I’ll Ask You Only

Writer, teacher, student, daughter,

introvert, lover, poet, scholar.

All these describe you, but in the end,

I’ll ask you only to be my Friend.

 

A person who shares my deepest sorrows

and comforts me with fresh tomorrows.

One to who, I too, can lend a hand

when the ground around you is sinking sand.

 

Your passions, above all, I beg that you reveal;

and every stir of your soul they make you feel.

Your worries, also, please always expose;

my duty as Friend is to lighten that load.

 

Times of madness, times of brilliance,

ideas, wishes, dreams, experience.

Heavens and hells, comings and goings,

I pray you have these to overflowing.

 

The hurts will happen; don’t quake, Dear Heart!

They arise to make you more stalwart.

Without anguish, we would never see the Light.

Without pain, blessings wouldn’t burn nearly as bright.

 

The delights of your life I hope are so many

they drown out the heartaches you have, if any.

The tears you shed, some will be sad,

but with my help, joyful ones even more will be had.

 

We two, so different, and yet just the same

walk paths unalike, play contrasting games.

Our lives go on, ever changing, but in the end,

I ask you only to stay my Friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Goose and the Gander

After a lovely day of bitching in the park and eating not-so-scrumptious wings at B-dubs with the lovely Cat Woman, I have decided to manufacture a silly little tale based off of our observations of geese and men today. So grab a bottle of Jack and have a seat.

Once upon a time, there was a gander (Sidenote: I have just discovered that a gander is a male goose. I do not know why a female goose is still called just a goose. Sexism at it’s finest.)

This gander was very handsome, and had a long elegant neck. (As geese tend to have.) He spent his day strutting through the park, honking lasciviously at the females of his species, and hissing arrogantly at any humans who deemed themselves fit to try and feed him stale bread and sunflower seeds. The only people he let get close were the ones who offered dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds, which, unbeknownst to him, caused the gander to have wretched breath.

The gander was wildly narcissistic, and would spend long hours gazing into the man-made pond in the middle of town at the reflection of  his beautiful neck, sticking it out this way and that, and posing for the womanly geese that wandered past. There were a group of the females who fawned over the gander (as much as geese can fawn), but the gander would simply fertilize their eggs and then never honk at them again. (Sidenote: geese generally mate for life; another nature fact I have just learned.) The female geese were so busy caring for their fertilized eggs that they didn’t have time to warn other innocent geese of the gander’s shameful behavior.

One day, as the gander was doing a yoga-like pose as he peed, he caught sight of a goose he hadn’t yet pillaged. He stretched his long neck out while he finished his business, hoping the goose would notice how impressive and long it was (hee hee). He was so busy trying to impress the goose, that he failed to notice the naughty little boy who was running towards him. Before he knew what was happening, the gander found a grubby little fist wrapped around his prized neck, and he felt a yucky snap. He found himself looking down at the ground, unable to hold his little head upright, before the boy’s mother yelled at him and he was flung to the ground. The little boy ran off, and the gander was left honking and hissing, never even noticing the feather that was stuff in his nose hole, making him even more absurd.

From then on, the vain gander wandered through the park with a broken neck, which made his head to wobble unsteadily on his once-beloved neck, causing him to look a little bit demented.

The moral of the story: Don’t rubberneck at dames, you may end up without your most valuable asset.

An Apology to my Neighbors

Dear friendly neighbors,

I compose this letter today in the hopes that we can still be amiable aquaintances. While I have done nothing to openly displease you, it is, perhaps, safe to say that one or some of you may be slightly vexed in my general direction.

I apologize for spending five hours outside bent over my garden in my swimsuit.

Were it not the fact that, by some anyway, I would be considered pudgy or stout, I would not be issuing such an apology today. However, upon reflection of my own judgemental thoughts when faced with the excessive flesh exposure of some portly women in the summertime, I felt the need to ask pardon.

I, too, will explain why I have so blatantly bared my ASSets.

