Category Archives: RANT

She let herself go

 

F4458DB4-E4A3-4659-BE47-92022C56B263.jpeg

Want to know how a woman goes from looking sexy and shaving her pussy, getting her brows waxed, nails done; to packing on a shit ton of weight, wearing a pair of sweatpants like skin, and wandering through life with no make-up?

Too easy.

Its because….she gave up.

“There are some things worse than being alone,” my step-dad once told me, “and one of them is being in a bad relationship.” ‘Course I didn’t believe him at that time.

I’ve got an update for him now, if he were here for me to tell.   But he’s gone the bastard.  My step-dad disowned me when my mom told him his son had molested me as a child.  The truth hurts, some run.

I’d tell him,  “There are some thing worse than being dead and one of them is staying in a relationship once it’s already on life-support instead of just pulling the plug.”

Watching yourself slip away a little at a time after your partner slipped away.   When you finally “come to”, you are old and ugly and barely recognizable in the mirror.   Worse still, your soul feels marred and there is a disconnect from the only Higher Power that can pull you from the black place you find yourself in.

You are now a mere shadow of who you once were.  Not caring if you are physically dead some days, because you already feel dead on the inside.  The urge to pull the wheel to the embankment at 80 mph on the freeway creeps in more than it should.

“She let herself go”, you hear them say, and you don’t even care anymore.  It’s true because you did.  So fucking what.

You have bigger fish to fry now, than a to maintain that trim waistline and to try and look sexy for any superficial jerk-off liar who objectifies women.

Newsflash bitches.  Your cocks aren’t a higher power.  They never were.   And for all the women ensnared by abusive asshole men who exploited our kindness and love? I’ll raise you a fuck off to your “ISO a submissive” racket.

Stop acting out your own victimization under the pretense of helping to guide, shape, or otherwise better women.

Oh she let herself go alright, and that may have been a blessing in disguise.   Because  now maybe she can go inward and create the person she should have been.

 

 

 

 


In the red

I say this rather as a matter of fact.  Not to whine or complain. If anything, to vent I reckon.

I took on a massive amount of credit card debt supporting my fiancé while he was unemployed for the first 4 years of our relationship.   He went back and forth through 8 separate detoxes trying to get sober from alcohol.  He would get a year, then relapse.  Get a month then relapse.  And so on.  At his worst he was drinking a quart and a half of vodka a day.  Everyday.   He was vomiting blood many mornings.  (Esophageal varices)

His parents and other family had turned their back on him.  Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had asked him to leave. I loved him and as bad as things got, I didn’t have the heart to turn him to the streets.   He was suicidal, at times.   I felt like it would be my fault if something happened.  At one point he texted me he was leaving this world.  He did hang himself.  Police found him in respiratory arrest in the basement of a local building, emergency responders cut him down..  He was very lucky to have lived.

Today he has over 2 years of sobriety from alcohol.

On the one hand,  I feel it was a good decision to go into debt to support him.  Every person is valuable and worth saving.  On the other hand, when half your monthly income goes to paying debt it’s a suffocating feeling.   Especially when you are out of work on medical.

I feel mixed about my decision.  Had I left the relationship years ago I would not be in the massive debt.  Had I not helped him, he might not be alive.  The kids suffer from the debt the most.  There are things they go without.  So I guess that’s what hurts today.   I wonder if I’ll ever be able to pay it off?

Here is a song that made me laugh and reminds me of me.  Right down to the panic attacks.  LOL

To all those who are in the red for whatever reasons, know you are most certainly not alone, and this one’s for you! 🥃

 

 


I’m a Marketing Dream

It occurred to me the other day as I stared blankly out of the window, not wanting to get out of bed, just like every other day, I am in the Bell Jar.  

So many of the commercials on TV for medications to treat depression are so fake.  They depict people suffering with it having a seemingly mild case of the doldrums. Just moving as if stuck in molasses.

