Cold Coffee (I miss my Daddy)
Cold Coffee reminds me of the more endearing qualities of my father. His early mornings were grumpy, but real. He was real before work. And when he would leave, I would sit in his chair and drink what was left of his cold coffee and pretend that I got to spend more time with him that way. He loved me when he was sober, but someone else always came home at night. He was someone that was heavily burdened by the ways of the world and the pressures of … well… everything. I have no idea what caused my father to drink so much because he started before I knew the difference between my toes and my fingers. This was quite a long love life with booze, a sentence of 20-25.
The more time I spend in the “real world” the less I value myself. I am not worth what I was years ago, but I was a screw up back then, just had a skinny ass is all. I thought it was big then. Wonder the massive expansions waiting for me in the near future… Will I look back on today wistfully, dreamily as though it weren’t as painfully draining and tiresome as it feels today? It is almost certain that I am that type of fool. I will look on today fondly as though it were the “good old days”.
It’s funny how I can look back at my childhood as some wondrous time. I wonder how I can look back and only see the few minutes a day when my father was my daddy and he loved me more then any. The largest portion was actually quite painful, for a childhood.
To be honest, I don’t remember much about those mornings with my dad. I only remember the taste of cold coffee fondly.
4 days without smoke, gotta rant!
Okay, here’s the deal… I promised myself that I wouldn’t become some over-indignant non-smoker jackass while trying to quit this garbage inhaling habit of mine, but promises are meant to be broken or at least bent. I am really starting to hate you smokin’ smokers! Not because you smoke, I am not that shallow. The problem is that as I am conveying to you that I have just quit smoking, and am expressing how draining the process has been… You reach for your pack and light up while I am talking. It makes me wish I had a tire iron with me at all times, so that I may curb my cravings by beating you bloody in front of your children! But the hatred doesn’t stop there folks. I tell you that I have put down the smokes for good and you people reply with cynical bastard commentary. “Yeah, right.” “Come back next week and see if you’re still ‘smoke free’.” Or worse yet. “Want a cigarette?” NO! Wrong answer! You losers can’t just be supportive? You are so insecure in your willpower that anyone who takes a step in the right direction is instantly a threat to you? That does not compute! What happened to common decency?
When a prisoner breaks out of jail, beats the system and gets off Scott free, the jailbirds left behind will cheer for the lucky bastard. Know why? Because it means that there is hope for them, too. Well, I am breaking out of jail, I am beating the system, and all you bitches can do is alert the night watchman? You’re sick! Each and every one of you!
I am not telling you people to quit or to not quit smoking. It is none of my business, and me telling you what to do won’t make it easier for you to quit. Quitting is hard to do and you have to be absolutely dedicated in order for it to work. What I am doing is insisting that you have a better attitude when faced by a recent quitter? They are having a craving every 27.5 minutes (or at least I am) and are faced with temptation for 90% of the day and have stepped back and said “No, thanks.” Every time! Have some respect for that and stop trying to fuck up their track record by slinging doubt and smoke in their faces. Because if they can dodge the slings and arrows of the tobacco companies, that means that there is hope for you, too.
So give a quitter a pat on the back and some friendly words of encouragement, or I will chase you down with my tire iron!
Seconds anyone?
There has been a huge problem in my life that I can’t weed out no matter how I try. My body. Huge problem. I love women that don’t fit into gender boundaries and walk proudly. I love them because I don’t have the courage to be one of them. I walk proudly but I am a good actor. I am so tired of looking at myself in the mirror and wishing that I looked better, slimmer, sexier, whatever. I am never completely happy when my eyes tango with a mirror. I don’t want to believe what the mirror says and it never changes to suite my sensibilities. I could starve myself and be skinny for a while, but it won’t stay for very long. And I know I would never stop if it were made easy for me for even a moment. I wouldn’t quit until my clothes weigh more than me, then I might have a light snack. But thank Goddess it isn’t easy to diet or we as a people wouldn’t see curvy women ever again. Not one. They would all disappear down the drain along with tonights gourmet dinner. (Seconds anyone?)
