Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Fucked up Guys I Want to Fuck

I think we can all agree that I'm a pretty fucked up individual. That undeniable truth, combined with the obscenely close relationship I enjoy with my television set, has prompted me to compile a list of the fucked up fictional guys I want to fuck. It was super fun making this list and it got my mind off of the cancer shit I've been dealing with lately.
Some of these guys you know,
some you may not.
They all have tales of woe
They all are really hot.
10. Walter White (Breaking Bad) - yeah, I mean Bryan Cranston. Yeah, that's Malcom's dad from Malcolm in the Middle. He's a whole new brand of awesome on an absolutely amazing TV show. He's a chemistry teacher dying of cancer and cooking up pure batches of crystal meth. And when he's not doing that he's coming up with hare-brained schemes (hair brained? Whatever) to outwit druglords. Oh and sometimes he kills them. What's not to love?

9. Wes Krulik (Damages) - Oh my god - this guy is so fucking hot. He's so hot that I don't even care that he's a shady spy who may or may not eventually murder that skinny ass Ellen Parsons. He could murder me any day of the week, as long as he fucked me before he shot me in the head.

8. Chuck Bass (Gossip Girl) - Physically, he's not really much to look at. And his outfits are too often closer to "clown gear" than "society gear" for my liking. And he's kind of sort of a sociopath. But damn if his voice doesn't make my panties wet. Yeah, yeah, I know he's supposed to be a teenager and all. But it's a fictional reality where teenagers go to bars and drink dirty martinis. This isn't really a high school show and you know it. P.S. Nate Archibald's a very close second for my Gossip Girl lust.

7. Michael Scofield (Prison Break) - They call hims "The pretty" in certain circles. "The blue steel" in others. He's just a smoking hot engineer who seems to get dumber and dumber the longer the show stays on the air. But I'd still fuck the blue right out of his eyes.

6. La Bambi (Capadocia) - Okay, not a guy. But a really bad-ass prison lesbian with these cutesy braids in her hair. When she's not fucking The Columbian, she's kicking ass all over Capadocia. It turns me right on, it does.

5. Patrick Jane (The Mentalist) - Former faux psychic turned criminal investigator Patrick Jane is the most wounded character to hit my TV screen in a long time. He taunted a serial killer who responded by slaughtering his wife and daughter. Ouchie. Despite his blatant emotional wounds, he's super sexy with his quiet manner and intense way of staring the clothes right off a girl. He can take one look at a woman and know every thing about her, no doubt down to her kinky predilections in bed. I have a lot of those. Patrick Jane, clad in his 3 piece suit, can tie me up, spank my ass, fuck me hard any day of the week. Preferably every day.

4. Charles Brandon (The Tudors) - This character is actually based on the real life 16th century Duke of Suffolk. His best friend is King Henry VIII, so he's pretty much a misogynistic elitist asshole. But you will honestly never lay eyes upon a more perfect specimen of a man.

3. Gregory House (House) - He's a gimp, a drug addict, and an asshole. Also, hot. Don't ask me to explain it because I can't. Some desires defy explanation.

2. Jimmy McNulty (The Wire) - I know it isn't even technically on the air anymore but I recently discovered this gem of a show and its majorly hot star. He's an alcoholic, a cheater, and an asshole. Just my type, apparently.

1. Don Draper aka Dick Whitman (Mad Men) - Mysterious, wounded, intelligent, creative, womanizing, lying, and unbelievably hot. My favorite asshole of all the assholes.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Mongolian Girl Rocks My World

I answered Mongolian Girl's call to "Finish My Post". Take a minute to check out my guest blog over at The Cusp and while you're there take a long peek at Mongolian Girl's amazing blog. She talks a lot about horse vagina and it's totally awesome. I fucking love her and you will too.

Might, Might Not

"The problem with taking out your ovaries at only 33 is that you won't be able to have any more children."

I'm astonished at my gynecologist's vast medical knowledge. I mean, seriously. How many years of medical school does one need to understand that a woman kind of needs her ovaries to make a baby? I'm in good hands, here, I can feel it. The room smells like rubbing alcohol and old lady's perfume. I'm sitting on the exam table, contemplating the stirrups with their cute, knit mittens, trying to form the right words with my mouth.

"See, I do want to have another baby. But at this point, my fear of cancer is far outweighing my desire to have additional children."

"Really?" My doctor is so gobsmacked by this revelation that she falls back in her little rolly chair as if I have hit her. It is shocking, just shocking, that a woman my age wouldn't be willing to risk getting a sneaky, often fatal disease in order to maintain her progenitive powers. My willingness to relinquish these powers is completely baffling to this doctor.

"Really?" She says again, not able or not willing to believe that which has just sputtered forth out of my mouth. That sacrilege: I'm giving back my progenitive powers to God. I don't fucking want them anymore, not with this pricetag.

