“At the End of the Day”…

…I must audition for the local production of Les Miserables, whether I can truly sing or not.

Because it is my absolute favorite musical of all time.

I was really meant to be in the big Hollywood blockbuster production of Les Mis, but nobody even bothered to ask me if I wanted to win an Oscar for portraying a sad and pathetically fallen-from-grace Fantine. Instead, the picked Anne Hathaway and her amazing alien-esque eyes. Damn Them.

‘Tis alright, though. I’ve always favored Eponine and her heart-broken renditions of On My Own and A Little Fall of Rain. Luckily, in every production I’ve ever seen, the actor cast as Marius tends to be fi-ine. So if I get the part, I’ll get to have an attractive dude who can sing “hold me close, and let it be.”

While I would do well and have the “tools” to perfectly portray a prostitute, I suppose in the end I most closely could resemble a disenchanted Mme. Thenardier. I most certainly understand the concept of being married to someone who “isn’t worth my spit.” (Although, that’s a bit more harsh than I would actually put it.)

For my upcoming audition, I may choose one song from the person who’s part I wish to play, and another un-related song. Here is where I shall ask for opinions on which un-related songs may wow the Les Mis casting judges. While I have a strong voice that mostly hits correct notes, I would prefer any suggestions that are written for male types such as Steve Perry. (I suppose since I can execute any Journey song without the slightest qualm, any of those may be a good option.)

Now for the part of choosing a character to play…. I believe I shall sing one of Eponine’s selections, but the more I think about it, I believe it would be amazing and sexually confusing for all paying play-goers if I were to play the un-relenting Javier. I don’t always agree with era-appropriating old storylines, but would it not be a good time to see me in a power-hungry authoritative roll? I most certainly do.

“I dreamed a dream” that I starred in some production of Les Mis, and dammit, that’s what I’m gonna do.

Racist

I was thinking today about race, and so decided to use the amazing tool given to me known as the Online Dictionary to look up the definition of racism. Here it is:

Racism:

1. the belief that races have distinctive cultural characteristics determined by hereditary factors and that this endows some races with an intrinsic superiority over others

Given that definition, I must admit that I am absolutely and unapologetically racist.

I cannot help but think of how beautiful a woman would be if she possessed all the superior qualities of every race….

She may have skin as dark as a moonless night like a Nubian Princess, or as pale as the brightest star, like a statuesque Scandanavian.

Her eyes would tell the most intimate secrets as you looked into them- maybe a bright Cerulean blue as the purest Aryan’s, perhaps delicately slanted like an Asian Empress’, possibly midnight black as a Spaniard’s.

Her lips would speak the softest words through lips as full and luscious as an African’s, and her tongue would roll the spoken consonants and gracefully as any Mexican.

Her hair could be a riotous mass of flaming curls, compliments of her Irish heritage, or perhaps ebony sleek due to her Hunan roots. It would of course be braided in the intricate and detailed micro-braids of her Liberian ancestors.

Her body! Oh, her body! Perhaps small and ethereal as those in China, perchance as tall and lean as those in Iceland. Her curves would rival any Latina’s anywhere- breasts round and plentiful with an ass to match, and she would stand proud and strong as any Amazonian chieftan. Men throughout the world would fall at her feet just to glimpse her delicately-shaped ankles.

She would possess hands stronger than any farm woman’s, a mind sharper than a Russian physicist’s, and her soul would be kinder than any found in an Amish community.

If there was such a race as this, how could we not believe we live in a beautiful world?

I Hope Your Baby Looks Like Steve Buscemi

Dear former Fuck Buddy of Mine,

Let me be the first thirty-first (according to Facebook) to offer my congratulations on the presence of the conjoined egg-and-sperm in your wife’s belly.

While it is, I suppose, good news that this announcement has made its debut at this time, I find it a bit unlucky for you that the timing is such that YOU are the one chosen to be the recipient of my lonely-and-depressed-barren-woman rant. For this I apologize.

While I cannot deny that we had some “good times” (heh, heh) and I would like to thank you always for making me feel desirable, (as if no one else does), I must admit that my faith in the goodness of the male species has been forever and always jaded because of you. Perhaps it is the fact that your current relationship began as you dating three women at once,or perhaps it is the fact that you’ve never once even tried to be faithful to she who now carries your child. Either way, I shall always look at men I’ve had as Fuck Buddies in a strange and terrible light now.

It’s true, if I were not in my current state of confusion over my Rockstar and life choices in general, I may have been able to offer my congratulations  honestly and without malice; but too bad for you, Dude- you get the full extent of my Sad Girl wrath.

I do not doubt that your wife is feeling great joy and ecstatic happiness at this time at the fact that she carries a little you inside her. (That kinda sounded dirty.) However, I do wonder if your excitement is of the same caliber. You know what babies mean, right? More work and less naked time- something that if I know you as well as I do, you shall not be thrilled about in the least.

Though it is not for me to judge God’s judgement in providing your sperm with extra oomph to impregnate your spouse, I cannot help but wish to raise my fist and scream at the heavens, “What the Hell are You thinking?!?!?!??!” It is clearly obvious He intends to make every single person around me pregnant as if to say, “Yeah, Bitch- take that!”

And so, to end this harsh and hateful letter, I can do only one thing- Curse you and offer my hope that your baby looks like Steve Buscemi. I realize that this will never happen, as you are a beautiful Puerto Rican, and your wife has an amazing smile. So boo on you.