I was taught in not-so-subtle ways during my formative years that I’d better not grow an inch wider, ever, or I’ll have a horrible life. Those teachings were absolutely ridiculous, but unfortunately they were right. I hate to admit it, but the fact that they taught me this makes them right. I will have a horrible life because I am larger then a paper weight. Now I shall spend a good portion of my money, effort, livelihood, thought, free time, and (worst of all) self-esteem trying to concoct a way get back to the size that I was in grade school (because THAT is the current fashion.) Although, I hear that fetuses are sexy these days so that might become an even less achievable goal for the average woman. When are men going to just admit that they fantasize about fucking children? Just get it out and over with, so that we can get you all some counseling, and women of the world can get back being a size 12 or so.
The disturbing thing is that, now that I think of it, I was given these guidelines by women. It has always been a woman that has made me feel lower than dogshit due to my dress size. Funny that! Additionally, the “knowledge” I recieve about my body usually comes from… My Family. I remember an x-mas many years ago where at the tender age of 16, I got diet pills in one of my shiny wrapped packages from “Santa” (my grandmother). Apparently she had gotten a really good deal on some locally made herbal diet pills (speed) and decided to spread the wealth. I was the only grandchild to receive them. I was also the only grandchild that weighed in “higher then she should”. I come from “athletic stock” and therefore I am huge disappointment to those that are supposed to love me and happen to share my DNA.
But my brainwashing must have started much earlier, because I was an unknown-to-be-suicidal child. I made suicide pacts with myself several times before the age of 13. I remember at 10 I was laying the bathtub one night, and decided that if I were to lay on my side in the tub and notice that my hips were taller than the tub I would kill myself with one of my mom’s razors. My hips have since spread to that of a full grown woman’s and have been taller than the tub ring on several occasions. I haven’t tried to kill myself, but this has arisen an odd tendency to carefully scrutinize the bathtub when moving into a new place. Your childhood affects who you are. (Sidenote: later on that same year, I made a pact to kill myself if I ever got pregnant. Once again, I haven’t tried to kill myself, but I’ve never been pregnant either.)
I’m tired. I am so tired of hating myself, and trying to push myself into the mini fridge. Even Ani Difranco pisses me off sometimes. She’s a great spokeswoman for women’s rights and common sense, but she is also 5’2″ and even pregnant, couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-o five at the time. She is small and gorgeous so people are more inclined to listen to her music and listen to her theories. Because she is a “woman”. That is a cruel thing for me to say, but I am hating myself right now and feel no reason to leave well enough alone. So, I won’t erase it and I won’t apologize. Besides, Ani isn’t aware that I exist. I highly doubt that she would give a damn for anything that I have to say. Fuck it!
How do I feel? At the moment I feel like a feeble, simpering idiot with no obvious sense of priorities nor self worth. I feel that I have wasted my time and the time of anyone that has taken the time to read this pile of garbage. But then again, I get the feeling that I am not alone. And that someone out there feels the same way. Maybe we could find a cure for self-hatred together, and surprise attack the world at large. Goddess knows that we haven’t been able to do it alone. Know what I mean?
In the crowd…
I can’t help it. I keep expecting to see you somewhere in the crowd. I could swear that at any moment you’ll surprise me, we’ll embrace and you’ll ask me what I have been up to for the last year. And you’ll tell me about your latest project, or get rich quick scheme, and all of it in one sentence. You’ll have this new trick to show me or a hot new girlfriend to introduce me to. You’ll tell me about how your truck is running and how Shelly’s doing in med school. “What’s the theme for Burning Man this year? Have you talked to Rose? Yeah, me neither.”
And of course, you’ll have a tale to tell much taller than the one you had last time. I’m never sure if they’re true. Like when you followed the dead across America for a year and smoked a joint with Jerry Garcia. How you lost your tuition money at one poker game in Vegas, but was happy because the drinks were free.
You never talked about the drugs. You never mentioned how the coke felt so right at the time, but cost you your daughter. You never told me the tale of cold nights spent alone with the whiskey that kept you company and filled the emptiness in your home, in the backyard, and in your soul for a moment. But you had it together when I met you with fistfuls of ginger beer and big league chew.
