Without balloons, where would we be?
And can you blame me? I mean, after witnessing the wonderful spectacle that is the Disney Pixar movie "Up", the love for the bright & shiny, colorful globos were wildly expanded and "Hella yes" excepted. From a young age, those sphere things were something that had always had me in awe. Childish? No. And shame on you for thinking so. It's presh potskins at it's best, and it's a symbol of happiness that should not be tampered with in any kind of way. It should only be appreciated. And I'd kiss the person how invented the first balloon of color, no matter who it is. Not the foul, gaudy, foil-looking "dark & twisty" ones, but the real rubber "bright & shiny" ones. The ones that can get you in trouble. I love the ones that can get you in trouble. And the helium! Don't get me started on the helium. The trouble-making balloons are pretty much a festival of awesomeness, topped with a dollop of presh potskins. And to repeat myself, I'd just leave a pile of balloons everywhere in my house randomly. It'll be my thing. My very unfortunate and awkward thing. A thing most people would worry about, but will only be missing out on. Disturbing enough, if there are balloons around me, and you are trying to have a heart-to-heart kind of conversation, you'll be rather bemused fellow. As I will not keep any semblance of eye contact. My attention will be rightfully attracted to the colorful globe hovering a few feet away from you.
Inadequately equipped with, well nothing, but loftiness and slightly annoying chuckles, I have been known to engage others in the eccentric playing of "Balloon Time", which is needed every two weeks. It relieves stress. In fact blowing up balloons and seeing those relaxing or bright colors is thought to be therapy, at least for me. How droll, right? No, I'm super cereal. No joke. And to be completely oratorical and bombastic, I love the pops and the small noises, your mother would hit you in your face for. Mocking the disgusting human function that is flatulence is a favorite. It seems that as mature as I or others may think I am, I'm not. Well that was kind of depressing. And the appropriate cure for depression is very well the discovery of a good balloon animal. That is always the way to go. Any "scene kids" who act as though they are bored by the sight of a well-arranged balloon, you just don't know how to enjoy life. Emo people are sad because they haven't received a balloon in their childhood. How sad?
Is there danger in loving balloons. Yes, but we won't get on that. We'll keep our sights on the positives, because I want to cover it all up, and package this new useless blog post with a pretty yellow, or pink bow that will attract everyone to it. Because, as a nation, balloons have literally been our downfall. But let's keep this under wraps, as it will ruin your chances of being a "Bright & Shiny", because a "Dark & Twisty" could not except the biblical epicness of the epic globe that is the "Balloon".
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Sexual Tension is Palpable
With a headstrong exterior, no one can envision the insanity that is unleashed inside of that blemished exterior. Two people that have no idea of the growing sexual tension slowly growing between them is some pretty cutting-edge stuff. In the words of psychology, one would say that they are suffering from a double helix of sexuality issues. So much for evolving beyond puberty. And of course, I am referring to those anonymous presh potskins friends of mine, and their impending sexual intimacy, which will take over any moment at any day. Ever since their first run in with each other, and the cutting-jabs they were firing from the mouth of which they both will kiss one fateful day. The anticipation of this event is becoming unbearable. Everyone knows, except them. And that's how it is these days, is it not? Actually I'm almost 30% sure that has been the case since the Cavemen days. The longing of this event has been hinted on so much, especially this year in school. It's high-larious. From the small touches to the taunting of less than non-existent sexual organs. These children are extremely attracted to one another, and as anonymous high school children, it becomes more apparent that there are other children out there involved in situations of sexual frustrations. Lust is a powerful thing that can be horribly amusing or horribly dangerous. In this case, the hilarity is almost unbearable. And the anonymous sexually frustrated students are brutal towards each other. One may insult the other rather harshly, and you can sense the angry sexual energy radiating from them. In fact it may seem as though they should just mount each other right there and now. But it won't happen. I wonder if it ever will.
