into a pleasure all his own which he stores up within his mental/spiritual realm o' psyche. If you thought Vlad had demons, wait till you meet this guy. Satan himself won't go in this guy's closet. He appears very much to be a non-threatening entity. Almost to the point of creepiness. Very clean and in outward control. Deep within is a raging beast that has no beginning and no end. This guy was just BORN this way, whether his mom and dad warped and honed his sick twisted fate or not. He is, after all, the ANTI-SEVEN. It was in the cards all along for his destruction to bring chaos to the lands. But yeah. This guy is really fucked up. He can read minds. He can speak to you telepathically. He can make you do things you said you would never do, and LIKE IT. And then leave you and your corpse in a hopeless and rotting hell to pay for it. He feasts upon innocence. He envies it. He wants it so badly for his own that he forsakes all he has known to achieve this. To him, innocence is Godhood. But it is the one thing he can never attain with all the hatred for self and hymankind he has. Buff, but not overtly buff. Pale. (Shut it! I've got a thing for pale skin) Clean,but with a filthy soul. Has a secret tattoo of a massive blacktree weeping blood on his chest, and has blocked the memory of how it ever got there in the first place. All a part of divine intervention is what he's chalked it up to. Maybe he's right. Oh, and The Tree?? It weeps real blood, just so you know.


~Hymankind.Innocence. All things that come from the essence light.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

The hours - Ali in the jungle

"It's not about the things you've done, it's what your doing NOW. What are you doing NOW?"

Good sensai vs. bad sensai....

I'm no Karate Kid. I'm also, not by any means, a martial arts expert, or an expert on any field of any sort.

But, I do, however, know what makes a good teacher vs. a bad one.

If you're a good teacher, you'll use what you already know not only to further the knowledge of others in your wake, but to learn from others, no matter how full you think your own girth of knowledge is.

If you're a good teacher, you find at least 5 positive things for every negative one.

If you're a good teacher, you make it your personal mission in life to find individuality in every/all "pupil/s" that comes across your path.

If you're a good teacher, you are willing to bend the rules sometimes, even if it means having to take it up the ass later for doing so, and even if it means that nobody even knew or cared that you had to take it up the ass.

If you're a good teacher, you are willing to put the ridiculous events of the days in front of you, rather than behind you, so that you can share with the group your inner struggles and help them see another facet of you: That you ARE NOT FUCKING PERFECT.


If you're using your own inner hatred and self loathing as a fuel for motivating your "pupil/s" well then......

If you find yourself looking only for what's being done wrong, instead of the million things done right, well then......

If you find yourself getting jealous when your "pupil/s" acheive new stats in life, well then....

If nothing is ever "good enough", well, fuck....

You've just earned yourself a place in the Cobra Kai dojo.

Say hello to Johnny for me, and......

Have a nice fukkin day.


Don't forget to sweep the leg.

Monday, September 15, 2008

On Writing in General

ISTEP testing is all this week for my kids. Carmen, my youngest, is the most distressed about this whole ordeal. But instead of getting stressed out about her getting stressed out, and letting the hurt feeling of stress sink all the way down to the bowels of my earth, I decide to empathize with her pain....

I ask questions...

I'm understanding.....

It's a firssst for me, I KNOW.

I ask her what it is about ISTEP that stresses her out most. She tells me.....*drumroll please*:


I want to put the brakes on my shitty '01 Kia Rio, and park midstreet to hug this girl. The dialogue progresses....

She then goes on to tell me that she never knows what to write. *yet another hug wants to bolt from my arms like lightning to a flagpole*
And then I ask if she really does know what she wants to write, but just doesn't know how to start it all off. "YES".
I also ask if she worries about if what she has to say is going to be critiqued by thousands, and not in a good way, and not in a way that is going to encourage her to keep writing. (In 9 year old language, of course) "Yeeeeeessss", she whines.
An opportunity has presented itself yet again for me to work with my inner child here, those unresolved issues from the past, that WE ALL experience daily, and so I dive in...I remember, I take myself back to those moments in time that I had so much to say, but wasn't allowed to say, or too afraid to say.
I take a deep breath, and the rest is all history......

