Most Hated of Them All.

I hate her.
I hate the way her face displays,
all the things she hides from me;
I hate every breath that she takes.
I curse her smiles;
I make it rain all over her parades,
I saturate her blankets,
and every clothesline that she hangs.
I feel sick;
every time her victory banner is waved,
those with hearts as dark as hers,
do not deserve such good days.
I cast catching nets;
to halt the successes she’s made,
all the good she’s accomplished;
from within a questionable Human state.
I hunt her;
track marks in the mud from her chains,
her pace has picked up now,
but her attempts to escape are in vain.
I watch her;
watch each line appear in her face,
along the tip-toes of the crow’s feet,
so I step away from the mirror again.

Apex.

The words written,
have me feeling
sickly and un-smitten,
through the text,
be me sensing one
yellow-starred Apex,
“art”, or something,
special status – VIP
gums – bumping,
keep it sloppy,
your literary versions
parties with Pop Queens,
it almost hurt me,
be not for a sudden
void of curiosity,
two masters, one crown,
too many jars
full of HONEY to count,
volume’s up, open trunk
toes tapping
to your wordy junk,
speakers thumping,
I take the trash out at night
blood stops pumping,
and…..so here I go,
paddling my way
to be broken by the sea,
be it one born of saline,
or oceans of lies
it is my serpentine,
and I, its wiry chord,
whatever be it was
to my own accord,
do not folly to believe,
that my yellow star
takes you or your
so-called “poetry”,
in the least bit seriously.

Me.

This villainous fiend that is me,

the shadow in firelight,

the beast waiting to spite,

such villainous things I perceive;

this slowly emptying sea,

the waves that break,

the breaths they take,

what a fucking tragedy;

this temper tantrumming,

the punches at air,

the utter despair,

such a childish identity;

this condition that’s underlying,

the highs and lows,

the last to know,

such a burden is mine to carry;

this unforgiven monstrosity,

the one under my skin,

the one who I am,

such a hideous monster is me.

 

 

Notes to Self #445

Dear Self:
1) How many times have you actually carried the bag out your car before leaving, despite its precarious position on the inside of the door-knob to the front door? Time for a new reminder spot, dumbass…
2) While sleepwalking, try to somehow remember that you will be held accountable for the things you’re up to during the early morning hours in the man-cave, by the men who cave there…
3) Over dinner with the parents of a childhood friend (who is now, unfortunately, deceased), try to avoid talking about “death throes” – even in the intended context of the fish on your plate. Talk about awkward…
4) Not everyone feels the way that you feel about certain historical figures, including, but not limited to: Joan of Arc, Genghis Khan, Socrates, Moses and Josephus; sometimes it’s just best to let ignorance override a situation in order to avoid a five-hour marathon of “truth versus textbook”…
5) YOU ARE NO EXCEPTION…not to ANY rule, ANY time, or under ANY circumstances…
6) The VERY gradual tapering off of the use of the air horn you keep stashed under the passenger’s seat of your car DOES NOT truly count as “changing your ways” in regard to ‘Road Rage’…
7) Using only one hand to flip off the dude next you (who cut you off twice) instead of both doesn’t count, either…
8) Again, when you don’t pay your bills – you lose your shit…
9) “All-Day Wear Lipstick” should be illegal for what it ultimately does to your appearance, after only a partial day – you’d be better off smearing wild berry stain inside your mouth and all across your own front teeth…go back to Blistex…
10) Lastly, just because you’ve had luck in the past with training (notably trainable) finches, does not mean that you can start ‘Homing Pigeons’ in your spare time…

Frying Pan.

Choosing never affects a good choice,

only amplifies the neediness in your shaky voice,

aren’t we are all adults playing on this playground,

or had I been mistaken?

when I took in,

all the grown up sights and sounds?

play games like you have power here among our kind,

unhealthy certainty in your wobbly-kneed stride,

I can practically taste the intentions that know are underneath,

like the fat off the bacon,

in the frying pan,

do not kid yourself into believing your own longstanding deceit.

Thoughts.

