Tag Archives: God

A Letter To My Baby


Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy

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News


Hmm….. what to write about….

 

….Sex always seems to go over well. I could write some smutty smut smut….

Maybe I could write about…. oh! How I told my Rockstar his kid was an asshole a few weeks ago….or maybe about how much of an asshole I felt like after I said it…

Sleep! Oh, how I adore sleep at this moment! It’s as if the soul of the dwarf sleepy has magically taken over my body and told me I am only here to sleep. I feel that I must obey.

Or, I guess I could actually write about how I’m going to have a baby. I guess maybe there might be a little bit of excitement over such news.

Yeah, ok, so I’ll write about that.

If you skimmed the last few sentences and weren’t really paying attention, I’ll say it again- I’m going to have a baby. Me. The chick who has never been pregnant in her life and was thought to be barren. Funny things, those little sperms, eh?

It was only about a month ago I said to myself, “Self, I’s ok with no babies. With no babies, I can sleep as much as I want, and work as much as I want, and generally go about my life like a pathetic blob if I wants. Nevermind that I won’t have anyone to take care of me when I’m old. I’ll probably die on the back of a Harley long before then with no babies, anyway.”

I told you God likes to fuck with people.

I’m not complaining, trust me. Well, except for the constant urge to vomit that I’ve been living with for the past month. But according to What to Expect, that’ll pass soon enough. And then I’ll have a new set of digestional problems. But whatevs. I’m gonna have a baby!

I must admit, my first thought after I peed on that little stick and saw the positive sign was something akin to disbelief and fear at what my Rockstar’s reaction might be. But I did what I do best, and wrote him a letter that I left on the counter for him to read upon his arrival home. Considering how cave-man-like he is when it comes to communication, I was satisfied with the “If you’re happy about it, I don’t mind.” that I got from him. Hey. It was more than I expected.

Anyhoo, a whole flurry of thoughts ran through my head. Like how my three bookshelves of kid’s books will now be read, (by someone other than me), how my boobs are going to get huge, (or huge-r, if you want to look at it that way), how there are a million things I need to teach my baby so it (yes, I call it It, because it has not yet a gender, and in reference to Cousin, not the creepy clown) will be the smartest little bastard that ever lived. (Yes, It is a bastard in the very base definition of the word, so I will not deny it. It’s not my fault It’s dad doesn’t want to get married.) Oh! And how I must quickly learn Spanish, so It will be bilingual and fabulous.

I also had the terrifying thought that if It gets my Rockstar’s hair color with my hair texture, it may very well end up looking like Carrot Top. (Eesh.) Or Annie, minus the orphan part.

What I didn’t realize was that being pregnant is akin to having your life energy sucked out of your ears by an alien mothership. I don’t know if it’s because I’m constantly preparing to hurl whatever healthy thing it was I ate  (yes, it seems that pregnancy has strengthened my willpower to deny myself the finer things in life, like McDonald’s) on the nearest bystander or what, but I literally have done next to nothing other than work for the past week. I may be pregnant, but I kinda feel that there really is no free pass for taking 3-4 naps a day after sleeping in.

Well, anyway, my kid is gonna be the cutest damn kid there ever was, and yes, it IS a little scary that there might be a miniature me running around pretty soon. Are you ready for that, world?

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You Men Just Really Have No Idea


Otherwise entitled- Fuck Ya’ll, You Lucky Sons of Bitches.

Yeah, that’s right. you’re all sons of bitches, because your mothers at some point bled like bitches in heat if only for the reason of giving you fortunate assholes life.

I bet you males never even think twice about what we women have to go through every month, (or every other month, in some cases.)

Not only do women have to sit down to pee, (a fact that still vexes me to no end), but while you guys are just standing up shaking your dicks in front of urinals and nonchalantly going about your cramp-free business, women everywhere are suffering because God decided to get us back for one stupid cunt not listening to him eons ago.

Sure, God got credited with a miracle when He turned the Nile into a river of blood, but a woman produced a river of blood from her own body every month, all she gets is dudes bitching about her being on the rag. What the hell?!

I once had a heartless asshat of a coworker who once stated, “What’s the big deal? Girls have periods from the time they’re teenagers. They should just be able to suck it up and deal with it by the time their in their twenties.” I am certain the homicidal look in my eye after he made said statement was enough to scare him straight. But to be sure, next time one of you fuckers eats 20 lbs. of hot wings and downs a case of beer, I’ll be there when your gut is being wretched and your head is pounding and you have fire shooting out of your ass, lovingly smashing your skull in with a baseball bat yelling, “Come on! What’s the big deal?! You’ve been doing this since college! You should be able to handle it!”

Did you ever think for one bloody second, (pun intended) Men, that when an entire aisle of Walmart is dedicated to a woman’s moon flow, that maybe it’s not such a minor thing? Midol, tampons, maxi pads, hot water bottles, chocolate; the only things dedicated to you guys are hemmorhoid cream and little blue pills, neither of which are even in the same goddamn aisle.