These two lovers can pretty much be the pictured definition of anonymous passion. This is a very important thing to address, and in all honesty I hope these children come across this "blog" and reconsider their hateful feelings for each other, and push through their facade and actually get together in one way or another. They would make quite a pulchritudinous couple. The only problem is that sexual tension between friends is deadly. With a capital D. Without any doubt it would be a disaster and a miracle if "The Blessed Ones" as I call them, become a pair. As I say, the sexual tension is palpable, but to find out about some sort of secret fling between them would be a fallout. A fallout that would lead to an inevitable "love lockdown"; or the end of the sexual tension and the beginning of practical friend breakup. But I do not foresee any negative coming out of this priceless bout of sexual defenses, only love. Not attachment love, nor just sexual love, but romantic. Obviously there will be a period of bursting sexual activity in the beginning, but once all of that is out of the way, there will be an even longer period of romantics. And I can already see "The Blessed Ones" fluttering with that intense feeling that is better than any drug or illegal substance. And I cannot wait to attend their most likey Celtic wedding, equipped with the odd, clever, embarrassing, but undeniably cute shindig down the aisle to a less than graceful song, which I hope to God I will be included in.
Point is, sexual tension can possibly lead to a successful marriage and also cause your friends to post on their "blog" about their undeniable love for each other that is hidden behind fervent arguments and hateful e-mails. And so here is my big, Bright & Shiny, happy, glowy good luck to the impending relationship of the anonymous couple; Ms. Mary Lewis Driver and Mr. Walden Stutten. Good luck!
These two lovers can pretty much be the pictured definition of anonymous passion. This is a very important thing to address, and in all honesty I hope these children come across this "blog" and reconsider their hateful feelings for each other, and push through their facade and actually get together in one way or another. They would make quite a pulchritudinous couple. The only problem is that sexual tension between friends is deadly. With a capital D. Without any doubt it would be a disaster and a miracle if "The Blessed Ones" as I call them, become a pair. As I say, the sexual tension is palpable, but to find out about some sort of secret fling between them would be a fallout. A fallout that would lead to an inevitable "love lockdown"; or the end of the sexual tension and the beginning of practical friend breakup. But I do not foresee any negative coming out of this priceless bout of sexual defenses, only love. Not attachment love, nor just sexual love, but romantic. Obviously there will be a period of bursting sexual activity in the beginning, but once all of that is out of the way, there will be an even longer period of romantics. And I can already see "The Blessed Ones" fluttering with that intense feeling that is better than any drug or illegal substance. And I cannot wait to attend their most likey Celtic wedding, equipped with the odd, clever, embarrassing, but undeniably cute shindig down the aisle to a less than graceful song, which I hope to God I will be included in.
Point is, sexual tension can possibly lead to a successful marriage and also cause your friends to post on their "blog" about their undeniable love for each other that is hidden behind fervent arguments and hateful e-mails. And so here is my big, Bright & Shiny, happy, glowy good luck to the impending relationship of the anonymous couple; Ms. Mary Lewis Driver and Mr. Walden Stutten. Good luck!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Failed Life and a Half: A Satire?
Cathy Lucile
With so much going on lately, there hasn't been time to really get into the spirit of being a happy, glowy person. It is quite simple really. The stress, the delusion, the self-loathing, the high blood pressure. I've got so many things to worry about that just the simple need to have some sort of fun or calm has just become uncompromisable. I am very much at the point where I don't even recognize that I'm even alive. Everything is moving too fast, with the kids, the cramped house, the degrading job, and the foul perfect stranger that is living in my house, and sleeping in my bed. Can anything be anymore fucked up right now. Oh! And the cursing. I haven't used the F word since 1991. I'm becoming a foul mouthed bandit of some sort..and I feel that it's okay. With no resentment, I let the perfect stranger that lies in my bed, and makes those 'oh so sexy' twisted facial expressions grace me with the rather small appendage, that I'm not quite sure can be called an actual penis. And I let it happen. I'm glad it's happening. And, it is hard to know that something as this less than mediocre plight become the highlight of my day. Of my week. Of my month. It's depressing. But I'm not depressed. Though I do find myself hovering in doorways 65 percent of the time these days. My award winning mother always laid into about hovering in doorways. "Those how hover in doorways are coming from nowhere, and are often going nowhere." As fate would tell it, this is true. I haven't gone anywhere in my life. And, for the life of me, I cannot remember whether or not I came from anywhere significant in the first place. Speaking of the significant, the feeling of freedom seems to have it's consequences, no? You let that linger in your head too long and you'll have to pay the dirty little price for having too much freedom. At the point when you can no longer prance around, nude in your own home is taken from you because of the wonderful two accidents you reluctantly name Steven and Mika, you have to have some type of resentment. Though I find keeping a closed, and tightly sealed bearer behind my actual feelings is better. And to actively go about your day with the weight of wanting to give your own children the finger can be a disturbing way to relax and make it through the office of those who think so little of you, but smile as you walk by. It's funny how a simple little smile can convey so much. Behind those clenched teeth there is passionate hate that is exploding to come out. Otherwise, it's jealousy, envy, or one of the other Seven Deadly sins, in which so many of us indulge in. I myself, find that a good two minutes of blazing envy can consume whatever feelings of violence one may have. And this one has many.