I kissed your shoulder once. You noticed and stared at me with a question on your mind that you never spoke aloud. It was meant to be an expression of warmth, but your skin held an electricity that I didn’t expect. But with it you had a coolness that shrugged it off as an accident. You really had your shit together, on the surface. I never would have guessed that your foundation rocky.
You’d still be around if you truly had the world in your grasp, as you’d projected. You wouldn’t have bought the whiskey. You wouldn’t have bought the drugs. You wouldn’t have been found 3 days later safely nestled in your own rot amongst the blankets after so long sober. Wasn’t it like 4 years or so? I’m sure you could have told me the days. You wouldn’t have crushed every friend you’d ever made. You wouldn’t have broken my heart with your absence.
With every death the light of life gets just a little dimmer. Now I know why humans don’t live for very long. A person can’t live in darkness alone. The shit of it is that I can’t put it down. I have certainly tried. If only I had known, had a clue, been less surprised. You had such a love for life, it never occurred to me that the junkie doth protest too much. But your toothy grin is definitely gone, all for the sake of one last hit. And when I shrug off this world like an accident I know that I will see you somewhere in the crowd.
People of the World! Listen up! Stop Breeding! Seriously!
The breeding fad has been around for too long, and it needs to stop. You people are doing this for the wrong reasons. You don’t have children due solely to the urge to love, take care of, and raise a child with dignity and respect. You are having children for the worst reasons imaginable, and none of you have the presence of mind to think about why you want this baby so badly. (I have found it is usually along the lines of “Gee, honey what would a child of ours look like? Let’s find out.”)
Accidental babies. “Oops, I’m pregnant. Abortion is murder. So, I’ll just keep it.” First of all abortion is NOT murder. Consider it a man-made tier of natural selection. It is healthy and necessary. Think of it as removing a tumor, only with a fetus you don’t have to undergo chemo therapy afterward. Yes, it is hard to do, but so is raising a child if you aren’t ready or prepared to do so. Speaking personally here… I am one of the accidental children and it was horrifying. My mother had me at the tender age of 16. On several occasions thru life, my mother would get very drunk, and sternly informed me that I was an accident, and that my life was the utter ruin of hers. She married my drunken father, due to her pregnancy and hasn’t forgiven me since. I know damn good and well that it isn’t my fault… now. But these things are traumatizing to hear at age 7 and 9 and 14 and 15. She’s a good woman, but she was never suited to be a parent. Women who are not prepared for pregnancy are not prepared for motherhood. Simple fact. Maternal instincts are a myth. If you are “suited” to motherhood then you are suited for it. But don’t hold your breath and hope for the love of poopie diapers and high pitched screaming to overtake you in a wave of ecstacy. It will never happen.
Worse yet, some kids are born to women who can’t find stability in any other relationship. If they are pregnant, they’ll often rationalize it with “at least a baby will love me forever.” That is an incredible and unfair weight to put upon the shoulders of a newborn baby. Shame on you! Get a hamster! A baby is completely controllable and has no opinions of its own… temporarily. What will you do when they get older, you have to learn enough social skills to keep up with them? When you want to live a life, wide in variety and freedom, what will you tell your child? Remember your parents? So, do you recall the unfair expectations that they laid upon you during your tender years? Or perhaps you fondly remember their exceptional neglect due to an interest in other things? They were put under the same pressures as you, learn from their mistakes.
Here’s a good one. “My mother wants me to have kids.” “My mother wants me to get married… to a man.” I was raised to have the utmost respect for mothers. Particularly those who are old enough to be my mother. However, your mother had her shot at breeding. She can’t tell you what to wear anymore (and if she can, seek help). She shouldn’t be telling you when to breed, nor that you even have to in the first place. That is your decision! Stand up for yourself. Be an adult. You don’t have to have children if you don’t want to.
Let me break things down for you: Babies are cute sometimes. This a defense mechanism provided by nature, nothing more. One baby is just like another. It is not a precious and individual snowflake. It’s a yowling larvae sack!
