There's a story, or maybe its a joke, my mom tells. I'm probably going to butcher it, I'll do my best not to, but since I'm telling it I'm also gonna do it my way...
A man is on a roof after a bad storm because his city had flooded, he's praying for god (or as I call him Jeebus), to save him, and a boat comes by. The people in the boat say "Hey, Guy, jump down get in, lets go!" The man say's "No, it's cool you don't have much room in there, I'll be ok, save some women and children and such. God Jeebus will save me!" The folks in the boat argue a bit but eventually say ok and move on. The water is still rising and the man is still prayin on the roof when the next boat comes by. They have a few seats and the waters so high he can walk right in off the roof. Once again the people in the boat invite him in and once more the man says "No, Jeebus will save me!", and the boat floats on. Now it's getting dark and the man is clinging close to the chimney as the waters continue to rise, he hears a loud noise coming closer and then out of the sky, directly above him comes a bright light, its a bird, its a plane, JEEBUS HIMSELF? Nope a helicopter, from wich a rope ladder drops and a man on a microphone yells, "Hey, Hey you there, on the chimney, in the red suit, with the white trim, grab the ladder,you'll drown down there! GET TO THE CHOPPA, ITS THE ONLY WAY OOOOOUUUUT." The man clings tighter to the chimney shaking his head no and yelling something about some guy by the name Jeebus coming to pick him up with some other guy named Rudolph. Finally the copter has to go, and they do, leaving the crazy man to drown on the chimney.
The man gets to heaven after some screaming and flailing and demands to see god. God says to herself, and all the Angels, ~Well, this, I have got to hear, send this dude in. She nudges the Angel to her right and says watch this, and turns herself into Samuel L. Jackson, cuz come on what's not funny about that! The man looks at her and like a true american says, "God, Jeebus, I knew you were black! Seriously though? What the fuck? Why have you forsaken me? Why did you let me drown out there?!!!?" With this, God stands, laughing, she holds his face in her hands and says, as only Samuel L. Jackson could, "MOTHAFUCKA, I sent you TWO BOATS and a mothafuckin HELICOPTER, If you think I was gettin in that water myself, you were sadly mistaken. I don't fuckin swim!" She laughs and the angels laugh and she hugs the man and they all laugh and eat cake and that's that.
I guess the point is different in some way for every circumstance and every person. I mean I'm not much for Jeebus but I can definitely appreciate more and more as I grow, how important it is to keep your eyes and mind open. If at any point the man had thought outside the box of his expectation, he might not have drowned. Life changes every day. We make decisions based on expectations, based on lies, lies other people tell us, lies we tell ourselves. That man told himself god would save him, to the point he actually believed the sky would open and god would carry him to dry ground. Instead he got a prankster in the sky. It wasn't what he expected. The boats, the helicopter he didn't accept those and he didn't expect to see the pearly gates or Mr Jackson that day, but shit happens. If he'd had the chance for a do over, I bet the man would have hopped right in the first boat, said thanks, and been livin high off the insurance money to a ripe old age. But life is short, we don't always get second chances and I'd rather see Tarantino do a short film of my AMAZING version of this story. My point? If ya miss the boat, please for Sams sake, get to the choppa people, it's the only way out!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Discovering the religion of ink and the importance of 2 wings.
I was 18 when I got my first tattoo, I wanted a phoenix, so I got one. It was the beginning of a healing that will probably be a lifelong work in progress. The asshole I was with at the time hated the idea, it was against his religion. As was sex, drugs and rock and roll, more or less, I was against his religion. The tongue ring I got earlier in that relationship, while he made fun of my slurred speech the first few weeks, he thoroughly approved of, but the tattoo was sure to cause a fight. By this time in the relationship I knew it would be ending soon and maybe this was my way to celebrate the best decision of my life, maybe I was just looking to start the end with a clear message. I guess it really doesn't matter but to this day it is one of my favorites. I picked it out of a book of flash and asked the artist to make a few changes, a good friend was with me and I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd seen friends get tattoos and watched my father get work done. I remember sitting in the chair hearing the buzz as it was about to begin and focusing on the Alice Cooper poster. I sat as still as I possibly could and focused on the poster, a few times I know I thought about how pissed the asshole was going to be and cracked a smile. I remember thinking I'm gonna be ok and breathing more calmly and freely than I had in months before that piece in time and at one point I remember the artist asking me if I was breathing. I just laughed and said yes. I had never felt as free and sure of myself and relaxed as I did that day, in that chair, knowing I was going my own way. Among the many things the asshole had told me I would never do a tattoo had been one of my earliest concessions. My tattoos since then each have stories of their own, I've got alot of eyes watching over me and plenty of thoughts for the empty spaces but that one is the closest to my heart.
I am learning to expect less of people I love who haven't lived my life. I am learning slowly that everyone believes they understand and while some people do, most don't. You cannot fully explain to anyone who hasn't lived it what it is like to wake up with someone licking your face, holding you down with his dick inside you. I mean clearly, I've just described it but that doesn't mean you know or understand what its like to crawl back inside yourself and watch this happen to you from some outside level of existance. You may have an idea what its like to pretend your asleep but I have my doubts that the majority of people know the thoughts that go through someones head while they allow someone to do this while they simply lie there and play dead so to minimize the other persons enjoyment and keep from having to open their eyes to the reality of that nightly nightmare. While there are plenty of people who can relate and plenty of people who do actually understand, they are not concentrated to only eachother, they don't flock solely to eachother and even when they do they rarely break out the skeletons that feed their sadness.
