Archive for February, 2011

There are people in my house. No, that’s not accurate enough. There are people with children and a dog that’s the spawn of Satan in my house…and they look like they’re staying for a while…a long, long while.

New life goal: revert to old life goal of living alone in a shack in the woods…but nothing like Thoreau. Fuck Thoreau. And Hemingway. Fuck him, too.

I had to narrate while watching myself on tape today at work. Narrate. I had to narrate step by step what my space cadet thought processes might have been.

Thoughts of note: Are you making history without me, Wisconsin? What world did I wake up from with all that tepid water overlooking mountains instead of the mountains looking over me? I can’t go over the physics of constructing furniture out of cardboard right now…Oh, shit! Fuck! Damn!

Do you want me to narrate accurately, boss? Or would you like me to edit out to the pertinent information only? Step by step. Here’s the breakdown: Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this…Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck off. I’m done.

I need a haircut.

the ducks

Posted: February 18, 2011 in otiose

Anthropomorphic ducks are almost never cute. A good example of how this goes horribly wrong can be seen with Howard the Duck. For my own peace of mind, I won’t link that, and if you’re unfamiliar, don’t look it up.

My mother bought me a set of salt and pepper shakers that we saw once during Easter at a fabric store. They weren’t anthropomorphic, but certainly characterized. The female had a bow on her head, and the male had a bow tie.

You filled them one day while I was out without asking, and I noticed right away because they were out of place. Now, I’m not compulsive like Kathy Bates in Misery when she notices her figurines are askew…well, I might notice, but I’m not that crazy.

I didn’t hobble you.

Sigh…you filled them, which struck me as close to mortifying. I didn’t intend to ever use them. This was partially because I liked them, but mostly because I wasn’t a salt and pepper lover. I rarely added either to anything I made unless I was fullout cooking, and then I brought all of the spices out that I wanted.

I’ve never been one to prepare something and then add more salt, and pepper doesn’t commonly come in unwieldy jugs. If you’re a pepper fanatic, you get pepper corns and grind them. I am not a pepper fanatic. I’m leery of adding more salt to anything, but you also ate ketchup on your eggs, so we clearly didn’t see eye to eye in the kitchen.

You filled them. Okay. When I asked you why, you said you didn’t like things sitting around being useless. I accepted this. I even understood it, considering that your mother’s house was full of useless brickabrack. Cluttered with it. Plastered and caked with obnoxious little knickknacks. My apartment may have been small, but it wasn’t like that. I had very few trinkets lying about, and so you’d sniffed a couple out. I picked up the boy with his purple bow tie and sighed with the unexpected task of getting used to this new purposeful thing.

“This is salt!” I exclaimed in irritation upon tipping the contents into my palm.
“Yeah…” and what did I expect it to be? “They’re salt and pepper shakers.”
“Yeah…” with a little more edge, but the same tone, “and this is the pepper shaker.” I held it up to your face. In your face. It was the pepper shaker. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?

Apparently, it’s not standardized.


Posted: February 18, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , , , ,

My housemates made mention of wanting to get a washer and dryer for the house before Christmas, so I’ve been holding out on the local laundromat in hopes of their arrival since…before Christmas.

Well, they haven’t shown up in the basement, so needless to say, my laundry has needed washing for a while now.

I finally gave in, packed it all away, and ventured off to my laundromat. There’s one half a block from me, but I don’t like that one very much, so I go around the corner.

Today, I met a boy by the uninteresting name of Mike, but his hair more than made up for it. He had a scintillating fro–not too big, but just big enough–straight out of the seventies, but he didn’t look to have hit the legal drinking age yet. He said hello and asked me what I was reading.

Fuck me, I’m still trying to get through Walden and definitely don’t want to talk about it. Please, don’t think I’m a prick for trying. God, it’s awful.

He deliberately got in my way a few more times, and left his personal affects out for me to steal them. I liked his things; they were simple. His keys did not have a panic button or remote start option, and his phone was not smart.

There was an awful lot of pink in his laundry.

