Tag Archives: humor
There once was a lady from Boston
whose man dipped her body in frostin’
She got way too slick
He slipped on his dick
Now sex for those two is just costin’
There once was a girl from Nantucket
Who wrote her thoughts on a blog and said fuck it.
She let it all rip
and said with a quip,
“If words were a cock I would suck it.”
© by Lexicon Lover
To all my fellow bloggers out there bloglandia, I raise my glass.
What do you see in the ink blot?
The Rorschach test is a projective psychological test in which subjects’ perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation.
I remember when the test was given to me at 19. I was in the psych hospital for a suicide attempt. I felt hopeless and empty had been for a long time.
At first, I thought about screwing with the tester, albeit briefly, then changed my mind because I was suffering immensely.
He informed me,”I am going to hold up a card and you will just tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”
card goes up with black ink image only
“Okay, I forgot to mention that you can say anything except for inkblot.”
“butterfly with goat head”
“weird looking bug with skull face”
“Moth with fangs”
card w/ black + red ink image
2nd card black/red
3rd card black/red
“well of you want me to look at it as a whole, I see a giant head, but within the upper right corner there is a a goat head with horns, over here in the bottom left there is this sort of devil creature, at the very top I see a baby’s face.”
Tester takes copious notes while I speak then packs up his cards. Day or so later, I get slapped on Prozac and diagnosed with depression. Wasn’t that apparent from the suicide attempt? I’m kind of glad I didn’t screw with the tester. I could have ended up on massive amounts of Thorazine drooling and shuffling around like the other blokes aimlessly wandering about that smelled of piss and cigarettes.
My roommate’s depression was so severe that it didn’t respond to medication so they had to strap her down and take her to the basement for ECT aka Shock therapy. I think she had bilateral (both sides of her brain) zapped to induce the seizure. She came back looking like Sigourney Weaver had sucked her brain out with a straw and there was nothing left. She had that 1000 yard stare, empty eyes that penetrate straight through you.
She never did remember me for a few days after she got cooked, despite having known me for nearly a month. I was always jealous though because ECT patients got to have coffee and Dunkin Donuts after the switch was thrown.
So if you eat your donut and drink your coffee and enjoy it but don’t remember you do, did it really count? It’s almost like they never got their coffee and donuts.
What do I see in the blot doctor? Big Pharma profiting from human suffering.
I’ve always had a temper. The earliest memory I have was from childhood. My step-sister was a year older than I and we were sent upstairs to our bedroom for some infraction or other.
First, my sister got smacked. Pants down, bare-bottom, that was fairly typical for the time. I don’t really recall how many she got. Hard to focus when you’re on deck. Going last always ups the anxiety factor.
Then came my turn. Same way. Except I was angry. This shouldn’t be happening, I thought. What could 7 and 8 year olds do exactly to warrant the hand, the belt, the flip flop or whatever the hell else was handy. But I was going to get it. So I had no choice. It dawned on me though I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I could control HOW it happened….
As I was getting whaled on, I looked up and said, “that didn’t even hurt, why don’t you hit me harder.” Oh hell no, did I just say that? My sister told me to shut up.
Of course that changed the tempo a bit and things moved faster and I got hit harder. Then I said it again! I could see the veins popping in the sides of their neck, they were so furious. I braced for it and then they finally quit.
After it was all said and done I felt vindicated. I sat on my sore butt and remember thinking that although my ass was red with handprints all over, I had been victorious because they didn’t make me cry.
I’ve grown older but apparently none the wiser. These days it seems like most of my anger still comes out with fury and vitriol. Especially so if the source of my irritation and anger is constant and unrelenting and out of my control. Probably the latter which bothers me the most.
The noisy kid on a long flight that whines the whole way that I just want to bitch slap but would never. The guy humming in line behind me to “Air Supply” so it gets stuck in my head. The teen vaping weed in his car with his windows rolled down in front of me so his plume ends up inside my car so I smell like “Blue Dream” for the rest of my day.
Oh and then there’s the road rage. There was the time in downtown Boston where some dude cut me off. He rolled down his window and called me a bitch. So I pulled along side his car I said “if you’re so tough why don’t you get out of your fucking car, and say that to my face you pussy.” Yep, this has happened several times over the years. I did get out of my car once. Guy freaked when I knocked on his window. Tough guy, just drove off when the light changed.
Then there’s this certain someone. This person who has been making my life bloody hell for 6 long years. I get so mad my blood boils just thinking about them. I find myself thinking, “I’d like to keep them in a locker inside of a storage unit until they can behave.” Oh if only it was legal and moral.
When I’m that angry, I seem to see only red, think only red. My focus becomes myopic. At times I fail to care about repercussions in that particular moment. Depends on how angry I am. Which has lead me over the years into some high risk behaviors.
I know in my heart I should probably talk to my new shrink about my anger issues. I have never mentioned it before, might be important. There’s only so much you can squeeze into a 50 minute session and your life is a 3 ring shit-show.
Two roads diverged in the wood; Bottle of Grape Vodka vs. hours of therapy…..
I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.
I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall. Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it. So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.
Next I begin prepping for the “hover”. Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat. Because I have germaphobia, I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided, because God knows what might linger on that puppy. Blowback, splatter, or spray. Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye. What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea? dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering. My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second. I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze misting in through the air.
I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before I can even think of it, as “safe” to use. Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.
Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no. I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room. That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my OCD/ germaphobia variant.
Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab the door handle with and let myself out of the stall. Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle down with the bottom of my shoe.
I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser. I then wash my hands. I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.
It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre. A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens. I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine. I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.
Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior. Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.
Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.
I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out. I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.