No Love,

Sparklebumps

Some Days Just Suck

Sometimes there’s no eloquent way to say “Life blows” and “Fuck this shit.”

Yesterday was one of those days.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that being asked to paint a 101 Dalmatians mural on a yet to be born babe’s nursery wall would throw One into pleasant hysterics. I must admit I was flattered and excited that a coworker trusted me enough with such a task without ever having seen any of my artwork.

Sadly, my day began badly when my Rockstar decided to go to work without presenting me with the obligatory kiss goodbye as I slumbered merrily on. I awoke to hurry on my way to begin my Disney masterpiece, with a irritated text to my Rockstar asking him exactly what he wanted from me, since we seem to be in the exact same place as we were three years ago. (Minus the three-times-a-day- mindblowing sex and the endless back and forth flirty texting.)

I had one Dalmatian puppy nearly complete when I received a reply- “I can’t get you to engage with or act like a stepmom to my kid, so you figure out what the hell you want.”

Clearly, the man is delusional and must be immediately  incarcerated in a comfortable and well-monitored padded cell. (The padding is for his own safety, as the ass-kicking he so rightly deserves from me is near to fruition.)

In the last three years, I have cooked for my Rockstar and his child; I have entertained her when I’m not at work so he can sit on his ass and watch NASCAR or the retarded Vikings; I have attended every school program and awards ceremony her school has had; I have drawn pictures with and for her, written stories for her to practice reading with, bought her an endless supply of books she could not possibly get through, explained (in short) where babies come from, and I have taken the time to listen to her tell me what she so secretly has written in her diary, and that she prefers the name Jessica over her own given name because it sounds more “grown-up.” It is true I have not always treated her as my own child (mainly when she is reminding me that she is NOT my own child and doesn’t have to listen to me) but I have been around enough to realize she is very like me- a fact that she herself has been quick to point out. If these things are not “stepmom-ish”, I do not think this ten year old child would have just a few weeks ago asked me to “be her mom, because my mom sucks.”

I am stubborn; I promise you that you have never met someone more stubborn than I. So it is not a small thing that I fully and completely have given up on my Rockstar. It is crystal clear that in his eyes, I will never be the “perfect” stepmom he thinks I should be. (Or the perfect cook he also thinks I should be.)

I am sad enough about my decision that I broke down in the middle of my one-on-one meeting with my boss this morning (to which his response was “Do you need a hug?” The man knows me well.) Yet I do not doubt that my decision is the right one. I am amazing (at least a little bit), and I do not have to prove my worth to any man, woman, or alien.

I am sad for my former Rockstar, for he has reached that stage that so many burnt out Rockstars reach- that of finding out what it’s like when the party is over and they are left all alone. All I have to say is it was once an awesome song.

Gimme A Hug, You Atheist!

I suppose it may seem strange that a born-again Christian and a professed Atheist can not only work side by side quite amiably, but can actually carry on a religion-based discussion without ripping each other’s throats out. However, in my world, this happens on a daily basis.

I was intrigued by the foreign-seeming tattoos my newest hiree sported on his forearm yesterday, and so asked immediately what they meant. He acted somewhat reluctant to tell me, and gave some bullshit explanation for me to tell my other employees if any of them should ask, before he told me that one was the symbol for an Atheist, and the other a symbol for Humanist. I nodded amiably, stuck out my hand, and said in my own Sparkly manner, “Hello, Atheist! I’m a Christian!”

No, I did not continue our conversation by spouting of the fiery lake many Christians believe he is headed to, nor did I invite him to church in an attempt to save his immortal soul. Instead, I asked him what made him have a belief in nothing, only to find out he was raised very like I was.

He spoke of a time when he was an angry youth, and how his parents did not understand him, and how, because of his military experiences, he no longer believed as he once did. I spoke of a time when I was a narrow-minded teen, and how my parents did not understand me, and how, because of my life experiences, I am now an open-minded individual that believes people can make their own decisions about their faith. He believes in humans; I believe most humans are assholes that should be destroyed. For two people with very different point of views, it’s amazing how very alike we are.

Incidentally, today I stopped at work to post the schedule after church, and my coworker asked if I had any churchy advise for her and my other work babies. I told her that God loves everybody, and that hugs make people feel welcome. Jesus hung out with whores and thieves, and never once thought he was too cool for them. Too bad my dad never remembers that part of the Bible.

Happy Birthday To You, Dr. Seuss!

This is a birthday poem,

A poem just for you!

The indelible, incredible

immeasurable Dr. Seuss!

You brought us the Sneetches,

And Marvin K. Mooney,

The Grinch, and his

Fingers that look so damn pruny.

I wish that I’d known you

‘Cause nobody knows it-

Your brain was almost as

fucked up as my own is!

You wrote ’bout seven

naked Lady Godivas,

A book that, no matter how hard I look

I can’t find it.

I’m sure if alive you still were,

a collaboration by us would win us an Oscar.

But since you are dead,

there’s just one thing to do-

I’ll win my own Oscar

and dedicate it to you!

You’d be older than

Any hot guy that I crush on, but since you were brilliant,

I’d still give you a blowjob!

And so, Leo Giesel, I must now depart,

But you must know you’re always deep in my heart.

XOXO