Theoretically, last night should have brought me the best sleep that I have had in some time, after hearing a jury’s guilty verdict of the man who ruined my daughter so long ago.
As I lay there in darkness with buds tightly squeezed into each ear playing Ben Bonetti’s “Hello Spider” meditational gig, I began to think about the Pedophile’s family (he has a wife and two children the same age as my own), and was overcome with grief.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen his wife various times in passing- on the news, and other places associated with the common denominator between us; there are ill feelings in the air during each of these instances, almost naturally. I have watched the Pedophile’s aged and decrepit mother hobble up and down three floors with her cane to trial so many times I couldn’t count them if I tried; I have seen the toll taken in the faces of his kids as they have become young adults, just like my own has; I have watched his family disintegrate into dust amidst the chaos of what he has done.
These things do not give me a sense of peace or fairness in any way…two shocked and completely torn children who stopped showing up at trial days altogether about halfway through…the jolly smile gradually fading altogether from his ancient, crippled mother’s face…the last string of hope attached to his poor wife’s perception of his innocence just falling away into nothingness…
the many scenes that would undoubtedly be enacted most dramatically for a movie; the parts in which the viewers would be pumping fists and shouting “Yeah! That’s what they get!”
But reality tells me differently now… “they” don’t deserve this at all. They have been victimized also (especially the kids) and have been also been permanently damaged and traumatized by the actions of their’ Pedophile father. His wife, who stood by her man for years before finally becoming so jaded and embittered by the proverbial “bag” that she was left to hold after her husband was arrested, she has been traumatized as well by the causes and effects of her husband’s Pedophilia; she has truly been changed in many ways by this circumstance – and I am not even someone who knows her, but it’s that apparent, even to a stranger, how heavy her burden weighs in on her back – it shows in her face, her disappointment and shame…and, that isn’t fair – she isn’t the Pedophile. Last night, I found myself wondering about her; about what she was doing in response to the news that lifted my spirits to new heights yesterday…what thoughts was she spending her night playing through her mind?
Anyway, I am obviously relieved beyond words that he has been convicted of many counts (not just Boo), but the verdict and its permanence holds many more facets to its shine that I had originally been prepared for, I guess.

Most Hated of Them All.

I hate her.
I hate the way her face displays,
all the things she hides from me;
I hate every breath that she takes.
I curse her smiles;
I make it rain all over her parades,
I saturate her blankets,
and every clothesline that she hangs.
I feel sick;
every time her victory banner is waved,
those with hearts as dark as hers,
do not deserve such good days.
I cast catching nets;
to halt the successes she’s made,
all the good she’s accomplished;
from within a questionable Human state.
I hunt her;
track marks in the mud from her chains,
her pace has picked up now,
but her attempts to escape are in vain.
I watch her;
watch each line appear in her face,
along the tip-toes of the crow’s feet,
so I step away from the mirror again.

Blood-Soaked Breadcrumbs.

Stopping at

the ledge,

I lean over to see

a life left behind

of you

a future ahead of me

and, it isn’t pretty

not a single thing;

standing out against

a backdrop

of teardrops,

raining down

pelting skin;

Fingers curling tightly,

insurance of

my own grip

chambered,

by my own hand

precisely,

for such a trip

see my footing slip;

crumbling

boulders,

beneath my feet;

have I actually fallen,

ever so blindly,

into the lap

of my enemy?

Loaded gun,

pressed against

a temple,

shots commence –

my heart,

so begrudging –

my eyes,

so disbelieving;

of the stories

that the truth

is telling me;

Leaving trails of

blood-soaked

breadcrumbs

in a soggy line;

it goes behind,

a familiar time

of martyrdom

that unfailingly,

and unsparingly

will stake claim to

whatever life’s

left of mine.

