Suck It, IRS


Dear IRS,

I have afforded you the courtesy of a “dear” in this letter, as I did not in my previous letter. You may (or may not) wonder why you have found me in such a pleasant disposition. I will tell you.

Today, for the first time in almost ten years, I owe you no money.

(Pardon me while I complete a little victory dance. No, I’m not having a seizure, I just grew up Baptist, so I don’t have the rhythm most normal people have. But yes, that was most certainly a completely vulgar hand gesture I was making in your general direction.)

I realize that there will always be poor unfortunate souls that your corporation will always prey on mercilessly, but no more shall I call my bank to find that you have withdrawn my last twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents without my permission. I will no longer need to write on my bill calendar your most deplorable automatic withdrawal payment that has been plagueing me like a virus for the last four years. With my now liberated monthly $100, I intend to purchase a ridiculous number of shoes, and books that will be added to my already multitudinous collection.

It has been brought to my attention that you do not care in the least about my opinion, oh wretched IRS, but that will not stop me on the 16th of every month from interrupting whatever it is I’m doing at the time to howl to the heavens most barbarically “SUCK IT, IRS!” while simultaneously re-creating the move made most famous by the wrestling tag team DX of Triple HHH and Shawn Michaels viscously several times in an unladylike manner.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

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Frozen Pizza, Pillows, Tiggs, Spiders, Robots, Color Sounds, and Dancing Ninja Grandmas


Welcome to the longest blog post title of all time. This is what comes of being completely uninspired.

I was chatting on Facebook to my boss from the grocery store, and asked him what subject I should post about today. The above title is what he came up with. (To clarify, my boss spends a goodly amount of his time in an alcohol haze, and rarely remembers any text conversations we have. That being said, he’s a pretty cool guy with above average intelligence.)

We will begin with frozen pizzas.

Frozen pizzas are gifts from the gods. If you disagree, you are either a heathen, or a vegan.

What should you eat when you’ve had a hard day at the office, swinging around on that silver pole, trying to fend off the pervs who only have ones, and your illegitimate child is starving and doesn’t want to wait for a lovely healthful meal? Frozen pizza.

What’s the first thing that comes to mind after you’ve pounded back a few beers and realize it would be safer to turn on the oven than to try to satisfy that late night drunken craving on the stovetop? Frozen pizza!

If you’ve just moved, and are looking for a quick bite to stop you tummy rumblings, but you haven’t unpacked the contents of your utensils drawer, what do you buy?

Pizza bites! (No pizza cutter required!)

Ok, enough about that.

Next subject. Pillows!

What would a nap be without a pillow? It would be a pass out, that’s what.

A pillow is the thing that takes you from a trashy drunk slut to a snoozing angel.

A pillow is the thing you long for while you’re slaving away, making minimal tips in a thankless job.

What fun would men (and some women) have without “dirty pillows” to lay their heads on, and squeeze and pinch and fondle?

(Sidenote: The Marriot is the hotel with the best pillows. If you have never experienced a pile of angel feather under your skull, the Marriot is the place to do so.)

Now it’s time for Tiggs!

I did not know what this was until my boss explained it to me, but apparently Tiggs are that group of individuals obsessed with Winnie the Pooh‘s Tigger. I must say that I have always found Tigger to be extremely creepy, and possessing of superfluous amounts of energy, so I exercise my right to plead the fifth on the subject.

Spiders, too, are a dreadful sight to behold. I’ve not much to say on the idea of arachnids, other than there should never be another movie featuring  spiders of the gargantuan sort, or a storyline that consists of hordes of the little buggers. Not cool, bro. Not cool at all.

I’m going to skip over robots, because soon enough the world with be run by them, and they will be the only thing we hear about. To be fair, I direct you HERE, where there is the beginning of a short story about a cyborg, which is basically the same thing.

Sounds of colors are the next subject on the list, and there is so much to say about this that it must be revisited in another post sometime in the future. For now, I will say that purple sounds like the Artist Prince, black sounds like any form of war, green sounds like a lawn mower, glitter sounds like me, and red is not, as Taylor Swift states, “loving you”, but maybe red IS the sound of me ripping Taylor’s unmusical vocal chords out of her scrawny little neck and shoving them somewhere the some don’t shine. Like under a bushel.

Dancing ninja grandmas is the best subject ever! Which is why I fully intend to be one someday, even if (to quote Phil Collins) “I can’t dance”, even if I have no grandchildren, even if I never have Chuck Norris come on over and teach me a few things. Imagine me, Gramma Sparkle, bouncing and capering around silently in my vibrantly colored ninja outfit. Booyah.

 

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No, You Should NOT Have Passionate Kisses, Mary Chapin Carpenter


This letter is to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter,

No, you are not a dear, Mary, and so I cannot address this letter thusly. Let me begin by explaining the reason I am composing this letter.