So I sit and wonder at times. Am I the only one who lives like this. A life of mediocrity. A life of stress, annoying children, high blood pressure, and sleeping with someone who you have deemed to be the perfect stranger, living in your far from perfect house. A house which you are not sure if you should call home? I feel like I am. But I will continue to tell myself that Miss Perfect Patty is also hiding behind a facade. And Daniel Bateman, and Terry Thurman, and Randall Gatsby, too. I like to think that us all, collectively, have preliminary struggles that occasionally fuck us up. Yet, I am hiding behind a facade, of hoping and thinking that my neighbors and co-workers, have more multiple facades than myself, when in reality, I take to cake as the most fallible person on earth. Even now I am hovering in a doorway frame, waiting for the wind to sway me one way or the other. Hoping my dead and gone mother will come out of nowhere and tell me to drop everything and find out where the hell I went wrong. She'd probably say when I came sliding out of her womb. Either way I need some advice, and the only way to get it is to turn to someone who knows what is happening with me right now. The perfect stranger wants to poke me with his appendage again, and try for a baby. Who am I to say no? I let him grace me with those two disgusting children that we both love oh so much, why not? He wants a third bastard in his life, then he'll get it. Who am I to worry if I'm forty-one years old and I have a glandular problem? It makes no difference to me. I feel that taking a quick anti-depressant before sex with anyone helps stave of crying like ,a young stripper paying her way through college, during coitus. And then a nice Valium leaves everyone happy. I would divorce, but I have no really reason to, and my father is always yelling about how so many Americans are getting divorce all of the time, and god forbid I let him down anymore than I already have. "Better to have a failing life, than a failing marriage." And you know that so many people are willing to do what ever it takes to make it look as though they are significantly happy with their significant other. Who am I to break the chain of the Happy Marriage Facade? I'll follow along. I am not a person to make a change, which is why I was thoroughly unwilling to support the election of Sir Barack Obama. I have to advertise my failure into what other want to see, and it's all very worth it. I feel that others think I'm great. Except those who are close to me. Those who know the truth about me and my failed life. Even my sister, crack-addicted Betty is doing better than me. I guess giving sloppy blowjobs in the back of an old 70's style van pays the bills. Or the girl must have some skills. My the loss of the two front teeth gives you an advantage when giving oral stimulation. Yep. This is what I've come to, wondering if my true calling is to be a prostitute slash drug dealer slash short-order cook. Am I meant to dump my family and go out onto the streets of Chicago and sell myself. I'm thinking maybe. I often have thought how it would be to have a real "Pretty Woman" experience. But I digress. I have nothing to really be too pissed or unhappy about, because I'm not. I'm not unhappy, just...bored. And if traveling to Italy, India, and Bali could help me find myself I would have done so already. This is my life. The life of a forty-one year old woman with two children she loves, a perfect stranger with possibly the smallest penis in the world, a dead, award winning mother, a pope-like father, a typical two-faced office job that cannot be deemed as a career, a couple of facade wearing neighbors, a crackhead sister, and high blood pressure. A failed life and a half. Should I be happy? Or happier? Should I be bored? Or am I just an ungrateful white woman with a Benetton Rainbow complex? I think so. And maybe we all are.