 

Ventilation.

evidenceSome people have too much drama in their’ hearts…not necessarily too much time on their’ hands, but definitely too much interest in wasting the time and energies of others with the absolute bullshit that they consider noteworthy, somehow. I have several key people in my life who are made from this stock of human characteristics:
lonely but unaware of this fact, indulgent in a handicapping superiority complex that is totally unwarranted, absolutely clueless as to the ways of human loyalties, and without a caring thought of anyone else’s needs or desires against their’ own.
In turn, these people have a very poisonous effect on me, in almost any context – regardless of the relationship I share with them or its importance in my life. For example, I have a roommate who is a pompous ass sometimes; he is the one that I refer to as the “good Bunkie” in my blog, a label based on a comparison between he and a former housemate, who was very un-good. This guy is one of my oldest friends and I love him dearly in spite of himself, I really do…however, the older we get, the more impossible he is for me to deal with. Granted, I have my own issues and that’s no secret; but I can say this about myself and my own issues with certainty: I DO NOT CONSCIOUSLY ALLOW MYSELF MISDIRECT MY ISSUES AT UNDESERVING BYSTANDERS.
The Good Bunkie has this super horribly annoying tendency to come home from work with some Gods damned chip on his shoulder about some random ass political or religious bullshit that he listened to on talk radio during his commute home; worse still – he wants to debate and argue over the meaningless garbage with his housemates – whichever one he happens upon first. When he does this to me, at the end of my own workday, I am overcome by an inclination to just fucking bite his face off. I mean, come on! There are people who barely know me that would be able to do that much of my fucking math, for fuck sake; I have REAL PROBLEMS in the REAL WORLD and PRESENT MOMENT…I could give a shit about whatever political or religious horseshit from Talk Radio Republic.That shit is all made up bullshit anyway, duh! Show me some solid evidence behind of the long horse shit that you’re bringing home to my ear, and we’ll debate about it maybe…fuck!

Let’s review just for fun:

1) Do I seem like a fucking church-goer to any of you? NO.
2) Do I put off the vibe that I am a fucking Republican? NO.
(Sorry, to any of my Republican readers)
3) Do I send out a message of being partial to the Rich White Folk? NO.
4) Do I seem like someone any of you would even WANT to argue politics with? FUCK NO.

So, yes…it drains me emotionally when this person who I share hearth and home with repeatedly comes home and tries to start in with his completely disinteresting, circus freak, political garbage debate with ME, of all people! The end result every time is the same: as soon as I recognize his shit, I say something like,
“C’mon seriously? Spare me, okay? I have no interest or desire in even having this conversation; I don’t need this bullshit on ANY day of ANY week, dude…fuck off!”, before shutting the door to my bedroom behind me as I go back in. Now I realize that anytime you have multiple people sharing a living space, things get a little edgy sometimes; that’s not lost on me by any means; I also try my damndest to stay out of everyone else’s way as often as possible for this reason – as to avoid unnecessary tension. That’s just how I roll: I mind my own business.
I am most often closed up in my room with earbuds in; I am typically the “house mouse”– this behavior of mine is nothing new or groundbreaking in my household, either…it’s always been this way. The Good Bunkie knows the cause of my PTSD, and has been more than “understanding” and “supportive”, for lack of more fitting descriptions – he has no appreciation behind the psychological mechanisms involved that have a physiological reaction attached to them – but he pities me because of the drastic changes he openly recognizes when he compares the ME of my youth to the ME that is now his housemate. For someone in my personal circumstances, having a roommate who is also a friend that I have so much water under the bridge with – is priceless; I am aware on a subconscious level that he poses no physical threat to me at any time. This is an element that I do not fool myself into thinking that I could find or cultivate with 9.5 out of 10 males in existence. I share it with my other roommate, The Orphan, as well – though for very different reasons and not as solidly; our friendship is young, in comparison. Point here is that I am for the most part happy as hell with my situation, but when this type of shit happens, it literally drains me of energy which isn’t healthy for me to be exposed to, especially so fucking unnecessarily and regularly.
I mean, I would NEVER go out of my way to instigate an unnecessary argument with him, or The Orphan for that matter…and it bothers me that he, especially given our longtime friendship and his knowledge of my current status in the fucking world I live in , DOES.

Apex.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

The words written,

have me feeling

sickly – un-smitten,

through the text,

be me sensing one

yellow-starred Apex,

“art”, or something,

special status – VIP

gums – bumping,

keep it sloppy,

your literary versions

parties with Pop Queens,

it almost hurt me,

be not for a sudden

void of curiosity,

two masters, one crown,

too many jars

full of HONEY to count,

volume’s up, open trunk

toes tapping

to your wordy junk,

speakers thumping,

I take the trash out at night

blood stops pumping,

and…..so here I go,

paddling my way

to be broken by the sea,

be it one born of saline,

or oceans of lies

it is my serpentine,

and I, its wiry chord,

whatever be it was

to my own accord,

do not fool yourself to believe,

that my yellow star

takes this seriously.