I have a problem with tan lines. Like, (and I’m sorry to revert back into a thirteen-year-old girl here, but) omg, batman! Tan lines drive me CRACRA!!!!!!! #insane. Due to having this past weekend off, I have already suffered the injustice of tan lines. My only option is to bare as much of my skin as possible in order to attempt a fading of such horrid atrocities. Thus, the semi-nakedness.

There is always the hope that the men amongst you are closeted chubby-chasers. If this happens to be true, then my apology is to the wives, who may have found their husbands open-mouthed and ogling, and finding reasons to venture outside- maybe feigning getting the mail- in order to get a closer look at my superfluous boobies that so stubbornly kept refusing to stay attired. Here’s the thing: it’s nigh impossible to find a swimmy that fits bosoms of such extent sufficiently. So pay no attention to the fact that I was adjusting and re-adjusting so as not to completely flash the whole neighborhood. Though I’m certain the men didn’t mind.

There is the fleeting thought that perhaps no one noticed me at all. That thought quickly dispersed, however, when I remember how viciously my Rockstar and I verbally gossip about you all when we see you puttering around your yards. Think nothing of it, it’s just something we do.

I cannot promise that I will never again assault your eyes with the sight of my husky thighs, (ha, that rhymed!) but I do hope you all may learn to ignore them. Or in the least, not tell everybody that there’s an almost naked girl outside, because it certainly seemed like A LOT of cars were driving by yesterday. Multiple times.

The girl next door,

Sparklebumps

P.S. I do not apologize for walking around inside my house naked with the blinds open. It’s my house. I can do what I want.

 

 

A Dedication to 199 (and to All the Others)

This post is dedicated to the 199th amazing individual who has deemed my histrionic babbling worthy of followage. Without you, Ackeyands, I would just be a blogger with 198 followers. You have saved me from the awful even-numbered follower, Hamza, who I’m sure is a lovely and beautiful person in his own right, other than the fact that he was unlucky enough to follow my blog when I already had a lovely odd-number of proverbial blog sheep. From the few posts of your that I checked out, Ackeyands, I can tell you and I shall be great friends-or in the least, we shall be entertained by each other’s blogs for many moons to come.

No, no- I am not forgetting those many bloggers who have gotten me to this point. Though they are too numerous in numbers to list in their entirety, I hope they are somewhat sated by the fact that I have, at some point, read a post or two from every single one of their blogs. I noted that the range of personalities and talents of my followers is vast enough to create a very effectibe blogger army, but since I don’t believe in war, I suppose we could be a Blogger Flash Mob instead.

I would like to mention a few of my followers that have made writing for you all even more entertaining, with their comments and with their occassional mention of me in their blogs.

H.E. Ellis, because without her, I would not have a backup future wife, and I would never have read a book written for young adults that was worth reading, as of yet.

Brainrants, because without his first comment, I would have never found the perserverance to continue writing when I first started. Also, I would have never known the drama that comes along with a blogger’s jealous spousal unit.

John, because in his understated way, he is the most faithful of my followers. Though he does not blatantly comment in an overly-amourous manner on any of my posts like some of the others do, his persistant clicking of the like button on the majority of my posts lets me know of his at least intellectual infatuation with me…

Diatribes and Ovations, because he has the decency to pretend I’m as amazing as I want to be.

Page to Screen, because he liked me enough to find me on Facebook.

HR Nightmare, because he has given me the blessing to marry his ex-wife if my Rockstar doesn’t marry me, and because he is the only Vampire I’ve known in real life.

Sandy Like A Beach, because she is like me, but with dancing ability.

Delightfulness, because she was lucky enough to live within driving distance of me, therefore making her my only blogging buddy I have met in real life. Also, she is a great friend who acts as though I fart rainbows and shit butterflies.

Edward Hotspur, because he is the male version of my histrionic schizophrenic self, and his underlying passive-aggressiveness is not lost on me.

To all who have read or will read my blog- if I have made you laugh or cry, made you feel any other emotion, and entertained you even a little, then I have accomplished what I set out to do. Thank you for your intellectual patronage. XOXO

 

I Have No Friends…Should I Be Upset?

