I admit this: I'm a bit unstable.
I haven't decided if I'm bi-polar or what. I don't need a shrink to tell me I have a different way of thinking or seeing things, nor do I need to trace this back to not getting enough hugs as a child. It's just something I know about myself.
I'm fine with it. It's other people who don't like it.
There is one thing I have decided, one thing I do know for sure--you don't mess with me.
Fight or Flight is an interesting concept. You do one or the other. I fight to make you fly. You have the choice to fly on your own, or I will send you into orbit. It's that simple. And yes, I do hold a grudge. Very tightly.
This is one of the reasons I purge myself on paper (or screen). If I could not make my characters do what I wish I could, if I could not vent my "unique" thoughts, I would go mad. I really think I would.
The pen may be mighter than the sword, but I'm not sure it's quite as satisfying.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
To All Who Read This...
-No, I do not particpate in threesomes or want to date you. Please stop asking.
-If I like your blog, I will follow it. If I don't like it, I won't follow it. It's that simple. Pestering doesn't get you anywhere.
-Why would I put up a picture of myself? Is this a dating service?
-Yes, I know there's spellcheck. Do I care? Nope.
-Do people really read this? Obviously, or else I wouldn't be answering these dumb questions.
-No, I didn't go to high school with you. How you can tell that from my profile is amazing.
-Yes, I will publish a book. Someday.
-Why don't I have followers yet? Do I care? Not really. People read this, so like...that's what matters.
-Am I really a pessimistic, judgemental piece of crap? Yeah. Probably.
-If I like your blog, I will follow it. If I don't like it, I won't follow it. It's that simple. Pestering doesn't get you anywhere.
-Why would I put up a picture of myself? Is this a dating service?
-Yes, I know there's spellcheck. Do I care? Nope.
-Do people really read this? Obviously, or else I wouldn't be answering these dumb questions.
-No, I didn't go to high school with you. How you can tell that from my profile is amazing.
-Yes, I will publish a book. Someday.
-Why don't I have followers yet? Do I care? Not really. People read this, so like...that's what matters.
-Am I really a pessimistic, judgemental piece of crap? Yeah. Probably.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Poo Story
This is a classic story of mine that has been shared on other blogs, but I figured I should post it here, as I'm getting kind of tired of always writing it. Before you ask....no, I'm not mortified in sharing this. Poop is funny.
This happened when my husband and I were moving from NYC to LA. We stopped and ate Waffle House somewhere, and I ate a greasy chicken sandwich (note: if the sign says WAFFLE House, you don't order CHICKEN). Not too long later, driving down the highay in the middle of nowhere, my intestines began to protest. Not a whine, not a polite "Hey..up there...need some Pepto" type protest, nay, a "What the fuck did you eat, motherfucker? I don't want it, I'm spitting it out now, whore!" type of complaint. So, needless to describe, something bad was about to happen, and time was not going to be on my side this evening.
Now, I'm all for poo jokes. They're pretty funny. But at the time, this was not a laughing matter. Sweating and wimpering like a fat adolescent, I begged for my hubs to pull over, but he was in the far left lane, and traffic had trapped us. Whatever foul poison was about to bust forth, it was coming now. I looked around for something, anything...I snatched up the Waffle House bag and ripped my pants down.
U-Haul-$45. Dinner from the Waffle House-$11. The look on Hubs face: Priceless.
The bag filled fast. I grabbed some wrinkled napkins and cleaned up the filth down my leg, on my butt cheek and began to twist the bag closed. Then a glob of orange shit hit my thigh. Mayday. Mayday...hole in the bottom of the bag...Houston, we have a problem.Have you ever heard a grown man give a blood-curdling scream? "Get that out of here!" Hubby was swerving all over the lane, and I frantically rolled down the window, watching in horror as in slow motion, another glob slopped its way through the hole. Gone, done. I tossed the bag, and watched it disapear into the night.
Thank you God.Thats was the end of that.
I settled back into the bench seat, laughing, relieved, and once the sulfur smell vanished, Hubby laughed too. "It'll just be our secret," he told me.
We made it to Atlanta where my parents lived at the time, and went to bed. The next morning, I was getting stuff out of the truck and talking to my mom, when she made a face and pointed to the side of the truck."Where did all that mud come from?" she asked. It was years before she knew what that giant spray really was.
I also pooped in Hubby's trashcan when we were first dating, because I was too afraid I'd clog his toilet. He never knew until months later.
That, dear reader, is another story.
This happened when my husband and I were moving from NYC to LA. We stopped and ate Waffle House somewhere, and I ate a greasy chicken sandwich (note: if the sign says WAFFLE House, you don't order CHICKEN). Not too long later, driving down the highay in the middle of nowhere, my intestines began to protest. Not a whine, not a polite "Hey..up there...need some Pepto" type protest, nay, a "What the fuck did you eat, motherfucker? I don't want it, I'm spitting it out now, whore!" type of complaint. So, needless to describe, something bad was about to happen, and time was not going to be on my side this evening.
Now, I'm all for poo jokes. They're pretty funny. But at the time, this was not a laughing matter. Sweating and wimpering like a fat adolescent, I begged for my hubs to pull over, but he was in the far left lane, and traffic had trapped us. Whatever foul poison was about to bust forth, it was coming now. I looked around for something, anything...I snatched up the Waffle House bag and ripped my pants down.
U-Haul-$45. Dinner from the Waffle House-$11. The look on Hubs face: Priceless.
The bag filled fast. I grabbed some wrinkled napkins and cleaned up the filth down my leg, on my butt cheek and began to twist the bag closed. Then a glob of orange shit hit my thigh. Mayday. Mayday...hole in the bottom of the bag...Houston, we have a problem.Have you ever heard a grown man give a blood-curdling scream? "Get that out of here!" Hubby was swerving all over the lane, and I frantically rolled down the window, watching in horror as in slow motion, another glob slopped its way through the hole. Gone, done. I tossed the bag, and watched it disapear into the night.
Thank you God.Thats was the end of that.
I settled back into the bench seat, laughing, relieved, and once the sulfur smell vanished, Hubby laughed too. "It'll just be our secret," he told me.
We made it to Atlanta where my parents lived at the time, and went to bed. The next morning, I was getting stuff out of the truck and talking to my mom, when she made a face and pointed to the side of the truck."Where did all that mud come from?" she asked. It was years before she knew what that giant spray really was.
I also pooped in Hubby's trashcan when we were first dating, because I was too afraid I'd clog his toilet. He never knew until months later.
That, dear reader, is another story.
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