This monogamy thing isn’t working out for me.
I’ve never faltered from it, because it, like all things, is a commitment.
But, I find myself actually dreaming of a polyamorous lifestyle.
Plus, my partner is forever unfaithful, and being noble for the sake of nobility feels silly, after a while.
Amidst today’s chaos, I completely forgot to note that we’ve gone on Atkins. Stephen’s post…
…inspired us to get back in our suits. Of course, my vinyl Harley costume was made for a tiny (size 2?) body. But, I look forward to something like this.
It’s easy, it’s healthy, and it’s cheaper than a $1500 bacon nasal drip.
Hello, world. I’m back from my sudden hiatus. That was a terrible sickness.
Though…I’m not entirely sure whether I feel completely healed, or I just can’t stand to spend another day in bed and watch the chaos unfold around me.
We have, however, established that this is why Max loves dad best.
God is a man.
If god were a woman, he would have made our vaginas like mouths.
We would be able to close them. They would have protective teeth.
They wouldn’t just hang open like Sarlacc pits, waiting for anything and everything to fall into them.
I need to invest in some protective rubber underwear or something.
What the fuck, god?
We can wax poetic for decades, but the second we turn eyes to the axis upon which our emotions turn, our tongues betray us and fall down the towering staircase of babbling idiocy like meaty Slinkies.
Oh, how I would love to tell my muses how I feel.
Is it so impossible, to tell someone that they had a profound effect on your life?
Wouldn’t I like to hear such things? Wouldn’t I be touched?
Very much so – I carry those experiences close to my heart. Certainly, it is the smallest favor I can do to bestow a similar gift upon the people who have so affected me.
So then, why does the telling of such a feeling come out like “I want to roll up your dryer lint and use it as ben wa balls?”
We live in a world so devoid of poetry that poetry sounds alternatively trite and insincere, or obsessive and insane. Either way, it is a foreign tongue to the Everyman. And you cannot simplify what is closest to your heart, dirty it with slang and apathy, pass it off like everything else on the street. What have we, then, but writers who are ultimately distanced from everyone but other writers, but others familiar in their own tongue, themselves pressed by emotions and affairs of their own.
You, all the people I love, you will never know what I really meant to say.
And my writer friends, I feel your pain and share your heartache.
No comedian is afraid to laugh at themselves.
That’s my beloved friend, Russ.
Now, he’s ex-military, working on Pearl Harbor, trying to mask the pains of multiple sclerosis.
19 years ago, he was my first punk friend and the target of my intense infatuation.
Now, I love Russ because he is smart, sensitive, powerful, funny, and talented.
Then, I loved Russ because we lived in Wonderbreadecticut and even the help’s children weren’t allowed mohawks. He wore sunglasses at night and that was awesome.
I was like an Elvis groupie, trying to keep it all inside.
I got my first job so that I could listen to him play.
I cut my hair short and dyed it black to impress him.
To appreciate that, know that I have cut my hair short twice in my life. Russ was the first time. The second time was when my only blood sibling passed away.
I’ve never dyed it black again.
I would have died if he knew how I felt.
Because I was a young girl. Because I had no idea what to do with my feelings. I was pretending that I was Poison Ivy but was unable to imagine the depth of emotion required to actually be it.
So, of course, my best friend – Meghan – invited him over to her house (while I was there) and told him (while I was out of the room).
He promptly walked into the room where I was buckling the ankle strap to my high heels and offered a hand to help me to my feet. I felt terrible; women always took so long to get ready and-
As I took his hand, he hoisted me to my feet and kissed me – deeply.
All of that Elvis groupie that I’d been keeping inside burst inside my head like fireworks. As a thousand teenage girls screamed in a cacophonous din in my ears, I yelped and lunged backward in surprise…over the side of Meghan’s bed and directly into her cat’s litter box – ass first.
Up until that point, that was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.
I communicated something to that effect, like “that was the worst thing to ever happen to me,” forgetting to note that I was talking about my ass in the litter box and not the kiss.
The events following that moment are a blur, but I’m pretty sure I hid in a bathroom for a while.
Russ joined the military. I went on to date a series of hapless idiots and build a bad_sex library.
The moral of the story is about fearlessness. Everybody always asks where it comes from. Fearlessness is born when the fear of shame is crushed under the wisdom of lost opportunity.
It was many and many a year ago (2004, actually).
I’d just bought my first house, and my then-husband had just copulated with his best friend’s fiance – not necessarily violating the sexual rules of our open marriage, but definitely violating their monogamous relationship, the bonds of brotherhood, and the decency rules applicable to all mankind.
