sometimes there is no forgiveness.  no understanding.  nothing.

it is only naked self.

My brother brought over a monstrous zucchini—and I’m talking feet, not inches, long and wider around than one of my calves. For once I had no lascivious thoughts. In fact, all I was thinking was, what the hell can you do with a squash as big as that, play baseball?

Play baseball.

No sooner had the thought arose, I grabbed the zucchini and was crouched in a batter’s stance. Luckily, my brother had also brought over a bag of under-ripe plums. I tossed one to my disbelieving son and asked him to pitch. He did.

All I can say is, well, who knew how far a giant-zucchini-wielding batter could hit a plum…. I’m surprised the window is still intact.

So you think your Prozac episode means shit? felt a little off? a little under the fucking weather? Couldn’t fuck for a few weeks?

Do you have scars across your wrist? put there when you were 15, twenty-one years ago, yet still throbbing?.

Do you wake up every morning and have to fight off the urge to drink yourself into sanity, into oblivion, into death?

Do you fucking lurch, shake and tremble when you haven’t taken your meds—the drugs that allow you to be somewhat normal?

Do you think you’re some how glamorous and hip because you’re taking some Bambie pharmaceutical?

So, hey, here’s a fucking daisy. Hope you feel better.

My younger son* and I spent the recent holiday attending a Fourth of July extravaganza on a reservation at the local Indian casino—and no, the irony does not escape me (in fact, i find it beyond hilarious). However War was giving a concert and I just couldn’t resist seeing them play Low Rider. Seriously.

The fireworks were probably the best I’ve ever seen. We were literally under them and it was like acid without the strychnine.

*my older son declined to join us as video games and lounging take precedent over most everything.

Destroyed.  Completely.

After this many years, the hate and love and mistrust and betrayal and all the other countless hurts and joys and nights together whether in love or despise mound together into a mass that is impossible to unravel.

Yet, in the core, there will always be what was.

I love you.

So, I’m in my room blasting the Dickies. My older son comes in and begs me to turn it down. I refuse.

I say, “Sorry Severin that I’m not the cookie-baking mom. Sorry that I’m not different but I’m who I am.”

And, in some ways, I am sorry.

He comes up to me later and says, “if you were a cookie-baking mom, you wouldn’t let me play Call of Duty 4.”

He gets it but doesn’t.

*******

The next 5-10 years are going to be interesting.

Sometimes I’m not sure what I’m mourning anymore.

As an aficionado of the Art’s, I would commission the artist to make me one of these:

Yes, it is a monument to The Enema. Oh, to be wealthy….

PS. Check out the kids, wonder what they are thinking (especially the boy in front)?

I got a job (although this may be premature to say as tonight–my first night–was more or less a “trial”) and believe it or not, it’s a bit more respectable than my last two jobs: Dominatrix and “undercover-operative” for a private investigator.

I’m a bartender!

Yes, it’s true, I have zero experience.  However, I have an enormous affinity for bars (especially of the dive variety) and I like drunks with money.  But more than that, I know business and I’m very (very) smart.

Some folks may say, but malfouka, you’re educated.  Why would you want to work in a bar?  Why don’t you work in an office as _________?   Well, truthfully, I’m one of the few educated-type folks who don’t want some career, some white-collar job.  I would hate to sit at a desk (besides the one at home) day after day wearing uncomfortable clothes kissing up to the boss and dealing with co-worker competitiveness and back-stabbing.  I don’t want to have to constantly prove my worth, bring work home, and worry about the next ladder-rung.  I don’t want to be another zombie in designer clothes.

Nope.  I’m takin’ the path less traveled…

THIS has got to be one of the stupidest things ever. Bag, Borrow, or Steal is a website that rents so-called luxury handbags.  Are folks so materialistic and image-conscious that they are willing to pay $1600 per month for a (used) purse!

Trying to teach my boys that what is right is not always what is correct in “the rules”. However, I am also instructing them that there are consequences for going against the established law.

Consequences that they may have to deal with…

It’s not as difficult as you would imagine.

I want them to know that fighting for what is right may end up in punishment. And that is what we face when we speak out.

My ultimate goal is that my boys fight for human, animal, and Earth rights with compassion and knowledge and understanding—doing the right thing regardless.

So far, I am unspeakably proud.

Yeah, I’m voting for Obama.

But I’m fucking bitter. This country still looks at women as incompetent.

Clinton should be fucking President yet gender is still an issue.

You fuckers suck.

****

Gender has been a HUGE issue. i’m fucking sick of men being in charge without question. fucking sick about having to vote yet another MAN into office without considering a woman candidate.

Who gives a fuck about Obama’s racial/ethnic makeup. Clinton has/had the experience and the intelligence to lead and you fuckers are too misogynistic to see it.

I’m so bitter. So disgusted with you all. If Clinton had been the less deserved party, I wouldn’t feel this way.

I can’t even describe my anger.

****

We are a country that subscribes to medieval constructs of women. And the tragedy resides in the hearts of so many women. They are lost.

I don’t feel so much Woman—as opposed to Man—as human. Yet, I am segregated by an accident of sex. I feel the longings of a female yet I retain the strength and intellect of a generic human.

We make the error of assigning intellectual attributes to one sex over the other.

My father admitted to having only voted for one winning President.  Not such a great average for 48 years* (13 elections).  However, what is most amusing about my father’s voting record is that the only President he helped elect was Nixon—for his second term**….

*first voted in 1956

**1972

I’ve been reading a lot of popular/pulp novels lately. What gets me is that Koontz, Grisham, Higgins Clark, et al. can actually write a few sentences that make me swoon; they actually have these small moments of beauty, of grace.
Then, in the next sentence, garbage. Shit that makes me cringe.

Although it sounds arrogant, I will claim my province. I know the difference between good and bad writing—like any other savant (idiot or otherwise), I just know…

These folks can write, so why do they resort to such shit?