Been.

Been feeling rather

like I’ve been,

tossed out with the trash again,

been hearing laughter

inside my brain,

for getting played like a slot machine,

been taking refuge

in a jackal’s den,

naked, with a so-called gentleman,

been driven into

the wall again,

petal to the metal into the median,

been feeling nothing

but pure obscurity,

a vague and insecure uncertainty,

been here wondering

ponderously,

imprisoned by my own duplicity,

been tapping constantly

on the keys ‘til my fingers bleed,

to dispel the hurt I’ll feel inevitably,

been like, yeah – well, maybe,

I’ve been shafted again,

 sour, that out-dated milk carton,

been eating candy,

vainly, to try and sweeten,

the taste of my faith going quickly rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Been.

Been feeling rather

like I’ve been,

tossed out with the trash again,

been hearing laughter

inside my brain,

for getting played like a slot machine,

been taking refuge

in a jackal’s den,

naked, with a so-called gentleman,

been driven into

the wall again,

petal to the metal into the median,

been feeling nothing

but pure obscurity,

a vague and insecure uncertainty,

been here wondering

ponderously,

imprisoned by my own duplicity,

been tapping constantly

on the keys ‘til my fingers bleed,

to dispel the hurt I’ll feel inevitably,

been like, yeah – well, maybe,

I’ve been shafted again,

 sour, that out-dated milk carton,

been eating candy,

vainly, to try and sweeten,

the taste of my faith going quickly rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take the Hint or Take the Hit.

My tolerance for rude and annoying bitches is dwindling by the moment, I swear to the Gods…

Yes, I was once a grade school mini-van mom, too – however, I can safely say that I wasn’t the kind that stands outside the bedroom window of a perfect stranger’s home at 7:30am along with the mothers belonging to my child’s friends, bellowing cookie recipes or whatever at the top of my lungs.

THIS is a perfect example of the way human beings tend to give two shits outside of their own bullshit, individual existences…bitch, if you don’t find you and your coffee-cake click somewhere new to stand around and act like a bunch of field cows on the graze, I will find one for you.

The worst part about my struggles with my fellow species is the part that defines the oblivion and cluelessness attached to the ongoing behaviors of those who act like they live on Earth alone; it is enraging at times for someone like me: a remeberer, an empath, a red-blood.

It’s been a long, long stream of consecutive sunrises, that I have been awakened by the lack of consideration put forth by this particular group of rude women outside my window; I have swallowed down my own issues over the fact that I suffer from somewhat debilitating night terrors and CPTSD that typically cause me to struggle with the aspect of waking up each day, as it is. Mornings are unfailingly ugly for me anyway; 9 times out of 10 I wake up in a panic – cold sweat jello covering my body – afraid beyond words or reason – confused – angry and irritable…so, when I am awakened by a gaggle of Chicken Ladies and the associated noise, it’s fucking ugly. Fucking ugly.

Last Friday, I threw a little fit upon being woken again by the auditory pollution – and rolled over, still half asleep, to slam my window closed as hard and loud as possible…to make a point that the average brain damaged crackhead would be able to accurately read. Today, they were out there again – cackling and hollering and speaking in Elementary School Tongues, once again right outside my window. I am not a very patient person; okay, okay – fine – I harbor ZERO patience in my genetic makeup…

And so, as you might imagine…this morning turned out to be quite the action-packed content for the next Home-Maker Mommy Huddle – which I assure will be anywhere other than within the vicinity of my bedroom window, or my home for that matter, ever again.

XVI.

Anyone who throws tarot regularly will know that certain cards stick to each of us; from the first time we touch a deck, a handful of cards carve out an affinity to the hand that throws. I have seen it over and over again. One out of four cards that has remained near my hand without fail – and has again become very prominent lately – is
The Tower:
One look at this card, and you know that shit is about to go down.
The Tower Tarot card is all about change; usually very sudden, not-so-pleasant change. Changes in life are typically gradual; this allows our minds to acclimate. When a sudden, cataclysmic change occurs, such as the Tower card suggests, it is a triggering of a chain of uncomfortable (at best) events. When we are so entrenched in our daily lives, or stuck in an inflexible way of thinking, a swift and jarring motion is sometimes necessary in order to move forward. In order to strengthen, one must strip down to the skeleton and start anew. This is exactly what the Tower card represents; it represents an unexpected cosmic slap in the face, for lack of a better term.
The clouds are rushing, fire is thrashing, waves are crashing, people are falling, everything is at high-speed motion except for the tower; meaning that the signs have been all around us. However, we continued to sit in our “ivory tower” blindly while the storm brewed. So in actuality, the changes foretold in the Tower card aren’t sudden, we were just too pre-occupied to take heed of any warning signs. The presence of the Tower card in a reading is nothing to sneeze at; but by identifying your “ivory tower” of illusion and acting accordingly, a lessening of chaos may be possible.
In short, this is NOT a very promising or encouraging card to see on the table.