"I'm going to play Devil's Advocate here," She says, trying to wipe the fear and frustration off her face. "If I were to remove your ovaries at your age, you will be in full blown menopause. You will suffer terrible hotflashes and your risk of osteoporosis will increase without the estrogen to absorb the calcium. You will be very uncomfortable and will definitely need hormone replacement therapy."

Here's the dialogue in my head: Hot flashes? Better than cancer. Also? Better than death. Osteoporosis? Better than cancer. Also, better than death. Discomfort? Better than the pain of cancer. Better than the discomfort of dying. Hormone replacement therapy? Better than chemotherapy. Also, still better than cancer and death.

"I just don't want you to regret having the oopherectomy down the line. It's irreversible."

She's right but the logic center of my brain is transmitting the message, "I'd rather live to regret than not live at all."

This doctor is trying to convince me that my ability to have a baby is more valuable than my ability to breathe and, like, be alive. What is this era we are living in? Did I step on a time warp on my way to the OB/GYN today? Because sitting in the tiny office, I feel like I'm living in 1865 and my entire worth as a woman is placed on parity and fertility. Is the human race an endangered species? Do I have some sort of obligation to help propagate our species? Babies are born all the time. I think the human race will survive. The question is, "Will I survive?"

"So the cyst on your ovary could be benign or it could be malignant. We can't tell. There is a line down the middle of it, which isn't great. Ultimately, the cyst could be cancer or it might not be cancer." The doctor looks me in the eye and with the straightest face as she delivers this sage news.

"OK. So you don't know if I have cancer or not?" I'm trying to be calm. Because I've heard that sane people are calm when they get ambiguous news.

"No. The tests we have for ovarian cancer are limited. The next step is a CA-125 blood test."

The CA-125 blood test is like the psychic who takes your money, looks into her crystal ball then gives you a prediction. Sometimes that prediction is that you have a dread disease. Sometimes the bitch is right and sometimes the bitch is wrong. Notice how nothing my doctor says really tells me anything at all. It's like the weatherman on the morning news who says, "There's a 50% chance of rain today." No shit, Sherlock. I could have told you that.

So I might have cancer. I might not. The CA-125 might be right, it might not. The line in my cyst might be bad. It might not. All the painful symptoms I'm experiencing might be related to my cyst or they might not.

Wednesday is the day I will hold my breath for. If my CA-125 markers are elevated, then my doctor said she will need to take out my ovaries right away. I don't even want to think about that day. It will be terribly painful to relinquish my dreams of another baby. To let go of that tiny hand and watch him or her fade into oblivion, never to be born. What the doctor doesn't seem to understand is that it's not that I want to lose my ovaries. It's that I have to. I can't go on with this fear. It's too heavy to carry. But I will mourn those never babies, and I will mourn the loss of that which makes me a woman. Nothing is ever easy. We do what we have to do - to survive.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Dead and Butterflies

I woke up this morning to Joel Osteen on my television. Why does this guy scare the shit out of me? He has very non-offending features, save his teeth, which seem straight out of the mouth of some mutant horse. His words are tonal honey dripping slowly and coolly with syrupy anecdotes and parables. His voice took a hold of my barely conscious brain and wouldn't let go. I was just hypnotized. Maybe that's how this weirdo gets thousands upon thousands of people to listen to his recycled dreck every week in his humongo church. Maybe that's how he gets people to spend their hard earned dollars on his "Hope" books. (Because don't you know? Hope is a commodity now). I can't think of any other reasonable explanation for the fact that this guy is rich as fuck. He has nothing new or interesting to say. It's just the same old recycled bullshit about letting your light shine and forgiveness and counting your fucking blessings. Platitudes and cliches and gold-plated excrement for the masses. Don't the masses deserve better than that?

I'm all about leftovers. But after a while they start to go bad and stink up your refrigerator. That's how I feel about such gems as "turn the other cheek" or "do unto others as you'd have them do unto you." I've heard that shit my entire life. I sat in over-crowded auditoriums and listened intently while over-inflated windbags preached the ancient word. I sweated my ass off in mid-August at the now defunct Vet Stadium while holier-than-thou ministers told me how to talk, how to act, how to live. I spent hours and hours learning about everything that was wrong inside my heart, how it was an unreliable thing, how it would lead me unto disaster and death. Eventually, I realized that it wasn't just my wicked heart that will lead me there. Everything will.

I read an article last week hilariously titled "Your risk of death and disease". Ummm, isn't the risk of death and disease the same for everyone? 100%. It doesn't matter if I lose 20 pounds or stop smoking or quit drinking or exercise 30 minutes a day or live a holy life. I'm going to die and it's probably going to be awful. Sure, our choices can effect the quality of our life, making it better or worse. But in the end, it's slabs for everyone. I realize that human beings like to pretend the way that children do. We like to pretend that we have a modicum of control over everything, over our lives, over our eternity.

