Can I just say how %$^&*()_ sick I am of the canonization of every dead, junkie rock star? Dying because you've overdosed on drugs does NOT make you a great performer. It just makes you a dead one.
It started with Elvis. Now, Elvis, in his day, was fucking amazing. I love The King's music. However, The King died on the throne. Literally. Just utterly horrible and ugly, unpleasant way to die. His personal life... have you ever paid attention to the crap Elvis got up to? *slams head on the desk* He may have been the King of Rock'n'Roll, but, Christ on a crutch, he was a DUMB sumbitch! His movies were atrocious enough, but the shit he did in his personal life... *shakes head* Thankfully, his daughter seems to have survived her stupid phase (although belonging to the Shiny People... *shakes head*).
Then there was Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison--all dead at 27, all the deaths involving alcohol and drugs. Lionized, forever young, legends, the men much more so than Janis. Moon the Loon and John Bonham--two legendary drummers, dead, alcohol I believe involved in both (sorry, at work and not researching atm--look it up yourself if you want to know for sure and post it in the comments).
The punk era saw suicide (Ian Curtis of Joy Division) and pure stupidity (Sid Vicious). Punks... we're not too sentimental. No one has turned Sid into an English Prayer (a la Jim Morrison), although Johnny Rotten's comments in The Filth and the Fury are heartbreaking--basically, Sid was a dumb kid who got fucked over and who was too dumb to wake up and smell the coffee. I hope Malcom McClaren is doing a long, slow roast in whatever hell his soul ended up in.
John Lennon got shot in December of 1980; after that, I don't really remember who else died in the 80's; I don't think I really care. I know, I'm an asshole. Sue me.
The 90's... in the 90's things got WEIRD. Freddy Mercury died of AIDS in November of '92. THAT hurt; I remember seeing them carrying the body out of his house on the telly and weeping. And then... then the grunge guys started ODing.
I've gotten into a couple of minor barneys with a friend over Kurt Cobain vs. Layne Staley. I hate Alice in Chains--same fuckin' song every time. Nirvana... Nirvana hit a chord in my soul. That's it; there was something in Kurt's words, voice and music that reached me in a way few people do. I KNEW the pain he was singing. I went through the worst of my depressive episodes from '91-96; Kurt's music got me through some of it, and seeing his face on the magazine covers with 1967-1994 on every newsstand kept me from slicing open my veins more than once.
Yes, I'm one of those people who thinks Nick Broomfield was on to something when he did the documentary Kurt and Courtney; I am waiting for the day that murdering junkie whore turns up dead with a spike in her arm. No apologies--listen to In Utero. It's what I call a "divorce album"--there are quite a few of them out there (Bruce's Brilliant Disguise, both G'n'R's Use Your Illusion albums, fer instance)--listen to the lyrics. That bitch was getting kicked to the curb and would have lost everything. She's also proved that she has zero talent of her own--her music is only as good as the guy she's fucking.
(Can you tell I really hate it when women let down the side? Just pisses me off--makes it harder for the rest of us. There was actually a study published a few years ago about women in the arts--that we are MUCH harder on other women and expect far more from them than from men.)
However... no matter how much I dig Nirvana's music (and love the success Dave Grohl has had with the Foo Fighters... NEW ALBUM COMING!!!!!!!!!), I am SOD-ALL sick of their music being overplayed on commercial radio. Argh.
The other 90's band that lost a singer to an OD (and the one that inspired this rant) is Sublime. THEY SUCK! EVERY FUCKING SONG SOUNDS IDENTICAL! And worse, like Alice in Chains, they've found another fucking singer who sounds just like the dead one. Just makes me want to put a fucking ice pick through my ear drums.
And, there's the king of the canonization... Michael kid-fucker Jackson. The man was NOT the king of pop--he was the king of shit. End of story. The guy SUCKED (and sucked kids--NOT good!).
I didn't even know he'd died; I was at a post-surgery support group meeting and the facilitator made a crack about we could all go home and pay tribute by moonwalking, and I'm like WTF? A lady leaned over and said, "Didn't you hear? Michael Jackson died!"
My reaction: "REALLY?! THAT'S AWESOME! One less child molester in the world!"