When a girl has to curl up into a ball after taking three Midol and a 5th of brandy, and her insides still feel like someone’s practicing their Boyscout’s knots; when her tits ache for weeks before hand; when she gets sooooo pissed off at you because you’re being a stupid idiot, and she tells you so, just be glad she isn’t stomping on your dick with her stilettos, or her motorcycle boots, or what have you, because I guarantee you there isn’t a one of us who hasn’t wanted to do just that when we’re having our periods.

Have a little compassion for your fellow women.

 

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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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Client Privilege


In the beginning…

You might wonder what makes me any more special than Candy or Blake or any other Dial-A-Whore you might find on the back side of the local entertainment pages next to the ads for sperm banks and penis enlargement pills. To be honest, Candy is gorgeous, and the dickheads down at Winston’s refer to Blake as the “Hoover” when they know she’s not around to kick them in the balls. But have they ever been the Angel of Lust? Think about it- take every carnal desire you’ve ever had, every animalistic sensual hunger, and multiply it times a thousand , or ten million, or a billion, and you wouldn’t even have begun to scratch the surface of the chaste shell of God that’s encasing an eternity of wanton emotions. He gave you those yearnings on purpose; He created me on purpose. Everyone knows God doesn’t make mistakes. Maybe He just realized all that passionate voracity blinds people to almost everything else, so He told a few disciples and prophets it would be best to tell people to restrain themselves a little. Who knows.

Clearly, Charlie didn’t get the memo.

Charlie’s my most loyal customer. You’d think he was in his twenties, if you based his age on the amount of money he’s paid me in the last few years. Luckily, his twenty-two year old libido is matched up to his fifty-two year old perfectly- practiced gift for fucking. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do him for free.

He was here earlier. Normally, I don’t accept clients at my own place, but Charlie, well, he’s Charlie. Of course, he couldn’t teach me anything I wasn’t already designed to know, but after I knew Charlie for awhile, I kinda started wondering if Charlie wasn’t God’s male duplicate of me. Or maybe he’s just sexed his way through enough women that he’s got nothing else to learn. Thus his captivation with me.

When he gave his habitual rhythmic knock on my door, I was applying my Urban Decay lipstick in F-Bomb (my favorite). He opened the door without waiting for me to reply, and leaned against it after he closed it, just watching me. It’s my job to unnerve people, and I’m still not sure how Charlie can do it, but I watched him watching me in my mirror, and his intense ice-blue stare made me on edge enough that my lipstick slid right off my bottom lip.

“Fuck!” I whispered under my breath, hoping Charlie hadn’t seen, but knowing he had.

Before I had a chance to wipe it off, Charlie pushed his tall body off of the door and he strolled over to where I was standing. He said not a word, but continued to watch me in the mirror. His eyes never left mine as I felt the soft pad of his thumb trace my jawline before running along the outline of my lip, wiping the red stain away. Even with my peacock blue, five-inch heels on, he was a good nine inches taller than me, and I watched in the mirror as his hand slid from my face, down my neck, and under the neckline of my silk dress. Before his hand even touched my left breast, I felt it all the way south of my belly button, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my rouged lips.

Ok, so let me explain a little bit about Charlie. He’s been married, numerous times, in fact, has enough money that he never has to work, and gets off on getting women off. A lot of guys don’t give one shit about whether their woman is turned on before they stick their dick in them, and couldn’t care less whether she orgasms or not, and probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. Charlie is not one of those guys. I’m convinced he wouldn’t even be able to get a hard-on unless the woman he intended to fuck was dripping wet. Don’t ask me why he pays for sex, because even after all these years, he won’t tell me.

When he heard that sound, his fingertips squeezed my nipple, and my eyes slid shut, relishing the tingle that was running down my body. I leaned back against him, his toned body taking my weight easily, and ran my hand up his tailored pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. As I did so, his hand enveloped my breast, squeezing just hard enough that it hurt. Another little squeal escaped me, and his grip tightened even more. My eyelids flew open, and my gaze met his in the mirror; his eyes had never left my face. His breath was on my neck, on my ear, and sent little shivers of pleasure across my skin. I looked into his eyes as he ran his free hand up my leg and under my skirt, and I noticed his dimpled smirk when he realized I wasn’t wearing any panties. His face in the mirror looked like a young man’s- a young man with a dirty secret- as his experienced fingers explored my most intimate places, as he discovered what his fingers and his eyes and his breath on me had done. I was encircled in his grip, and couldn’t move as he moved his fingertips achingly slow  in and out of me, in and out, in, and then out before bringing them up and sliding them between my F-Bomb-ed lips. He watched as I tasted the salty musk of myself, and broke his trance-like stare when I ran my tongue over and around his fingertips, and then sucked ever so gently.

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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.

 

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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.

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