I wondered what sort of pretty girl he must have that she could convince him to do her laundry. I’ve never had any male aside from my dad so much as think about running my clothes through the wash for me.

I’m wearing bright green with purple and red today, but all of my laundry consists of grey t-shirts and blue jeans since I generally only bother to get dressed for the day job and nothing else can go through a laundromat. Hundreds of white socks. We looked at each other’s laundry, and I suspect we both were wondering whose laundry the other had.

He talked on his phone for a while about bills with the interest only allotted to those that haven’t dealt with them before. Break them all down. Isn’t that satisfying? I’m a grown-up.

Playing house.

Another boy took this opportunity to wait until I was bent over my laundry to swoop up, look down, and ask me about the dryers. Really? Why don’t you just shove your quarter in and see where it gets you instead of asking me how much it costs to run? It’s not complicated. See the little slot there with the giant arrow and the flashing digital read-out? There’s everything you need to know. It obviously doesn’t run on nickles, silver dollars, wishes, good intentions or laundry tokens.

“Quarters Only”

He asked me, either because he wanted an excuse to say something to me, or he was just plain dumb. Maybe he’s had a girl doing his laundry his whole life, and I was the only female there that spoke English; skewed “standard American” English from the upper mid-west, but more English than the only other woman in the place was about to let on.

Left alone, I got sick of Walden and picked up one of two magazines available. I took the one for backpacking, forcing a middle aged man to pick up Cosmo…only to throw it down in disgust a minute later while I read about how stupid “wilderness buffs” are, approaching the same level of disgust.

Mike knew to take out the padded bras and slinky black dress before loading the dryers. He knew to filter all that pink shit out from the white, but that boy…that silly boy let that gold sequins top spin around and around while he shot the shit about his overwhelming excitement to be out on his own with four housemates. Somebody–somebody very lucky to have captured a boy with stellar hair and a wonderful accent who’s willing to do her laundry–is going to be very upset with him.

not delusional

Posted: February 15, 2011 in proselytizaytion

I’m going to live as if you’re with me, because I want to be with you.
I want to be the sort of person I think you deserve
even if I’m not that person
and don’t know you.

I’m stepping into my mind now, and I don’t care if I come back.
I still want to be the better version of myself that you had me thinking I could be…

whom I am not.

I’ll have to start small, because I’ve slid back a long ways
from who I was when you were someone else.

I miss you.


That person I never successfully got to know
that’s fluid and grows
receding into reality’s obscurity
without taking me along in the folds of your lips.

I miss that allusive being, but hope you’re well.
I’ll let myself hope for that.
Hope can’t cause much damage when there’s no substrate to collide with…
and you’re not in my life now.

No, that man who you are isn’t here, because he said he didn’t want to be
but I can still hope that he’s doing okay.

I can still miss him
think about him
harbor feelings for him.

I never knew him.
Never will now.
I don’t hope for that anymore.
But I’m going to conduct myself as if you’re with me, because I still want to be with you.

In other words; I’ve decided to pick myself up.

It’s not because I don’t care about history: life, the universe and everything.

Never mind.
Inbox from the Washington Post:

“Rep. Christopher Lee (R-N.Y.) abruptly announced his resignation Wednesday evening after the gossip Web site Gawker reported that the married congressman had sent a shirtless photo of himself to a woman he met on Craigslist.”

Yeah, okay.
I’ve never met anyone worth a damn on Craigslist either.
Not the point, I’m sure.

Let’s have a daily race to see who can get drunk quickest and stray drunk longest. That’s how I’m going to get through my life.

Booky and Ugly Foot are constantly talking about McMansions. I think they’re planning on moving into one shortly. I’m not much into that. Even if I had money, made money, or suddenly magically came into money, the furthest I would go as far as the comfort of my dwelling would go is to be able to live alone without renting a hole in the wall that bestows bedbugs upon me again.

I hate my housemates. I thought I was indifferent, and I may not have enough energy to properly hate them, but I sure don’t like them. So, what else is new?