When I was a teenager, I frequented a particular AOL chatroom. We, the frequenters, stayed friends and became great real-life friends as we grew older. Well, most of us.
One of them was a habitual liar…which is something you have to discover the hard way.
They set me up on a date, with a tall, dark, handsome stranger who was too elite for anyone.
The truth is ludicrous, really…and something I wish I’d learned before publishing to bad sex communities.
The truth is that they, with nine(?) brothers, were born in a cabin in the woods.
No education. No social security numbers. Illiterate, insane, and according to him, inbred.
In my wildest fiction, I wouldn’t write that. It is too weird. Reality, however, makes far less sense than fiction.
So, after the I laughed at his penis (I honestly thought he was making a joke) and taught him about the existence of “ice buckets,” we went our separate ways. Or so I thought.
Sometime after “Facehugging in the Crackhouse Swamp,” but before telling everyone that a bee stung him and he developed amnesia (before hitting on me again), he told his small cadre of illiterati that I was still “somewhere in these woods” and wildly fornicating with locals. Also, he asked his male lover…
…I’m really glad I’ve got a chat program going on while I write this, because it allows me moments to compose myself.
…his male lover to perpetuate his story, claiming that he and I were somehow together.
I want to make some argument like “I was posting from my office, not living in the woods,” but then I realized that illiterate cannibal hillbillies don’t have internet access.
Fast forward eight years and many relationships, and his former (male) lover still sends me messages of the variety suggesting we are outrunning some redneck Illuminati.
Imagine, if you will, if the Illuminati were destitute and illiterate, what a threat they would be.
Since I have systematically eliminated every idiotic presence in my life, including the man with one arm who sought sexual counsel for the woman with one present (unfortunately on the opposite side), who previously reported to him, Amnesia From Bees and his fellows have no other way to contact me.
I feel like, after eight years of material, I should be writing a comic about this or something.
Max is 1 1/2 years old – old enough to decide what he wants to do on his birthday, apparently. We took him to the park but he was having none of it. Shortly after this picture was taken, I asked, “Do you think we should go?” and he shot me the best Stewie face I’ve ever seen.
Mel Hynes completed the 100 Foods To Eat Before You Die quiz, and commented that she was surprised to see “moon pies” on the list, as surely, everyone has eaten them.
I haven’t. They simply weren’t available in local stores. Investigation revealed that they are largely a southern delicacy.
The list seems to focus upon staples of regional diets and stereotypical foods of people with and without financial means, making it hard for any one person to score high. I almost felt like I was cheating, really, by adding foods I’d only eaten once (like octopus – which I ordered in a Cuban restaurant largely to freak out my coworkers) or eaten recently (like Pocky – after a night of anime, when it was discovered that I had never eaten Pocky, we were sent on our own quest). But, even with those items, I only scored a 35.
Thanks to Ian, I discovered a fantastic book – a moon pie take on Where The Wild Things Are:
We must find our own moon pies, someday.
I fear I’ll never be a foodie. My inner foodie is a five-year-old child. I was surfing WhatTheFuckShouldIMakeForDinner.com (upon recommendation of Jamie Stone), and my inner foodie recoiled in horror at the first suggestion – “creamed oysters and ham.”
Ugh. Ten years have passed, and Poppy Z. Brite’s homoerotic cannibal experience entitled “Exquisite Corpse” still hasn’t left me. “He swallowed his testicle like a raw oyster.” Ugh.
But as I said, a five-year-old child. I can’t help wondering why somebody would mess up perfectly good food with weird deviations. What’s wrong with spaghetti and meatballs? Why do you have to put clams in it? What’s wrong with sandwiches and cookies for lunch?
Heh. I will never cover everything on that list. If it weren’t for spite, I think I would have had to have stopped at “Hostess Fruit Pies.”
The more you write characters, the less you understand people, because fiction – unlike real life – has to make sense. Actions are driven by personal motivations, based in logic and suiting the appropriate personality. In real life, people are batshit crazy and rarely, if ever, offer complete truths.
Of course, everyone believes they, alone, offer complete truths – as most people believe they are easy to please and easy to understand. From our perspective, and given our knowledge, the view is quite clear – and knowing what we know, it is hard to imagine that others cannot see it. We’re not easy to please, or easy to understand…or, perhaps, clear in what we say, except to ourselves, as we possess knowledge of the nearly infinite details of our moods, memories, and overall minds.