Notes to Self – Note 492

Absolutely Molotoved.

Absolutely Molotoved.

Dear Self,

Not sure how many times we will have to go over these things… but here we are, again…

  • Once a snake, always a snake. This is the naturally embedded law of the Universe, you KNOW this. Why do you struggle so?
  • Moisturize! Moisturize! Moisturize! You’re lookin’ beat up.
  • Just because sea lions “play” with you in the water sometimes, doesn’t mean that they:
    • a) actually like you.
    • b) will remember you on land.
  • You need to look into what turns you into an instant asshole on the beach, it’s very unbecoming. Not everyone is at home in the water.
  • Continuing to hold on to the notion that you still look good in your swimsuit from over four seasons ago is doing you no justice.
  • You are paranoid; this is a fact; act accordingly.
  • You do not have to publish every piece of poetry that you pen.
  • Sometimes, it’s just better to eat the Gods’ damned casserole and then either retch or digest afterwards. You lost out on $50, dumbass.
  • Perception is key; the key to a door which you may or may not want to unlock and swing open, depending on the circumstance.
  • Fuck you. Yes, you are wearing the bridesmaid’s dress and cfmp’s…it’s your brother’s wedding for fuck sake. Suck it up and be a girl once in a while, “it’s good for you”, so they say…

Why???

Oh my fuck. Why? Why?

Ugggghhhhhh! Why?

Does Anyone Remember “The Opportunist”:

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/05/21/rubbish/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/05/29/on-this-door-the-opportunist-knocks/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/04/13/do-not-mistake-my-weakness-for-kindness/

So I just received a text from him – out of the clear blue – after over six months of not a single word – that says:

Bambi,

I don’t know if you still hate me or not. I wish you didn’t. I think about you all the time. I’m so sorry for the way shit went down between us. You made me very happy while we were “together”. I should have told you more about what was going on in my life back then so that you didn’t have to draw your conclusions. So-and-so and I were just friends, still…and nothing else was ever going on between us like I’ve been told you were thinking. I should have reassured you when you asked me to and I’m sorry. I hope you are well.

Opportunist

WTF???!!

Notes to Self – Note #99

REPEATED CHALKBOARD SCRIBBLING OF THE DAY:

I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.

 

 Dear Self,

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

We’ve gone over this before, Self – you need to master self-control a little – No, a lot – better in the days to come.

Your lack of any “Holiday Spirit” DOES NOT entitle you to destroy public (or private) property and get yourself arrested for a brief time, afterward.

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

Just because you have some mutant-esque allergy to alcohol (rendering you 110% unable to physically stomach the shit) doesn’t automatically slap you on top of some tall horse that stands over anyone else; telling one of your Mom’s sloppy, drunken, bartender ex-boyfriends that he “missed his calling in life” was probably a little much.

Yes, you’re still a mouthy bitch.

Fuck It.

fuck it

On This Door the Opportunist Knocks

Image

Yeah, well – not this environment, not this time, not any more.

The VIP has left the building, Ghost…without you.

 

All else aside, I realize what it’s been that has held me up over this most recent ugliness spewed at me by the presence of a disguised opportunist – previously in very close quarters to my life and heart – I see what has been bothering me so much about it all: it’s the metallic, residual taste of blood in my mouth;

the sobering fact that once someone stings me – once another unwelcome reality punches me in the throat from out of nowhere to remind me that ‘Hey Stupid! You Can’t Trust Anyone Not To Betray You Eventually!’ – I begin to warily pick apart each and every relationship left standing – I grow cynical and defensive and suspicious of the people who haven’t yet abandoned me: my friends and family. I start to do this mindfuck loop in which I question everyone and everything as a direct result of the betrayal of one single maggot who was unworthy from day one…

I don’t care that it’s all over, I am starting to see that the douche bag did me a favor by showing such vivid colors in such undeniable hues; I have already sensed the calm easing its way back into each day from morning to night (no early morning dramatics; no more hours wasted on the equivalent to free therapy sessions beginning with my first cup of coffee); I already feel the tension unwrapping itself from around each eye and loosening its tightly wound grip from my shoulder blades…

Whatever it was, that “thing” I imagined up between us – it had become unhealthy very quickly for me – it stopped feeling good a while back – only felt bad when it felt like anything at all for months leading up to the final breaking point: the day that the line was drawn distinctly in the sand between he and I, permanently.