My parents are coming to make me feel even more like a failure early next week…right after the circus (which I’m going to on my only day off). I was supposed to get Monday and Tuesday off. I asked for it. My request was acknowledged…and then ignored. I work six day weeks, because the new girl is a pain in my ass and I have to cover all of the shit she doesn’t do, does wrong, and thinks she does. She got four days off this week. Four. In a row. Why don’t I just work the fucking job solo at this rate? I don’t want the job anymore. I just…want to get through the next two weeks, and then I’ll do whatever song and dance I need to do to get something else…that’s just a different flavor of shitty.

It’s been a year, and I’ve hit that wall. I rarely hold a job for longer without some kind of drastic overhaul. The slaughterhouse gave me a $1.50 raise to keep me, and the truck stop had to keep nudging up the pay, too…and I changed majors during college twice, picked up and dropped three different minors, “medically withdrew” and became emotionally attached to the emotionally unavailable to get through. I liked my first job, but only because it got my mom to shut the fuck up and gave me an excuse not to partake in the bullshit aftereffects of high school. “No, I couldn’t go to your retarded drinking party in the middle of a corn field even if I wanted to, because I have to work.”

I don’t know what to do. I get angry. My boss will ask me what I ate for lunch. Who the fuck cares and what business is it of yours? I used to answer fun things: cous cous, chinese pancakes, curry…things I eat sometimes, but not for lunch. Now I don’t bother. “Nothing,” is my response.
“You should eat something.”
“Why don’t you eat anything?”
“Too lazy to care.”
“That’s why there’s…McDonald’s.”
No, you won’t catch me there unless they hire me on the night shift. I have a healthy fear of all fast food restaurants…and most “higher end” restaurants. Public. All places where people gather…but restaurants are toward the top of the list.

I’ve been in back. I’ve seen the cooks. Even the high end sushi joint’s where I can’t afford to be seated…The cook is just a drug addict with some fucked up God complex. I’ve slept at his house in his “non-girlfriend’s” bed, and “non-girlfriend” because they’re in some fucked up open relationship akin to those commonly found in cults, and they’re so fucked up and strung out that they’re “open minded” enough not to bog down life with labels…but they hold square jobs and judge everyone and live together and fuck in the bed I’ve found myself sleeping in. I know. I don’t want to eat the food they prepare. I don’t want to pay their rent or their dealer. I don’t want my life to intertwine with them anymore…even if by some off chance, that busboy stealing the waitress’s tips is completely normal.

And then there’s that obnoxious question that the “special” masses of “individualist” dipshits express: “What’s normal?” You are, you worthless fuck. You’re as normal and lackluster as they come with your trendy trendwhoring bullshit.

Obviously, I don’t want to share any of these thoughts with my bosses when they ask what I had for lunch.
They think I’m some sort of innocent adult child that’s never broken a law or a nose or heart or an ego…and I want them to think it.
I’m just awkward and shy to them, and that’s fine by me.
For some reason, they think my parents are wealthy, and that I am secretly wealthy, too.
Maybe this is because I don’t cash my paychecks ten minutes after receiving them.
I have a degree that I don’t even indicate wanting to use, and I came all the way down here to get another one.

I hate money.

I must not respond to it the way I’m supposed to.
People in college thought I was rich, too…and they were mostly rich. Even the poorest of them were ten times better off than I’ve ever been.
Well, no. I’m sorry. I’m not an annoying romantic trustfund baby that wants to interact with lower classes to write a “digital book” about it later.
I’m poor, and for the most part, I don’t mind being poor…although I despise Wells Fargo and get sick of beans and rice.
My parents guilt me constantly, so I don’t like to spend time with them.
Who wants to be reminded of what a disappointment they are to the average standard all the fucking time? Who wants to shoulder that weight? What the fuck for?
I don’t like that they come halfway across the country to check up on me out of love.
I’m not even sure I want them to love me if I’m so goddamned disappointing.

