The last of the good time biker bitches...

There are those who will not understand where this is about to go and for them I will say just like she would have "Fuck'em", I'm not sorry, this one, this one is for me. If your looking to read on about all the great things my Aunt did in her life keep reading, but if you're looking for me to sugar coat my anger and hide my pain so this can be comfortable and easy for you to read then please, skip this one. If you want honest, you want real, you want Nancy, then you take the good with the bad and you keep reading because this, this is for me as much as it is for her and she never sugarcoated who she was. This may hurt but there is nothing about death that doesn't and maybe thats a lesson we could all walk away with.

My aunt was a pill popping drunk with a loud mouth and a great rack. There it is I said it and maybe it didn't have to be said to get where this is goin, but there it is in black and white. Not everyone could understand a statement like that but I am damn sure she would have rather I put it out there than pretended no one's thought it. The greater truth, the deeper, more important FACT, is that my aunt was one of the strongest women I have ever known. There is no way to remember a persons strength without recalling their weakness and maybe it's not polite and maybe it's not how you would do it but professional life aside when I think about my Nancy, our Nancy, polite is not the first thing that comes to mind. I think loud, loving, living and in her finest moments goddamned breathtaking for all the right reasons and all the wrong ones too. Even after that there is so much more before polite. She wore her scars better than most and if all you saw was the pill poppin drunk then you never looked her in the eyes and you definitly never listened past the whiney tone she got when she was hurting.

She wasn't just my blood, she was my friend, my other mother and my hero. Nancy showed me how to enjoy what I had. Sometimes it was as simple as dancing to Zepplin, toilet papering my Aunt Amy's house, hiding out just long enough to get it together or sharing my secrets with someone who had been there, done that, but she always had a way of makin it better and I guess that's what Aunts are for. Right now though, right now in this very moment, I'm pissed off between tears, I'm wishin she was here and I'm waiting for her to call, drunk and pissin and moanin about the last bitch to piss her off. To tell me how the last ride on the hardtail fucked up her back or how she's once again friends with the backstabbing bitch she told me about last time we spoke. I'm putting off sleeping because when I wake up this will still be real, she'll still be dead and people who knew her will still be telling me how "surreal" this all is and how "sorry" they are, and what I want to do is scream. More than that I want to laugh until I forget the sad parts and only remember the good. I want to hear stories about the loud mouth bitch we knew and loved, I want to scream at the sky and tell her what an asshole she is for leaving us. I want to dance to Zepplin until it rains Nancy, hear her laughter in the laughter around me, hear her whine one last time. Watch her dance with the past one more time while sitting at Rays with that smile, you know the one someone gets when they remember a REALLY good time and then tell me she was just gonna have "One more, just one more".

The last thing I said to my Aunt was come home, I love you, come home. When I said this I meant come home to fucking Connecticut but I didn't say shit about doin it as ashes. I know she's no longer in pain and she's in a better place but for fucks sake the one time the silly bitch listened to me she had to go and do it the hard way. The twisted part is, that, that was Nancy. She loved and wanted to be loved, she laughed and lived and she did it all at something close to an 11 but she always did it her way. Knowing Nancy was and always will be knowing life, some serious highs, a fair share of lows but always a good time, always a suprise, always a great fuckin ride and good possibility of a titty shot, even if you didn't really want it.

Dear Ant Nancy,
Thanks for teaching me how to take care of myself in ways only someone you share your secrets with can. Thanks for Steven Tyler, Led Zepplin, The Stones and so much more. Thanks for holdin my hair back and holding me while I cried. Thanks for my first real job and my first ride on a Harley. Thanks for giving me the best parts of you and all the in between. I know wherever you are you'll be with me and I know I'm not as angry as I'm trying to be and I know you get that too.
Fuck you, I love you. ~ Meg

Get a job ya bum...

Portishead and vodka, this is what this day has come to. That's what my secrets have made this day. Secretly I'm a fucking superhero, the sky is purple, I'm everything I want to be and my female organs haven't turned on me and decided they want things. It's only natural to feel disappointed when you realize you're not the superhero you thought you were. These are the sour times and I am a wandering star. Where does that get me? Fucking nowhere. I've been pumping my resume out like a hooker gives out handjobs for the last few weeks. What I have to show for it is a job that is everything I hate about the state of corporate america. Allow me to break it down for you kind folks, 1 hour interview to see if I should get an actual interview. 1 hour for the initial assesment and personality test. 1 hour for the secondary assesment and personality test. 1 hour for the actual interview. 2 hours for the "you got the job, now we want the last ten years of your life" paperwork and 30 minutes for the you could be a junky piss test. So not including the travel time to the individual interviews and the paperwork session from hell, I've already given them 5.5 hours of my life plus permission to dig ten years back into my life for whatever scandelous shit they're looking for. All this just to prove I'm worthy to pick up phones, be nice to people, and join the machine like all the other worker bees. I passed all their tests so far, I mean the drug test hasn't come back yet but I'm a drug free worker bee. No really I am, but passing all these tests hasn't made me feel good, I'm not excited about embarking on my exciting new job as a call center rep, I'm fucking disgusted that I've sold out to, not even the highest, just the first bidder. More than that I'm distraught that my immediete choices are either to sink now or drown later, succumb to the khakis, become the "ideal employee", plaster the fake smile on and pay my fuckin bills or hope for something better. The thing about hope is that it has around the same nutritional value as piece of chalk.

People say "congratulations" and "oh you got a job how great" or"I'm so proud of you!" and after six months of sucking the good ol' unemployment teet all I hear is "took ya long enough", but thats just the little guy in my head that's not what people really think. Or is it? What do "people" really know about where I've been these past few months? Proud of me for what, livin the american dream? Worshipping the almighty dollar so I can get out there and consume the almighty product? I didn't write a bestseller or ride a motorcycle across country, I joined the rest of the unhappily-employed in a rigged ratrace that will eventually land my right back in burn out city with a trigger happy tongue and the same hatred for everything around me that shut down my spirit and killed my worker bee mentality the last time. Misery loves a little company and a big company feeds on misery, starcrossed lovers they are. Whats that you say? A means to an end you say?Three years from a degree to set me free, three years of plaster and koolaid transfusions, three years of chalk and all I see is dust coming out of my mouth as I tell myself I don't have to love it, just do it, like the ad says.

I've lost everything and been free and now its two steps backwards to get to the shiny place in front of me that keeps spitting out hope. Hope is free and anyone can afford it. I've been stockpiling it though its not quite feeding my soul. Then again who really needs a soul when they can have things and stuff to fill the adventure void left by all this american greed. The machine may pay my bills and it can have me for the 40 plus hours a week but i'm only drinking the koolaid because without it I can't continue choking down this pasta. Cheap as it may be pasta and the air sandwiches that go with it, much like hope and chalk have no nutritional value. I miss having money, I miss broccoli and movies, I miss clothes that fit and having money in the bank but mostly I miss being able to take care of myself. In all this I've found myself and even if people don't know, I know. Knowing the rules is the first step to getting where you're going, I am my own evolution. I am no where near complete and this is just a means to an end. No one ever says I want to work in customer service when I grow up, but people, they do it. I'm not people, I am a superhero.