If they aren’t lifting you up, they’re holding you down…I had ceased to be lifted up any more…

But I knew leading up to that day also, deep down I knew I did not like who he is, what he is – the type of individual that he represents…I knew that, I had already seen and recognized, even communicated that fact to him.

“I don’t like two-faced people…” I declared one morning as he insistently talked shit about somebody who I, personally, happen to love quite fiercely – someone who he is all sugar and spice to in person, face to face. “I hope you know how telling it is that you would say those things about __________, given the circumstances; especially since you have no problem turning around and smiling to his face ten minutes later…”

Image

He somehow assured me way back then that I was wrong about him, about what I saw. But on some level deep down, if I’m being honest here, I have known since that time that he was no good. And I ignored my own instinct in order to suit my own more immediate needs: Human Closeness and Intimacy. How fucked up is that? Because in the end, he totally duped me and walked away snickering, finishing off that last mouthful of cake with victorious gulps…but I have truly learned a few new things from this otherwise worthless and useless exercise:

1) I still have major abandonment issues that I need to deal with.

2) When someone burns me, it burns…and it sets into motion cause and effect whether I like it or not.

3) I am still the Bigger Person, despite all of my efforts not to be.

4) I’m okay with my longstanding sentiment of:

If I am out of line for feeling for another human being (especially after considerable lengths of time in close quarters together), shoot me.

I don’t want to be a mutant human being all shallow and fake as Hell, wtf can I say?

 

Notes To self 901

Dear Self,

You don’t actually know everything, like you’ve always told your kid…

Sometimes, people will shock you with their ability to be shallow and cruel, inconsiderate and sociopathic – other times, you will be totally surprised by the Human ability to grow and learn, to open up and take that leap of faith into the darkness…

You are not a certified judge on a bench getting a paycheck to be a judge – check yourself with your self-projections and insecurities, it’s not respectable or becoming of you…

You can’t drive and think at the same time – that’s how you wind up out of gas in the middle of nowhere…

Being incorrect in regard to a mistake you thought you had made, but hadn’t: still counts as being wrong – grow up.

 

A Rare Balancing Act

Image

 

Today’s a day that the truth doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does – the sun has been high and hot today – blue skies – green trees. It’s been a day that I have felt victorious over my issues with my BAD roommate, a day that’s felt like it will be simple to move on past the plethora of things that define my disgust with my life and the people in (and NOT in) it. I don’t know if this is a form of denial or a coping mechanism I use in order to NOT spontaneously explode – or if it’s what my shrink calls “bi-polar disorder attached to the good ol’ PTSD”; all I can say is that when I wake up in the morning – every morning, any morning – I don’t ever know if today’s gonna be the day that I finally lose my mind and do something absolutely fucking astounding in its sheer stupidity, or – if it might be the day that I wash out enough nuggets of gold to buy my way into a residential library somewhere. My health has been compromised again lately, I’ve been emotionally and physically exhausted and spent, I hit a pretty low point last week as a result of the bullshit going on with the BAD roommate.

Image

 

 

 

 

 

Sucks to be him – he’s made his bed…night night, now Simple One….

 

YESTERDAY THOUGH, something happened that doesn’t happen to me – in my life, in my experience with other humans…and I am wanting to get on my podium about the GOOD as well as the many negative posts I’ve been making.

