Boozehound

Who doesn’t need a drink

after the Big Boss shows up

at work?

Luckily,

the liquor store is located

across the street.

How many times have I

looked longingly through the finger-smeared windows

during a crapper shift and thought

how much better work would be

if flasks were mandatory?

I sit for seven long minutes

trying to cross the street in my

yellow truck;

Finally,

I’m wandering aimfully

through the wine aisle,

choosing my poison based on

how many proof the label advertises.

I’ve noticed the strongest alcohols

have ugly labels,

so I make a point to buy a

bottle of wine sporting

Norma Jean.

 

We’re All Mad Here

I received a visit from the people who bore me this morning. While normal family gatherings are complete with hugs and mashed potatoes and maybe a beer or two, this one seemed like more of a covert encroachment.

I may not have yet mentioned that a few weeks ago, I decided to in not such impolite words tell my parents to fuck off. I admit, I was not raised to so forcibly express my emotions to my elders, (the whole, respect thy mother and thy father thing) but I had decided that since my parents didn’t have the balls enough to tell my half-sister they no longer wished to know her, I would show them mine and tell them I no longer wished to know them. After all, don’t we all get to blame our parents for our fucked up lives at one point or another? In actuality, I didn’t blame them for a thing, because really, if they hadn’t been the way they had, I wouldn’t have turned out as delightfully disturbed and amazing as some of you all think I am.

Anyhoo, I was in my car for a moment when I saw their desert-colored Chevy and mini camper circling me in the work parking lot as one would imagine a shark would circle. They parked, and I took in a deep breath to prepare myself for the onslaught of “we love you”s, and “we pray for you every day”. I was not to be disappointed.

After receiving a hug from my upset mother while receiving a pitying look from my father for my eternal soul, they asked what it was that had happened to cause the riff I had specifically created between us. I told them that they have three other children, none of whom want to see them, and though I had not exactly been rude about it, I agreed with their decisions. My parents then went on to say that my siblings chose the lives they live, and that it was not my parents job to fix them- to which I silently wondered why I myself was not allowed such luxury.

Then, my mom announced that they had been informed by a family member of a certain blog I had created- a blog of such filth and pollution that it could hardly be named. After asking why I would call myself “the bookstore whore” (because they so closely read and interpreted my insane ramblings), my mother asked if I was, in fact, possessing of multiple personalities- because the sweet little church girl I was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO was nowhere apparent in the last 2 of 446 posts I’ve written. I nodded, admitting that yes, there is no way possible that I could be possessing of only ONE personality- one of a girl who was raised in church and then left out in the real world to make her way.

“Well, maybe you need some help; maybe you need to talk to someone.” They had chosen that moment to announce that this was an intervention- the time to save me from my fucked-up and histrionic self, the time to rescue me from my back-slidden ride into eternal damnation. My father alternated between trying to hold his tongue and sporadically bursting out with reassurances that God loves me and the like. My mother broke the news that all my aunts and cousins are “deeply concerned” about me, because I am living a life of apparent derangement with my Rockstar (a title at which my dad scoffed condescendingly at) and working as a Pizza Slut while playing piano on Sundays at my Auntie’s church, and writing about it for “the WHOLE world to read!” (They seem to think that I am up for any naughty deeds with any man who asks, despite the fact that I mention my Rockstar and our relationship on nearly every post. I do not deny that I am up for anything, but as far as with who- I choose my Rockstar until he chooses otherwise.)

I began to realize at that moment that while my parents are maybe partially right to be concerned over my supposed lunacy, that the fact that we were having such a conversation in the parking lot of a mall in the blustering wind while I was supposed to be working was, in fact, madness incarnate. I announced that there was no need to further our discussion, for the crazy don’t know they are crazy, and will forever argue with a person that their opinions are correct.

I do not know what will happen from now on, but I have been assured by the people who see me on a daily basis that, while I am quite kooky in my own way, I have a long way to go before I am tranquelized and made to wear a straight-jacket as my fashion statement.

As for multiple personalities, I don’t think I’ve had one yet that people haven’t found charming.