I tell her about the time when I was in 2nd grade and we had to talk about the most special person in our lives and then summarize all the reasons that we had thought that particular person was so special to us. I told her how much joy sprang to my heart to think of my parents, and I thought of what the word "special" really meant, and that I knew it had to be something more than "I love mommy because she cooks. I love daddy because he's funny". I knew they wanted more. So I wanted to write more. I wanted to be original. But my hungry for society's approval mentality argued otherwise. I suffered my first form of "writer's block" in this moment, and hated feeling such an intense feeling of internalizing.

I wanted to write what the fuck I felt like writing. But, if I didn't want to get laughed at, made fun of, or potentially rejected by my teacher for writing squabble, well then, I had better go the safe route. That was usually the route I always wound up taking. But images of my dad's poofy mustache kept dancing through my hair, and the fact that my mom used to lie to us when we wouldn't wear our seat belts (I didn't know it was a lie at the time though) and say that the cops had radar guns for those who didn't wear seatbelts.

Well, I went against my better judgement that day. i wrote all the silly specialness that flowed from within my heart. And that, is what got me a first place ribbon and a picture in the local newspaper in first grade. Not a conqueror of worlds, but it got me recognition where I least expected. So that's what I shared with Carmen.

She's got the gift. Hell, all 3 of my kiddos do. But they're verbally constipated, like I was. Too many emotions pent up and not comfortable to let them flow just anywhere. I see it. I know it. But to the ones outside our "circle of light" it is completely invisible. We don't want to be made fun of. Or critiqued. So we shut our little wordholes and let everyone think we don't have a word to say.

But this isn't what got me where I am today. That adopted ideal isn't what landed me a tedious job tutoring other kids how to write essays in summer school, only after I was expelled for smoking in the bathroom and my English teacher hunted me down and practically begged me to come help her students to show them how I write. She even offered to pay me. I was very dense in these kinds of delicate situations, and my mom practically had to beat it into my head that this teacher had saw something special in my writing, and that she was willing to pay me to come back and help her, even though I fucked up majorly and broke rules and got booted out of that system. The teach' was even willing to fight the school system for booting me out, if I wanted her to. But I made it very clear that that wouldn't be neccessary. I didn't really want to be in summer school anyway, and didn't even want to help the teach', to be quite honest. But after a hardy head beating from my mom, she convinced me that this was an opportunity to grow, halfhearted as I was.

But I remember, the papers I wrote in that class, they came from the heart. I didn't think first before I wrote. I just belted out whatever was on my chest and basically left God to kill em all and sort the rest out later, so to speak. (I was a habitual drug user and drinker then, so the rebel in me was president for the next five years. I didn't give a flying fuck what anybody thought.)

This is the same ideal that landed me in college prep English my freshman year, which I wound up dropping like a dirty rag, to my future dismay, because I didn't want to actually have to put forth any real effort in my writing skill. The "writing from the heart" ideal is what also got me out of having to take my final my senior year in English, because it wouldn't have mattered either way if I took it or not, the teach said I still aced the class. This is also the same ideal that I go by in all my writing now, unless I feel the ridiculous presence of some fucktard lingering over my shoulder telling me "Don't write that. That's fucking STUPID." (That 'twould be me folks.)

So I guess what I'm really trying to say here is that, when you write, you shouldn't think about and analyze it so god-damned much. Go with your gut feeling. THAT is what gets results. Even if it is just $2.50 an hour teaching fellow sophomores how to write the way you do.

Incubus- The Warmth

I'd like to close my eyes, go numb
but there's a cold wind coming from
the top of the highest high-rise today.
It's not a breeze 'cause it blows hard.
Yes and it wants me to discard the humanity I know,
watch the warmth blow away.

So don't let the world bring you down.
Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.
Remember why you came and while you're alive
experience the warmth before you grow old.