The worst things that have happened to us make us the strongest and teach us the most and what that time in my life continues to teach me is that I am stronger than the worst things to come my way. I will always come back stronger from the things that hurt the most and it's that knowledge that means the difference between laying down and getting back up. I've had a broken wing and maybe thats part of why I don't fly straight but every break must heal. The people in my life who need justifications and continual explanations of my feelings and actions this long after the fact. These are the same people who look in the mirror too long and still can't see themselves. These are the same people who say I understand, but..., and these are the people I can't keep fighting to keep in my life simply because I love them. When I open my closet and count my skeletons I am the one who has the memories flood back and anyone who wants to step inside my head and dig around my closet had better be ready to see the grass burning. No two people honestly have the same vision of what hell is, for me, it was a long time ago and I'm not goin back. I will never respect any group, religion person or idea that could send another person home to tell the person they "love" that they are going to hell for having sex and then rape them 6 hours later on a regular basis. I can respect myself enough not to keep company with people I don't respect and I can love myself enough to not continue to give people power they don't deserve. I may not respect those people who I feel had a chance to help but I don't hate them, I more or less feel sad that they believe they were helping while they were actually fueling the actions of a sociopath.
There has been a shift over the last few years in my outlook on my past and I really have no desire to continue dredging the waters just to bring up more pain. There is a place where you realize now is far more pertinent than then. Some asshole told me once I'd never go to college, drive trucks, go to broadcasting school, drink, be with a girl, get a tattoo, see my Goddaughter and a few other things. I have no idea what that piece of shit is doing right now, but I do know in ten years I've done all the things he said I wouldn't except one and I'm pretty sure the naked lady on my leg and I get to be proud of that. No apologies, no regrets.
I am learning to expect less of people I love who haven't lived my life. I am learning slowly that everyone believes they understand and while some people do, most don't. You cannot fully explain to anyone who hasn't lived it what it is like to wake up with someone licking your face, holding you down with his dick inside you. I mean clearly, I've just described it but that doesn't mean you know or understand what its like to crawl back inside yourself and watch this happen to you from some outside level of existance. You may have an idea what its like to pretend your asleep but I have my doubts that the majority of people know the thoughts that go through someones head while they allow someone to do this while they simply lie there and play dead so to minimize the other persons enjoyment and keep from having to open their eyes to the reality of that nightly nightmare. While there are plenty of people who can relate and plenty of people who do actually understand, they are not concentrated to only eachother, they don't flock solely to eachother and even when they do they rarely break out the skeletons that feed their sadness.
The worst things that have happened to us make us the strongest and teach us the most and what that time in my life continues to teach me is that I am stronger than the worst things to come my way. I will always come back stronger from the things that hurt the most and it's that knowledge that means the difference between laying down and getting back up. I've had a broken wing and maybe thats part of why I don't fly straight but every break must heal. The people in my life who need justifications and continual explanations of my feelings and actions this long after the fact. These are the same people who look in the mirror too long and still can't see themselves. These are the same people who say I understand, but..., and these are the people I can't keep fighting to keep in my life simply because I love them. When I open my closet and count my skeletons I am the one who has the memories flood back and anyone who wants to step inside my head and dig around my closet had better be ready to see the grass burning. No two people honestly have the same vision of what hell is, for me, it was a long time ago and I'm not goin back. I will never respect any group, religion person or idea that could send another person home to tell the person they "love" that they are going to hell for having sex and then rape them 6 hours later on a regular basis. I can respect myself enough not to keep company with people I don't respect and I can love myself enough to not continue to give people power they don't deserve. I may not respect those people who I feel had a chance to help but I don't hate them, I more or less feel sad that they believe they were helping while they were actually fueling the actions of a sociopath.
There has been a shift over the last few years in my outlook on my past and I really have no desire to continue dredging the waters just to bring up more pain. There is a place where you realize now is far more pertinent than then. Some asshole told me once I'd never go to college, drive trucks, go to broadcasting school, drink, be with a girl, get a tattoo, see my Goddaughter and a few other things. I have no idea what that piece of shit is doing right now, but I do know in ten years I've done all the things he said I wouldn't except one and I'm pretty sure the naked lady on my leg and I get to be proud of that. No apologies, no regrets.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
What about the children?
Over the years I've been asked countless times by new friends and even a few strangers if my parents are still together. With the places and adventures I've had, a good amount of these people were truckers and southerners amazed at the idea of a biracial couple surviving the daily criticism and social taboo of race mixing. Here in the northeast, now in 2012, it is fairly commonplace. We don't think about it, we don't dwell on it, it is what it is. We tend to take for granted the idea that people of a different color can and do flock together, make lives, car payments, cake, babies, love, together. By choice, by ignorance, by accident, we forget that the urge to share and partner and copulate with someone other than ourselves is as natural as our skin or the sex parts we happen to be born with. We go about our daily lives thinking our struggle is so much harder than those that came before us. We live blind to the experiences that put the person next to us wherever we may be. We don't ask eachother to share our life stories by a fireside and we don't really want to know. Unless you're like me and you do, sometimes, and so you ask. Four in five times that will get a long drawn out story about some shit you didn't expect nor did you really want to know. One in five times you get suprised with awesomeness and that is worth the risk. Mostly. My family is larger than my bloodline might have you think and my past is littered with judgements from inside and outside of that family, but I am ever impressed by my parents ability to give their children the best tools to survive the choppy waters and hard questions and looks from those without the sense to see past their skin and our burnt sienna crayons.