They never show you what depression really looks like.

I am willing to let a pharmaceutical company film me to get a more accurate depiction.  It would look something like this…..

Voice over of announcer: “Depression robs a person of their energy.”

Camera pans to me sitting in the middle of my living room with a mountain of dirty laundry staring at it like the woman from Close Encounters of a Third Kind.  Saying, “I know I should wash you” and then just shaking my head no and finally collapsing back into the cushion and saying “fuck it.”  I am down to one pair of clean panties this is now my “edge play.”

Voice of announcer:  “Depression feels physical.” 

Camera lens catches me glancing outside at the morning school bus through the window .  I move to the kitchen and stare at the heaping pile of dishes that has amassed in the sink and repeat “fuck it” as I then head to the bed and proceed to pull the blinds and dive in to the sheets.  (Time elapses)   I rise in my pajamas in a haze hearing the afternoon school bus pulls around the block again.

Voice of announcer:  “Depression causes changes in appetite.”

Last scene too fucking easy.  Like a vampire rising from the mist I awake from bed to eat a box of Girl Scout  cookies.  Because anyone knows that if doesn’t come out of a package or ready-to-eat microvave box, then food isn’t consumed.  Camera fades with me on the couch with said cookies in the middle of the night swearing at the Girl Scouts, blaming them for peddling their crack.

209C1E0E-073E-4569-9EF0-7BD078033D1C.jpeg

Real Depression?

Depression is wearing the same pear of sweat pants and tee-shirts every day like a uniform, and having hygiene fall to the wayside til’ someone has to insist a shower is taken.   Brushing teeth? what’s that? there’s no energy.  Sleeping 16 hours a day feels natural.    Feeling black even when the sun is shining.

Depressions steals a person of their  emotions.  Such that life holds neither joy, nor sorrow, no anger, no pain.  It steals away the ability to imagine, to dream, to hope for a better day.  It is the great equalizer changing healthy,  robust,  thriving people into living, breathing, vacuous zombies pondering their very existence.

*******

Why doesn’t Roche, Pfizer, or GlaxoSmithKline want to show what real depression looks like?  Because their drugs are largely ineffective against severe forms of it.   You will look and feel the same on their drugs as you will off them.    Big Pharma doesn’t want anyone to know that.  If the efficacy of their products aren’t much better than a placebo than Lord have mercy, where would their capitalist enterprise be?

I have tried 13 anti-depressants over my lifetime and only one did something.  Not a great track record for pills as monotherapy.   If you are mildly depressed, pills may snap your serotonin back into shape.  Buddy, if you have a severe case of dysthymia, and some C-PTSD you are not going to have that sort of response.

Millions of people are suffering with depression.   Big Pharma wants to profit from the pills they produce to treat a condition that is largely unresponsive to pharmacological intervention.

The most common reason for people to become depressed is sustaining stress and trauma.  Until we become more pro-active as a society about preventing trauma both in childhood and in adulthood we are destined to fail by looking for a pharmaceutical panacea to remedy the problem.

Learning how to intervene once children and adults have been identified as having been exposed to trauma and getting these individuals trauma informed care, we have the hope of healing them.

People need people.  The broken trust that happens through the process of trauma needs to be repaired.   Pharmaceuticals certainly have their place as an aide.  The way out of depression starts with the desire; the wanting to climb out of the bell jar.  Once that decision has been made to seek help, the human factor, not a pill, will always be a more effective “treatment”.

 

 

 

 


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

F52AF8E7-837A-4A01-9FFB-541132E1621E

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.”

 


I could fall in love at a red light

AA1F2F50-53FC-470C-9AEE-E200F473AD3D.jpeg

That’s what my friend Al told us in an AA meeting the other day, and I chuckled as I heard him say it because it aptly described me.

Well at least that’s how it feels when I do fall in love.   It happens so fast, so forcefully.   The way “normal” people describe it, they tell their story of how they fell in love….as if they met at some random place and over many many times get to know each other.  Seems normal yanno.