Giving birth is not a “miracle”. Pregnancy is a chemical reaction and should be treated as such. A + B = Fetus. It was perhaps referred to as a miracle back in the days when people did not realize that sex and pregnancy had anything to do with each other. Women just brought forth life in those days without obvious cause or warning. But now a days we are well aware of the cause and effects, yet the “miracle” is spreading like the plague. Producing offspring will not… I repeat… WILL NOT make your life “all better”. It won’t make your life “complete”. It won’t heal your marriage. It won’t stop your husband from screwing around. It won’t make you more attractive nor cure your menstrual issues. And that “passing down the family name crap” lost any meaning centuries ago, and it only ever had meaning to men (the selfish bastards)! It won’t provide you with someone who’ll care for you when you’re old. It won’t even provide you with a guaranteed Mother’s Day gift every year. These are lies and myths that you have been spoon fed from birth. The moment your mother had you she started training you for making babies! Children have been reduced to vanity projects. Happy to break it to ya, but you can get more love and fulfillment from pet store! Get a cat or a hobby! Volunteer at a Woman’s shelter. Help raise money for Cancer survivors without insurance. Take some pride in yourself instead of expecting a spit-gargling meat sack to fulfill all of your hopes and dreams with their mere existence.
Adoption. Now that is a time worthy endeavor. There are millions of children that have no one to care for them, with the exception of a government clerk that isn’t really required to “care”. I have asked people time and time again why they have given birth to children instead of adopting. I am often given half hearted excuses about there being couples out there that can’t have children and blah blah blah. This is utter bullshit. There aren’t enough non-breeding couples to house these helpless children. If there were, enough childless couples, foster care wouldn’t be such a nightmare. But it is.
Others who favor childbirth, do so because they feel that a child won’t mean anything to them unless it shares their bloodline. This line of thinking makes no sense to me. If this is such a problem, then perhaps you shouldn’t strive for children at all…just a suggestion.
My reasoning for advocating adoption is that if you adopt you have to really want it. You have to jump through hoops of fire and fill out paperwork and be completely committed to the pursuit of a child. Instead of, just realizing you’re pregnant one day and hoping that it turns out for the best. Therefore, using a baby as a vain attempt to permanently commemorate a beautiful loving and magical relationship that “mysteriously” breaks up once the child is born and reality officially sets in. No relationships are permanent. Only the effects are. I personally would rather tattoo my boyfriends name on my forehead then have a child with him. The former destroys fewer lives than the latter.
Bottom line. There is no reason to give birth. Pure and simple. If you want a baby so badly, you should pursue an avenue that has some dignity. Adopt a child, they are the ones that really need your love and care.
Abortion. Along with popular belief I am all for it! I saw a bumper sticker a few days ago (inspiring this little rant) and it said “How can you say there are too many children? That’s like saying there are too many flowers.” Honetly! I followed this woman until she parked and then asked her if she pulled dandelions and other weeds from her garden! What are dandelions? Unwanted flowers! So, morale of the rant boils down to; be an adult and don’t breed. Adopt a child or get a pet. Educate our young women on the “miracle” with a lot more facts and less biased toward breeding. Make birth control and condoms available for anyone who is physically able to use it! Make abortion legal in all 50 states and keep it that way until we actually have some reason to give birth again. Stop reducing our gender to the role of “baby factory” and have some self respect. Thank you!
If I were a stripper…
If I were a stripper, I would limit my song selection to that of Ani DiFranco and Joan Jett (maybe a little Voltaire on the nights that I am feeling goofy). If I am going to dance around like a half-naked fool on stage, I’ll do it to music that I like, Dammit!
If I were a stripper, I’d fart during lap-dances on purpose. Any man insistent upon getting close enough to smell my knickers deserves the full tour.
If I were a stripper, I’d use a pair of ancient, malicious-looking scissors to remove my clothing. And if anyone tried to touch me I’d stab them with those same scissors then promptly return to what I was doing.
If I were a stripper, I’d morph my hair into a rainbow colored Mohawk, because I think that style would really suite my personality. Plus, I am of the opinion that I could have boogers hanging out of my nose and I’d still be sexy. Therefore, my appearance is merely an identifying characteristic and has no real bearing on how appealing I am. (Any who disagree with this theory can have a round with my blowtorch, because I DIDN’T ASK YOU.) Moving on…
If I were a stripper, all over my body I would apply messages with glow in the dark body paint like…
“Sharpen Your Daughters.”