When I was a teenager, my friends and I used to visit cemetaries. There was a weird draw about these resting places for the dearly departed. We'd read the gravemarkers and ponder who these people were, what could have killed them. There's not a sadder sight to be seen than a crumbling tombstone, losing it's grip on forever. I could almost feel the hand of the dead gripping my leg as if to say, "Remember me". But the truth is, except for the extraordinary few who've made a name for themselves in cinema, sports, or literature, we will all be forgotten.

I guess in a way the Joel Osteens of the world serve an important purpose. On top of providing moral leadership and guidelines, they give people a sense of purpose, a sense that what they are doing matters in the long run. I have to admit that the more I give up the idea of God, of a spiritual world outside the realm of what I can see and touch and feel, the more futile I feel my actions become. When I think of all the human beings who have lived before me, who will live after, of the evolutionary process, the vast universe with it's solar systems and black holes and dark matter, the smaller I feel. And the smaller I feel, the less likely it seems that my words and actions will have any real impact on the world at large. It's terribly hard to believe in the butterfly effect in the context of a vast, godless universe.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Lean and Hungry Look

I 've been thinking lately about an essay I read in my Comp 1 class about 10 years ago. It must have something to do with the way being overweight or "out of shape" in our society has turned into a morality issue. This essay, written by Suzanne Britt, embraced the opposite attitude. Obviously, it's tongue in cheek. But it's delightful and I get a fabulous feeling of contentment and superiority when I read it. So I thought I'd share it with you today instead of writing a piece of my own. I hope you like it.

That Lean and Hungry Look
Suzanne Britt Jordan

Caesar was right. Thin people need watching. I've been watching them for most of my adult life, and I don't like what I see. When these narrow fellows spring at me, I quiver to my toes. Thin people come in all personalities, most of them menacing. You've got your "together" thin person, your mechanical thin person, your condescending thin person, your tsk-tsk thin person, your efficiency-expert thin person. All of them are dangerous.

In the first place, thin people aren't fun. They don't know how to goof off, at least in the best, fat sense of the word. They've always got to be adoing. Give them a coffee break, and they'll jog around the block. Supply them with a quiet evening at home, and they'll fix the screen door and lick S&H green stamps. They say things like "there aren't enough hours in the day." Fat people never say that. Fat people think the day is too damn long already.

Thin people make me tired. They've got speedy little metabolisms that cause them to bustle briskly. They're forever rubbing their bony hands together and eyeing new problems to "tackle". I like to surround myself with sluggish, inert, easygoing fat people, the kind who believe that if you clean it up today, it'll just get dirty again tomorrow.

Some people say the business about the jolly fat person is a myth, that all of us chubbies are neurotic, sick, sad people. I disagree. Fat people may not be chortling all day long, but they're a hell of a lot nicer than the wizened and shriveled. Thin people turn surly, mean and hard at a young age because they never learn the value of a hot-fudge sundae for easing tension. Thin people don't like gooey soft things because they themselves are neither gooey nor soft. They are crunchy and dull, like carrots. They go straight to the heart of the matter while fat people let things stay all blurry and hazy and vague, the way things actually are. Thin people want to face the truth. Fat people know that there is no truth. One of my thin friends is always staring at complex, unsolvable problems and saying, "The key thing is ..." Fat people never say things like that. They know there isn't any such thing as the key thing about anything.

Thin people believe in logic. Fat people see all sides. The sides fat people see are rounded blobs, usually gray, always nebulous and truly not worth worrying about. But the thin person persists, "If you consume more calories than you burn," says one of my thin friends, "you will gain weight. It's that simple." Fat people always grin when they hear statements like that. They know better.
Fat people realize that life is illogical and unfair. They know very well that God is not in his heaven and all is not right with the world. If God was up there, fat people could have two doughnuts and a big orange drink anytime they wanted it.

Thin people have a long list of logical things they are always spouting off to me. They hold up one finger at a time as they reel off these things, so I won't lose track. They speak slowly as if to a young child. The list is long and full of holes. It contains tidbits like "get a grip on yourself", "cigarettes kill", "cholesterol clogs", "fit as a fiddle", "ducks in a row", "organize", and "sound fiscal management." Phrases like that.

They think these 2000-point plans lead to happiness. Fat people know happiness is elusive at best and even if they could get the kind thin people talk about, they wouldn't want it. Wisely, fat people see that such programs are too dull, too hard, too off the mark. They are never better than a whole cheesecake.

Fat people know all about the mystery of life. They are the ones acquainted with the night, with luck, with fate, with playing it by the ear. One thin person I know once suggested that we arrange all the parts of a jigsaw puzzle into groups according to size, shape and color. He figured this would cut the time needed to complete the puzzle by at least 50 per cent. I said I wouldn't do it. One, I like to muddle through. Two, what good would it do to finish early? Three, the jigsaw puzzle isn't the important thing. The important thing is the fun of four people (one thin person included) sitting around a card table, working a jigsaw puzzle. My thin friend had no use for my list. Instead of joining us, he went outside and mulched the boxwoods. The three remaining fat people finished the puzzle and made chocolate double-fudged brownies to celebrate.