About a year maybe two, before she died, my Grandmother and I were discussing a news story about a lesbian couple in wich the Butch or more masculine of the couple was carrying their child because hir partner could not. To me this was the ultimate act of love and a beautiful selfless thing. To my Grandmother this was, at best, an abomination. In a heated arguement with a dying woman I quickly realized how hard my parents must have had it and how fortunate my sibling and I had been to even be alive. She said with the disapproving tone and I quote, " The poor children".Her stance (summerized) was that the parents would be different and so the children would be different and their lives would all be hell. She felt this was fine for the parents but they should not bring children into a world they could not assimilate to. At wich point I lost it. Yes, with an elderly dying woman, I lost my shit and soon uncovered a truth I spent my life choosing to bury in the arsenal of dirt I knew about my Grandmother. "Grandmother, I am the children of differentMy life is not hell, hard at times but that has made me stronger. There is nothing wrong with different, my life is not hell, hard at times but that has made me stronger. There is nothing wrong with different, I am different, I am proud of that and what you're saying is that my parents should not have had us..."
How much deeper and farther that conversation cut is between me and a dead women but the point is my parents love eachother just as that couple loved eachother. As one of three products of that love I will always be thankful that my parents dared to be different, before it was commonplace, before it didn't matter so much. Love is not an easy thing under the best of circumstances, it doesn't bend to appease the masses or adjust for optimal comfort, but it does give us the chance to grow and learn and become better with the help of a good partner.
I am black and I am white, I was not stolen or adopted, I am weird, I am different and my mommy and daddy love the hell out of me and I them. Happy 32nd Anniversary to the white lady and black guy also known as Mothadear and Papabear that made me. Thanks for turning out ok.
About a year maybe two, before she died, my Grandmother and I were discussing a news story about a lesbian couple in wich the Butch or more masculine of the couple was carrying their child because hir partner could not. To me this was the ultimate act of love and a beautiful selfless thing. To my Grandmother this was, at best, an abomination. In a heated arguement with a dying woman I quickly realized how hard my parents must have had it and how fortunate my sibling and I had been to even be alive. She said with the disapproving tone and I quote, " The poor children".Her stance (summerized) was that the parents would be different and so the children would be different and their lives would all be hell. She felt this was fine for the parents but they should not bring children into a world they could not assimilate to. At wich point I lost it. Yes, with an elderly dying woman, I lost my shit and soon uncovered a truth I spent my life choosing to bury in the arsenal of dirt I knew about my Grandmother. "Grandmother, I am the children of differentMy life is not hell, hard at times but that has made me stronger. There is nothing wrong with different, my life is not hell, hard at times but that has made me stronger. There is nothing wrong with different, I am different, I am proud of that and what you're saying is that my parents should not have had us..."
How much deeper and farther that conversation cut is between me and a dead women but the point is my parents love eachother just as that couple loved eachother. As one of three products of that love I will always be thankful that my parents dared to be different, before it was commonplace, before it didn't matter so much. Love is not an easy thing under the best of circumstances, it doesn't bend to appease the masses or adjust for optimal comfort, but it does give us the chance to grow and learn and become better with the help of a good partner.
I am black and I am white, I was not stolen or adopted, I am weird, I am different and my mommy and daddy love the hell out of me and I them. Happy 32nd Anniversary to the white lady and black guy also known as Mothadear and Papabear that made me. Thanks for turning out ok.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Nodody shits in sinks anymore...
There are people in this world who know things about you, not bad things, not good things, just things. Those people just kind of feel it, they can touch it and reach you in a place very few people even see. These are the people you never forget. The first time I met one of those people he was tellin nigger jokes and could have gone swimming in his own pants. He made no apologies for his jokes once made aware of my ethnicity, I think he actually told a few more and for that I will always be grateful. We were'nt best friends but we were friends. There are a million stories that could be told about this character that was the NBJ himself. I'll only tell you a few. We were kids and we were dumb and we had fun. I saved his life once. Ok, maybe not saved his life but that pale fucker would have drowned in his own vomit on my parents front lawn if I hadn't hosed him down that night. It was Beefeater Gin and koolaid that did it and we'd both had a good amount. We were sitting in the back of my dads work truck with blankets and a few of us were hangin out. I was grounded for life and couldn't go out but could hang out outside if people came over. Occasionally people brought me things, that night it was Gin. My parents were out and shortly before they arrived home we realized our friend had passed out on the lawn when he had gone to throw up earlier. He was passed out in his own fucking vomit. I kicked him a few times then resorted to the hose. He jumped up when the cold water hit him and we laughed like idiots, he thanked me for savin his life, and I think my parents came home and everyone left.
I was grounded most of my highschool career. People came to visit and once in a while I'd be granted freedom but I don't think many people came to visit and hang out as often as the NBJ, he came and ate my mothers hot dogs - raw. He came and searched the couch cushions for change and once or twice I think he even helped my mother bring in groceries. He also answered our phone "Stratford abortion clinic, you rape em, we scrape em" at least once before gettin hit with the receiver for answering the phone in the first place. I can only assume his reasons for being at my house so often were that he got kicked out of his best friends house and mine was the closest. Whatever the reason I'm glad. He used to pretend to be running in front of cars and then fly back like you hit him but you were parked, and yea we were possibly, maybe, under the influence of tai food but for such a scrawny shit he sure made a thud and it was a simple kind of hilarious that most people seem to forget as they grow old. He also threw matches at me more than once and made fairly amusing jokes about what countries my tits could feed, but hey, no one is perfect. He was one of the few friends I never had a crush on and he always seemed to understand why I loved the things I did about the people he knew were more than just a crush. He carried a doorknob with him and was the first person I had ever heard use words like twatwaffle, grundelbisquit, and my personal favorite slampig, he said them as if they were the first words he'd ever learned and it was priceless to watch him talk shit. One morning after staying overnight at a friends house I woke up to him trying to break in through the window. He had plenty of jokes about the bed I was in but they were funny so I went and opened the door for him. When I left that day he and his best friend had taken a little joyride in the household car. When I got back a few hours later they were still gone and shortly before an adult came home you heard the car screech as they turned down the street and pulled in just in time. If I remember correctly they lost a hubcap somewhere upon entry but they made it just in time.
