Tag Archives: humor
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
We’re all selling something aren’t we.
Some blogs dispense information.
Some bitch and rant.
Some share sorrows.
Many share laughs.
Some share their most personal secrets.
Some write poetry.
Some write book reviews.
Some post memes.
Others share recipes, travels, and art.
Lots of blogs try to help others with their knowledge they’ve gained on their way up Maslow’s pinnacle.
Still other blogs are so heady that you never really understand what the hell they are spinning.
To all my fellow bloggers out there bloglandia, I raise my glass.
I often have fancied that they have some sort of secret union, though I know it’s impossible. There are certain rules to they must uphold as well:
1. You must use union approved brown corrugated cardboard with black lettering
2. You must use either fantastical yarns or absolute truth on said cardboard
3. You must be able to stand for long amounts of time on your feet
4. Working in inclement weather is a must
5. You must wear tattered, ripped, holy, or frayed clothing on the job
6. A sad or dispondent look is recommended although a managing a smile and thank you when earnings are received is a must
Amherst, MA Used to be a conservative town years ago, but not anymore. Perhaps that is why it is a boon for so many panhandlers and why they flock here. The bleeding heart liberals see contributing towards the less fortunates as helping the social justice movement.
On any given day the same folks stand on their designated corner donning signs:
”Tent collapsed. Anything helps. God Bless”
”Today’s my birthday, out of work. Out of luck. “
”Homeless vet, down on my luck. God Bless”
”I’m not going to lie, I just need a beer”
”Tent blew away, need help, Thank you.”
Now mind you, it was the middle of February in New England and it occurred to me that with all these recent tent collapses and blow always happening, maybe they could pool their resources together and go in on a new tent, that’s more sturdy.
Birthday boy, well it seems as though everyday is his birthday because he keeps holding onto that sign day after day. Now I feel bad in his case, as he just can’t seem to remember when he was born, poor thing.
The homeless vet really gets to me because we have a bus system that can drive him to the VA Hospital in nearby Leeds, MA for $1.50 where a social worker could help him get housing, medical care, the works.
Which leads me to our last fellow the man saying he wants money to buy beer. Addiction of any kind brings shame upon its victims. Until we start recognizing that all of the people profiles listed above are most likely suffering with addiction and/or mental health issues we will not begin to address the problem. Driving by and stuffing money in their hand is bringing them closer to death.
You see, I used to be afraid when my car stopped next to a panhandler. I felt awkward and avoided making eye contact with them through ny window pane of glass that separated us. Instead, I averted my eyes down at the brake pedals or at my cell phone, the radio, anywhere but their face. Because it triggered an awkward feeling in me. Why had they fallen in this situation? Why would anyone want to stand here for 8 hours in the harsh elements begging instead of having assured income with the security of a job? Because they have to. They have fallen that far down the rabbit hole.
The day that awkwardness disappeared in me, was the day I recognized them as my equal. I could just as easily be them, given the right conditions. From that moment I began to roll my window down and talk. In those short conversations I have gotten to know a few people. We smile now and we wish each other well.
I don’t have all the answers. Maybe safe needle exchanges are in order. Maybe more drug courts. More access to long-term treatment programs. Meanwhile, I will treat people with kindness and dignity. I will buy someone a gift card to McDonalds. I won’t give them money knowing it could go to heroin, meth, or alcohol. Enabling will only serve to help kill people.
There is no us and them. We are the same. They ARE somebody. Someone’s son or daughter. Someone’s husband or wife. Somebody’s mom or Dad. Struggling and in the grips of a powerful addiction. A disease that will kill them if they don’t receive help. Let’s not forget before they were panhandling, they had great lives too.
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.
My name is Lexi and I am powerless over watching “An American Horror Story”
Jessica Fucking Lange.
Can we say brilliant fucking screenwriters?
What character development/plot (no pun intended)
And it encompasses all the darkness that seduces us all, along with the struggle for good to conquer that evil:
BDSM, homicide, deceit, manipulation, the interplay between good and evil (even within one character), sex, rape, drugs, necrophilia, rubber suit, mass murder, self-mutilation, suicide, paranormal, medium, ghosts.
This show has it all.
This show had me hooked from the pilot. I don’t know what I am going to do if they cancel it……….*shivers*
Remember that guy , that bald guy that did that breakfast commercial, “Quaker Oats, it’s the right thing to do” Wilford Brimley or whatever his name was.
Well you know that Oats and fiber are supposed to be good for your body and so I got those some of those Fiber One bars. Which are made of you guessed it, oats and fiber. Those little butterscotch whatever yummy tasty caramel kind. I thought well if one bar is good for you, maybe like two is good, and three is even better. Yeah, so I ate like 5 Fiber One bars. I ate nearly the whole fucking box. Before you go judging, chillax, they’re tiny in size.
Let me just tell you it was like Hiroshima in my intestines. Oh my God. I almost shit my pants. Then, when I finally made it home, I couldn’t leave the bathroom. I must have gone like 25 times in a day. I was shackled to the toilet all day and into the night. It was more powerful than any laxative I’ve ever taken. Those bars should be prescription only.
Just think about that, while your eating your little fiber bar. Don’t be fooled by it’s sweet caramel goodness and tiny portion size….. It’s the devil.
My ass is still sore.