I get so frustrated with my partner, sometimes, as I become frustrated with “outsiders.”
I have been spoiled by the skilled communicators that I call friends. I cannot make sense of people who cannot illustrate their ideas. It’s like trying to listen to a television monologue in a crowded room – you catch pieces of sentences and traces of expression, and struggle to piece together the whole from the incomplete collection of parts.
It’s fucking tedious. Who has time for that, in this life? We are here for but a sliver of eternity, a flash of life like the striking of a match. Further, subtract from that time sleeping, working, the myriad responsibilities of life, and you are left with moments – fucking moments – where you are truly free to experience life.
And to have those moments squandered on…what? Insecurity? Distraction?
I don’t know what compels people to hold their tongues. I would seek it out and destroy it, though.
I don’t understand my partner’s reaction to the evening.
He claims trauma from simple events. I can’t tell if he’s actually traumatized, if he wants to be traumatized, if he is pretending to be traumatized for my amusement, or if he should be traumatized from events he is afraid to convey to me. The situation is loathsome, ridiculous and I feel I can’t get a real answer. I could ask his company (my friends), but that would be even more embarrassing.
Yet…perhaps I am insensitive. If someone tells you that they are troubled, you don’t respond that their feelings are stupid. If I was less invested, I would care less. I think it’s that I expect more from my partner than the world. Yet I cannot simply will answers into being said.
I hate this. I long for another time in my life, when open discussion was something I took for granted.
If it’s wrong to be amused by your significant other’s suffering, then I don’t want to be right.
Mine went out to a goth night.
First, dressing like you’re twenty when you’re thirty is no less creepy than dressing like you’re ten when you’re twenty.
Second, he’s pretending it’s for work, but he bleached his hair, wore his favorite clothes and even put on make-up.
I’m a girl. We invented this act. I know what date/event excitement looks like.
As much as I’d like to be asleep, I’m awake, because the baby is awake and I have to drive a friend to the train station in six hours. So, I googled tonight’s event. As his editor, I’m going to be writing an article about the place, anyway.
It’s not a goth event. I have no idea where he got that idea.
It’s a rap/hip-hop event.
He’s going to be the only white guy, who happens to be wearing make-up, at a rap/hip-hop event.
It’s almost sad – one of two things will happen; either he’ll come back to me in pieces, or he’ll come back and tell me what a great goth night it was, and then I’ll cut him into pieces.
I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter holiday.
I accepted that festivities are a part of childhood, and thus a part of parenthood. I am trying to be more festive.
But I’m not very good at being festive…
My celebrations bear the marks of humor and whimsy. Inflatable sheep, giant cock Twinkies with glazed balls, a literal army of lawn ornaments…well, you get the idea.
This Easter, I tried to be normal. I went to the store and purchased rainbow Easter baskets and a small array of candy for a few of my friends. They’re all dieting, as per usual…but…well…it’s Easter.
I could have made them Atkins-friendly Easter eggs, but after the Rainbow Shits and Giggles Cake…well, people are still talking about rainbow excrement that lasts for days.
So, standard Easter candy it is. Can’t go wrong with that. Nothing exciting about that.
After preparing the baskets, I read on Facebook that my friends were enjoying Passover.
… … ….
Okay, back to old faithful – a big box of dick. It’s non-denominational and you can’t go wrong with sex toys. Everybody needs them, and nobody buys them, because people are ashamed.
But I didn’t have any time to order them online, and there wasn’t a local store for miles.
Okay. I’ll just give them candy and many-flavored lube selections. And condoms. And whatever else I can find in the Slut department of my local supermarket.
Three stores and NOTHING. The “family planning” section (read: “YOU FUCKING WHORES!”) was filled with winged clampillows.
At the fourth store, I finally tracked down a manager and asked, gently, so as not to kill someone’s grandfather with shock, why they were nowhere to be found. Santa told me they were behind the customer service desk.
“Why?” I asked. I mean, is lube so scandalous? Need I point out to management that their grocery aisles are overflowing with pleasure tools masquerading as food and home products?
I was told that we are in the midst of an epidemic, where bad people take the products from the shelves, dash to the public restroom, and use the products – all without paying.
A) It’s a supermarket restroom. Even the employees screw in the stock area.
B) LUBE! You’re all slimy and sticky! Who wants Heated Strawberry Sparkle trickling down their leg?
We live in a strange world, but at least their unhygienic vandalism is holiday-appropriate.
This festive crap is going to take some practice.