No, Mom. I’m still a fuck up. I’m always going to be a fuck up. You’re going to die worrying about me, because I’m not going to amass money and get married and live in a McMansion with a booky and pop out babies with ugly feet that aspire to live for more money.
I’m never going to be that brand of happy.
You got it right the first time. My rivalry is great for all that shit. Cut your losses. I couldn’t make it work for me.

Kudos to Egypt for letting it get so bad that some attempt at change is being broadcast?
Red Rover, Red Rover…
Never mind.

I need a fucking drink.

Thanks anyway.

Posted: February 9, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , ,

I am not happy, confident, secure or remotely well adjusted.
I’m not a spineless, sniveling, people pleasing pushover either.
‘Fraid not.
I am obsessive and compulsive, but not obsessive compulsive.
You are likely to have a good idea what I think about something at any given moment
all of the time.
I don’t bother to hide it, but I’m not particularly confrontational.
I don’t go out of my way to make myself heard, seen or known.

If you ask, I will say the wrong things.

If you don’t ask, I won’t say anything unless something I sense you value is in jeopardy
and I think what information I’ve gleaned will be helpful to you at little or no expense
to a third party that is every bit as unimportant as you or me.

I fabricate drama.
Oh yes, I do.
I don’t start shit with other people.
I wouldn’t make good fodder for a reality TV show
because I’m indifferent to the lives of those that are not intertwined with mine
and I don’t connect well, so forget that, too
but internally…



I’ve got a lot of baggage and hangups and nothing good to offer as a distraction from that
so it’s really no mystery at all why I’m alone

and plan on being so

for a long time coming.

Thanks anyway, though.
You seem nice.
I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for around a few more corners and out of view.

I’m old…and people still laugh at me like we’re all in high school. I’m not young enough to be “hip” and I’m not old enough to garner any sense of respect. People fucking laugh at me…where I work…where all I want to do is my job for whatever pay someone else deems fair. I’m so worthless by outside standards. I don’t want to be worth anything there.

I live in my head, I guess.
Maybe I always have.

I can’t fit into a pair of pants. Now, logically, since it is only one pair of pants, I could conclude that it’s the pants. Perhaps their $4’s worth of fiber can’t withstand heat from the dryer…but it’s not the pants. No. I’m getting fat again…while I starve…while I find some mundane balance between beans that my sister sends me in the mail for free; beans and rice. How do I manage to get fat off of beans and rice and lose weight when I break down and go to the grocery store?

I hate eating, because I know that I can’t afford food. I feel like I don’t deserve what I can’t afford. I hate having somewhere to live, and I hate where I live. I hate that I fucking exist at all, and I try to get through my days with these stupid kids that have life all figured out while Mommy buys their groceries and they play house. Yeah, I guess they have figured shit out for themselves. Greedy, self-centered fucks. It’s all pretty funny if I stop to think about it, right?

My life plays out in a series of “I” statements all about me, but how much do I honestly care about myself? How much do I take for myself? How much of myself do I allow without criticism? How much do I really fucking matter at all?

They laugh at me, because I’m not happy and don’t hide it. It’s funny to them, because they are. They’re happy. Life is fun, because they know how to make it fun. The shit that makes them happy makes me want to peel my skin off. I don’t fit. I never have. Even as a stupid little kid. It’s not a pity party. I know how to appear to fit. Hell, I know how to pound the corners out of my mind so that I really fit. I don’t…want to fit. Life is a joke, and I’m funny…because I don’t get it.

I honestly don’t get it.

That journalist is hot shit, because she knows how to whore it out. Like I don’t know how? Like I don’t know how to play? Like I don’t have a few tricks for this trade? Come on, people. This isn’t because I don’t know the rules and loopholes and bullshit to spit shine my worthlessness and pawn it for a golden ticket. No. I can’t figure out how to make myself do it. I can’t find a reason. I don’t see the benefit in trying anymore. I…don’t want it.
Box is full.
Wasted time.
The box is full of wasted time.
Time he told me; time is irrelevant.

My mind is stuck: Now what? Now what? Now what? Now what?