He almost caught me once while fishing for idiots. I was on my way into Dunkin Donuts for coffee and I saw a dollar. I stopped and considered picking it up, nearly went for it before remembering he liked to watch people chase the dollars and recalled that he hadn't gotten up to say hello to me just waved from the wall. Kelly on the other hand bent to go after it before I stopped her and pointed out the string attached to the dollar being held by the NBJ. Another Dunkin Donuts night he was running to the car to say hello. I opened the car door and got Hi Miiiiiii out of my mouth before vomitting. He helped me out of the car and walked with me to get coffee wich was more than the person who had driven me there was willing to do. It's shit like that you remember about a person, if they're doing anything right. He was a dick, but he had his moments and they were some really good ones. Six years is not quite as long as I knew him but it is as long as I've missed him and his inappropriate antics. I'm going to miss him for the better part of a lifetime and he is missing the better part of our lifetime. He wasn't my best friend but he was a good friend and I'm still angry he's not here to see the men and fathers, women and mothers his friends have grown to be and he's not here to make us laugh on our bad days, or meet our significant others with stories of our youth. He left us and for that, if there is a heaven or a summerland, and if I get there, one scrawny motherfuckin white dude with glowsticks and springs for earrings better be wearing a titanium cup to protect him from the nut shot I will be greeting him with.
I was grounded most of my highschool career. People came to visit and once in a while I'd be granted freedom but I don't think many people came to visit and hang out as often as the NBJ, he came and ate my mothers hot dogs - raw. He came and searched the couch cushions for change and once or twice I think he even helped my mother bring in groceries. He also answered our phone "Stratford abortion clinic, you rape em, we scrape em" at least once before gettin hit with the receiver for answering the phone in the first place. I can only assume his reasons for being at my house so often were that he got kicked out of his best friends house and mine was the closest. Whatever the reason I'm glad. He used to pretend to be running in front of cars and then fly back like you hit him but you were parked, and yea we were possibly, maybe, under the influence of tai food but for such a scrawny shit he sure made a thud and it was a simple kind of hilarious that most people seem to forget as they grow old. He also threw matches at me more than once and made fairly amusing jokes about what countries my tits could feed, but hey, no one is perfect. He was one of the few friends I never had a crush on and he always seemed to understand why I loved the things I did about the people he knew were more than just a crush. He carried a doorknob with him and was the first person I had ever heard use words like twatwaffle, grundelbisquit, and my personal favorite slampig, he said them as if they were the first words he'd ever learned and it was priceless to watch him talk shit. One morning after staying overnight at a friends house I woke up to him trying to break in through the window. He had plenty of jokes about the bed I was in but they were funny so I went and opened the door for him. When I left that day he and his best friend had taken a little joyride in the household car. When I got back a few hours later they were still gone and shortly before an adult came home you heard the car screech as they turned down the street and pulled in just in time. If I remember correctly they lost a hubcap somewhere upon entry but they made it just in time.
He almost caught me once while fishing for idiots. I was on my way into Dunkin Donuts for coffee and I saw a dollar. I stopped and considered picking it up, nearly went for it before remembering he liked to watch people chase the dollars and recalled that he hadn't gotten up to say hello to me just waved from the wall. Kelly on the other hand bent to go after it before I stopped her and pointed out the string attached to the dollar being held by the NBJ. Another Dunkin Donuts night he was running to the car to say hello. I opened the car door and got Hi Miiiiiii out of my mouth before vomitting. He helped me out of the car and walked with me to get coffee wich was more than the person who had driven me there was willing to do. It's shit like that you remember about a person, if they're doing anything right. He was a dick, but he had his moments and they were some really good ones. Six years is not quite as long as I knew him but it is as long as I've missed him and his inappropriate antics. I'm going to miss him for the better part of a lifetime and he is missing the better part of our lifetime. He wasn't my best friend but he was a good friend and I'm still angry he's not here to see the men and fathers, women and mothers his friends have grown to be and he's not here to make us laugh on our bad days, or meet our significant others with stories of our youth. He left us and for that, if there is a heaven or a summerland, and if I get there, one scrawny motherfuckin white dude with glowsticks and springs for earrings better be wearing a titanium cup to protect him from the nut shot I will be greeting him with.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Make it sound good, REAL good...
My 21st birthday started about an hour before I officially turned 21, we went to a bar called Helwigs and aside from that I mostly remember only the highlights. I know my Shoe was there, I know Sweet Dee was bartending, I know the same guy that pierced my nipples bought me my last ever shot of Jager and I know when the bar closed I was on the phone with a friend and screaming for the bikers parked in front to "Make it sound good, make it sound real good!". I know Shoe drove my car home and me in my short skirt and lowcut top hung out the passenger window pretty much the whole way home and I know I slept on the beach that night. I celebrated that particular birthday for 7 days and 7 nights and I remember enough to know it was a good fuckin week, much like a fair amount of weeks that year.
I lived in the house with some of the best people I will ever know, we partied like rockstars, fought like family, and once in a while someone did the dishes or I broke them, point is we had a good time bein young and dumb.
Of the 15 or so places I've lived in the last ten years that house of crazy was one of my best bad decisions. If the walls of that house could talk they would tell you the best of secrets and the worst of truths and all the really funny shit in between. Those idiots blew up a toilet once, they also drank beer in the shower and shot eachother and me with pellet guns among other things. We had theme parties, break shit parties, shot parties and even once or twice just an impromptu, plain old, party. We relaxed and enjoyed just plain livin and we fought and laughed and this is all starting to sound like a much nicer version than I thought I'd remember when the lease was up.