With so much going on lately, there hasn't been time to really get into the spirit of being a happy, glowy person. It is quite simple really. The stress, the delusion, the self-loathing, the high blood pressure. I've got so many things to worry about that just the simple need to have some sort of fun or calm has just become uncompromisable. I am very much at the point where I don't even recognize that I'm even alive. Everything is moving too fast, with the kids, the cramped house, the degrading job, and the foul perfect stranger that is living in my house, and sleeping in my bed. Can anything be anymore fucked up right now. Oh! And the cursing. I haven't used the F word since 1991. I'm becoming a foul mouthed bandit of some sort..and I feel that it's okay. With no resentment, I let the perfect stranger that lies in my bed, and makes those 'oh so sexy' twisted facial expressions grace me with the rather small appendage, that I'm not quite sure can be called an actual penis. And I let it happen. I'm glad it's happening. And, it is hard to know that something as this less than mediocre plight become the highlight of my day. Of my week. Of my month. It's depressing. But I'm not depressed. Though I do find myself hovering in doorways 65 percent of the time these days. My award winning mother always laid into about hovering in doorways. "Those how hover in doorways are coming from nowhere, and are often going nowhere." As fate would tell it, this is true. I haven't gone anywhere in my life. And, for the life of me, I cannot remember whether or not I came from anywhere significant in the first place. Speaking of the significant, the feeling of freedom seems to have it's consequences, no? You let that linger in your head too long and you'll have to pay the dirty little price for having too much freedom. At the point when you can no longer prance around, nude in your own home is taken from you because of the wonderful two accidents you reluctantly name Steven and Mika, you have to have some type of resentment. Though I find keeping a closed, and tightly sealed bearer behind my actual feelings is better. And to actively go about your day with the weight of wanting to give your own children the finger can be a disturbing way to relax and make it through the office of those who think so little of you, but smile as you walk by. It's funny how a simple little smile can convey so much. Behind those clenched teeth there is passionate hate that is exploding to come out. Otherwise, it's jealousy, envy, or one of the other Seven Deadly sins, in which so many of us indulge in. I myself, find that a good two minutes of blazing envy can consume whatever feelings of violence one may have. And this one has many.
So I sit and wonder at times. Am I the only one who lives like this. A life of mediocrity. A life of stress, annoying children, high blood pressure, and sleeping with someone who you have deemed to be the perfect stranger, living in your far from perfect house. A house which you are not sure if you should call home? I feel like I am. But I will continue to tell myself that Miss Perfect Patty is also hiding behind a facade. And Daniel Bateman, and Terry Thurman, and Randall Gatsby, too. I like to think that us all, collectively, have preliminary struggles that occasionally fuck us up. Yet, I am hiding behind a facade, of hoping and thinking that my neighbors and co-workers, have more multiple facades than myself, when in reality, I take to cake as the most fallible person on earth. Even now I am hovering in a doorway frame, waiting for the wind to sway me one way or the other. Hoping my dead and gone mother will come out of nowhere and tell me to drop everything and find out where the hell I went wrong. She'd probably say when I came sliding out of her womb. Either way I need some advice, and the only way to get it is to turn to someone who knows what is happening with me right now. The perfect stranger wants to poke me with his appendage again, and try for a baby. Who am I to say no? I let him grace me with those two disgusting children that we both love oh so much, why not? He wants a third bastard in his life, then he'll get it. Who am I to worry if I'm forty-one years old and I have a glandular problem? It makes no difference to me. I feel that taking a quick anti-depressant before sex with anyone helps stave of crying like ,a young stripper paying her way through college, during coitus. And then a nice Valium leaves everyone happy. I would divorce, but I have no really reason to, and my father is always yelling about how so many Americans are getting divorce all of the time, and god forbid I let him down anymore than I already have. "Better to have a failing life, than a failing marriage." And you know that so many people are willing to do what ever it takes to make it look as though they are significantly happy with their significant other. Who am I to break the chain of the Happy Marriage Facade? I'll follow along. I am not a person to make a change, which is why I was thoroughly unwilling to support the election of Sir Barack Obama. I have to advertise my failure into what other want to see, and it's all very worth it. I feel that others think I'm great. Except those who are close to me. Those who know the truth about me and my failed life. Even my sister, crack-addicted Betty is doing better than me. I guess giving sloppy blowjobs in the back of an old 70's style van pays the bills. Or the girl must have some skills. My the loss of the two front teeth gives you an advantage when giving oral stimulation. Yep. This is what I've come to, wondering if my true calling is to be a prostitute slash drug dealer slash short-order cook. Am I meant to dump my family and go out onto the streets of Chicago and sell myself. I'm thinking maybe. I often have thought how it would be to have a real "Pretty Woman" experience. But I digress. I have nothing to really be too pissed or unhappy about, because I'm not. I'm not unhappy, just...bored. And if traveling to Italy, India, and Bali could help me find myself I would have done so already. This is my life. The life of a forty-one year old woman with two children she loves, a perfect stranger with possibly the smallest penis in the world, a dead, award winning mother, a pope-like father, a typical two-faced office job that cannot be deemed as a career, a couple of facade wearing neighbors, a crackhead sister, and high blood pressure. A failed life and a half. Should I be happy? Or happier? Should I be bored? Or am I just an ungrateful white woman with a Benetton Rainbow complex? I think so. And maybe we all are.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Oh! You Terrible, Terrible People
Tanni