This did not make me popular amongst the people around me, particularly the two African American women sitting behind me. Although I felt the temperature drop around me a little, I didn't realize how upset I'd made her until her purse connected "accidently" with the back of my head when she got up to go to the ladies' room.
I actually "lost" a friend on FB because of this. Some lunatic out in Cali decided to friend me after I started following a voice actor-related web developer. This sad creature started tagging me whenever she or one of her fellow sad, life-lacking friends would post a picture of Jackoff. This pissed me off utterly, and I finally lost my shit and posted for them to stop connecting me with a child molester. I said in a private message to her that I despised him, and she replied with "I utterly despise you for thinking such horrible things about him." And she unfriended me.
I laughed my ass off.
See, I don't care how the trials ended. I've heard enough about Cali justice (at least around Hwood) to know that there was no fucking way Jackoff was going to be found guilty. Why am I convinced he was guilty? Well, kids, it's like this--an innocent person does NOT pay hush money for such heinous accusations. That's it. You pay the blackmailer, you're guilty. Especially when you're accused of something so low, so vile, so utterly completely unforgivably disgusting.
Particularly when your career is in the toilet because the world has discovered just how unoriginal your music is and how much you suck. And particularly when you're broke because you're so out of touch with reality... I mean, he was trying to buy the skeleton of John Merrick back in the 80's. And does anyone else remember the pet chimp? Folks, chimps aren't pets; they're wild animals.
When was the last time Michael Jackson made a decent song? I mean, if I'd had to look at THAT "Man in the Mirror," I would have fuckin' killed myself. Seriously--I can understand the amount of drugs he was taking. If I'd pissed through that much money, wasted my talent, and become an international laughing stock, I'd have medicated myself beyond redemption.
Actually, I wouldn't. I would never have allowed my life to go that far, but that's because I'm an asshole.
I mean, c'mon, we all knew Billy Jean wasn't his lover--if anything, he was fucking her little brother. And none of his kids are his biological kids--yes, please, let these white children be raised by the same people who physically and emotionally abused their father so badly he not only hated himself so deeply, he tried to change not only his appearance but his skin color.
Hell, yeah, THAT makes sense. Argh.
And before ANYONE throws the "he was abused" argument at me, all I have to say is, GO FUCK YOURSELF. A lot of people have been abused; that doesn't give you carte blanche to fuck up your life and be an asshole. If anything, it puts a greater responsibility on you to break the cycle and make your life mean something (besides a warning to anyone else). When you have that much money, you can afford good therapy and to throw the abusers out on their ass.
George Carlin did--he put his mother out when he finally realized that her drinking was killing him.
If Fate is kind and I get any kind of success with my writing/performing, there are a few people I will make sure to look after, but there are a couple of people who if they show up with their hand out had better have fuck-all good reflexes because the door will slam as hard as possible, and whatever gets caught, broken or otherwise mangled is their fuckin' problem. I mean, COME ON! Someone beats you and you SUPPORT THE PRICK? And allow him to live off of YOUR money? Jesus H. Christ, what kind of a stupid, moronic masochist does that kind of shit?
Yeah, I get pissed when someone lets down the side. You die stupidly because you've let them ruin your life, a part of all of us trying to survive dies.
Can you tell I've had this conversation with someone recently? *slams head on the desk*
At least I'm back to being cranky instead of just blackly depressed.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Why Do They Call It THAT? The LOL
Came across this today whilst forwarding some LOLs to a friend... I KNEW there was a LOL for this...
And that's all I've got for the moment. My weekend was a mixed bag of wonderful and major suckage.
My final assessment for year #44: I need to get laid, frequently, preferably by an intelligent, sexy, talented and fabulous man (and the same one--the whole serial dating/multiple partner gig was never my thing). I need to exit Hell's Vestibule, post haste. Idiot needs a lobotomy and to throw himself in front of the Acela, preferably somewhere it won't be noticed. I need to finish the rewrite of Broom Closet, launch the website, and sell the fucking book. I also need to edit my one-woman show and stage the bitch. And this time next year, I need to either be in the Dalhousie MFA theatre program or MLS program with the archival track.
Let's see how much of this I can accomplish.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
On Being an Old Broad
Or, I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT DELIVERED BY HOT, NAKED MEN!
“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens
St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)
It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)
My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)
I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.
The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.
Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.
See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.
I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.
The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.
Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)
Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.
Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.
Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).
Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.
Much love,
Your Empress
“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens
St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)
It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)
My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)
I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.
The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.
Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.
See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.
I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.
The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.
Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)
Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.
Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.
Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).
Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.
Much love,
Your Empress
Thursday, November 4, 2010
After Shock
I can feel your body
When I'm lying in bed
There's too much confusion
Going around through my head
And it makes me so angry
To know that the flame still burns
Why can't I get over?
When will I ever learn?
Old love, leave me alone
Old love, go on home
I can see your face
But I know that it's not real
It's just an illusion
Caused by how I used to feel
And it makes me so angry
To know that the flame will always burn
I'll never get over
I know now that I'll never learn
- Old Love, Eric Clapton
OK, I have a really strict policy on exes: once the break-up happens, he doesn't exist. None of that "we'll be friends" bullshit. It's over, done, buh-bye.
It's easier that way for me. Once it's over, I really don't want to know the guy's still alive. It hurts too much (either that, or I want to kill the sonofawhore, and a jail term is not in my future if I can avoid it). Flings are a different story--there's no emotional attachment so I really don't care about contact. As long as it was a happy experience, I'm fine with the person staying in my life.
Boyfriends... they are a different story. Of course, it doesn't help that most of my exes have been abusive pieces of shit. Up until about 14 years ago, at least. Either that or schizoid cheating pieces of shit...
I just got an email from Brit Boy #5. Out of the blue. Completely out of the blue. Just one line, asking how I'm doing.
I shouldn't be freaked out.
I shouldn't be upset.
I am.
I'm shaking.
I'm not in a place to have my peace of mind disturbed. I'm really not. I don't want to be reminded of how I felt about him. I don't want to be reminded of the warmth of his arms, the joy of his kisses, the sweetness of our lovemaking. I don't want to remember how happy I was for that little bit of time... I don't want to remember being in love.
I have too much to do to think about lost love.
When I'm lying in bed
There's too much confusion
Going around through my head
And it makes me so angry
To know that the flame still burns
Why can't I get over?
When will I ever learn?
Old love, leave me alone
Old love, go on home
I can see your face
But I know that it's not real
It's just an illusion
Caused by how I used to feel
And it makes me so angry
To know that the flame will always burn
I'll never get over
I know now that I'll never learn
- Old Love, Eric Clapton
OK, I have a really strict policy on exes: once the break-up happens, he doesn't exist. None of that "we'll be friends" bullshit. It's over, done, buh-bye.
It's easier that way for me. Once it's over, I really don't want to know the guy's still alive. It hurts too much (either that, or I want to kill the sonofawhore, and a jail term is not in my future if I can avoid it). Flings are a different story--there's no emotional attachment so I really don't care about contact. As long as it was a happy experience, I'm fine with the person staying in my life.
Boyfriends... they are a different story. Of course, it doesn't help that most of my exes have been abusive pieces of shit. Up until about 14 years ago, at least. Either that or schizoid cheating pieces of shit...
I just got an email from Brit Boy #5. Out of the blue. Completely out of the blue. Just one line, asking how I'm doing.
I shouldn't be freaked out.
I shouldn't be upset.
I am.
I'm shaking.
I'm not in a place to have my peace of mind disturbed. I'm really not. I don't want to be reminded of how I felt about him. I don't want to be reminded of the warmth of his arms, the joy of his kisses, the sweetness of our lovemaking. I don't want to remember how happy I was for that little bit of time... I don't want to remember being in love.
I have too much to do to think about lost love.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Freud was Right About a Few Things
You think I don't understand about the white woman committing black adultery,
but I do. There was a lot of lynchings in Willicoochee, Georgia where I come
from when I was a boy. Willicoochee. White man say to his woman: "Baby, you are the flower of white Southern womanhood, too holy and pure to be touched by any man, including me. I'm gonna put you up on a pedestal so the whole world will
fall down and worship you. And if any nigger so much as look at you, I'll lynch
his ass."She believed him, thought she really was holy and pure, like the Virgin Mary. She let him put her up on that pedestal. Meanwhile, the husband, no sooner than the sun went down down to the slave quarters grabbin' up every piece of black poontang he could lay his hands on, then running to the gin mill to brag about it. And that's how our blood got diluted mulattoes, quadroons, octoroons. I'm sure that most of those high and mighty white ladies felt abandoned. But they were so proud to be white, and therefore superior, they kept their mouths shut and their legs locked tight. But in the midnight hour, layin' there, alone, on the hot bed of lust, I'm sure they must've thought what it would be like to have one of them big, black bucks their husbands were so desperately afraid of. I feel sorry for you. Here it is the nineties, still tryin' to make up for what you missed out on. But I don't blame you.
As for the black man like my own son, Flipper, who ought to know better got a loving wife and daughter still got to fish in the white man's cesspool, I have nothing but contempt. - From Jungle Fever, a Spike Lee Joint
Can I just say how fucking glad I am that the Godsdamned election is over? I don't generally watch TV any more--too much utter garbage on the idiot box these days, I'd rather read a book, write a book, or watch a movie--but it was on in the other room on Monday night, and the commercials were non-stop (and all of them uncivil)! Driving through New Hampshire on Saturday, the roadside was littered with political signs. One of them almost made me drive off the road--some guy named Guinta (although at 85 MPH, the "i" was hard to see) was running for Congress. Yes, I had a Jim Jefferies moment (and in a bit of double irony, the bastard is a Republican, and sadly, won).
I didn't want to vote yesterday; there was no one I wanted to support, honestly (with the exception of Mike Capuano--who ran unopposed--and Martha Coakley; say what you will about her, as AG, she has got big brass balls and zero fear when it comes to taking down the bastards; she was on the team that went against the jackal Bernard Law and his posse of child abusers, and that's the real reason Scott Brown is in the Senate). Because of the whack job the Republican Governors Association put on Tim Cahill, the voters of Massachusetts were assured no decent choice in the election--either pick the incumbent scumbag or the Big Dig scumbag. After the mess the Republicans made of the state from Weld on up, I had to vote for Patrick just to be sure Baker didn't get in.
That is not making a choice, as far as I'm concerned. It was as bad as having to cast a vote for John Kerry (for whom I have zero respect--mush-mouth, hypocritical ass-kisser).
In short, I am NOT HAPPY.
What has bothered me the most are the attacks on the current president, Barack Obama. Now, I like Mr. O; I voted for him, not because he was the Democratic nominee, but because I actually have some faith in him. The problem is the rest of Washington. If ever there was a place that needed to be hit with a fast-moving plague, it's the U.S. capitol. It's the beast with a gajillion backs and a spiked dick, and it's the American people who are taking it in the ass. Mr. O is trying to make changes--the problem is that he's presiding over a nursery school filled with a bunch of ignorant, bigoted, selfish, squabbling retards.
Yes, I said RETARDS.
What swung my vote for Mr. O was the Frontline special that PBS ran on him and John McCain. Now, at one point in his history, when he was still legitimately an independent politician and hadn't sold his soul to the Right Wing and the rest of the fake conservatives, John McCain was a decent bipartisan politician. Eight years W and Dickhead poisoned him, and when he picked Alaska Barbie for his running mate... argh. Christ, that bimbo makes me embarrassed to have tits. (And any woman who voted for her just because Hilary lost and they wanted a woman in office needs a good, solid kick in the ass to knock their brains back into their heads. GROW THE FUCK UP!) The part of Mr. O's story that swung me was the bit on his election to the editorship of The Harvard Law Review: one of his African American friends from the time described how disappointed and upset many of his African American friends were at the time because, rather than putting all of his friends into positions at this most prestigious journal, instead, he put the people he felt would do the job best, regardless of color or viewpoint.
