Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Friday, January 14, 2011

Celebricrush - Cashing a Reality Check

Written 13 January 2011

Greetings from my aching head and back. I really hate storms; some people find them fun and fascinating and cool. I find them a trial. I’m a bit sensitive to the weather; aside from the fact that I can predict any change in it by the pain in my head, I’ve always been a bit of a “weather witch”—can’t control the shit, but I can feel it when things are malevolent.

I haven’t been sleeping well, either, partly because I have someone in the house who watches far too much true crime TV—the shit gives me nightmares. For real. I don’t want to hear about the ugly, horrible things the serial rapist/murderer did to all those girls in Westofnowhere, Middle America. I REALLY don’t, ESPECIALLY as I’m trying to get to sleep. On a work night. I don’t need dreams about Greek gods, floods, magic German Shepherds, underground Somerville (which looks a lot like a cement marble run big enough for Indiana Jones-sized boulders), rain, angry mechanics trying to get a date, broken cars, convenience stores (a lot of convenience stores, for some reason), trying to find pizza, and generally being on the run from bad guys and trying to save people who can’t protect themselves. And partly, my sleep has been fucked up because of stress.

Last week… last week was not fun. I’m still trying to put my head together. I managed not to have a fight with St. Teresa until Monday night; of course, get in the car, start heading out to go shopping, and the shit hits the fan, and I end up angry, yelling, and crying. I finally told her that an offer had been made; I also told her that it wasn’t happening, but that the offer was made because my friends are tired of seeing me so stressed out because I’m getting it from all sides—home AND the job. I also told her that once the house was dealt with, we would find her a decent elder housing place, and I was going out on my own.

I have so many decisions to make in the next six months (which is the projected time line from the cleaners for getting this place under control). I am going to pull out my resume and start retooling it. I think I’m done with the library game for a while. I love what I do, but I’m toast, and honestly, this is not what I trained for and where my passion lies. I think I have enough producing experience to make a go at event planning; fuck knows, I’ve done enough of it; possibly even promotion. I need to be working with people and being social.

And there’s the book and the performing thing.

One of the things that was said to me that really upset me was the accusation—and it was an accusation—that I am in love with Jim Jefferies. I actually got offended by the remark and refuted it fairly effectively (considering I was utterly fucked up on tequila). It was followed by the comment that if this person came along to the NJ gig, they were going to damn well make sure I ended up fucking him.

I was horrified. Honestly. Horrified.

Not at the idea of sex with Mr. Celebricrush, but at the way that it was put to me and the idea that someone who knows me so well could get something so wrong. For one thing, for all the shit I talk on here, I actually have a fair bit of respect for men (usually more than I have for most women, honestly). I have never—EVER—had a sexual liaison of any level with someone I didn’t actually feel a connection with and some measure of respect. Sex is PERSONAL for me—we are discussing the most sacred and secret part of my body and my favorite team sport on the planet. We’re also talking about someone whose work has had an amazing affect on my life, and whom I respect for that reason.

And being misjudged like that by one of my closest friends REALLY upset me. While I will readily admit I need to get laid worse than a priest in a whorehouse, I am so not into just putting it out there. I mean, right now… Folks, I am so fucking sick of being misjudged. I get that I am a very judgmental person. I know that. There’s a reason for it—I feel like I’m on trial most of the time, like 95% of my life, so it’s my way of fighting back. The situation at home has me on edge completely, especially after overhearing all the bullshit Idiot was telling the cleaners last week, and knowing that these lies have been perpetuated not only to them, but also to Elder Services. I’m tired of dealing on a daily basis with the weak little bullies, stupid, little people who never, EVER think outside of their tiny little mental cages, because to do that would mean they’d have to leave their comfort zone. I’m tired, weary to the soul, with people looking only at the surface and not getting that the rage, the sarcasm, the lack of tolerance for hypocrisy and stupidity comes from having a very gentle, compassionate and deeply, deeply loving and caring heart that has witnessed far, far too much pain, both for myself and for the people I love. Think about that the next time you try to pass judgment on someone—think about why they’re angry and what has pushed them to that point. I don’t talk about the things I do for other people—and there’s a fair bit—because honestly, that’s between them and me. The only applause I want for an act of kindness is a sincere thank you; I don’t want public lauds. That kinda shit annoys the piss out of me.

So excuse the fuck out of me if I have a serious comedy hard-on for a kindred spirit.

HOWEVER… just to be sure I wasn’t in denial—because I KNOW how I can get—I did a quick reality check with the Fabulous Alicia because if anyone is going to be straight with my ass, it’s her. Now, the Fabulous A knows quite a bit about Celebricrushes—she has a couple of singers that she refers to as her “celebrity husbands,” as she is quite happily married. Her husband is aware of them; he even encourages them as he accompanies her to the concerts whenever they’re in town. So, if anyone could empathize, it’s the Fabulous Alicia.

Well, Leesh responded thusly: “No, he’s your distraction right now. And you need it.”

Christ, I was relieved. I mean, this blog is a piece of my reality—but only a piece. There’s a lot of fuckery on here. It’s my public persona, the stuff I don’t mind people knowing, the shit I will stand by and take whatever lumps come from it. As open as I’ve been about my views on sex and politics and my own issues, there is so much I keep off of here because it doesn’t belong here. I can talk all I like about myself; however, I have a trust to keep with my intimates. This is my story I’m telling, and when I have to tell someone else’s as a part of it, I make sure that what I’m saying won’t hurt them or upset them (unless they’ve put themselves in the position to be in the firing line; e.g. Captain Strapon and St. Teresa) and if it isn’t harmless, I file off the serial numbers and keep them as anonymous as possible. The bitching I’ve done about my job here has not gone into specifics because honestly, I have people there who would love to see me fired. I’m not giving them any ammo (although that last sentence probably just did).

I’m still horrified that I made a pass at Jim in NYC. I mean, a) I have never been a starfucker—I have never been one of those chicks willing to blow her way backstage for a chance to fuck the singer or the band or what have you. The idea offends me on so many levels because 1) there is an art to a good blow job; and 2) I enjoy giving them too much to just bestow one on just anyone. Point b) is that I’m not a one night stand kinda person, especially not with someone I have genuine admiration and respect for. I may talk shit on here about finding him hot (and I do, have no doubt about that, he fits my definition of WOW! for a lot of reasons), but… I mean, c’mon! Aside from the fact that he’s an internationally known comedian, I’m ten years older than him, at a very different place in my life, and quite frankly, it’s silly. Would I say no if the opportunity presented itself? Hell, no—I may be loco in the cabesas, but I am NOT stupid. And c) well, honestly, I am incredibly shy that way. Seriously. And a bit old fashioned—I prefer a man to make the first move.

The reality of the situation is that I came across his comedy at the right time—at a time when I really needed to hear someone taking no prisoners on stage. I don’t agree with everything he says, nor do I take everything he says seriously. But I love his honesty—the fact that he’s totally willing to use his own life and experiences, and just doesn’t give a fuck. There’s a price you pay for that, I know it, been through it, and I respect it when someone else has the balls to do it. Too many fucking people in this world care too much about what others think, rather than calling them on their shit, and it’s the cause of a lot of pain and misery. (Hello, Catholic Church, let’s let the jackals loose amongst the lambs and cover it up! Hello, lace curtain Irish let’s not talk about all the terrible things in the family so the cycle can keep on going!) I hate hypocrisy, can’t abide it, and I love that Jim lambastes the hypocrites—and himself—in his comedy. In short, I love his work. That I can deal with. It’s no different from my love of Shakespeare or Terry Pratchett—love the work.

That’s what matters.

As for being in love… For fuckssake, BE SERIOUS. Aside from the fact that I don’t know the man personally, shit, I don’t know if I’m even capable of ever being in love again. I don’t know if I even want to ever fall in love again. I don’t know if my heart can take it. The last couple of times almost killed me, literally. I’m dealing with the one year anniversary of Brit Boy #5 and missing him terribly. And love is something that takes contact—regular, serious contact. Plus, I’ve been taking care of other people for so long, I want some time to take care of me. Considering my age, I don’t know if that means I will be able to have a family, as desperately as I want one. I’m trying to accept this, and it’s so damn hard.

And honestly, I don’t know if there’s anyone out there who can accept me for who I am, as is. I mean, I can improve my body, no problem, but I’m still going to be me. My Imperial Self with all my flaws and fabulousness… that won’t change. And I’m hoping to make a complete life change over the next year—I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going to be living—never mind what city, state or country—in the next year.

So someone let Jim know he’s safe—I’m not stalking him, and I have no plans to EVER make another pass at him. But I still have a serious artistic hard-on for his work.

No comments:

Post a Comment