I have long despised your mediocre talent, and even more has your choice in song recordings galled me for many years. Songs such as He Thinks He’ll Keep Her and I Feel Lucky have irritated the beJesus out of me since childhood, but none of these “hit singles” have caused me to cringe and my ears to fold in on themselves quite as much as the song Passionate Kisses.

I know not whether it is the unmusical tone of your voice, or the even less harmonic rhythm of the song itself, but, oh evil songstress of country, how I loathe thee. Let us look upon the unpoetic lyrics of said song for a moment, shall we?

Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

While I do not deny that we all at one time or another crave a bed that doesn’t cause our backs to ache, and I myself want more food than is necessary to fill me up, I must point out that these very commonplace wants do not, in my opinion, cause you stand out enough that you should deserve such things as passionate kisses from me or anyone else. Moving on….

Is it too much to demand
I want a full house and a rock and roll band
Pens that won’t run out of ink
And cool quiet and time to think
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

I might mention here that, to be honest, you are not a performer of such caliber that you are in the position to be demanding of anything. If you were, you would not be needing to ask for a full house for your rock and roll band, because it would already be sold out. Too, you would have enough money to buy pens that have ink in them if you were able to sell tickets to your shows. Maybe it is your entitled attitude that causes people to not want to see you in concert, hmm? Or maybe they just realize that you will ask just anyone for passionate kisses, and do not want to run the risk of acquiring herpes labialis. Anyhoo, I digress.

Do I want too much
Am I going overboard to want that touch
I shout it out to the night
“Give me what I deserve, ’cause it’s my right”
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you
Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you 

Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if you quit yelling at whoever it is you want to make out with so desperately IN THE NIGHT while they are trying to sleep that they might actually want to kiss you? Maybe if you ever shut the fuck up for one goddamn second, and quit whining about passionate kisses, someone might actually desire to smush their lips against yours?!

I have come to the end of this atrocious song, and find that I have nothing more to say to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter. You may blame my place of work for playing this song frequently, because having had to listen to it on a regular basis has made me quite certain you will never, EVER be getting your coveted “passionate kisses” from me. To be clear, your tiresome neediness is the reason you lack affection.

Goodbye,

Sparklebumps

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Is This Love?


pup

I think it is.

Everybody, meet Stevie Monroe. Part English Mastiff, part Newfoundland, all adorableness.

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I Am Now a Mermaid


Thanks to Pouring My Art Out.

Awesomesauce. XOXO

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Lost in a Sea of Teens


My new serving job is amazing.

I can go to work, and not worry about “corporate standards” as I had to as a Pizza Slut. I’m quite certain that I (who very rarely wore my nametag) could provide you with better service than any of those ninnies who insisted on wearing their nametags because it was a “standard”. But enough about that.

I can go to work, and not worry about an inspector showing up and ruining my shift. Not because an inspector is not likely to show up at my new place of business, but because I am no longer in a position of power, so if there is something amiss, it’s not really my problem. Is it weird that I revel in my lack of power?

I go to work, and have never left with less money than I expected to make on any given shift. In fact, I have been pleasantly surprised by people’s generosity. I will absolutely brag about the fact that I received not one, but two $20 tips from tables who’s bills were less than $90. Yay me.

My longest shift is now not more that seven hours long, (unless I choose to stay longer for one of the many teen girls who lack work ethic), and my managers do not poopoo my opinions, but listen to them wholeheartedly.

That being said, there was one issue that I thought would bug the crap out of me.

The oldest server I work with on a regular basis is 22.

Imagine me, upbeat(most of the time) Sparkle, seeming to have like, OMG, no energy whatsoever when surrounded by my coworkers. No, I have not jumped on the depression bandwagon; it’s just that such younglings are brimming with such life and promise, and talk of prom, that sometimes I feel like an old dried-up spinster. There is one thing that makes working with such innocents bearable: they are actually all nice.

There is also an upside to having such coworkers: the Glee-like drama is interesting to observe, indeed. Now, instead of watching such scenes from the comfort of my own living room, I now get to play the part of the older, much wiser (ha) woman these youth might one day look up to or come to for advice. I would actually advise them NOT to do that.

Anyhoo, since high school is long behind me, I had forgotten what stock teenage girls put in their looks, and their weight, and their weekends. Yep, I’ll work for you so you can go out with your fake ID with your senior boyfriend on Friday night because I have a $600 electric bill to pay. Sure, I’ll stay late for you so you can go find a pair of perfect shoes to go with your $600 prom dress daddy paid for, because I have to buy groceries for my beloveds.

It’s weird, because I thought I was shallow. At least I have pretty people to look at when I go to work.

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A Letter to My Mother


Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle

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