Wednesday
May072014

The Eye of the Tiger

The reason I don't like places where wild animals are held captive is this: humans are a mediocre lot. They do as little as possible with rare exception, in my opinion. While some have legitimate reasons for being half-assers, plenty are just lazy, and some are just not that bright. I'm reminded of the George Carlin quote that goes something like this: "Think about how stupid the average person is, and realize, half of them are stupider than that!" And there's the more recent Ron White sentiment, "You can't fix stupid." Not to suggest I'm some sort of genius -- more than once I've paused my car at a stop sign & waited for it to turn green-- but I am responsible. I do my job well & when I'm unable to perform what's expected of me, I let people know. Stupid people are, by definition, largely irresponsible. So what does all this mean? We human beings are a bunch of lazy, stupid, irresponsible lumps of flesh, and looking at the bell curve, nearly half of us are destined to fill the role of "less than average." ...Which brings me back to my original point.

I believe that people who are animal lovers and choose to work in an animal-related field are generally sharp and well-trained. Generally. A relationship develops between a trainer and animal that's not terribly unlike a bond between mother and child. Generally. But even mothers sometimes abuse their children and children kill their parents with a butcher knife. A person working with animals must be smart, patient, and responsible. See my earlier "statistics" on the amount of people embodying all those traits.

And it's not just animal people who must be constantly on top of their jobs: there's medical professionals, pilots/drivers, chefs/cooks, and tons of other people whose job puts them in a position to kill other people if they are not smart and responsible. So again, the number of people capable of attention to detail and job excellence is a paltry one. Add in my personal trust issues installed by my dad which border on paranoia (random personal fact), and, to quote something I'm sure Samuel L. Jackson has said at some point, "I don't trust you motherfuckers."

So when my son's school announced a field trip to the zoo, I had to go refill my Xanax prescription. There is, statistically, certain to be some idiots working at the zoo, and there is, statistically, certain to be some dumb-ass kids who have been raised by dumb-ass parents attending this field trip. Will everything go smoothly? Probably. But "probably" isn't 100%.

It's probable that we won't all die in a bloody mauling before someone wakes up at their zoo-attendant post and tranquilizes the lion whose cage was left unlocked by Joey the maintenance intern. It's probable that my kid won't be shoved into a cage by a little rat-bastard first-grader. It's probable that the bus driver in charge of transporting my son doesn't have such a shitty life that he gets high before buttoning up that generic uniform and subjecting himself to relentless abuse by young children who probably could benefit society by being caged up themselves. And it's probable that no one involved in this stupid zoo transaction-- from teachers to parents to bus drivers to other drivers to zoo employees -- will go batshit crazy & start shooting at me or my child. But it's not guaranteed.

And since, statistically, we'll be surrounded by a bunch of intellectually-challenged, irresponsible, and zero-ambitioned people, I have little faith in this system. I am imagining the best way to position myself should I have to shoot a tiger, and how to smuggle a gun inside without causing another tragedy of some sort, and how to find the secret website where I can order a protective energy field for me and my husband & kid who will all be attending this death fest.

Or maybe I just shouldn't have sent in the $6 with a permission slip that said, "yes."

Don't even get me started on my son's request to attend the circus.
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Mood: What the fuck does my neighbor mow and weed-eat every friggin' morning?

Sunday
Apr202014

Bitch, Don't Kill My Vibe

Easter is my least favorite holiday. Is Easter a holiday? Whatever. I appreciate the spiritual significance for those who celebrate it, but I'm talking about the other side of Easter: the friggin' Easter Bunny. I kind of like dying eggs, but I loathe, LOATHE, Easter egg hunts. The weather is always unpleasant & I have to endure small talk with strangers and their horrifically mannered children. I usually set something up for my kiddo at home, which is only slightly less psychologically draining than public Easter egg hunts.

My son & I had a long day today, and he finally got off to bed, but then I had to stay up & write up a scavenger hunt for him. I had to hide eggs (real eggs) for him to find (I took pics of each one to make sure they are all found & accounted for, so they won't rot in my home), and I had to make rhyming hints for his little prizes hidden around the house. Because he insisted I contact the Easter Bunny and request (demand) this sort of game. And I'm now wired yet exhausted. I'd like to throat-punch the Easter bunny. It's nice to see my kiddo enjoy himself hunting the stuff, so I guess I shouldn't be so selfish. He is pretty adorable, so I'll just keep my annoyance to myself instead of crapping all over his Easter basket (figuratively... Maybe).

Side note: At the church across from my office today, I saw a swarm of hornets near the Easter tent. I could forsee an Easter tragedy when a small child or elderly parishoner wanders up to the hornet nest without seeing it there. Yep, someone may be incurring the wrath of The Lord tomorrow when the hornets are disturbed. But it shan't be me... Because I avoid all things Easter, but I will be home, buzzed on chocolate chickens & rabbit-shaped gummies.
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Mood: Die, Easter Bunny, Die!

Wednesday
Jan152014

19th Nervous Breakdown

When blogging, I feel so awkward. I strive to be honest, but I also sterilize my feelings sometimes & then it all comes out sounding hokey-dokey. I guess I do this so I won't sound like a trashy or insane person. I don't think I'm either of those things, but I also think I'm a little too edgy for my hometown, so I've learned to hide a little bit, which feels like lying, which brings guilt, which then becomes anger and resentment. So I stay quiet instead. I'm still working on myself. It's hard to be responsible and honest and civilized and cool all at the same time. Once again I pledge to blog more & try to be honest and real and less of a wanker.

