Incredibly.

How incredibly,

Transparently,

lacking in activity,

honest creativity,

how obviously,

attention hungry, 

for sympathy,

and comforting, 

the familiar retreat,

to the military,

all the online freaks,

come to the pity party,

that is, apparently, 

the brand new trendy,

recovery  thing,

held at your address daily,

carried out blindly and gaily,

with what you call sincerity,

such a dull redundancy,

the unpaid toll of mediocrity,

isnt at all earned honestly.

“Wait…what?” (In My Stupid Valley-Girl Voice)

“Happy Holidays!”

The kid’s only like 17, just doing his job as cashier.

“Yeah, yeah fuck off.”

I can’t help myself…and I thought I used to hate the holidays…

 

Aye, it’s official; I would forget my head pretty wherever I go right now, if the fuckin thing wasn’t attached to my body…I stashed my phone in the refrigerator door yesterday, and proceeded to search myself into a frenzy for an hour before being forced to leave without it…luckily, one of the guys took it out and put it on my bed with a note that read,

 

“You might wanna check your purse and make sure you don’t have a quart of milk somewhere loose in there.”

 

I walked out of the store earlier without the ginormous 20 pack of toilet paper I had already purchased, somehow…yes, I am a scattered wreck…at least I remembered the toilet paper before I started the car and drove home. I forget huge parts of my life, in all honesty…it’s an element of detaching that I am already quite familiar with…but, it’s extra severe right now.

 

I don’t forget to be genuine though,

I never seem to forget my deeply feeling nature,

I don’t PICK and CHOOSE which elements of my world I’d like to swipe aside or delete,

I don’t get a say in which elements will become painfully renewed and re-surfaced

 

One thing I don’t really understand about what seems to be the better majority of people, is how capable they are of simply PICKING and CHOOSING human elements to add or delete from their lives as they see personally necessary…it’s sad. It’s sad because it seems to me that more and more people have become “the emotional light switch”: completely capable and comfortable with an interchangeable warm body beside them. Whatever, light switch people SUCK…it’s crazy how soon we forget things we say to others, things we swear by – define ourselves with – take oath to…for it to mean nothing more than a few deleted web pages and a disturbingly seamless shift in one’s focus.

People are fucking lame.

That’s another thing I can’t seem to forget.

Death Song.

How will the final tune play itself through –
as it haunts the halls with melodious cacophony;
as it swirls like smoke from a smoldering flame;
as it tells the truths you’ve hidden from yourself;
it’s no wonder: when I look at the whole of it –
nothing profound or groundbreaking or bold;
nothing novel in the face of my weary stride;
nothing that offers any true shock or surprise
just more of the same of a really long line –
those two steps ahead of your own falter;
those who singed my flesh prior to your stab at it;
those who have been dismissed from view;
erased away from concern and thought of mine –
life is too short and there is no time;
shuffled card-decks and matching footsteps;
another falls neatly and indiscreetly into line;
What does your Death Song sound like –
full of many meaningless fabrications and layers;
reverberations, skipped beats and scratched vinyl;
all the dramatics without the shine of the stage lights.

Promises, Shmomises.

I have little doubt that the “anonymous email TApeworm” is reading this, or eventually will read this – may, in fact, be looking out for this specific post – as an affected result of the pitiful emphasis placed onto his/her own life (or total lack, thereof) through posting immature and pathetic trash-talk onto the blog of a friend who recently visited me in real-time;
I wasted even less of any time in narrowing down such a total online-junkie endeavor and its source – trust me – it’s far from difficult to trace a server log when you know the gateways that you are looking to cross reference…duh. In short: the time, personal interest and emotional investment that the Tapeworm put forth for such a grade-school attempt at smearing me, very personally and hate(r)fully – was NOT anonymous as the author had expected it would remain upon posting it publicly; and to be honest, the culprit’s identity does not surprise me one bit, given recent happenings and what not.
What was surprising to me was the absolute lack of any respectability or heart attached to such unnecessary dramatics, and the cowardly way in which such drama was presented for anyone to read – CLASSIC. Fucking classic like it’s all day long…anyway, this is a post to invite the Tapeworm to speak up as much to my face as possible, as opposed to slithering around behind my back and trying to be venomous towards me because I’m smiling and you aren’t. Making up lies and telling them because you are miserable and unhappy and you get the inkling that I might not be, also. HATER.
Please do feel free to say the same lies and gibberish that you vomited on the “sucker” whose relationship with me you look to sabotage – where did you even pull such lunch-line garbage from, anyway…? Let’s try it again only with some respectability and sound information this time, and from YOU to ME, since you seem to have so much info on my life and personal activities, stand up then. The projection involved is SO apparent with all that noise that I wonder if you were somehow going for the Obvious and Desperate look. Either way, nothing else to see here dude…move it along.
Fortunately for everyone involved or included in such Romper Room bullshit – I have zero tolerance or interest in HATERS and the associated behaviors and/or actions put forth on a hater’s behalf – so this saga will be short-lived no matter what.
Let me be clear and concise once again, as a reminder:
I do not blog to make friends…
I do not blog to gain approval…
I do not need nor desire fake friends online…
I will not be bullied or badgered by some unstable hater…
we all make our choices in life…
we all have to live with them, afterward…
grow up and get a new hobby.

CONVICTED.