I am not accusing you guys of anything. I am just simply saying that you all make me feel like shit, like a hundred times a day, and you guys are my family. I need to be able to feel something other than shit, after coming straight out of rehab, all whole and healed. I mean, I did. I got all whole and healed, and I'm trying to be worthy of some sort of love from you wonderful people, but honestly, this day has been hell from every corner, edge, nock and mother f'in cranny. Okay, all of what I have seen or heard today is judgment, ridicule, and annoying constant surveillance. Do you know the first thing Uncle Harrison said to me the moment he saw me today? "Did you kill anyone?" I mean, seriously. What the hell is that? And no, dad. Don't say it. Don't try and make the same damn excuse of Uncle Harrison being off of his meds for the past ten year like you always do, because you know, it's getting rather old. I know that this is a day of solemn and darkness due to the death of a very fine citizen from our very, very sparkly family, and it is sad. It is, truly. But I am also very concerned with the amount of evaluations that are being made about where I stand after my crisis during rehabilitation, because if anyone has cared to notice, I'm out now. They don't let you out until all the glittering asshole professionals can conclude that you are safe enough to be back in mainstream society, which I don't care to be included in anyway. It's just, I feel like everyone is expecting me to just pull out a machete and chop everyone to pieces, or burn the house down. Should I just get "anarchist" tattooed on my giant forehead? Or should I just take all the micro managing that you guys spew at me? And the thing that started all of this, was how you guys renovated my room. Like the things I had in there at the time that I left were so bad and dangerous and were gonna destroy me when I came back home. I haven't even smoked a damn cigarette and everybody is looking at me funny, because, you know, I bet if I did everyone would be gossiping about whether or not I'm going to burn the house down. Is something horrible going to happen just because the big and evil child of the Pruitt family has returned from her self-destructive splendor at the happy, happy rehabilitation center? And oh, I don't want to skip out on any details of my own ingratitude or disappointment, because you know, I don't want any of you to think that I think any of you are terrible, terrible people.
Abby
Oh, please Tanni, this is not news. There is nothing new under the sun about what you just expressed from, what I'm sure was meant from the top of your poor, little heart. But instead of answering your questions, I'm gonna tell you what I wanted to tell you the day--the very day you went off to that happy rehabilitation center. I want you to get better. I am hopeful, and I pray that you. And I really, really would love for you to return to being that little girl who used to be independent and selfless, instead of the foolish, craptastic drugged up whore that you are now. Your "self-destructive splendor" as you put it, is nothing to make light of in conversation. And it definitely is nothing to throw out at your family to feebly try and force a little sympathy to your crisis. It's offense. Especially on a day in which one of our own was buried. The renovations of your room, wasn't for you, it was for Mia. You remember Mia? That short blond haired whore you left at our doorstep asking for a place to stay because her batty mother kicked her out for using drugs. Yeah, your friend Mia, didn't very much care for all the weird shit you had lodged in there so we had to clean it all out to her liking. And don't even ask for her phone number, because when she heard that her drug supporter had left and gone to rehab, she killed herself. She swallowed a bunch of ibuprofen and Adderall, but she couldn't even do that right, so she slit her wrist and then hung herself. Pretty brutal, huh? No one else here was going to tell you because they all thought it would cause you to go back on the rocks again. But really since your already thinking about using again, I thought, gee, this would be a great time to tell Tanni about her now dead, gone, and buried friend slash drug donkey. Bitch stole $50 from me and she died before I could even get it back. Sometimes I wonder did she kill herself because of you or because she just didn't want to give me my money back. I go back and forth on that for days. And then I sit there to day and I laugh at Grandpa Ida's funeral thinking about that day when I went to her grave and talked to her tombstone. And you know me, I've never been a fan of movies where stupid jackass people talk to tombstones as if their dead loved one can still hear them, but I did and I asked that girl's tombstone if she was hiding my money somewhere. And that very day I thought, wow, I wonder how Tanni is doing? That day--that day was April 24th and that was the day you told me a few weeks before you were about to go back into another program because of your relapse, but I see you never did. And now your out. Again. I guess it turns out those glittering asshole professionals aren't so wonderful at concluding whether or not one is ready to be back in mainstream society or not. And you wonder why and complain about all of the micro managing and constant surveillance. You used to crave all of that shit as a kid, and now that you have it you'd rather crawl in a corner and get high. And Uncle Harrison...don't even wonder about what the hell is wrong with Uncle Harrison, he just asked the question that all of us were too scared to ask in the first place. Which is why some of us like him of his meds. A little crazy is good for the home. Makes us all remember that were alive. But when the big, bad crazy, that would be you, returns back home, people all begin to wear their worried face. And can you blame them? You totaled four cars when you were on the dope, Tanni. Why would anyone not wear their worried face? Mine has been on since the very moment you came sliding of mom's womb. And hey, if you feel like shit because of that, then maybe that shit is just all yours. Because, although no one in this room will admit it, other people's shit, is just their shit. And that my dear sweet little sister is something I need you to take notice of. You're the one who picked up the crack pipe and your the one who is gonna have to deal with the shit that you let slip onto your lap. Sorry dad, but it's true. And maybe you should get "anarchist" tattooed on your gigantic forehead. It would look a hell of a lot better than half the crap you've scrathed deep into your greasy skin. And hey, if you don't like any of the truths of what I just said...blow me. And hey maybe we are just terrible, terrible people...