The main problem with thin people is they oppress. Their good intentions, bony torsos, tight ships, neat corners, cerebral machinations and pat solutions loom like dark clouds over the loose, comfortable, spread-out, soft world of the fat. Long after fat people have removed their coats and shoes and put their feet up on the the coffee table, thin people are still sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking neat as a pin, discussing rutabagas. Fat people are heavily into fits of laughter, slapping their thighs and whooping it up, while thin people are still politely waiting for the punch line.

Thin people are downers. They like math and morality and reasoned evaluation of the limitations of human beings. They have their skinny little acts together. They expound, prognose, probe and prick.

Fat people are convivial. They will like you even if you're irregular and have acne. They will come up with a good reason why you never wrote the great American novel. They will cry in your beer with you. They will put your name in the pot. They will let you off the hook. Fat people will gab, giggle, guffaw, gallumph, gyrate and gossip. They are generous, giving and gallant. They are gluttonous and goodly and great. What you want when you're down is soft and jiggly, not muscled and stable. Fat people know this. Fat people have plenty of room. Fat people will take you in.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Tantrums and other sobering realities

A new day and a thin blanket of snow brings clarity to the woman in the Bell Jar. Did you hear that tapping last night? That was me, chiseling my way out with Betsey's shiv. I have these days where my fear turns me into a batshit crazy raving lunatic. Sometimes, I make idle threats about ramming my car into a telephone pole and blaming it on the rain, like in that horrible Milli Vanilli song. I just do that shit. It's like a grown up temper tantrum. I mean, I still feel like shit and I'm still going to die, sooner rather than later, but fuck it. My tears and childish protests aren't going to change anything about that.

Let's face it, the business of dying is Boring. So now I'm back to the real important business of my life, which is, of course, being irritated by stupid shit. Yesterday, I was driving home in the rain trying to find the perfect telephone pole to wrap my car around when I see one of those dumb ass Baby on Board signs tacked to the rear window of the car in front of me. I've talked about Baby on Board signs already. I don't need to go into why I hate them or why you should hate them (and you really, really should). But it's like my worst fears are being realized on all levels. A cancer scare and now baby on board signs are back in action. What next, God? Bring it on.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Rain on your Parade

The gloomy pounding rain outside my window is a welcome sight and sound. I love when the universe opts to mirror my inner angst and despair. It's the least the universe can fucking do after all the other shit it's hurled at me. Right? Fuck the universe. Fuck. the. universe. And I'm not talking about the universe in the sense of stars and flying saucers and planets and crescent moons and all that celestial jazz. I'm talking about whatever entity, or vehicle of chance, that is responsible for the doling out of rewards and disasters. The older I get the less random everything feels, the less evenly distributed. In fact, I feel like I have a big red circle target on my back. But not a cutesy one, like the Target store symbol, which I love so much. More like that nasty circle rash you get when you get infected with Lyme disease.

So this rain is a comfort. It's a good excuse to be lazy on my couch and watch Six Feet Under, which is no doubt where I'll be living in about a year's time anyway. Dreary, pounding rain also gives me a good excuse to ram my car into a telephone pole. It wasn't suicide, folks. I hydroplaned.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Time Bomb

I have death in me. It runs through my veins, vicious in my blood, mocking me. A time bomb. Tick. Tick. Tick. I guess we all do, in our way. The difference is that I know. I know what it is that will kill me. My body is committing suicide. BRCA2 is some scary shit. It wakes me up in the middle of the night. Lately, every pain, every discomfort, every weird feeling leads to one single, solitary thought: Cancer. Particularly, ovarian cancer. I have a 25% lifetime risk of getting it. So, yeah, I'm fucking scared.

This afternoon I will take my yearly journey to the hospital for a trans-vaginal ultrasound. I will lay on a gynecological table and have a technician stick a dildo looking thing in my vagina. My husband, horny, kinky man that he is, says, "Does it feel good?"

The short answer? No.

The long answer? Fucking No.

I mean I guess it could technically. It's a dildo, after all. But there's something about the clinical atmosphere, coupled with, I don't know, the search for CANCER that makes it decidedly the least sexy experience a person could ever have.

I was talking with my doctor about ovarian cancer the other day. I said, "Well, what are the symptoms?" You know what she said? Do you really want to know? "Anything could be a symptom of ovarian cancer. Anything." And then she proceeded to tell me the bleakest, most disheartening information. "It's really, really hard to even find ovarian cancer. By the time it shows up on tests, it's usually quite advanced." So basically I'm fucked. In the bad way.

I need to get my egg makers out. It's like suddenly I'm completely grossed out by them. I feel dirty. My own body just violates me over and over and over again. I've always hated it. I knew before I knew that it was the enemy. It was a precognition, if you can believe in that sort of thing.

Right now I feel trapped. I'm a caged animal. Here is my dilemma. If by the grace of God, or chance, or whatever, I don't have ovarian cancer right now, should I just go ahead and get these fucking ovaries out? Or should I keep them and have one more baby? Is it worth the risk of waiting? I don't even know that I'm particularly ready to have another baby right now. But I'm scared that if I make a hasty decision out of fear and horrible anxiety that I'll regret not having just one more.

I'm on the edge of tears right now. What's sad is that this fear is killing me, too. It's sapping my creative energies, destroying my will to feel and experience. I feel like I'm dead already.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Big Trouble

When I was 13, I got grounded for going to see a movie that my parents specifically told me I wasn't allowed to view. Now you would think this movie must be something awful, something so corrupting and evil that my virgin eyes and ears should never, ever be exposed to.

Take a guess at the forbidden movie:

a) 9 1/2 weeks
b) Debbie Does Dallas
c) Texas Chainsaw Massacre
d) Big

The correct answer is D. I'm not even fucking kidding with you about this. Now, I had the type of parents who, like, went to the movies about once every decade. So the one movie they decided to go see in the 1980's was the super popular Tom Hanks' vehicle "Big". I remember my mom talking about the movie the next morning.

"That movie was raunchy. Definitely not appropriate for you kids to see. I mean, there is actually a scene where Tom Hanks' character touches a breast!"

The following weekend, Amy and I went to see a movie with friends. Of course, the movie we wanted to see was sold out. Everybody agreed on the movie we'd see instead: Big. So Amy and I just look at each other with our sister stares that speak volumes. I mean how fucking embarrassing to actually say to your group of friends that you are trying so hard to impress that your whacko mom has forbidden you to see a movie as innocuous as Big? We both just shrugged and bought our tickets.

When my mom found a ticket stub the next morning, let's just say the shit hit the fan. And yes, we were that stupid to not hide the ticket stubs. Fucking morons. I don't know. I was just riddled with guilt and fear. My mom was the queen of freak outs over the most inconsequential things. I mean one time my sister skipped school and when my mom found out about it her screams could be heard round the world. In my house, it just wasn't worth it to break the rules. When I did something wrong, the whole neighborhood basically suffered the sounds of the wrath of Rita. But mostly it was me.**

Today, I was switching through channels and came across the movie Big. I nestled on the couch to watch it. I was just really curious to see if my disobedience was really worth being grounded for two whole fucking weeks. Here's what I discovered: My mom was right. Big is a vile, horrific movie not fit to be viewed by a grown adult, let alone a child at the nascence of her adolescence.

Why? I'll tell you why. The whole premise is revolting on 3 levels. We have a 12 year old boy, a child named Josh who turns into a man overnight. Ok, fine, whatever. I'm suspending disbelief. I know it's a fantasy movie, in the tradition of Freaky Friday. But there are just some feelings I can't suspend. First of all, compassion. Compassion for Josh's poor mother who thinks her son was kidnapped and for the entire length of the movie is in anguish that he is in the hands of a crazy criminal. How exactly is that quaint or funny? While Josh is out having the time of his fucking life, his poor mother is left to deal with not knowing when or if she would ever see her beloved child again. The scene where "adult" Josh is on the phone with his mom and she doesn't know its him but thinks its actually his kidnapper? And then he starts singing "Memories" to her so that she knows that her son is still alive? It breaks my heart. When she starts sobbing hysterically into the phone, I just about lose my mind. Sick, sick, sick.

Secondly, I feel revulsion. Josh is supposed to be a child. A 12 year old child. He might be in a man's body but he is portraying a child. And yet he has a sexual encounter with an adult woman. Again, there is not a single thing quaint or funny about that. What's particularly gross is that Josh is so obviously not a man. His character is naive, gullible, silly, playful. I find myself nauseated at the idea of it. The woman obviously realizes there is something "off" about Josh and yet she continues to send him come hither stares and tries to sleep with him. Then the pen-ultimate moment that had my mom all pearl-clutching and whatnot, when she takes Josh's hand and puts it on her own boob. That's like hand rape. Hand rape and child molestation all in one fell swoop. Revolting.

Thirdly, I feel disgust. Disgust at the shamless plug within the movie for F. A. O. Schwartz. They present the store as a wonderland, a mecca of joy and levity. I went there for the first time about six months ago and it scared the shit out of me. Monstrously sized plush toys staring at me with their $1000 price tags. Creepy eyed dolls, shelf after shelf of blocks, legos, action figures. My daughter picked up a rice crispy treat and begged us to buy it for her. "Sure", we said. And then we went up to the counter and the woman behind it said, "That'll be $8.50." WHAT?!? Yep. That's $8 for a small rice krispy treat on a stick.

You know who the most tragic figure of all is in this movie? Billy. Poor little Billy. He has the best line in the movie when he says to Josh, "I'm 3 months older than you are, PAL." He's so great. And yet, YET, this child makes constant trips to New York City and his parents don't give a shit. How does this happen? How does nobody notice that this child is missing? And why does nobody think it's weird that Josh is walking around creepily watching kids at the end of the movie? Whatever. I'm so over this movie and it's revolting, disgusting, horribleness. Not to mention the fact that the Zoltar machine is the stuff of nightmares.