I am nearly too overcome with shock to share that the Pedophile has been convicted on multiple serious counts (and will be sentenced next Monday) – but seeing as how I outlet through writing, there it is.

HE HAS BEEN CONVICTED BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS FOR THE DESPICABLE THINGS THAT HE DID TO MY DAUGHTER, AND MANY OTHERS.

Despite the undeniable mockery of Justice that has led here to his juncture; and in total disregard of the well-known fact that I, personally, have NOTHING outside of lethal venom to spit from my mouth in regard to the entirety of the circumstances (including the comedy show that has theatrically staged and performed within Courts, nationwide, funded under the heinous pretense of “Juvenile Law”), I have somehow still been asked to make an “impact statement” at the sentencing hearing.
The DA knows my nature pretty well by now (Gods bless that man’s soul and spirit eternally); there have been handfuls of times when he specifically offended me by requesting my absence in certain situations that he knew would not benefit by his star witness’s disgruntled mother becoming irate and unforgiving to the target audience. The case that he just successfully tried and convicted has been the epitome of a dragged-out legal process – going on six years or something now.
So, the fact that he was the one who asked me to write an impact statement for the sentencing judge came as a surprise to me, after all.

“Um…are you sure you really want to hand that letter over to a judge, Counsel?” I asked him semi-jokingly earlier at his office after he broke the news of the convictions to me;
“It’s not like you have any reason on Earth to include any hard-grudged death threats to him, so yeah – I’m sure…please write it…just trust me.”

The guy is a saint – a genius – a knight in the shingingest of shining fucking armor…he could pretty much ask me to sail a Zodiac raft into a freak swell storm, and I think I would find a way to be happy about being glad to do it for HIM. He did, after all, always believe Boo and reaffirm her trauma with her through his work (and now, he has championed that reaffirmation for her in a Gods damned court of law). There is little that I wouldn’t do in the event that he urged me in one direction or another – I have come to trust his judgment in a fashion similar to the way some people might trust their’ doctor or priest. That all said, I intend to write an “impact statement” for sentencing, as he requests.

It’s odd…after all this time spent thinking of this day and all that it either would or would not mean stacked up against the rest of Boo’s life; this verdict represents the only hope in the Universe at all for Boo to ever find a way to heal from the trauma and its ripples. Since the Pedophile ruined her young life in 2009, Boo has spiraled miserably out of control, to the brink of no return many times – to re-surface against all odds with seemingly only the one purpose of further self-destruction and demise. She has been in custody for the duration of the time between being sexually preyed upon by the Pedophile (who worked at the initial facility to which she had been court-ordered for behavioral treatment) and now – our family has been long ago trampled to dust, as a result of the affected alienation. Her social worker has been telling her all these years that she is a liar; that the Pedophile never touched her; that she’s best locked away from any kind of real support or love of her family. What kind of impact statement would I even begin to write to the judge in rule over the future (or lack, thereof) of the man who’s rotten sexual mutation destroyed the life of my only child?

“Dear Your Honor:
Had your piece of shit colleagues over at the Juvenile Courts – the ones who order children to reside in “treatment facilities” with sexual predators on the payroll – actually been doing their’ fucking ALL MIGHTY jobs (if there is even a job description for such a way to waste 8 hours five days a week and drive a convertible Jag), perhaps I wouldn’t have to write you this statement of impact against said predator.”

Yeah…that’ll go over like a fart in church, I’m sure…
All I know is:
hate to be that judge reading my statement – whatever it will say. Hope he is used to sugar-free…

Ohhhhhm.

If the rising “end-of-‘Ochama’-term” political tension is this obvious and real (nearly tangible) to me: a half-bred Native stoner who will NEVER gang bang either the Donkey Drone or Elitist Elephant; I can only imagine the prescriptions that all of the associated psychiatrists have been, and will continue to be writing throughout the Republican Ramp Up Rally that’s come out of a fitful hibernation.

USA_by_Ariverrr

Boxcars on Fire.

The stars could not capture that flash from your soulful eyes;
The Gods could not have chiseled such perfection, if they tried;
The nights could not grow longer, without you at my side;
The desire could not get any stronger, by the time our lips collide.

The moon could not hang any lower than how close you need to come;
The sun could not shine any brighter than this thing we’ve gone and done;
The days could not be any better, unless you found them in my home;
The senses could not fire any faster; the bonds are set within my bones.

The clouds could not move anymore quickly by, over our heads;
The clothes could not look any better than they do under the bed;
The hand could not fit any more perfectly around my upper leg;
The Spirit could not be fooled or replaced by another one, instead.

The darkness could not have foreseen you strike a match-light;
The winds could not blow out the glowing embers through the night;
The storms could not come wash our dreams away during the daylight;
The promises could not be broken by the trivial wrong or right.

The memories could not be sold or bought for any price;
The tears could not be wiped away with sugar-coated lies;
The smiles could not be faked by either of us, no matter how we tried;
The grip could not feel any better as it tightens on either thigh.

The authors could not write a better Epic Tale than this;
The composers could not compose music better to my ear than his;
The horns could not trumpet a sound more profound than our kiss;
The girl could not believe that the boy finally turned up like this.

The years could not pass any faster between your heart and mine;
The blood could not bleed any richer than the color of My Valentine;
The skin could not feel any smoother, like the fruit pulled from a thistle vine;

The kisses could not be any sweeter, like candy every time.