Image

The “bad” has been (for one of the only times ever) countered with the “good” in my “big picture” of life, it seems. My GOOD roommate has once more shown his true colors to me this past week: extending his truly innate kindness to me for no reason outside of being himself, doing what he does – being a very exceptional human being (when circumstances like to his own experience in life don’t typically produce kind-heated and giving grown men as a result). His humanity never ceases to amaze me somehow, and I count him as one of my biggest blessings in adult life, truly. He’s been a friend for a long time, much longer than the time we’ve been roommates – and he has ALWAYS shown me the utmost faith and support since long before he ever had any true purpose to do so. I so appreciate him as a support beam of my structure, and yet he is unaware of how deeply he has affected me with his nature and his shockingly refreshing broken mold.

 

Anyway, it’s these VERY FEW AND FAR BETWEEN instances in which another human being displays unselfishness without being prompted to do so by any other outside force, that keep me believing that my own kind nature and built-in empathy will one day be my salvation somehow – as opposed to what it’s been so far: a crippling handicap. There’s hope that it might pay off for me one day – to remain steadfast in my role as genuine and decent human being.

 

Qualcuno! dovrebbe sparare il batterista!

 Image

Not a pity party here tonight…just “blogging” in my “blog” like a good lil’ blogger…

I am surviving; yeah…I am waking up in the morning every day like a Survivor, however – with a permanently embedded bitterness pasted to the roof of my Survivor Mouth; rolling my eyes before even rolling out of my bed completely; aimless; hateful and resentful; wishing for a car to strike me dead in the road with every crossing I make. I can’t say that I’m suicidal; I don’t lie around thinking about ways in which to end my horrid, miserable mockery of a “life”, nor do I idealize the notion of offing myself – as inviting as that idea may be oftentimes when it passes fleetingly through my overstimulated mind at random. Yes, I said “at random”, and I did not misuse the word; thoughts of death or dying or being dead flow freely around my every moment of life, oddly enough. Even after surviving a very near-fatal injury and recovering for so many years afterward, even after spending so long of a time wondering if I could eventually be someone who appears “normal” again on the outside – and then finally achieving that “normalcy” in appearance; even after almost having the very life ripped out of my grasp forever before I was ready to die (I was only 21)…still, I remain infatuated with the alternative of life and living somehow.

I can say this: that I never would have fought to recover like I did – had I known what the future held. That thought bothers me often, and is something that I bring up regularly in therapy with my shrink because it weighs heavily on my heart to be aware of this fact. I talk long shit about my Cut-Throat instinct, and how it defines who I am; but sometimes I wonder if I don’t secretly despise the Survivor in me for pulling through to the other side, for fighting so hard for so long when it was so trying in every way, for believing so fucking much in Modern Medicine, “miracles” and The Underdog Theory…do I actually resent myself for getting through ….TO THE HELL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HELL. I think so. No matter what anyone else says about shit and the way shit went down, I continue to look at my recovery from severe and traumatic injury as the period in my life that I screwed Boo over the worst. This was when Boo was abandoned in her mind; it was during this time that Boo needed me more than ever – a time when I was within arm’s reach to her but denied her access, as far as she was concerned; I was selfish and wrong to have expected a toddler to comprehend my own instability – that’s not a kid’s job. Sometimes I wonder if Boo would have been better off had she been taken into the foster system way back then, when she was still young enough to be suggestible to ideas such as mental health and coping skills, etc. …I can’t help but to blame myself for what Boo has become, it’s natural I know that.

I also know it’s not always reasonable for me to blame myself for how things have gone with her; not all of them, at least. The guilt and the self-disgust over this period of my history eats me alive though, with every unfolding crease in the pages. Cause and effect is a basic concept; and one that has always been near and dear to my world in an instantly gratifying way; as I have always been keen on the irony of this particular notion. I have been struck by the leathery, aged hand of Karma into the state that you know today: my entire life being a comic strip tableau of karmic instances occurring consecutively in a long string of “Hate to say I told you so’s”. Anyway, more recently I am becoming aware that I am middle-aged, rebelliously single, mentally unstable, and vertically challenged woman (who looks like a little boy because her hair won’t grow into some of the many varying grafts in her scalp) with a total lack of motivation or purpose or direction. This will hopefully be a temporary self-inventory; God Damn I hope it is temporary because I’m getting tired of resenting myself for being alive so often.