**My mom has little to no recollection of these incidents. It makes sense to me, actually. She was a zombie under the influence of a brainwashing cult. I have a great relationship with my mother now that she's normal and not under the influence of Jehovah's Witness doctrine.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


"This doesn't happen in small towns, and all of a sudden you begin to understand that you really do have the same problems in some of these small towns you have in other parts of the country."

Why do people always say "this doesn't happen in places like this" or some other conveyance of surprise at violence occurring in their quaint little town? When is it going to sink into people's skulls that there are crazy, evil, sick fucks living in every nook and cranny of the world? I mean do people really and truly honestly believe in the deepest crevices of their hearts that their hometown is somehow exempt from tragedy just on the merits of its rural quaintness and tranquility?

This past week has been disheartening to say the least. Two days in a row, a disgusting, vile, pathetic excuse for a human being woke up, got out of bed, and thought, "You know what? Today would be a good day to shoot a bunch of people for no good reason." I don't care what anybody says. Evil does exist. Nobody can defend the acts of the Alabama gunman. Nobody can defend the acts of the German gunman. And yet, what I find instead of outright disgust and fury over heinous and reprehensible behavior, is a bunch of people whining about guns. Yeah, because guns are the problem. Let's blame guns - inanimate objects. Is it somehow easier for us to condemn objects than people? For once, just once, I would love to read this in the paper:

Today an abhorrent, detestable, piece of shit person who is reported to have a tiny dick murdered 10 people in cold blood. We aren't even going to mention this piece of shit's name because he doesn't deserve the notoriety or even the speck of interest or deference the reporting of his name would be showing him.

Sometimes when people commit these horrendous acts, I hear this, "Why didn't he just kill himself? Why did he have to kill all those innocent people?" Well, my guess is this: Infamy. Think about it. If you're a loser in life, no money, no friends, no respect and you're a sociopathic monster, why not kill a bunch of people? You get the attention in death that you never got in life. I think some of these sick fucks watch the news and see how much attention these other wastes of space get in the media, and think, "I want that. I want that to be me." I once read, and I'm not sure where or if it's true, that years ago some news reporters felt it was actually irresponsible to report the names of people who committed terrible acts. I tend to agree with this. Who cares who they were? Who cares what music they listened to? Who cares about their insane rambling manifestos? These shitbags deserve nothing short of obscurity.

I'm not completely heartless. I feel bad for the families of these horrendous people. But the truth is, if I had a family member who went on a fucking shooting spree I would prefer that their name not be released either. And I can't help but think that granting a modicum of attention to these fuckers only serves to give incentive to other crazies out there. In a weird way, our media glamorizes murder. They use it as entertainment. But this isn't a horror movie we're watching. This is real life, real blood, real tears, real people lost forever.

I'm not going to get into some serious treatise about gun control. I don't own a gun. I don't want one. And I certainly can see why some people have a problem with the fact that people can buy these tools of destruction at K-Mart after a 3 day "waiting" period. I certainly don't believe that an average citizen has any need for a semi-automatic weapon. My issue with "gun control" is that people are delusional enough to actually believe that if we made guns illegal then that would mean that it would be impossible to get one. Heroin is illegal. And guess what? It's not that hard to come by. Illegalizing guns would simply mean that only the military, law enforcement, and criminals could have one. That would suck for average Joe Citizen standing all alone behind the counter at the mini-mart on a Saturday night.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Little Girl, Little Liar

I'm realizing more and more lately that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I logically acknowledge that I'm a grown up adult with tremendous responsibilities and terrible life experiences. And yet I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to wake up and be 8 years old rubbing my sleepy eyes and thinking, "What a scary dream!" Am I the only 33 year-old who ever stops dead in my tracks and feels stunned, stunned, at the reality of adulthood? I am full grown a woman, and yet a little girl lurks in me still.

The past 5 years have been the most tumultuous of my life. Something clicked in the universe and unleased a shitstorm of massive proportions. I remember the night it happened. The night I knew for sure that the world was a dangerous place. It was a January night in 2004. Todd and I had just moved in together. I was playing house. A light snow was falling outside and I had lifted up the blinds to watch it blanket the grounds behind our condo. I stood there in my barefeet making cupcakes for no reason and the phone rang. When I answered it there was silence on the other end. Then, the sound of my sister sobbing.

"It's cancer. I have cancer."

"I'll be right there. I'm coming over." I hung up the phone, my hands shaking. I turned off the oven, put on my shoes and ran out the door. I forgot my coat. By the time I got to my car the snow had really started to come down, fast and hard. There was snow in my hair and on my face, frozen and cold to match a numb heart. I couldn't believe what was happening.

When I got to Amy's apartment, she was calm. She was on-line looking up information on breast cancer, treatments, prognosis. That night we thought that cancer was our bitch. Silly girls. I said the worst things you could ever say.