Me, I end up finding my suitor at said random place but then end up telling them my life story in under 5 minutes and then falling completely madly in love in the next 5.

Yeah, I’m so relationship material.

I have such excellent fucking boundaries don’t cha know.

Then two weeks later when the guy cold calls me at 3 am to pick him up and rescue him from some dramatic crazy situation?

You guessed it, I am right there with my cape on, driving to east bum-fu*k to “save” him from himself.

And this would describe the “good part” of the relationship, if it even gets off the ground.

It usually only gets worse from there….consisting of me taking verbal abuse or worse.

nuff said.

****

think I need drivers-ed, or maybe a total license suspension to drive on the highway of love.

 


My libido must be hiding behind the couch with Jesus

Sigh.

It’s official.

I’ve lost my sex drive and my faith in one fell swoop.

I think it’s the fucking Prozac.

or maybe the depression….

hell, maybe both.

I get down on my knees in the morning and say a prayer but there’s a disconnect.

In yesteryear I always I felt a strong connection with God in my life.  It was an awesome feeling.  I never felt alone,

no matter what kind of monkeyshit life was throwing at me.

This is the worst.   Such a painful horrible void.  I miss that relationship so much.  This, This is hell.

*****

Life’s pleasures are slowly being whittled away one by one.

These days, I am not supposed to drink alcohol, binge eat/starve and to top it off I have absolutely no libido.

It’s like some thief in the night stole it from me.  The girl who used to having sex at least 5 times a day,

Doesn’t even care if she ever has it again?

****

Sigh.  Me thinks it’s because I’m taking the Prozac.  Manufacturers insert reads:   “It is thought that the action of this medication is….”

So the powers that be, don’t even fucking KNOW what this shit does to my neural network? they are simply extrapolating from looking at

a bunch of rats?

‘Cause gosh rats and humans are ever so similar….

****

Hmmmm….. well that rat is chewing off it’s own tail….so people might get suicidal on this drug.

That rat is agressively biting the fuck out of the other rat…….homocial.

This one is bouncing off the cage…….irritability

This one doesn’t sleep…….insomnia

And when the rats stop screwing each other?

*****

Guess that’s me.

*****

I’m getting off the shit.


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.


Stop with the macramé

Grelotredstamina

I live in a GLBT nexus here in the Pioneer Valley and I love the diversity. 🏳️‍🌈

Public same sex kissing and afffection is an abundant eye candy, you don’t find most places.

If it wasn’t for my repressive Catholic upbringing I may have even been bisexual, by now.

I love freedom of expression and I embrace diversity.

That said, one thing I hate is when your freedom of expression interferes with my freedom to breathe.

You granola-earthy-crunchy-pot-smokin-bitches deciding to make an art project and braid your armpit hair into some sort of macramé thing, needs to stop.

Can you not smell yourself?

I mean when you have a colony of circus fleas taking up residence on you, there’s something very wrong.

Get acquainted with a razor and cut that bush back.

And while you’re at it, get a bar of soap and bathe, ’cause ya smell, and it’s not good.

I’m not sure if it’s your diet of tofu and garlic.  Are you trying to ward off vampires? ’cause girl your warding off everyone around you.  Hell it’s causing a gag reflex when I even sit near you.   Honestly, one would have to be in such a dope induced haze, not to be close to you and not notice the smell.

And it’s not just the garlic, that smell….its intermingled with sweat , sex , and a pot cloud that hasn’t been washed off in weeks.

The patchouli oil you wear does it no justice.  It only adds a dirt smell into the mix.  It can’t cover the buds you’ve been smokin’ and the smegma in yer panties.

Remember.  Soap.  It’s does the body good.

Rant over.


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 Little Debbie 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 cake.  It’s the Little Debbie 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 Little Debbie cake already.


%d bloggers like this: