Category Archives: RANT

I’m only going to say this once

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I could give 2 shits about the monarchy, the Royal wedding, or their offspring they may have someday.  Last time I checked, they put their pants on the same way I do, one leg at a time.   Are people going to seriously waste their time watching this crap? Someone needs to give me permission to enter the homes of people watching and just bitch slap them.

Rant over.


The Stepford Bitches

~originally published 2011~

I don’t fit in anywhere.  I never have.  I will be anything you need me to.  But none of its real.  I do whatever it takes, act however you need me to, just as long as you like might like me.  I traded authenticity for acceptance long ago and never really looked back, until now.

I’ve lived in this God-forsaken shit town for 3 years and I haven’t made one friend.  I’m not looking for your pity or sympathy either.  I’ve got my pillow to cry into and a therapist who hears me vent plenty.   I am a loner, not by choice.

I just don’t fit into this cookie-cutter community.  Apparently I don’t know the secret fucking handshake in this one horse town.  Most women here are trust fund girls who went to Yale and probably have their silver spoons embedded in their snatch to prove their purebred status.  I’m the mongrel they want to spit on, the girl of which a few of their husbands sometimes secretly steal glances when they’re not looking.  Something about me makes these women uneasy.  I’m college educated too, but I didn’t go to an Ivy-League school.  I had to get to a state university through work-study, scholarships, and financial aid.

Something about me threatens them, because they can’t even make eye contact with me when they’re away from the “pack” all by themselves.  You know, the clique of women that just like in high school, stand to the side and whisper in hushed tones as I pass by.

Most of them are approaching middle-age and have starved their way to being fit through daily yoga and pilates.  They walk around toting their children they adopted from a foreign country because they were way past menopause when they decided to start their family and it just wasn’t working out having dogs as surrogate children anymore.

They drive around in their Cadillac crossovers, donning their linen attire because God forbid they wear anything but natural fibers.   They babble about their recent trip to Prague and how they are had their color scheme in the kitchen changed from avocado to mint and it actually feels cooler.   They let their kids wear capes, tutus, and strange hats to school, even though it’s not Halloween. Because they believe in going along with the whimsical ride but the truth is they can’t set limits with these little fuckers.   They let their boys wear their hair down to their ass because ‘gender ambiguous’ is trendy now.  But next month if the trend changes they’ll cut that hair right off in a heartbeat because it’s all about appearances and nothing to do with principle and surely not about what their kid actually wants.  They name their boys shit like Rocko.  I’m sorry, but that’s like a dogs name last time I checked.

Everything in their lives is sanitary, sterile, and healthful from clothing to food.   I don’t think any of their kids have ever tasted a cupcake with red dye #4 or high fructose corn syrup.  They subsist off of “organic only” products from Whole Foods aka Whole Check that both look and taste like cardboard and they bake muffins with their own breast-milk.  But those kids won’t learn that it all tastes like ass, until they get far enough away from mommy’s helicopter apron strings.

At the last PTO meeting I attended they were all clambering who’d take home the compost pile from the Harvest garden at school.   I wanted to raise my hand and offer to take a shit in the compost bag just to see if anyone would notice I said anything.

When I walk by they act as if I do not exist, like I am a non-entity.  In those moments, it makes me fantasize about being on my knees and sucking off one their husbands, purely out of spite.   I wouldn’t.  I have morals and besides their husbands equally creep me out.

Yet, I am still on the outside looking in.   Filled with a palpable sadness. A long-standing dolefulness that spans years.  The kind of penetrating sorrow which makes one turn a collar to that cold and damp, almost as if to shield oneself from its grip.

It’s like I’m seven years old again on the play-ground and some jerk kid won’t pick me for the team because I don’t have the “right” clothes.    It’s the same bullshit, just that those kids grew up and became adults.  Now they’re still the same pretentious elitist assholes just older.  Same as it ever was.  And I still don’t have the teflon I need in life to let it all roll off.

Newsflash bitches, money isn’t everything, if you lack basic social graces, respect for others, and genuine kindness you have nothing.    These rudimentary  lessons should’ve been mastered back in grammar school.


Drive-thru Only

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Let me just say that when I decided to bring my 4 year old niece into the “family friendly” restaurant I had no idea what I was in for.

I should have brought a lasso and my Vera Wang tote bag filled with Vodka nips.

When I got there the first sign of trouble were the other pre-schoolers milling about.  Running in circles they were free-range children with rule of the roost while their parents were seated eating.  Only an occasional half-hearted calling of the children’s names by each parent could be heard.   You could tell it was as if the parents were resigned that they had already lost the battle.

The restroom smelled like SeaWorld in Orlando.  I gagged when I walked in.  I don’t think it had been cleaned since the late 90’s.   Ummm, nope not going to be using it.