"Now you can get a boob job! And you'll lose weight from the chemo!" She laughed at my twisted joke. We thought maybe it would be alright. We can still laugh. Everything will be alright. Little did I know then that people can laugh in their darkest hours, even when they're dying. Sometimes that's all you have left: the bad joke.

I stayed with her until midnight. I stayed until I thought my brave face would fall away. I was all alone with her and her cancer. It was too big for me. I couldn't bear up under that weight. I still think about my leaving that night. I should have stayed with her. I shouldn't have left her alone with her cancer that first night. I'm an asshole for leaving. That's just one of a million regrets I have in regards to my sister. Yes, I let her down in a million ways and there is no one alive or dead that could convince me otherwise.

Watching her die was the worst moment of my life. But I'm glad I was there. It's haunting to see the breath leave a person. It's like seeing their soul make it's escape, wrench it's way violently from the body. Her soul was done. That vessel was ruined, battered, beaten. But it was anti-climactic. I don't know what I expected that didn't happen. Death is just a moment. One second the person you love so much is in the world and you're sticking a syringe of morphine into her mouth and the next minute she is gone. But the sun doesn't stand still. The earth doesn't shake off it's steady orbit. And then I'm on the phone with the hospice.

"My sister just died," I said, my voice clear and strong. I was surprised by my voice. It still worked.

And then the hugging. Everybody hugs everybody when somebody dies. It's just what you do. We're the living and that's our secret club sign. The Hugging.

Amy's boyfriend was sitting next to her body, sucking the morphine syringe. Anything helps. I grab an oxycontin from her pill bottle. She won't be needing this anymore. But I do. How the hell else do you go to fucking Olive Garden and eat lunch with your husband and little girl on the day your sister died?

If there is any justice in the world, I will die alone. I deserve it. I deserve it for all those times I didn't answer the phone when Amy called me. I deserve it for all the times I just couldn't be with her, couldn't face her fucking cancer. I deserve it for all the times I told her that everything would be alright.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Strange Beauty

I am going to admit something to you now that will disappoint you. Here is my pathetic little confession: I watch America's Next Top Model. I know. I KNOW. Shut up. What I love the most are the photo shoots and the different outfits and crazy makeup. And the drama is also very entertaining. I'm not a fashionista myself. I am so the opposite of a fashion model. I don't have the physique of a stick insect and the height of a redwood tree. Yet, I'm oddly fascinated by woman that do. I try to imagine what it would be like to have that beauty, that power. What it would be like to live in those bodies. Some of them remind me of praying mantises. That's a compliment.

I don't have expensive clothes and am sadly devoid of a fashion sense. Most days I'm lucky to find the emotional strength to put some sort of clothes on that aren't pajama-like. I guess maybe it's like a chronic depression. I don't know. It's just so deeply ingrained now. Sometimes I wish I looked good in great clothes. Some woman just have these bodies that look great in everything. And I'm not just talking about skinny women. I know plenty of woman, some super skinny, some a little heavy, that can wear the fuck out of an "outfit". I don't know how to put outfits together. I worked at Express in high school and I guess I knew how to do it then. Not anymore. I'm really, really okay with that.

When I hear about people spending a thousand dollars on a pair of shoes or a handbag, I think I have a tiny brain aneurysm. The only expensive item I own is a Prada purse that my husband bought for me in Hawaii because he felt bad for snapping me with a wet towel and giving me a huge bruise on my ass. I barely use that purse because I don't want to hurt it in anyway. So I have a $600 purse that I can't use because it was $600. Do you understand?

After watching America's Next Top Model tonight I realize just how much I adore strange beauty. Weird freaky beauty. Here is my favorite contender, I think of all time, on this show. Her name is Allison Harvard.

How amazingly, strangely beautiful is this creature?

She reminds me of one of those 70's pictures of those creepy kids and their huge weepy eyes.

Here's another oddball that is beautiful to me, Celia:

So I'm going to be rooting for these girls. And not rooting for Sandra, because she constantly talks about how great and beautiful she is (and she is) but so far she's a crappy model. I'm glad she got a dose of humility for being in the bottom 2. Okay I'm done acting like a 15 year old girl. Every once in a while it's good to regress.

Creepy Kid

Later today my husband leaves for Tampa to golf and go to strip clubs and gamble and whatever else men do when they get together without their womenfolk. I don't really mind him going on vacation without me, except that he gets to be somewhere warm when I am freezing my ass off in Pennsylvania. But I'm sort of on a vacation, too. Except on my vacation I get to sit on my ass and watch TV, which is really like my dream vacation anyway. I don't even have to take an airplane to get there.

So this morning we're saying our angsty goodbyes, all hugs and I love yous and shit. So I say, "Livy, say goodbye to daddy - he's going away" So she blows him a kiss but won't actually kiss him. She's like that. She won't give you want you want just because you want it so desperately. Anyway, we finally convince her to give him some actual affection and she asks, "Is Daddy going to die?"