He chose people based on their ability and skills--NOT affiliation. This approach carried through to his presidency; instead of replacing the Secretary of Defense with a prominent Democrat, he kept Robert M. Gates in the position. Golly gee willikers, Dr. Bob, but that doesn't sound like the actions of a stupid man. Unlike his predecessor, of course, who put his lover in as Secretary of State and undid everything that Madeline Albright had accomplished. *slams head on the desk*
I'm sick of all the BS about Mr. O, and I've finally realized why people hate him so much and want to see him fail. It's because he's a Democrat; it's not about the color of his skin--it's about the color of his parents' skins.
The quote above comes from Jungle Fever, a film by Spike Lee. It deals with the affair between a white woman (played by Annabelle Sciorra) and a married black man (played by Wesley Snipes). Now, I have not seen the whole of this film--I happened to catch the bit quoted above one afternoon while channel surfing years ago. The monologue is delivered by the incredible, amazing, outstanding actor Ossie Davis--delivered with dignity and outrage and painful truth.
It's also an INCREDIBLY racist statement. This is one of the places where Spike Lee gets my respect--he doesn't let anyone off the hook, black or white, when it comes to racism. He knows that we are ALL guilty.
However, what the Good Reverend Purify does identify, and identify truthfully, is the real reason why Mr. O is so hated by the less enlightened of the world--the people trying to prove he's not really an American citizen, fer instance--and so many of the scared white men who scream about him on DumbFux--he is the result of the union described above, a "pure white woman" and a "big black buck."
Excuse me a mo--need to bleach my brain. I really hate what I just wrote. Even thinking about it makes me sick--the idea that people can be so utterly ignorant, that is.
In short, it's all about penis envy and denial--scared white men (all of whom would give a testicle for an hour with Mrs. O--a woman who is MY typical experience of African American women--intelligent, educated, funny, committed, tough as hell, and girrrlll, does she know how to dress!--and who would kick their cracker asses six ways to Sunday if they came within a foot of her) who see the result of a union that is an abomination in their eyes--something they have been conditioned against for generations--and who is the contradiction of all of the lies they've been taught.
Hypocrisy... utter hypocrisy. And the unwillingness to examine their prejudices and admit they just might have been wrong. The problem is that there are too many others sharing their fear and feeding it, and so the vicious cycle continues.
When I talk to people from other countries, the U.S.'s collective ignorance amazes them. No one outside of our borders understands how the hell ANY sane, intelligent human being could have cast a vote for W and Dickhead; ditto, McCain and Alaska Barbie. Canadians and Britons look at our elections and shake their heads--they know how insane their politicians are, but ours... yeah. Part of the problem is that too many Americans never go abroad; they never leave our borders and experience another culture, or if they do, they go in tour groups and are isolated from experiencing the culture and people they are visiting, and because America is so self-contained (or maintains the illusion of being self-contained), there's no reason to experience anywhere else.
The rest of the world is pretty damn fed up with our ignorance, folks. Especially considering the deadly toys we tote around and keep within our borders. It's like handing a heroin-addled schizophrenic teenager an arsenal--NOT a good idea. It's time to let go of the Ugly American and become citizens of the world. It's time to open our collective hearts and minds, and instead of condemning liberals, start working for the common good. "Ask not what your country can do for you..." as a wise man once said.
I'd like to see national service become mandatory immediately after high school. Make everyone give a year--whether in the military or the Peace Corps/AmeriCorps. Give something. Learn what it's like to be out in the world. Find out what goes on beyond your own little corner. Work before you go off to study and party. Know what happens when you have to pay your own bills, balance a check book, make your own appointments, take responsibility for your own actions--in short, cut the blades off of the helicopter parents and make citizens rather than spoiled brats.
(Forgive me if I seem like I selling all of our current crop of kids short--I'm not. I know a LOT of really wonderful, decent, responsible young adults who work hard and prove to me on a regular basis that there is hope for the future. However, they are outnumbered by the morons of the world. *slams head on the desk*)
See, I keep trying to listen to his opponents. I really have tried. I've tried to listen to the arguments from the other side. The problem is that no one is making any sense. No one is speaking sanely. It's not even rhetoric--it's propaganda, unfounded rumors, lies, and utter, complete bullshit. It's the kind of crap the Nazis spread about Jews during the Holocaust. Think I'm being melodramatic? Compare a birther speech to any of Hitler's propaganda about the Jews--you'll see the similarities and hear the common notes. It's the same shit that
It's hate speech, and so much of it is being spouted by so-called good Christians. *spits* Excuse me, Xtians. Christians walk the walk; Xtians just yap a lot of bullshit and do as they please. Alaska Barbie is a good example of this. How anyone could cast a vote for a ticket with something that stupid as the running mate... *shakes head* And you knew McCain was kicking himself in the ass for selling out. He'll never get another run--he blew it too badly this time. Who would elect someone who'd sell his soul just to be President of the United States?