The thing about the past is it gets easier to look at and easier to fade out the bad. The bad, I was a whore, I threw a cat once, one of the most epic fights I ever had. Yes, I threw that mother fuckin cat after pulling a large sharp object out of a drawer, after throwing a penguin, after having a coconut thrown at my shin, in a room full of people who sat speechless. What no one knew was late at night when no one was around I used to comb that cat and clean his litter and make sure he was fed, granted I still threw the cat.~RIP Jerry. Back to the whore part, I brought home more dudes than any of the boys brought home girls, and I sent them all home right after.(Don't worry Mom, Dad condoms are a gals best friend!) Now, a few things I can hear being questioned right about now and you have to keep in mind, 1) I am the worst lez ever. 2) Yes, my parents read my blog and 3) No, I'm not ashamed of where I've been. My past is more than what the interwebs knows about me and any one who knows me could probably tell you much worse than this anyways. The point, I told a good amount of people ~ If they were gone when I got back from the shower that would be great.
The other thing about the past is its passed, it's not comin back around like Big Ben, it's not a place you want to live and it's not worth holding all that tight. Freedom comes with knowing that. Freedom comes in recognizing your biggest mistakes and making them into future victories and sometimes all it takes is a glance back at who you were to remember who you are. My 21st birthday I asked for my favorite people to be in the same place and somehow, the Friday night of my 7 day celebration, even if only for a short while, most of them were. I was late to my own party, my aunt took me out drinkin first to Alphas, then Rays, then home, where one of the boys asked me who the hot chick was, where Crouse sent me on a really good trip and at some point we had a topless congo line. I was fun once ya know! I am fuckin happiest when the people I love are, well, around. Is that all there is to take from that though? Two of the people there that day are dead, many of the people there that day I haven't seen in years and the ones that count are still around.
The things we do that remind us of the worst of who we used to be can be the best tools for stopping the replay. All the showers I took no one ever stayed or came back around, they never counted. The choices I've made are mine and the people that have stayed in my life, they're my people and the ones that didn't, they're my past. What the hell does any of this mean? Means today I wanted to remember. I drove trucks to be tall, I went to broadcasting school to find out who lived in the radio and I live like I do because objects in motion tend to stay in motion and the last time I let someone stop me I ended up in the shower. You figure it out, I'm goin to watch the sun go down...
I lived in the house with some of the best people I will ever know, we partied like rockstars, fought like family, and once in a while someone did the dishes or I broke them, point is we had a good time bein young and dumb.
Of the 15 or so places I've lived in the last ten years that house of crazy was one of my best bad decisions. If the walls of that house could talk they would tell you the best of secrets and the worst of truths and all the really funny shit in between. Those idiots blew up a toilet once, they also drank beer in the shower and shot eachother and me with pellet guns among other things. We had theme parties, break shit parties, shot parties and even once or twice just an impromptu, plain old, party. We relaxed and enjoyed just plain livin and we fought and laughed and this is all starting to sound like a much nicer version than I thought I'd remember when the lease was up.
The thing about the past is it gets easier to look at and easier to fade out the bad. The bad, I was a whore, I threw a cat once, one of the most epic fights I ever had. Yes, I threw that mother fuckin cat after pulling a large sharp object out of a drawer, after throwing a penguin, after having a coconut thrown at my shin, in a room full of people who sat speechless. What no one knew was late at night when no one was around I used to comb that cat and clean his litter and make sure he was fed, granted I still threw the cat.~RIP Jerry. Back to the whore part, I brought home more dudes than any of the boys brought home girls, and I sent them all home right after.(Don't worry Mom, Dad condoms are a gals best friend!) Now, a few things I can hear being questioned right about now and you have to keep in mind, 1) I am the worst lez ever. 2) Yes, my parents read my blog and 3) No, I'm not ashamed of where I've been. My past is more than what the interwebs knows about me and any one who knows me could probably tell you much worse than this anyways. The point, I told a good amount of people ~ If they were gone when I got back from the shower that would be great.
The other thing about the past is its passed, it's not comin back around like Big Ben, it's not a place you want to live and it's not worth holding all that tight. Freedom comes with knowing that. Freedom comes in recognizing your biggest mistakes and making them into future victories and sometimes all it takes is a glance back at who you were to remember who you are. My 21st birthday I asked for my favorite people to be in the same place and somehow, the Friday night of my 7 day celebration, even if only for a short while, most of them were. I was late to my own party, my aunt took me out drinkin first to Alphas, then Rays, then home, where one of the boys asked me who the hot chick was, where Crouse sent me on a really good trip and at some point we had a topless congo line. I was fun once ya know! I am fuckin happiest when the people I love are, well, around. Is that all there is to take from that though? Two of the people there that day are dead, many of the people there that day I haven't seen in years and the ones that count are still around.
The things we do that remind us of the worst of who we used to be can be the best tools for stopping the replay. All the showers I took no one ever stayed or came back around, they never counted. The choices I've made are mine and the people that have stayed in my life, they're my people and the ones that didn't, they're my past. What the hell does any of this mean? Means today I wanted to remember. I drove trucks to be tall, I went to broadcasting school to find out who lived in the radio and I live like I do because objects in motion tend to stay in motion and the last time I let someone stop me I ended up in the shower. You figure it out, I'm goin to watch the sun go down...
Monday, April 2, 2012
A tarnished star, and the rule of thumb...