Umm, what? So I say, "Nooooo, sweetie. He's just going on a trip but he'll be home in a few days."

"Daddy's going to die." She says it again. And it's fucking eerie. Liv is basically voicing my deepest fears like matter-of-factly. We reassure yet again that, no, daddy is not going to die. But the truth is I just don't know that. Is it just me or has a lot of bad shit been happening to a lot of airplanes lately? I can't even breathe thinking about it.

Liv continues in the same pessimistic vein even after he leaves. She sighs deeply, resigned. "Daddy's going to heaven. Yes he is." I'm looking at my child in all her, just, weirdness. "I guess we'll see."

So now I'm worried about two things. If my husband survives his Tampa Week of Manly Good Times, then my daughter is surely destined to be some emo Goth girl that wears crushed velvet corsets and dog collars purchased from Hot Topic. If she's right, and my husband dies, then I'm a fucking widow raising some kind of prophet freak of nature who will be spouting Sylvia Brown-esque shit at me for my whole life. That would suck hard. Why am I always left with shitty options?

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Feast or Famine

So about now I feel as though, topped with a little chocolate sauce and some whipped cream, I could eat my own shoe. I'm hungry, folks. H. U. N. G. R. Y. I vowed just one month ago to never diet again, to never talk about diets, to relegate diets to the dark, dank dungeons of my brain never to speak of them again. And here I sit with my hunger and my meal plan and my disgusting, fucking pride, on a damn diet.

So here's the part where I try to justify what I'm doing. I want to say, "It's for health reasons. A little extra weight just isn't healthy, people." I want to say, "I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin." But the truth is I will never feel comfortable in my own skin. Not now when I weigh 125 pounds. Not at 100 pounds. Not at 85 pounds. Never. Because no matter what, the weight of my physical body, the weight of my brain, will always overwhelm me. And what I see when I look at myself in the mirror will never be the truth of what I am.

A diet is dangerous to me. Not fatally dangerous. I'm not suicidal. I'm not that much of a moron anymore. But I get addicted to diets the way that some people get addicted to alcohol, or shopping, or crack cocaine. And despite my obligatory complaints about hunger, I actually derive pleasure from that sensation. I could dine on that delicious emptiness for the whole of my life. There is nothing so tasty as the emotional numbness that comes with restriction. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating it. I'm just saying that some of us have brains that function in such a way that starvation actually feels like bliss. It sets the world aright. And if you are sitting there thinking, "What the fuck is she talking about?", then congratulations. You are mentally healthy. I would give up orgasms to be mentally healthy. Well maybe not orgasms. But something really, really good. Unfortunately, I don't think there are that many normal people left in the world. I'm hard pressed to find a single person who isn't as concerned about their weight as I am.

The biggest problem with starvation is that physiologically it's unsustainable. The work of Ancel Keys is particularly fascinating to me. What this scientific experiment demonstrated is that most people will respond to periods of starvation with food and weight obsessions and ultimately, binging. Is it any wonder that in a society where everyone is on a diet, we paradoxically have a so-called obesity epidemic? Everywhere I turn - on the news, in magazines, in conversations - there is somebody to tell me that I'm not okay. That what I'm doing to myself is acceptable, even commendable. I came home the other day to find an advertisement for a local gym stuck in my door. You know what it said? "Do you feel fat? Who doesn't?" And even in my diseased mind I can recognize that as twisted beyond belief.

I guess in my own way, I'm trying to fit in. It's the age-old, "well everyone else is doing it!" Deep down, I know it's stupid. I know it's ridiculous. I hate myself for buying into the idea that hating myself is the way to go. But I do it anyway.

I take big risks when I write so honestly about my thoughts. I am not anonymous. I can only hope the people in my life will respect my truthfulness and not over-scrutinize me or worry about me. I am as well as I ever will be. I do the best I can. Each day I arise to a new day and tackle the challenges therein. Full weight.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Shitty Poem Sunday

In the spirit of Wordless Wednesday, I've decided to create a little blog tradition of my own: Shitty Poem Sunday. In a previous post I waxed poetic about the joys a shitty poem can bring. I did a little digging in my journals and found the perfect shitty poem to commence my homegrown tradition. I hope you enjoy it as much as my husband enjoyed his guilt free lap dances.


I finally understand
what's so great about a stripper
no woman is worth looking at
unless you have to tip her.

She dances while you drink your beer
her breasts are bigger than the planet
she won't get mad if you call her Sue
and her name is really Janet.

She tells you that you're cute
she says your jokes are funny
and she probably really means it
as you hand her all your money.

You don't have to see her in the morning
or when she's cranky and she's sad
she never does a single thing
that hurts or makes you mad.


She doesn't worry when you leave
that you'll make it home okay
or offer you a back massage
after a very stressful day.

She won't take care of you when you're sick
she won't miss you when you're gone
she won't curl up with you on a cold night
or go down on you at dawn.

It's cool that you like strippers
just don't lose sight of me
because if you want some real loving
it won't cost you 'cause I'm free.