 

Good Girls Only Please

So I was listening to Lex and Terry on the radio the other day when they were giving advice to a dumb young dude who was going to marry a much older woman with a kid. They then got to talking about good girls versus sluts and the like, and how most men will never marry the girl the had the most amazing, naughty, unspeakable sex with, but will always marry the good girl. That explains a lot.

The more I got to thinking about it, the more pissed off I got. Not because I am the girl no guy would ever marry, after all, I bake cupcakes and pack lunches for my beloved and am not opposed to bringing new life forth based off of our undying love and all that bullshit. That, and the fact that I was married once, and have yet to decide on whether I would repeat those shenanigans. No, I was pissed off, because how stupid are men?

There are enough men who have readily admitted that they think with the brains that are located between their legs. If that is true, then would it not benefit them to marry the girl who so completely satisfies those brains on a daily basis? Instead, men are too embarrassed to admit their lack of emotional what-have-you, and marry the virgin, or the girl who might not necessarily be willing to give a blow job, just to be able to show her off to mom and say, “Isn’t she a perfect lady?” But really, where does this leave them?

I’ll tell you.

It leaves them overly horny and hunting about for a bad girl to satisfy their un-attended to needs. And when they find the girl that’s willing, it leaves their good girl home alone or hanging with her friends while the dude is out tying up the bad girl and doing her in  the butt before spraying his load all over her face because he would never dare to do that to his perfect wife. Sure, maybe some of these dudes don’t actually go cheat on their good wives, but those are the ones who develop carpal tunnel from jacking off in front of the computer while WATCHING some dude spurt his load all over some slutty girl’s face. So how does this a wonderful marriage create?

I admit that I do not know the sexual habits of all married couples, but there are quite a few married men that have had the balls to ask for favors from me in the past because they weren’t getting what they wanted at home. To them I said, “That’s YOUR fault, buddy. Maybe you shoulda married a bad girl.”

And really, why is a girl who is up for lots of sex considered at bad girl in the first place? And what if a girl likes sex, yet will still bake you cupcakes? Is she a good girl or a bad girl? Oh my God, I sound like I’m in Oz- “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”

And I completely realize that sex is not all that a relationship should be based on, but I certainly know what a lack of it can do to a marriage. I believe a good  marriage is a composed of two people who wish to grow old together, and who plan on doing it until the day one of them dies, with the help of blue pills and dentures, if necessary.

 

 

The Life of a Cyborg

Let me tell you, I know how Pinnochio felt.

Yeah, so I know cyborgs aren’t supposed to feel anything below the belt, or really anywhere, and our manufactured eyeballs aren’t supposed to react to bright colors or beautiful people; maybe I’m just special. I’m not going to dance around singing about how I want to become a real boy, er, girl or anything, but damn, do I wish there was some sparkly blue fairy who could tap my titanium knees together three times and turn me into a person with bones and muscles.  Seriously, alloy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Ok, so there’s this guy. Isn’t there always? Anyway, the problem with being a cyborg is that I look human, and sound (somewhat) human- minus the emotion. The general public doesn’t really know there are cyborgs roaming around in their midst, so every once in awhile, a human finds one of us attractive and decides to  make a move. And there is where the humiliation begins. (Shut up, I know what humiliation is, even if I can’t feel it.)

I was bartending the other night, (I’d tell you why a cyborg is bartending, but then I’d have to kill you) and this beautiful, statuesque blonde woman wearing a skirt that barely covered her perfect ass came over and ordered a dirty martini with three olives. (It was probably the only thing she was going to eat all day) She wasn’t overly friendly, ok, really, she was a bitch; one of those type of women who goes to a bar looking for a hedge-fund husband. I could see her eying her prospects as she chewed on an olive. The second she saw him, I knew, because she gaudily ogled him and then looked away, then let her free hand drop down to fondle the necklace that was suffocating in her imitation cleavage. I rolled my eyes, before I looked to see who her victim was.

I gave the Barbie girl props, because damn, he was gorgeous. Typical Wall Street business type, well over six feet, although his Golden Boy hair was a little shaggy; I was surprised Gold Digger was into him. I was even more surprised when I noticed he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was staring at me, and I swear to God that my non-existent heart sped up and I got weak in my blasted assembly-line knees.