So do you think I should adhere to that pressing new frontier?
And leave in my wake a trail of fear?
Or should I hold my head up high
and throw a wrench in spokes by
leaving the air behind me clear?

So don't let the world bring you down.
Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.
Remember why you came and while you're alive
experience the warmth before you go.

So don't let the world bring you down.
Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.
Remember why you came and while you're alive
experience the warmth before you grow old.

Before you grow old.
Where did it go?

Autism: The Wall That Knows No Limits

I am pretty sure I'm on the spectrum. WURD.

Friday, September 12, 2008

An ode to "Scotty"

My ex. The one that got me into punk. The last guy I ever went out with before I met Snookms and said "I do". We thought we were in love at the time, and sometimes, I think he may still think he is with me, but he's kidding his self if he thinks he is. He occassionally sends me messages on myspace, but I never respond. I don't want to open a can o' worms, considering his and my husband's last encounter 12 years ago was one of Scotty wielding a crowbar, threatening to NOT beat my husband's arse with said device.

In learning what I have over the years in regards to autism and it's many phenomenal "spectrums" of sorts, I have come to the conclusion that "Scotty boy" is quite possibly high-functioning autistic, maybe Aspergian at best. He showed ALL symptoms, issues with eye contact, social difficulties, repetive stereo typed movements, and an unequivocal knowledge for all things mechanical. This guy was a drafting master of sorts. Had the mathematical mapping all sorted out in his brain like it was the recipe for grandma's chocolate chip cookies. I don't know how I always manage ending up with these kinds of guys. I guess it's just what appeals to me.

Anyhow, I'm all choked up at the moment, over this issue I've been struggling with. I really want to somehow relay to this "Scotty boy" the possibility of being autistic. I think it could answer many of the heartbreakingly painful questions he's probably asked himself over the years. In regards to rejection, social/emotion issues, why things just are the way they are.....but again, I DON'T want open up a path of open communication with this guy, considering the incidents in the past that have ensued between hubby and crowbar wielder.

I dunno. Maybe I'm just being a tad too sentimental. It's always been a weakness o' mine. Woe is poor, pathetic me.

He sent me this message last week. Somehow, it gave me this sick/sad boost of motivation. I feel like I should be burned at the stake for feeling any joy in this, but at the same time, it gave me pleasure in knowing that someone I haven't seen in 12+years still holds on to something of mine, even if it IS just a Misfits template I drew on the back of some ol' punks leather jacket.......(you'll have to pardon the lack of punctuation, he never did get caught up in little bullshit semantics like periods, exclamation marks, spelling and capitalization.)

haha sometimes i drink too much and when i do i randomly email people who i usualy have not talked to in a while lol,tonight your my victim

i went to punk rock night at the melody tongiht with eric and misty,to see gay black republicans (fucking greatest name for a band ever)

anyhow,misty mentioned to em you guys hung out sometimesand i mentioned,to her that i emailed you once or twice and you never wrote me back,and that i assumed you must have thought i'm some kind of pshyco lol

however she said,that you told her how nice i always was and that "if you saw me in public youd talk to me"

lol i kind of like being thought of as someone worthy of being talked to in public

honestly though that made me smile,ive been battling depression for a few weeks now and that shit made me smile for the first time in a while it never occureed to me as being your "ex" from ages ago that it wold seem wierd if i was talking to you on here...i'm a fool

for the record lol i really wasnt going to clobber mike with a tire iron that night hahahh
god-damn that was some stupid 18 yr old pumped up on testosterone and black flag douchebaggery on my parti fucking hate bullys and i was trying to be one lol

i always regreted that shit lol..once when i was like...21?,I ran into your brother chris somewhere and i decided to call mike ont he phone to apologize because that shit bothered me literaly for YEARS..he was my lunchroom buddy way before he was your husband after all lol and someone answered and i hung up ...god did i just admit that i DO sound like a pshyco

you know after all these years i still have 3 things of yours

1.a blue ben davis shirt that is hanging in my closet as we speak,and that i wear from time to time