Then it happened.  My own niece  defiantly joined the other free rangers, defiantly protesting to me not to be hungry. They all hudddled in the center of the restaurant,  these free-range kids.  Dancing, chatting, frolicking, rolling on the carpet!

Oh hell no……

The food comes and I’m trying to put the habeus grabus on her and get back to our table.

Soon as we get there, she breaks loose and heads back to the chicken collective.   I follow in pursuit.  From our table to the chickens, back and forth we go, several times before I start wishing I had brought a lasso.

Nothing seems to work, there is strength in the chickens’ numbers.  No amount of limit setting is working with my niece.  It is in this moment as I am so overwhelmed I just want a very strong drink.   My nerves are shot.  I wish I had a nip or two of marshmallow Vodka in my purse.

Why can’t the people who build these family friendly restaurants just start constructing bars in them?  Oh wait, they’d fail to be family-esque.

The first place I’d personally put a bar would be at Chuck E. Cheese. Been there enough times now to want to bring along ear plugs at very least.

Drained and exhausted we leave with out one bite of my niece’s food being consumed.  As soon as the car pulls out onto the main thoroughfare, I hear the dreaded words,”I’m hungry now.”

 


Holiday Stress-o-rama

It’s the day before Easter and here I am.

Feverishly OCD kicking into high gear.

vacuuming, washing, sterilizing….going cuckoo  bong-go.

****

When you grow up in a dysfunctional home like mine, holidays were the worst.

I can’t remember a fucking holiday where there wasn’t screaming, things getting tossed,

people getting smacked, people getting tossed, people yelling “fuck this, fuck that, fuck you!”

someone getting drunk or high.  someone getting mad that someone was getting drunk or high

my mother feverishly cleaning through it all and then the ensuing chaos.

and then after said chaos, we had to enter the community at large, attend

Catholic Mass as act as if everything was fine and dandy.

not too fucked up…… not too much stress, nope.

*****

even with all the knowledge in the world that I am not a child.

that it is NOT 1978.

and that my family of origin has long since disbanded

for the life of me I can not seem to un-wed

holidays being riddled with fear,  stress, and great trepidation…..

*****

I walk around just as my mother did cleaning like a banshee

snapping like turtle at all in my path

swearing like a sailor

and wishing there weren’t any holidays

wishing I could artfully hide under a rock

*****

my family will be here in less than 4 hours by the way

for the Easter egg hunt and then we are going out for dinner……

*****

what I need is a portable shrink….or a massive amount of something to numb me


The return of “S”

Yes.

Can you believe he returned out of the abyss of how many months having passed…..November?

Sending me an email asking how I am doing.

I don’t know why I am shocked, but I am.

Attached with said email was a beautiful song:it was quite beautiful actually.

I think I should dub him the “disappearing man.”

He spoke of existential angst over spending most of his life alone and fear of his mortality.

I wrote back and let him know that his disappearing act and inability to deal with fallout

from discord from his disappearances is a good bet why his has spent most of his life alone.

surprise surprise, he didn’t write back.

*****

On another note “B” left.

After promising not to leave.

After promising not to yell.

After promising he would “never do anything to hurt me.”

Too many promises broken in such a short amount of time should have been a giant red flag right there.

Too many promises broken period.

He told me when he met me, “my word is my bond.”

Then when he has repeatedly broke his word he said, “yes I did, but you had antagonized me and pissed me off.”

apparently for some,  it only turns out that people only keep their word under certain emotional conditions.

wish I was aware of that little caveat

*****

I don’t know who is worse, me for telling my life story in the first five minutes to a man who doesn’t deserve the trust.

or this man who tells me he loves me and won’t hurt me in the first five minutes after hearing it.

*****

But let’s not thump on poor B shall we.  I am no prize package.  I am insecure, clingy, hide my low self-self esteem behind a well practiced false bravado.   My moods swing like a monkey on a chandelier when I don’t get enough sleep.     I should probably just join a monastic sect somewhere, and live Lord of the Flies style, free of the trappings of society with my dildo.

****

the problem is, the trees don’t hug you back on the island……


Times have changed

Young girls have gone from getting knocked-up and getting thrown into homes for unwed mothers back in the 60’s to…

getting knocked-up and not only have mom and dad stay home and raise the child for them while they finish school;

some of these parents let them go out, date, make more babies and stay home and even breastfeed the baby for them.

Isn’t there some sort of middle ground in between the condemnation of the yesteryear and modernism?

WTF?

and while I am on the subject of breastfeeding.

I saw a woman the other day who was breastfeeding her infant child (no problems here so far) but get this, then I see her older child

coming up for a hit too!  Now this kid was old enough to cut a thick steak by themselves?

WTF?

is it just me….

what’s the world coming to.

rant over.


Cave Allegory

There are so many songbirds out there who have departed this world.  Who could sing far better than Whitney.