So I'll start with this: 2013 sucked. If I could speak directly to 2013, I'd say, "Farewell, 2013! Fuck your mother!" I wanted & tried so desperately for it to be a good year, but it was horrific. It was a year of loss, and not just loss, but the beginning of a long string of losses, the consequences of which I'm still dealing with. I still have all my body parts intact, so yay that, but I'm experiencing a ton of anxiety. It's almost at a level of shutting me down, but I want to try to use it to express myself. I'm not sure how that might work yet.

This evening I began working on a piece of writing without knowing where it was going. It's raw and un-edited, and I should be ashamed of myself, and I would normally never share it. Well, fuck it. As Calhoun Tubbs would say, "Like to hear it? Here it go":

~Amnesia~

The truth is
I can't remember when I last brushed my teeth or washed my hair
So I do it again
And again
Or was that yesterday?
I'm not sure
You see, I sometimes forget things.
I can't tell which day it is now or if it's night.
So I do it again
So no one will find me disgusting.
So no one will tell me to wait
"I love you. Wait for me. I'll be right there."
So no one will leave me.
Again.
I must have been so disgusting.

All I can think about are ways to be less disgusting.
Ways to be better. But there are too many things to consider
There are too many things beyond my grasp.
And so I forget things.

I forget everything.
I forgot where I was supposed to be.
I forgot where you told me to wait.

Now I am a map-less stow-away on a kamikaze
with a lost target
Looping around your old photograph.
I only wanted to find you.
Wanted to get to you. Quietly.
Not to disrupt you. Not to rush you.
Trying to figure out what was taking you so long.
You, you told me to wait.
I always gave you the benefit of the doubt.
I always do what I'm told.
I always get confused by the love.
There is too much to consider.
So I forget things.

I made a bad choice.
There's going to be a crash.
There's Catastrophe in the mirror
I look so disgusting.
I can't tell how far away ground zero lies.
But I know it's over
And in my panic I tend to forget things.
And so I can't remember if I've brushed my teeth, you understand.

When they find my body in the wreckage
They'll shake their heads.
They must think I'm so disgusting.

~

Thanks for reading. And for the record, I think I brushed my teeth four times today.


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Mood:
"Tired than a motherfucker."

 

Monday
Aug122013

Working too Hard Can Give You a Heart Attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack

Took a little ride in the ambulance. My 6-yr-old son had to ride along, which he thought was pretty cool. It was half-past midnight & I feared I was having a heart attack. I wasn't. But I was having another attack of my disease. A week later, it put me on the ground & forced some embarrassing noises out of my mouth, involuntarily, of course. Part of me believes that the docs will eventually fix this "thing" that's happening to me. That part of me is in denial. And I suddenly realized I think of much of my life in "completes": I'll complete my job, I'll complete my wardrobe, I'll complete friendships, I'll complete housework, I'll complete my marriage, I'll complete this disease. I see everything in terms of deadlines and endings, and I don't know why. The only way to be finished is to be dead. Life is a dynamic organic tango where the music never stops until the dance is all the way over. And all I worry about is when I'll be completed with things and with people and with pain. Maybe it's because I'm so desperate for rest, for a new well of hope, and this disease is keeping those things away from me. I feel like if I can complete this shitty test I'm forced to endure, I can start fresh. But instead I shuffle through life like a zombie. I'd like that to end. This weekend I was hoping to win the lottery so that I can afford a chef and a housekeeper and a personal doctor and a freaking vacation from my life. I don't have the courage to check my numbers. And I know all the cash in the world can't make this go away. So, I don't know. I guess I'll keep waiting for a magic idea, waiting to feel like I deserve better. Jesus, I'm sick of being a bummer. I'll go look for some chocolate.

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Mood: Feverish

Wednesday
Jul312013

Muh-muh-muh-muh, Muh-muh-muh-muh, Madness...

I'd like to blog more. I'm working a ton & I'm experiencing a flare-up of my disease (which is now believed by my doc to be MS), so things aren't exactly awesome. I used to be funny -- at least a little, but now I feel like my personality is soggy. My beauty routine is set to level: Quasimodo. I feel bad; I look bad. So since I don't want my blog to give people the sads & I can't seem to find my sense of humor, I've been avoiding writing. Maybe I'm just trying to figure out exactly what I'd like to say to the world.

I am doing a few things that make me happy during this funky period of health, though, one of which is getting braces for my teeth. They weren't in terrible shape, but I was a smidge self-conscious. Today they changed out my wires and increased the pressure from my rubber bands . . . and it made me feel great. It hurts, but I like it. I used to call myself an emotional masochist, but maybe I just prefer suffering in any form. I think I like pain, or maybe I'm just used to it. I can barely open my jaw, which has caused me to believe I could be a very good ventriloquist. A masochistic ventriloquist. Maybe the reason I enjoy the pain is because I know I'm engaged in a form of self-improvement. Whenever I think about the term "self improvement," I think of the quote from Tyler Durden in Fight Club: "Self-improvement is masturbation." So I guess that makes me a masochistic, ventriloquist masturbator. I should get some sleep.

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Mood: Tired and malaligned.