Of course, there's rumors that Shitt Romney, the poster boy for the Mormons, is gearing up for his run. *rolls eyes* Just what this country needs: another religious nutjob in the oval office. I wonder who they'll get to pull his strings?
Christ, this is depressing me.
Next post will be about something funny. Or sex. Which can be pretty damn funny.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Bottle and the Damage Done
The siren song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*
alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.
Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.
Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]
All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.
Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.
But I digress...
Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.
Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.
At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.
Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.
Whew. But I still need the meds.
I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.
I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).
But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."
Right.
The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.
Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.
Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.
Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.
He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.
*slams head on the desk*
Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.
So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.
As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.
Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.
Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.
ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*
* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*
alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.
Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.
Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]
All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.
Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.
But I digress...
Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.
Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.
At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.
Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.
Whew. But I still need the meds.
I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.
I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).
But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."
Right.
The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.
Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.
Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.
Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.
He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.
*slams head on the desk*
Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.
So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.
As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.
Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.
Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.
ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*
* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Hi Diddly Dee, the Single Life for Me...
Or, I Really DO NOT Have Time for this Shit...
*heavy sigh*
So, Saturday's post ended on a really positive note with a lot of good stuff happening that day, one of which was supposed to be a date.
Guess which thing didn't happen? Yep, you got it--the date.
I really had hope, y'know? It looked like things would finally come together with The Captain, but he has disappeared again. *slams head on the desk* (And yeah, I know I owe you guys Part 3 of Adult Toy Story; sadly, it's not half so amusing as Part 1.)
So, I'm taking my hat out of the dating ring for a while. It hurts--really looked for a couple of weeks there might actually be a little ray of sunshine, something to balance out all of the bullshit. I'm not really asking for the Love of My Life at this point; I don't know that I really believe in that any more.
Is it stupid to be looking for a damn good friend with whom I can have amazing sex?
Seriously. That's all I really want--someone I can hang out with, talk to, possibly share some music (I'm getting my drum set in November) and art with (comedy or theatre, either one would work), a few laughs, and some good fucking (making love would be even better; before bed AND first thing in the morning would rock; during the day, too... ). I don't care about the kink (I mean, I like it, I want it, but I can live without it; after all, that's what wanking is for). Someone I could cook for would be even better. I really like cooking for people, and there's something special about being able to make a meal for a man (yeah, I'm a bit old fashioned in weird ways). And I CAN cook, dammit. Someone to watch a movie with--and make out on the couch. Someone to play the damn Wii with because it's no fun playing Rock Band & Guitar Hero alone. Someone to playfully bicker with. I don't even need someone who's around all the time--I'm a writer, fer fuckssake, I'm anti-social half the time and don't want to be bothered. Except when I'm horny, of course.
I miss that, and the longer I go without it, the more I fear it's never going to happen again. But I'm also not willing to settle. I'm not willing to be dicked around and led on. Third strike, Captain, you're out. It hurts; there was a connection there I hadn't felt with someone for a long time, a camraderie and commonality that I've missed. I'm still a kid from the neighborhood--still working class and "common as muck," as Nanny Ogg would say, no matter my Imperial nickname and bearing at times. And I really wish I was going home to someone with whom I'd be making dinner and chatting about the day, and later cuddling up and maybe even making love with...
And yeah, I know the other option is going home to an asshole who doesn't help and whose looking for a fight. I've been there, too.
I know relationships and marriage are no bed of roses--I know it's damn hard work, and you have to make compromises and deal with shit you rather not at times. When things don't work, it's hell, but when things DO work... The payoff... the payoff seems worth it from this outsider looking in.
As long as what you're compromising isn't yourself.
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