That all said, I feel as if this card and I most certainly have an affinity with one another, and pretty much always have. Out of the Tarot, it is definitely the card that would best depict the personally relatable expression of “waiting for the other shoe to drop”, or my seemingly perpetual lifestyle as a “storm trooper”…it is surely the “the shit has hit the fan” card – very appropriate in the context of my story thus far. I have a love/hate sentiment in regard to this card because it is also supposed to be a spiritual prompt to learn a lesson…and I sometimes am not able to pull any more lessons out of a given circumstance…and I get frustrated with all of it.

“The Apologetic Puckerface”.

Dr. Quackenfuck has coined a new term for my “I’m Sorry” face; since he says he sees it appear so often;

“You know…? For someone who’d always be the very last one to go out of your way to hurt anybody, you sure do say ‘I’m sorry’ a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah – I know…it’s some fucked up default mechanism I have apparently acquired in more recent years; thanks for the highlight though, dude.”

2015-02-18_14.03.01-1(1)I say “I’m sorry” more than any other phrase or statement – by a landslide. It’s similar to the way we, as human beings (especially the more mutated versions of the species), have cultivated the habit of robotically responding to questions such as, “How are you?” with “Good” or “Fine”, or any other variation of such meaningless syllables. We have evolved within our spoken and written languages worldwide in this way: to carry less and less meaning on the wings of our words.
My tendency to spit out the phrase “I’m sorry” has only become annoyingly predominant within the past decade, yes – it was born into the “Post Ripper Era” with the current-day ‘me’. It seems to be a reflexive response that I execute most commonly, as a knee-jerk response to the things that are going on around me – with particular emphasis on things that I feel like I have no control over. For instance, 1) when my girlfriend tells me she lost her purse and everything in it: I tell her that I’m sorry; 2) when a client mentions the hardship that he or she is having financially: I respond my saying that I’m sorry; 3) when the clerk at the grocery store dumps a handful of coins as she hurriedly tries to punch them into my palm at the register: my reaction is to apologize to her for her lack of grace. It is something that comes up time and again between me and my family/friends, also; everybody always seems to be asking me what I am sorry about.
Most of the time, as soon as I say it, I think to myself:

‘What the fuck are YOU even sorry for, Bambi?’

– only to come up empty once again, in regard to an acceptable answer as to why the hell I am so fucking sorry all the time, about everything.
The over-caffeinated tree-squirrel (my shrink) says that this likely stems from my “Survivor’s Guilt”; that lovely term some moron psychiatrist coined to describe that emotional/mental anchor that I drag from my ankles, when it comes to any guilt I continue to harbor from my previous existence before that last, major injury. He seems to think that I subconsciously believe that apologizing to others about totally unrelated events will bring me comfort and closure somehow…I seem to think that he is a full-blown crackhead if he honestly believes that I am so fucking dense. I mean – c’mon…I think I deserve a little more cred on the self-awareness front than to actually have my shrink entertaining such miserably pathetic ideas about where my head is at. Damn!
I’m not sure, as there are admittedly many aspects surrounding my do-over life that I do not fully comprehend at this point of things, but I would venture to say that I say I’m sorry so often because I feel like I am sorry pretty often…duh. When my cousin totals her car on the interstate and gets arrested for DUI and tries to call me for bail money: I am sorry when I tell her I’m sorry; same goes for most of the various instances in which I can be found spitting out apologies for things that I did not necessarily have any hand in causing or creating – I can feel sorry that bad things to other people, I can offer apologies for how fucked up the world is becoming in general. I am truly sorry for the things that many of us are forced to endure throughout life and death and everything in between.
And, it turns out, upon closer introspection on this topic – the root trigger to my compelling need to say that I am sorry is exactly what I am constantly apologizing for: IT IS THE COLLECTIVE UGLINESS OF MY FELLOW HUMAN SPECIES. Most of the times that I say “I’m sorry” to somebody when I have done nothing to warrant a personal apology, it is due to my own disgust with the things that people unfailingly do to others – no more, no less.