In the first few minutes of the movie Boondock Saints there is a scene where a woman firmly explains the history of the phrase "rule of thumb". The scene - awesome, the movie - amazing, My reason for bringing it up? The woman played by Dot Marie Jones (Google her) has a tattoo that says "Untouched by man." The first time I saw this I was 19 maybe 20 and had no idea there was more out there than what you learn in school or among childhood friends. Years later I know bath houses really do exist, neither black nor white likes a bi-racial truck drivin girl in the state of Mississippi and there is far more to the world than this tiny sliver of life here in Connecticut or anything we will ever learn by stayin in one place too long. Somewhere in my travels I learned there was significance to that scene, a relevance that goes unnoticed, and maybe it's only me that makes the connection but I somehow doubt it and now you'll think of this when you see it wether you agree or not.
Fun Fact: A Gold star lesbian is a lesbian who has never had sex with a man - untouched by man - biblically.
Last night in a room filled with a majority of trendy, modern day, lesbian seagulls, I realized how little I fit. Don't get me wrong, I'm fucking awesome in my own tarnished chrome kind of way but much like I was never black enough for the black kids as a kid, I'm not sure I will ever be lez enough for the lesbians as an adult. One might attribute that to the approximately 1/5 female to male partner ratio but only friends know the specifics on those statistics, so, really it must be me right? Even so, in a room with shiny gold stars its intimidating to be the not so shiny one, but thats life isn't it? No ones really that fuckin shiny anyways.
I knew at an early age I liked both girls and boys, I knew at a later age that sometimes, sometimes we do what is easy rather than what honestly feels good or right and I know now that my attractions to both has little to do with physical form and everything to do with personality and possibility. I don't know that I've ever really looked at people as their parts but more as the sparkle in their eyes and the heart that fuels them. I see potential and I see something indescribably amazing in a handful of people and personality types and I could get lost in that, like really lost in that. This kind of lost leaves no space for registering what sexual parts a person has, the time wasted evaluating that is about 6 months and it gets messy. The point is lately more and more I can see how for me, its not what I see that turns me on, but who I see and if I am really honest with myself , fuck the details.
In a room full of people lastnight three people knew my name when I left, the 2 folk lovin, Falcon Ridge goin, hippie dudes with kids my age (Thanks for the beer guys!) and Chris Pureka. While if she remembers it the next time I see her I will be amazed and even more ridiculous over her, I don't imagine she's writing love songs about meeting me. The thing is I'm still not quite sure how I managed to not lose my mind. With the simple act of buying a tshirt turning into a discussion with someone else in front of the aformentioned folk singer about how great my boobs would look in said tshirt and then going back later to get a postcard for my collection only to find that she remembered my name. There is something about the way someone your attracted to says your name. There's this millisecond that feels like forever in the best way where you stop, breathe and tell yourself not to act a fool. It's possible this only happens to me but I'm fairly certain everyone has something that triggers the stop, breathe, don't act a fool reaction when done by someone they're into. For me its hearing my name come out of their mouth, that and watching them wash dishes. Don't laugh at me, to see someone I want (-biblically -) wash my dishes, it's like Halloween, Mardi Gras, New years and my 21st Birthday all combined into one really fuckin awesome 4th of July firework show ~ in my lady parts. I digress...
What I'm getting at here, I'm not even sure I have a clue anymore. I guess what it is, is that all the unladylike behavior thats created some of my best stories from the bedroom don't amount to but maybe two sexual situations where I can say I felt truly right and honestly beautiful. (The ratio on that is one to one, female to male for anyone workin the math on this.) I can count those moments, add the times someone has made me feel lost in that good way, and still have somewhere between 3 and 5 fingers left out of 10. As I grow so does my interest in feeling, that feeling, that way, for more than just a fleeting sexual moment. It's taken too long for me to accept that I don't have to choose a sexual preference, I simply have to recognize that maybe no one else can understand what it is that really turns me on about the people I'm attracted too. Those people being Butch of either male or female parts and if you need that explained by all means ask but there is just not enough room here to get into that statement in full. For space I will simply quote S. Bear Bergman "Butch is a noun, and an adjective, and a verb...", read the whole book, its amazing (and not too long).
Above and beyond sex at this strange stage in my life, I prefer the beauty of the verbally triggered orgasm and the intensity of knowing just how fast my heart is beating and hoping they have no idea, and then maybe hoping they do. I'd rather this than the sex with the lights out, hiding every detail of who we are. I want to see and be seen, I prefer the idea that maybe the person who makes me laugh and smile and calms me down with even just a small understanding of my awkwardness, might be someone who can wait to fuck me. A gentleman, a true Butch and worth the time it takes to find them. I am a Femme, I am a tarnished star and I might not be the lady you think I am but I'm ok with that. I'm wearing the tshirt now by the way and my tits look AMAZING in it, no bra! One of a million great stories of my adventures!
It was blind intuition that drew me to you, you were a miracle of sadness ~ Chris Pureka, Shipwreck
Fun Fact: A Gold star lesbian is a lesbian who has never had sex with a man - untouched by man - biblically.
Last night in a room filled with a majority of trendy, modern day, lesbian seagulls, I realized how little I fit. Don't get me wrong, I'm fucking awesome in my own tarnished chrome kind of way but much like I was never black enough for the black kids as a kid, I'm not sure I will ever be lez enough for the lesbians as an adult. One might attribute that to the approximately 1/5 female to male partner ratio but only friends know the specifics on those statistics, so, really it must be me right? Even so, in a room with shiny gold stars its intimidating to be the not so shiny one, but thats life isn't it? No ones really that fuckin shiny anyways.