I am not accusing you guys of anything. I am just simply saying that you all make me feel like shit, like a hundred times a day, and you guys are my family. I need to be able to feel something other than shit, after coming straight out of rehab, all whole and healed. I mean, I did. I got all whole and healed, and I'm trying to be worthy of some sort of love from you wonderful people, but honestly, this day has been hell from every corner, edge, nock and mother f'in cranny. Okay, all of what I have seen or heard today is judgment, ridicule, and annoying constant surveillance. Do you know the first thing Uncle Harrison said to me the moment he saw me today? "Did you kill anyone?" I mean, seriously. What the hell is that? And no, dad. Don't say it. Don't try and make the same damn excuse of Uncle Harrison being off of his meds for the past ten year like you always do, because you know, it's getting rather old. I know that this is a day of solemn and darkness due to the death of a very fine citizen from our very, very sparkly family, and it is sad. It is, truly. But I am also very concerned with the amount of evaluations that are being made about where I stand after my crisis during rehabilitation, because if anyone has cared to notice, I'm out now. They don't let you out until all the glittering asshole professionals can conclude that you are safe enough to be back in mainstream society, which I don't care to be included in anyway. It's just, I feel like everyone is expecting me to just pull out a machete and chop everyone to pieces, or burn the house down. Should I just get "anarchist" tattooed on my giant forehead? Or should I just take all the micro managing that you guys spew at me? And the thing that started all of this, was how you guys renovated my room. Like the things I had in there at the time that I left were so bad and dangerous and were gonna destroy me when I came back home. I haven't even smoked a damn cigarette and everybody is looking at me funny, because, you know, I bet if I did everyone would be gossiping about whether or not I'm going to burn the house down. Is something horrible going to happen just because the big and evil child of the Pruitt family has returned from her self-destructive splendor at the happy, happy rehabilitation center? And oh, I don't want to skip out on any details of my own ingratitude or disappointment, because you know, I don't want any of you to think that I think any of you are terrible, terrible people.