Happy 6 AM, Lovelys! I’m surprisingly awake for having drunk (drank) a third of a bottle of vodka last night. However, I AM contemplating crawling back into bed after completing this post. Today I will address the fact that I essentially have no friends, the reasons I believe this to be true, and the why this doesn’t really bother me. (although I feel like it SHOULD bother me.)

I suppose I cannot say I have NO friends- there are certainly a few people I could call up that would probably “hang” with me if I asked them to- and my friend Carebear is the person I consider to be my only friend, even though I haven’t seen her in over a year. (She did call when she found out I was fired)  I am well aware that where any lack of friends is concerned, I myself am solely to blame. I will tell you why:

I don’t answer my phone.

Perhaps it is the fact that I was not allowed to answer the phone at home while I was growing up, or the fact that a remarkable amount of my phone calls are bill collectors, but I have obtained a slight malevolence toward my cellular device. It matters not that I have changed the ringtone to the opening music of  Law and Order SVU; when my phone rings, I feel no desire whatsoever to push the little green button and lift the phone to my ear. I have a secret foreboding if I speak into a phone, my voice will somehow resemble that of the demon-possesed Emily Rose on the other end. And as most normal people prefer NOT to have entire conversations in text, I have forfeited friends simply by not answering their calls. No matter that I will text them endlessly if they wish to chat.

Girls don’t generally like me.

I don’t necessarily know this fact to be true, but it certainly seems that when I try to be friendly to aquaintances (check out Party or Bust) I am avoided like a leper, or in the least, my approach is received with trepidation. That is not to say that I’ve not made friends with co-workers at my various places of business, however, those girls all seem to have their own lives, with no time for a Sparkle. And as my Rockstar would not appreciate the many guys who would like to be my “friend”, (or as he puts it, “You know they just want to fuck you, right?”) I am resolved to settling for my Rockstar as my source of merrymaking. (Which I’m completely content with)

Groups of people are scary. (More than 2 is a group)

My one friend Carebear is the complete opposite of me in this sense. She thrives on getting all her friends together in one place, such as having a girls night, or getting together for drinks with her coupled friends. For me, I would much rather be thrown into a vat of boiling hot dog poo. I find it difficult to have a meaningful conversation with one person when another person who is not me insists on chiming in at various intervals. Perhaps it is because I like to maintain eye-contact with the person I’m speaking to, and when there is more than one, I get dizzy. When I am one-on-one with a person, I can converse infinitely on any variety of subject with that person, but as soon as another person is added to the conversation, my vocal chords immediately shut down and I become a mute. It matters not if I know both people. Yes, I realize there may be underlying issues here.

People are assholes.

My making this statement should clear up any remaining queries you all may have as to why I have no friends. But allow me to annotate: I generally attempt to be kind and sparkley to any person I come in contact with- however, if judgement is cast upon me in any fashion, I immediately shut down said sparkle and cease to be interested in further aquaintance with the judger. This may be a kind of judgement in it’s own way, but friends are supposed to love you for who you are, not for who they want you to be. And since sex and boobs and saying what you think can be offensive to those with more delicate sensibilities, I tend to procure much more judgements than I do friends.

Now I will tell you why I am not bothered by my lack of chums: I would prefer to read a book than talk about the latest hot guy at work; I like to spend time with my Beloveds, and don’t want to feel that I’m neglecting them by going out with friends when I could be home with them, and any girls my age usually have their own children and most seem to have forgotten that they were a person BEFORE they were a mother, and I do not find constant chatter of animal crackers amusing.

Yes, there are occassions when I believe it would be lovely to have a group of gals you could always count on like in Sex and the City, but I suppose until I can find some girls who don’t want to talk on the phone, who will love me even though my boobs are bigger, who don’t want to have a girl’s night, and who will let me eat all the french fries without thinking, “She’s going to get fat”, I will have to amuse myself with my 13 other personalities. And when my Rockstar dies, I shall be one of those incredibly talented hermit-types.

 

P.S. I Do consider all my bloggy people to be my friends, though you would probably all hate me in real life. XOXO