Farewell to my Umpteenth Meaningless Relationship

And so the story goes:

I am unable to emotionally attach myself in a romantic way to any male creature alive, despite how hard I may try and how badly I may long for that connectedness that I only experience in the form of a giant void of greyness. I am honest and open about my shortcomings in the realm of romance and relationships – I am truthful up front about my short attention span and lack of co-dependency (and often times this very up-frontedness winds up being a “deal breaker” so we can both cut our losses early on and be don with it). I am honest about my inability to truly trust and harmonize with a counter-part, I am open about my consuming fear of abandonment and about my lack of commitment.

Sometimes, he’s willing to go for the ride and sometimes, he runs as fast as he can in the other direction…

but every time, regardless of what he decides after he learns of my many handicaps in the arenas of “relationships and commitment”, the trip will be short-lived and disappointing to both of us in the end.

Disappointing to me because I always hold out this stupid ass hope that I might actually have a male counter-part out there floating around, and might still be lucky enough to bump into him…and no; once again – WRONG.

Disappointing to him because, well….who’d want to sign up for a go at a relationship with somebody who basically disclosed up front that any relationship you may have been thinking about cultivating with her is NULL?

I’ve known this latest “go” has all but reached his wit’s end with my indifference towards him and what he does, and I could care less. I know that I would not appreciate my behavior if I were in his shoes, and I also know that I wouldn’t want to be lied to on top of several months of wasted time – so I don’t act like I give a shit about what he’s doing either.

He started packing his shit yesterday…

I started helping him this morning…

that wasn’t well received and he was burned by my assistance…

his stuff is loaded into his truck now, and I gave him a hug and said, “Thank you for not being a dick about this…”

He’s gone now.

A “Californerican”

As a “Californerican” (a Native American from/in California),

  1. I drive it like I stole it, regardless of where I’m going or coming from – because I’m born and raised in a place where “offensive driving” gets you shot dead on the road, and people seem immune to the concept of merging or using a turn signal.

  2. I suffer from the oddest of the odd triggers of temper, can surprisingly walk, talk and chew an atomic fireball gumball at the same time; I harbor an intrinsically passionate love/hate relationship with my own government (or whatever it is that you’d call those douche-bags calling all of the shots on me and my compatriots from cushy seats, behind bullet-proof windows, in offices that transform into either a bomb shelter or a strip club <blow-jobs included> depending on the button pushed).

  3. I am more terrified of “feminine” gay men than I am of great white sharks.

  4. I can do a 50-50 nosegrind down a handrail on a skateboard (or at least I could last time I tried).

  5. I think Palm Trees are WAAAAY overrated. And, I MUST douse my hair with warm water prior to getting it anywhere near any local lake, river or canal water.

  6. I speak Spanish as a second language, and basically did by age 12 – out of sheer communicative necessity.

  7. Flea Markets are not considered “trashy” to me; in fact, I love them and go as often as possible.

  8. “Dumpster Diving” for “trashed treasures” is considered “trashy“; and is now, also illegal.

  9. I can like totally and personally attest to the total truth behind the totally heinous stereo-type of the proverbial “Valley Girl“.

  10. I think Seattle is too depressing – mentally; and I think that Mexico is depressing – socially. But either place would be the first place I’d consider if “on the run from the law“.

Note #203

Notes to Self: Note 203

Dear Self,

  • Whoever told you that you look even remotely tolerable in those leggings is a cruel liar…
  • Granted, humor and a good sense of it have long been an arguable type of psychological coping mechanisms in human beings; however, this DOES NOT seal the approval of joke-telling in any forum, as it may fit your own need to cope with things others remain unaware of. You’ve taken “Class Clown” a little too far.
  • Lines seem to be another huge impossibility for humans to wrap their superior brains around, in any context surrounding the notion of waiting one’s turn in line to achieve a goal that one finds necessary to achieve. Whenever possible, it has proven tried and true that we will avoid and desert standing in lines to wait our turn, just like the others waiting in front of and behind each one of us. I’d like to see more police brutality happening to those people, personally. No one on Earth deserves a few chops to the throat than the people who cut in line.
  • When avoiding eye contact with your strange female neighbor, try not to do it so well that you resemble Rain man’s female counterpart. Now, she tries to send donations over through your roommates.