Abby
Oh, please Tanni, this is not news. There is nothing new under the sun about what you just expressed from, what I'm sure was meant from the top of your poor, little heart. But instead of answering your questions, I'm gonna tell you what I wanted to tell you the day--the very day you went off to that happy rehabilitation center. I want you to get better. I am hopeful, and I pray that you. And I really, really would love for you to return to being that little girl who used to be independent and selfless, instead of the foolish, craptastic drugged up whore that you are now. Your "self-destructive splendor" as you put it, is nothing to make light of in conversation. And it definitely is nothing to throw out at your family to feebly try and force a little sympathy to your crisis. It's offense. Especially on a day in which one of our own was buried. The renovations of your room, wasn't for you, it was for Mia. You remember Mia? That short blond haired whore you left at our doorstep asking for a place to stay because her batty mother kicked her out for using drugs. Yeah, your friend Mia, didn't very much care for all the weird shit you had lodged in there so we had to clean it all out to her liking. And don't even ask for her phone number, because when she heard that her drug supporter had left and gone to rehab, she killed herself. She swallowed a bunch of ibuprofen and Adderall, but she couldn't even do that right, so she slit her wrist and then hung herself. Pretty brutal, huh? No one else here was going to tell you because they all thought it would cause you to go back on the rocks again. But really since your already thinking about using again, I thought, gee, this would be a great time to tell Tanni about her now dead, gone, and buried friend slash drug donkey. Bitch stole $50 from me and she died before I could even get it back. Sometimes I wonder did she kill herself because of you or because she just didn't want to give me my money back. I go back and forth on that for days. And then I sit there to day and I laugh at Grandpa Ida's funeral thinking about that day when I went to her grave and talked to her tombstone. And you know me, I've never been a fan of movies where stupid jackass people talk to tombstones as if their dead loved one can still hear them, but I did and I asked that girl's tombstone if she was hiding my money somewhere. And that very day I thought, wow, I wonder how Tanni is doing? That day--that day was April 24th and that was the day you told me a few weeks before you were about to go back into another program because of your relapse, but I see you never did. And now your out. Again. I guess it turns out those glittering asshole professionals aren't so wonderful at concluding whether or not one is ready to be back in mainstream society or not. And you wonder why and complain about all of the micro managing and constant surveillance. You used to crave all of that shit as a kid, and now that you have it you'd rather crawl in a corner and get high. And Uncle Harrison...don't even wonder about what the hell is wrong with Uncle Harrison, he just asked the question that all of us were too scared to ask in the first place. Which is why some of us like him of his meds. A little crazy is good for the home. Makes us all remember that were alive. But when the big, bad crazy, that would be you, returns back home, people all begin to wear their worried face. And can you blame them? You totaled four cars when you were on the dope, Tanni. Why would anyone not wear their worried face? Mine has been on since the very moment you came sliding of mom's womb. And hey, if you feel like shit because of that, then maybe that shit is just all yours. Because, although no one in this room will admit it, other people's shit, is just their shit. And that my dear sweet little sister is something I need you to take notice of. You're the one who picked up the crack pipe and your the one who is gonna have to deal with the shit that you let slip onto your lap. Sorry dad, but it's true. And maybe you should get "anarchist" tattooed on your gigantic forehead. It would look a hell of a lot better than half the crap you've scrathed deep into your greasy skin. And hey, if you don't like any of the truths of what I just said...blow me. And hey maybe we are just terrible, terrible people...
Thursday, July 8, 2010
No Mocking! There Is No Mocking In Life! Only Warmth & Light...
Except it! The title is sarcastic. I know, sarcasm does not work on the internet, that was witless on my part, but it is true. No mocking! But we do it anyway, and it's acceptable, because we don't know any better. It's something we were not taught. I have found that over the past eighteen years, that people seem to "mock" their lives, or "take it for granted", me included. And it's not something that many individuals think is something considerably awful, but it is. And I think God knows that. He knows, because every time we might happen to do something that could be considered evil or unpleasant, he sends something down to punish our you-know-whats. And then we complain. Followed by the "What did I do to deserve this?". And then the frustration that lingers forever, though you know what you got...you fully deserved. So, why not be a positive "Bright & Shiny" and avoid "The Mocking of Life". We don't do that, because it's easier to mock, than just be a positive BS. And that's cool, because we are humans, and we do only use about 10% of our brains, so we don't have the capacity or capability to evolve onto more affective ways of living with "Warmth & Light". In short...we're stupid. As smart as we are, we are pretty witless. And it is usually the "Dark & Twisty" ones who fail to believe in the "Warmth & Light", and fall to the awful "Mocking of Life". Pretty horrible, right? No, the "Bright & Shiny" ones are guilty of this act as well, they just don't show it so as much as the others do. Let's face it, 99.8% of us are inconspicuously careless with our lives, and it's probably because of the earlier mentioned stupidity of the human race, or is this foul behavior the work of something a little more complicated. I hope so, just for the reason that I'd like to believe we, as a whole, are more "evolved" emotionally, spiritually, and mentally, than what I already think. We simply might think that this behavior is acceptable. Maybe. Without all the contrived and contemptuous technological advancements that lead us all to be so spoiled and with a grand old presh potskins smile on our face, I believe we all would probably be better off with seeing the "Warmth & Light" of the world. But then again, as I finish this I myself will probably go back, all humbly, to the "Mocking of Life", and I will not notice a thing. But what can I say...only 10% of brainpower. Sad.
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