I knew at an early age I liked both girls and boys, I knew at a later age that sometimes, sometimes we do what is easy rather than what honestly feels good or right and I know now that my attractions to both has little to do with physical form and everything to do with personality and possibility. I don't know that I've ever really looked at people as their parts but more as the sparkle in their eyes and the heart that fuels them. I see potential and I see something indescribably amazing in a handful of people and personality types and I could get lost in that, like really lost in that. This kind of lost leaves no space for registering what sexual parts a person has, the time wasted evaluating that is about 6 months and it gets messy. The point is lately more and more I can see how for me, its not what I see that turns me on, but who I see and if I am really honest with myself , fuck the details.
In a room full of people lastnight three people knew my name when I left, the 2 folk lovin, Falcon Ridge goin, hippie dudes with kids my age (Thanks for the beer guys!) and Chris Pureka. While if she remembers it the next time I see her I will be amazed and even more ridiculous over her, I don't imagine she's writing love songs about meeting me. The thing is I'm still not quite sure how I managed to not lose my mind. With the simple act of buying a tshirt turning into a discussion with someone else in front of the aformentioned folk singer about how great my boobs would look in said tshirt and then going back later to get a postcard for my collection only to find that she remembered my name. There is something about the way someone your attracted to says your name. There's this millisecond that feels like forever in the best way where you stop, breathe and tell yourself not to act a fool. It's possible this only happens to me but I'm fairly certain everyone has something that triggers the stop, breathe, don't act a fool reaction when done by someone they're into. For me its hearing my name come out of their mouth, that and watching them wash dishes. Don't laugh at me, to see someone I want (-biblically -) wash my dishes, it's like Halloween, Mardi Gras, New years and my 21st Birthday all combined into one really fuckin awesome 4th of July firework show ~ in my lady parts. I digress...
What I'm getting at here, I'm not even sure I have a clue anymore. I guess what it is, is that all the unladylike behavior thats created some of my best stories from the bedroom don't amount to but maybe two sexual situations where I can say I felt truly right and honestly beautiful. (The ratio on that is one to one, female to male for anyone workin the math on this.) I can count those moments, add the times someone has made me feel lost in that good way, and still have somewhere between 3 and 5 fingers left out of 10. As I grow so does my interest in feeling, that feeling, that way, for more than just a fleeting sexual moment. It's taken too long for me to accept that I don't have to choose a sexual preference, I simply have to recognize that maybe no one else can understand what it is that really turns me on about the people I'm attracted too. Those people being Butch of either male or female parts and if you need that explained by all means ask but there is just not enough room here to get into that statement in full. For space I will simply quote S. Bear Bergman "Butch is a noun, and an adjective, and a verb...", read the whole book, its amazing (and not too long).
Above and beyond sex at this strange stage in my life, I prefer the beauty of the verbally triggered orgasm and the intensity of knowing just how fast my heart is beating and hoping they have no idea, and then maybe hoping they do. I'd rather this than the sex with the lights out, hiding every detail of who we are. I want to see and be seen, I prefer the idea that maybe the person who makes me laugh and smile and calms me down with even just a small understanding of my awkwardness, might be someone who can wait to fuck me. A gentleman, a true Butch and worth the time it takes to find them. I am a Femme, I am a tarnished star and I might not be the lady you think I am but I'm ok with that. I'm wearing the tshirt now by the way and my tits look AMAZING in it, no bra! One of a million great stories of my adventures!
It was blind intuition that drew me to you, you were a miracle of sadness ~ Chris Pureka, Shipwreck
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Ever been hit with a bag of Spaghetti?
Maybe I was in the kitchen, but I think I was in my room and drawn out only to be rudely suprised by a bag of spaghetti to the head. I don't remember all of that time in my life clearly but I do remember it fondly. You learn alot living in a house full of guys, then again you learn alot just by living. I've done a shitload of really dumb things and had ALOT of fun doing all of them and while I now recognize just how dumb most of my best stories are I regret none of them. I've been giving this no apologies no regrets lifestyle of mine some serious and sincere thought lately and have yet to come to any conclusions as to wether or not I'm totally karmically fucked for living like this. I've also been wondering if I'm really living by it. Anyone who knows me knows I don't believe in apologies unless they're sincere and for real things, I'm sorry lost its value to me circa 2002. I only use the words if I actually mean them and I apologize sparingly as to uphold my rep as the last true insensitive. So I guess that means I do live as close to "No apologies" as anyone with some kind of heart actually could.
This leaves me pondering regret. Do I regret shaving the back of my head a few weeks before christmas in highschool, losing my virginity in a field instead of a bed, drinkin a 23 year old under the table at 17 then screaming "Stop the world I wanna get off" from the back seat of a friends car as I threw up and took my clothes off all while hanging out the window of a moving vehicle? Nope, don't regret that shit, they're funny fuckin stories. Breakin plates on my own kitchen floor, losin my shit cuz 6 boys didn't know how to do dishes, topless congo lines and sleepin on the beach for my 21st birthday, pirate parties with sand from the actual beach... ok had to think about it but no I don't regret that shit either. Would I do it again, probably not, but I can't ever imagine being sorry I did it. Now thats the fun stuff how about the crappier decisions like moving in with an asshole and all the crap that goes along with that old, old story no one needs to hear, nope don't regret that either. It made me strong, you can't regret the things that make you strong without taking something away from who you are. I'm built like a brick house, so I'm good with strong. Without the bad I'm not sure I'd know the good. Do I regret any of my HORRIBLE roomate choices or career choices or ridiculous plans to do what I may, or may not, believe are AWESOME things, nope still got nothin. We're about a paragraph and 2 decades in and yes this is the highlights but still no regrets. This is where I had to look it up, websters dictionary defines regret (in the noun form) as : Sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond ones control or power to repair.