2,my leather jacket that you drew a rad misfits skull on..that i even got doyle and jerry only to autograph after a misfits show

3.a casseete tape of HI-c preforming "sitting in the park"..slap that trick till the trap is through you hi-c got a gang of sense hahahah

anyhow i dont even know what im saying...just glad to know you dont think of me as a tire iron wielding maniac

and i guess i can see why you couldnt write me on here or anything

i need to go to bed

but maybe i will see you in public sometime lol

p.s check out the band alkaline trio,if you dont know of them you will fucking love them,trust me


Friday, September 5, 2008


I have the worst headache known to mankind right now. I feel like I'm gonna puke. I want to go lay down, but I'm afraid even more pressure will go to my head and make me vomit all over myself.

I started taking St. John's Wort 3 days ago, as a substitute for anti-depressants. My therapist says I should take SOMETHING considering my bi-polar, but I just couldn't bring myself to take meds. Not after the 6 year prozac/zoloft/buspar fiasco that Snookms endured. I also take these nasty fish oil pellet thingies (omega 3 fatty acids) as a mood stabilizer, because just an anti-depressant on it's own could throw me into a manic phase. As much as I love my manic phases, I just can't handle the "down unders" any more.

I've been learning alot about myself in this past week. Things that are helping me to better myself and grow, and to be fruitful and prosperous to my spawn as well. Soon our floor shall be covered in mangoes.

I am learning that when anger is allowed to be a normal healthy feelilng, instead of something that should be repressed and hidden away, as I always thought it was as a child, that it expresses the awareness that something is wrong, something hurts, or something needs to change. When allowed to express our anger naturally, we learn how to say "no". We learn that it's okay to draw a boundary without having to put the smackdown on the other person. We learn to respect the boundaries of other assholes as well, and to accept their right to be an asshole when we violate these boundaries. (taken from "Getting Through the Day" by Nancy J. Napier, minus the "smackdown" and "asshole" terminology, that right there was all ME folks. *jabs self in chest importantly*)

I've learned that indulging my inner child has been one of the best things I can do for myself. I played with Moonsand for 2 hours the other day. My daughter and I made a sandcastle fort, complete with an island the shape of a giant ass. Moonsand is just one of those "forbidden fruits" for me. I see my daughter over there playing, enjoying, having fun running this ingenious fluid invention through her fingers, and I want nothing more than to plop my size 11 ass down next to hers, crosslegged and awestruck with the amazing components that compel Moonsand to stay moist, but still manage to have the appearance of dryness. But I denied myself that pleasure for far too long. There were always 1,001 excuses about why I COULDN'T do it, rather than why I could. I heard my inner child cry and struggle with each rejection, as well as my own daughter's, but for reasons I care not to share here, there or anywhere that doesn't involve me paying an African American Greek Orthodox nun a subsidy fee of $5.00 an hour to listen to my problems, could never bring myself to do. But I finally caved last week. And this week. And so I shall next week, and every other fucking week thereafter. I shall never let a week pass by in my life again that I don't play with Moonsand. I shall also start commenting my own blogs, seeing as no one else sees it fit to. Word to your motherfucking Grandmother.

I re-read my book the other day too. I've put this off ever since I got it back from my brother. It's all self put together of course, stacked neatly in a $4.29 binder that I got from fucking Walgreens of all places. But like I said, I've been putting off reading it for quite some time now, and I had a free Wednesday, so I decided after detail cleaning my house, I'd finally give it a read again. I didn't hate it like I thought I would. It didn't make me cringe in disgust either, which made me feel more motivated. My mom and dad are going to try and help me get it published. (Even if we DO have to self-publish, which looks like it's the way we are gonna go.) And I've heard of all the disdain that self published books are regarded with, and that SOME even construe it equivalent to "yellow snow" which, while funny as all motherfucking hell it was to hear it be compared to that, doesn't warrant enough to cease my efforts. So, heavy is the walk I shall trudge that is making my book a reality. And besides, Snookms' stepmom said that reading it was the highlight of her summer. That's gotta count for something.