Ok, so a guy looked at me. Let me explain: I’m pretty sure most of my parts were picked out of the defective bin. I’m not terrifying to look at by human standards, but a little bit… mismatched. Generally, the faux tits I was given are reserved for the Hollywood pornstar girls, yet here they are, on my 5’3″ aluminum and steel frame. Ethnicity is usually considered when they’re building us, but nope, I’m pretty sure they took the eyeballs from the Spaniard bin and stuck them in my pale Transylvanian head. Anyway, I’ve been assembled for a good six years and never had a guy look at me the way Mr. Beautiful was. So there.

So there I was, completely cyborgish, because I couldn’t think of one emotion to fake. Mr. Beautiful walked over to the bar, and remained completely oblivious to the bimbo staring at him, and asked for a Vodka sour. I mixed up his drink silently, the whole time getting the Evil Eye from Miss Moneybags. She kept scooting closer to him, until, without taking his eyes off of me, he addressed her.

“Hey, could you back up a little bit? It’s feeling a little crowded in here.”

Yeah, that pissed her off. She slammed the rest of her drink before stomping off in a huff, clicking the entire time, thanks to her $550 Manolo Blahniks. I couldn’t keep the grin off of my face, that is, until Mr. Beautiful spoke to me.

“I just said what we were both thinking. Too bad she didn’t take the hint before I had to embarrass us.” His azure blue eyes sparkled, and I still couldn’t think of one humanish thing to say.

Where the fuck is my blue fairy?

Six Words Only

I was at a loss for mental fodder to pen tonight, so I stole an idea from Jennie at Tip of my Tongue. Sum up your life in six words. Apparently, Hemingway did it once or something, and it’s all the rage these days. I couldn’t decide exactly what direction to go in, so I went in all of them:

You want a fantasy? I’m her.

Leave me alone. I’m busy reading.

Why can’t people be like me?

I’m ready for sex. And you?

Love me, or I’ll punch you.

Life is beautiful, except at work.

French Fries. Books. Stilettos. Sex. Boobs.

Who needs money? There are books.

Would you like top or bottom?

Love is best. Breaking up sucks.

I’m smart and busty. Lucky you.

Why is all the rum gone?

Ok, I could go on and on, but really, I’d like to see if you all can come up with six words about me. 🙂 XOXO

Truer, Madder, Deeper

I was being my normal people-pleasing self (while secretly cursing said people) at work the other day, when I was instantly taken back to 1997 thanks to our lovely satellite radio. Here is the moment when you (at least those of you my age) will cry “I remember that song!” or “I LOVED that song!” or “I fuckin’ hated that song!”- Truly, Madly, Deeply.

I myself recall that the first time (of millions) that I heard Truly, Madly, Deeply, my friends and I were exited my older friend’s teal Dodge Neon to venture into a somewhat newly built Walmart. I told my friends to “hang on a sec! This song is totally amazing!” which sent us into a tailspin of musical assessments. Imagine my surprise many years later that the lead singer was secretly singing to another guy. Loving someone “deeply” had a whole knew meaning after that.

Anyhoo, I reminisced pleasantly while mouthing the words shamelessly at work, until I began to realize that this song was full of crap.  Let me show you:

I’ll be your dream
I’ll be your wish I’ll be your fantasy
I’ll be your hope I’ll be your love
Be everything that you need
I’ll love you more with every breath
Truly, madly, deeply do
I will be strong I will be faithful
’cause I’m counting on
A new beginning
A reason for living
A deeper meaning, yeah

[chorus:]
I want to stand with you on
a mountain
I want to bathe with you in the sea
I want to lay like this forever
Until the sky falls down on me

And when the stars are shining
brightly in the velvet sky,
I’ll make a wish send it to heaven
Then make you want to cry
The tears of joy for all the
pleasure and the certainty
That we’re surrounded by the
comfort and protection of

The highest powers
In lonely hours
The tears devour you

Seems innocent enough, right?

“I’ll be your dream and your fantasy bla dee bla dee bla.” I understand  that- after all, am I not people’s dream and fantasy? 🙂

Here’s where my now-cynical self re-interpreted my wistful teen ideas.

“I want to stand with you on a mountain”- yeah, because he’s probably scared of heights; and the thought of freezing your ass off on Mt. Kilamanjaro is SO romantic.