Ok, terrific, we're back to sorry but with a twist. What, of any of the things I've done or been through am I sorry I cannot change? Here, is where I find my 2 definite 100 percent without a doubt, regrets. They both involve dead people, I can't change anything about the decisions I made, but in both cases, not a day goes by I don't wish I could. Number one, not calling Crouse the weekend before he died and number two never telling my Aunt that one night in a truckstop in Ohio her shithead alcoholic husband attempted to kiss me after a few beers. Now, I never really called Mike Crouse except to get other peoples phone numbers, we just weren't friends like that but the whole weekend before he died I was afraid he was gonna OD and I had a feelin I should call him. I didn't, he did and I miss the fuck out of him.
My Aunt, maybe he told her, maybe he didn't, we never talked about it, he probably didn't remember it and if he did, he knows he creeped me the fuck out, but I never told her. I told her everything but I never told her that and now she's dead.
So, regret for me I would define it as simply this ~ When you know there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do about it, but you still wish you could. It's the wishing you could that I see most people get lost in piles of regret and I've recently found myself in this whole new place where I wish I could change the impression this one person has of me, and its frightening because I feel this regret thing is a slippery slope. The reality is either this person has no idea who I really am or maybe they do, or maybe I have no idea who I really am, but I do, it took me a long time but I do. Then someone came along and suddenly I'm a dumb girl nervous and incapable of basic normalcy (ya know for me) instead of the Gune, Shoe, Jugs, Sicklecell, Rainbow, Scalpel, Eddie, Mz Mitzy, combo pack of nicknames and awesome I TOTALLY am. I question wether I can even actually count this as a regret. If a person is living, there's hope that at some point you can do something about whatever it is that's bothering you. Is having that chance enough if you never do anything with it? Do you take it as a lesson learned and move on? Is nothing sometimes the best thing you can do? I hate awkward moments, it's a problem because I often create them and then react by making them more awkward or doing absolutely nothing. Until now I've never had a regret for any of the things I have done only those two things I didn't do and maybe that one other thing, that time in Wisconsin but that is neither here nor there. The jury is still out on this whole bein a girl debaucle but I feel it leaning toward lesson learned and do nothing.
This leaves me pondering regret. Do I regret shaving the back of my head a few weeks before christmas in highschool, losing my virginity in a field instead of a bed, drinkin a 23 year old under the table at 17 then screaming "Stop the world I wanna get off" from the back seat of a friends car as I threw up and took my clothes off all while hanging out the window of a moving vehicle? Nope, don't regret that shit, they're funny fuckin stories. Breakin plates on my own kitchen floor, losin my shit cuz 6 boys didn't know how to do dishes, topless congo lines and sleepin on the beach for my 21st birthday, pirate parties with sand from the actual beach... ok had to think about it but no I don't regret that shit either. Would I do it again, probably not, but I can't ever imagine being sorry I did it. Now thats the fun stuff how about the crappier decisions like moving in with an asshole and all the crap that goes along with that old, old story no one needs to hear, nope don't regret that either. It made me strong, you can't regret the things that make you strong without taking something away from who you are. I'm built like a brick house, so I'm good with strong. Without the bad I'm not sure I'd know the good. Do I regret any of my HORRIBLE roomate choices or career choices or ridiculous plans to do what I may, or may not, believe are AWESOME things, nope still got nothin. We're about a paragraph and 2 decades in and yes this is the highlights but still no regrets. This is where I had to look it up, websters dictionary defines regret (in the noun form) as : Sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond ones control or power to repair.
Ok, terrific, we're back to sorry but with a twist. What, of any of the things I've done or been through am I sorry I cannot change? Here, is where I find my 2 definite 100 percent without a doubt, regrets. They both involve dead people, I can't change anything about the decisions I made, but in both cases, not a day goes by I don't wish I could. Number one, not calling Crouse the weekend before he died and number two never telling my Aunt that one night in a truckstop in Ohio her shithead alcoholic husband attempted to kiss me after a few beers. Now, I never really called Mike Crouse except to get other peoples phone numbers, we just weren't friends like that but the whole weekend before he died I was afraid he was gonna OD and I had a feelin I should call him. I didn't, he did and I miss the fuck out of him.
My Aunt, maybe he told her, maybe he didn't, we never talked about it, he probably didn't remember it and if he did, he knows he creeped me the fuck out, but I never told her. I told her everything but I never told her that and now she's dead.
So, regret for me I would define it as simply this ~ When you know there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do about it, but you still wish you could. It's the wishing you could that I see most people get lost in piles of regret and I've recently found myself in this whole new place where I wish I could change the impression this one person has of me, and its frightening because I feel this regret thing is a slippery slope. The reality is either this person has no idea who I really am or maybe they do, or maybe I have no idea who I really am, but I do, it took me a long time but I do. Then someone came along and suddenly I'm a dumb girl nervous and incapable of basic normalcy (ya know for me) instead of the Gune, Shoe, Jugs, Sicklecell, Rainbow, Scalpel, Eddie, Mz Mitzy, combo pack of nicknames and awesome I TOTALLY am. I question wether I can even actually count this as a regret. If a person is living, there's hope that at some point you can do something about whatever it is that's bothering you. Is having that chance enough if you never do anything with it? Do you take it as a lesson learned and move on? Is nothing sometimes the best thing you can do? I hate awkward moments, it's a problem because I often create them and then react by making them more awkward or doing absolutely nothing. Until now I've never had a regret for any of the things I have done only those two things I didn't do and maybe that one other thing, that time in Wisconsin but that is neither here nor there. The jury is still out on this whole bein a girl debaucle but I feel it leaning toward lesson learned and do nothing.
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