Buried in unnamed plots.  Perhaps they died by the bottle or the pill.

Do we hear about them all over the fucking news?

No we don’t.

They go unmentioned.  Not even a bell even rings for them.

I tire of hearing about Whitney Houston.

I don’t disrespect her family or their grief.

But for fuck’s sake, really now.

Who really gives a shit whether she had drugs in her system.

Is that really headline news?

I mean is that what people consider newsworthy????!!!

Is that what the sheeple want?

To be spoon-fed sensationalistic bullshit.

*****

This is why I don’t have my TV plugged in.

It sits collecting dust.

Remembering a post I wrote on my other blog several years ago and it seems so timely…

*****

I was thinking about Plato’s

prisoners shackled in front of the parapet

competing to interpret the shadows.

*

Times have changed a bit….

Today’s prisoners are still shackled by apathy

 and now isolation, in front of the TV,

competing to interpret their favorite episodes.


Compound Expletives

I think I was about seven years old when I said my first swear.   Maybe it was “shit” or something.   I can’t remember.   But I know that I got my mouth washed out with soap.

By the time I was fifteen, my dad had dragged me by the pony tail into the bathroom to wash my mouth out with soap too many times to count.  This one time he was so pissed off because after he had stuck the bar in my mouth I said, “I think I prefer the Dove to the Irish Spring.”   He got red in the face and just stormed off.  Then came the ritual of carefully removing the soap chips from behind my teeth.   And then brushing your teeth several times to get the taste out.

The soap didn’t do shit to clean up my mouth.  It was just more of a nuisance and the only lesson it taught me was not to swear at home.

I STILL SWEAR LIKE A SAILOR  in places where I know it’s “appropriate.”   Obviously, not in the library, at the opera, or some cultured event or in front of the elderly et cetera.  But I let the swears fly in certain situations despite a large repertoire of vocabulary at my disposal.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A compound expletive is formed when the first expletive serves as an adjective to modifiy the expletive noun in the sentence.

Example of simple expletive (noun):             My ex  is an asshole.

Example of a compound expletive (adj + noun) :   My ex is a mother-fucking asshole.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

sidebar:  I despise the use of expletives, wish the soap had worked


Mother fucker

I am so fucking triggered tonight.

It is Thanksgiving Eve and I am is obsessed about him.

Where is he?  Who might he be with?  Is he out doing someone off Craigslist or is he

starting over with the new younger version of “Lexi” already.   Complete with 5 hour phone conversations

like he used to do with me that lasted til we both fell asleep til 5 am.

……oh Jesus Mary and Joseph….help me.

his heart is already dead, and mine……keeps right on beating.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

In AA they have Al-ka-thons.

Don’t they have obsess-athons for me so I don’t think about him all night? It’s the mother fucking Holidays for fucks sake.

Everywhere you look people are holding hands and kissing and public displays of affection abound.

It feels like life is dousing vinegar into my gaping wound.  My heart is breaking into a million shards of glass.

Mother fucking fuck.

I HATE THIS SHIT !


Time For a Good Ole Book Burning on the Village Green

Shel Silverstein is hands down one of the best children’s authors ever.  I own just about everything he’s done in print; hard copy.   And I’m fairly certain that when my Zebra cake goggles wear off, the book will remain one of my favorites.

In light of the recent events of my train wreck love-life, I recently re-read “The Giving Tree.”

…..

…..

Can I just say that I HATE that tree.

“Take my apples.”

oh just plunder all my assets and leave me naked in the forest, boy.

“…you may cut off  my branches….”

Take a chain saw to my limbs and watch the sap run down as I bleed in agony….

“Cut down my trunk….”

Fuck me up the ass and leave me nothing but a stump for you to take a shit on…….

but I’ll still love you boy.

……

……

and then the tree waits and waits like a good empathic tree with no self-esteem does, and pretends to be happy being a used up stump.  and in the end ” the boy” comes back when he’s done using all the whores and he’s old and can’t fuck anymore and sits on the stump of a tree he’s used.   because she has no self-worth and wasted the best years of her life pining (no pun intended) for a boy who never loved her back.

The classic un-requited love story?

No, the classic romanticized portrayal of an EMPATH MARTYR-COMPLEX FUCKED UP WOMAN, POSING AS A TREE

I dunno, this post could be coming from a distorted perceptual lens  generated by marked glucose spikes from me consuming  a rather largish bag of M&M’s for lunch today and a couple of King-sized candy bars for dinner last night mixed with a Little Debbie Zebra cake.  It’s the Zebra Cake goggles isn’t it.  Or is it just another angry rant about getting conned by a sexual sadist narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  Or do I just have an axe to grind with trees.

Someone either pass me the kerosene and a match or give me another fucking Zebra cake already.


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