“I want to bathe with you in the sea”- because salt water is so refreshing and completely non-sticky. And the threat of sharks is not a worry.

“I want to lay like this forever”- because he’s 42 and exhausted from his job?

“Until the sky falls down on me.” – because you wouldn’t wanna try to get outta the way or anything.

The second verse is just all about making his lover cry, which I’m sure might have something to due with the fact that he just told her he was gay.

I am so sad that my 31 year old self can no longer see the metaphoric beauty in this song, but instead can see how “truly” this “mad”ness “deeply” goes. To all you idealistic drippy teens, I bid you. “Save yourselves! Don’t listen to the whiney lovey-dovey pop music of today! For tomorrow, (or a few years from now) you’re going to realize that Justin Bieber and at least one member of One Direction is gay, and no amount of standing on mountains or bathing in seas is going to make up for the fact that your boyfriend is probably going to be a lazy bum that would rather have the sky fall on him than spend another minute with you. “

As The People Sleep

The downside to working

the night shift:

The only people awake when you get off

are drunks, insomniacs, vampires,

and you.

Sleep would come

Unbidden,

If I bothered to lie down for a short second,

but being left alone for the weekend,

and wound up from unsatisfying work

leaves me awakened and

buzzed on exhaustion.

So I

partake in Alone Time Behavior.

Bad teen comedies are my guilty pleasure,

and I wonder inanely if your newly done

self pedicure looks as good as the girl’s on

the T.V.

Before you know it,

it’s 4 AM,

and you’ve got less than three hours before you

have to pretend

you’re a Church Person.

Just enough time to

masturbate.

 

It’s the End of Neuroticism as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

To some people, their current lives are the result of one “AHA” moment in time when they say, “Enough’s enough. My life is going to vastly change from this second on.” For others, it is a back-and-forth battle with tears and much boob sweat, orgasms and sucker punches. Usually the second kind of people are suffering from mental health issues, or are born under a Libra sky. Whatever the case, I would most definitely agree that I am of the second and (in my opinion) more interesting sort- and yes, I suffer from both an indecisive Libra birth and un-medicated mental health issues.

You all know by now that of my own volition, I have been married, divorced, been called a cunt, accepted barrenness, and have made a few friends (and enemies) all while writing about it occasionally and refusing to seek treatment for my shoe and book addictions. I must admit, immediately after my divorce, my Rockstar was right to accuse me of “neediness and instability.” In my defense, after a twelve year relationship, I had every right to suffer these inadequacies. Still, I am pleased to announce that while not completely healed of my self-inflicted scars, I have accepted my faults, and since people still believe in my general awesomeness, it seems, released them.

Throughout my three year relationship with my Rockstar, it’s true that neuroticism and anxiety has reigned supreme. Perhaps it was because I was worried he might not have feelings for me, or perhaps it was because I was afraid I might be wasting my time trying to become an acceptable step-mother figure, or perhaps it was just because my Rockstar was too male-minded to realize what he’d not have if I decided to leave. I understand his irritation at tears I may have shed, as well as I understand the reason for the tears themselves. It’s taken me awhile to notice that sometimes, guys just don’t get it.

After talking to an old acquaintance the other day, despite the fact that I despise my job and sometimes my apartment, I was pleased to discover that all is right in my world. I have found the strong and independent woman who decided to leave her husband all those years ago even though she knew it would hurt, and I am perfectly content with my Rockstar, whether he will admit his Lovedom of me or not. It seems he has accepted my histrionic disorders, and tries his best to cater to them though he might not understand.

I know, you ask- “What little consequence is it to us, your readers,  that you have finally become instability-free and happy? Write about something interesting already!”

To you, I say- Without my anxiety, there will be many more delightful and witty posts for you to read. And anyhoo, this is MY blog, bitches! And while the entire world is maybe not always about me, my blog world most certainly is. So there. XOXO

Baby, I Don’t Think We’re in Sturgis Anymore

Some people long for adventure. I happen to be one of those people.

I daydream often of spitting off of the Empire State Building, of sacrificing a human being to the Sun god on the top of an Aztec ruin, of standing on the rail of a doomed ship holding my arms up and screaming, “I’m the King of the World!” just before it hits an iceberg and my fat-ass girlfriend refuses to share her floating driftwood and I freeze to death before sinking to the bottom of the ocean; my remains fodder for Jaws, the Great and Powerful.

Perhaps I am descended from Gypsies, though I’ve not heard of any statuesque blonde Scandanavian gypsy folk, or perhaps my apartment is so crappy that I simply have the urge to go anywhere that isn’t home. Whatever the case, I feel that I do not have to justify or explain my desire to lay eye on the biggest motorcycle rally in the country.
My Rockstar finds this desire to be completely insane and ultimately the  source of my imminent demise. While I would find it interesting and quite exciting to grab a beer with burly men (and women) sporting leather chaps and Harley bandanas, my Rockstar is convinced if we were to venture and stay at the designated campgrounds that millions of people stay in every year during Bike Week,  we would surely be designated as bait for any motorcycle gang initiation rites. Luckily, Kid Rock is playing at said campground, so after three years, I was able to convince R that a good time could be had by all, no gang rapes or ass branding included.

After spending last Sunday planning our choice of poison, which included going to see Kid Rock, the Black Crowes, Jackyl, Jasmine Cain, and Vince Neil, my Rockstar received a phone call from his brother, and informed him of our plan. Little did I know, his brother was intent on ruining our perfect childless-friendly getaway. Rockstar hung up the phone and said the words I never knew I would dread to hear- “He say nobody should go into those campgrounds after dark.”

My heart dropped. Was I thinking of what a gang of horny biker dudes might do to someone with buzooms of my size or someone with such an irrestistable ass as my Rockstar? No. I was thinking that I might never know, and that my Rockstar needed to quit being a pussy and suck it up. What fun is life if you never have to worry about getting your ass kicked by a 250 lb. woman who looks like a man?

Anyhoo, I threw in the towel. I realized that my Rockstar may just not be woman enough to want to run for Miss Broken Spoke 2013, and making him surround himself with the Sons of anarchy before he’s ready would just be an incredible waste of my money. So we’re going to Vegas for my birthday in October instead, where the women are cost exhorbitant amounts of money,  and the men are showgirls.

An Inquisition to the Wretched Sun

Oh Most (In My Opinion) Un-Magnificent Ball of Sky Fire,

My mind is boggled by the harsh and cruel way you do treat me. I have done a good thing, of my own volition- I have offered to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the beach- yet you seem intent on punishing me savagely for doing so.

I think it was not even 3 hours we spent under your shine, with sunscreen being re-applied multiple times, and yet today I feel uncomfortable heat on my shoulders, and must go to work sans face-powder, which will only make me looked as if caked in flour.

It seems you have had it in for me from even my years as a small child. I glaringly remember the lacking in my mother’s mothering when I came home from camping when I was 5  resembling a lobster with bleach-blonde hair. Too, I recall several trips to the cabin with my Ex-hubby when he refused to properly smear my Coppertone 45 across my exposed back, which led to his own discomfort as I whined pitifully through the night of my pain and suffering. I must point out to you, oh great and might Horus, ’tis not my own doing that I am descended from Scandanavian vampires. I seem to remember a line from the film The Exorcist that perfectly fits my problem- “Why?! Why you do this to me, Demi?!”

I realize that the cadaverous-like pale shade of my skin doth be a color that no SPF 30, 0r 45, or even 100 is able to protect. It’s true that the brightness of my white epidermis may rival your own glorious luminosity, and that is why you, dear Sun, are so intent on ruining me. If it be so, let this be a declaration of war.

However, I do not wish to obliterate you, Day Star, for our world would surely perish; I am not yet fully prepared to be mother to the Earth. And so, a truce must be met.

I promise not to tempt you with my pasty skin, and do solemnly vow to stay indoors or under shade trees whenever you are about. I implore you to take it easy on my ruined skin, for there are already many sun spots that are not freckles that mar my not-yet-forty-year-old skin. I am quite content being as pale as a Nicole Kidman Vampire, and I have half a mind to call Coppertone and Hawaiian Tropic out on their false advertising.

Sincerely (Because I have to be, you are a mightier being than I)

Sparklebumps