“My Body, My Rules”
“Unless”
“Fuck War”
“If you lived here, you’d be home now.”
“Don’t drop the soap for anyone, but me.”
…and other stuff. Maybe once in a while I’d use Mud or fake blood instead. (For dramatic effect.)
If I were a stripper, I would work out all of the time! I would lift weights, and take kickboxing classes! Not to lose weight though. I just want to be a bouncer part time. I’d love a job that gives me an excuse to kick some ass on a regular basis. That would make my fucking day!
And this is because I like being naked. And I don’t see a problem with getting paid to be naked, or even flirting. Elsewhere, I do it for free. But I would never actually be a stripper because of the middle-aged greasy fucks that I would have to strip for. Eww…or worse yet…The fucking frat boys. (Advice: Polo shirts look great on lesbians, but not so much on you guys.) Personally speaking, I think that all frat boys should have to wear a sign that says, “Beware of date rape.” There is no way I am taking my clothes off in front of a whole pack of ‘em. I am smarter than that!
Daddy Warbucks
My mother was very young when I was born. She was so young that returning from maternity leave meant looking for her first job. As a stout, though, graceful woman she easily acquired a position working with the elderly at a local nursing home. It was so local, in fact, that she could look out the back window of our apartment and see it quite clearly. It always seemed to loom at the top of the hill, eyeing us like a watchful parent. Mom quite quickly began to resent this closeness, but compromised by keeping those particular curtains closed a large portion of the time.
Working with the elderly is an emotionally and physically tiresome, thankless job, but it is a way for a woman to support herself. And my mother was glad to have the paycheck, therefore enthusiastic about her job.
A few days into the job, she was bee bopping down the halls recording blood pressures and temperatures. Just as she was leaving room 24 she noticed a nicely dressed man striding down the hallway. The fellow strolled up to her and asked for the whereabouts of his father. She recognized who the man is talking about, so she picks her jaw up off of the floor and escorts him to the room of Daddy Warbucks.
Now Daddy Warbucks got his nickname upon arriving at the nursing home several years before. At this point, my mother hadn’t heard his real name enough to be able to remember it. So, when we talk about it we just call him Daddy Warbucks. He was a man of considerable age, but always polite and pleasant with the staff. He quickly became a favorite resident for many of the women walking the halls, including my mother.
When they reached the room, my mother found quite a surprise. Now, she had not yet ever seen a dead body before, but she could tell from across the room that Daddy Warbucks was stone, cold dead. The man following her, however, seemed to have no inkling that things were off. He breezed past her and sat in the chair next to poor, dead Daddy Warbucks.
“How have you been, Papa? It’s so good to see you!” the man said with a bit of glee in his tone as if no one in the room were dead. Shocked down to her toes my mother goes to excuse herself, but the visitor called behind her. “Excuse me, Ma’am? Papa seems to be a bit cold, could you find him a sweater or something.” Without missing a beat, she hops over to the closet and grabs one of Daddy Warbuck’s favorite sweaters. Doing everything that she can to act natural, she squirms with the body’s stiff arms and joints to work the sweater into a suitable position, meanwhile talking to him.
“Gee, Daddy Warbucks, I bet you are really glad to see your son. How long has it been now?”
The son noticing his father’s silence pipes up “I know it’s been quite a while, perhaps even a year since I last came to visit. But you know how life can be.”
My mother trying to save the moment says, “Oh, but he seems so happy to see you!”
“Yeah.” The son seemed comforted with that somehow.
By the time my mother had securely fastened the sweater on this man, the son seemed to be content with the visit. He stood up, gave his father a hug, thanked my mother for her hospitality, and casually walked out the door as though he had done a good deed for all of humanity by spending 3 minutes with his father.
My mother, still a bit befuddled, ran to the nurse’s station hollering “Daddy Warbucks is dead…and I just put a sweater on him…”
Though the direct confrontation with death was a regular part of the job, my mother eventually got the hang of things and as of this day has never changed her chosen profession.
pain
Life does not equal pain, but requires it nonetheless. Pain changes people, the way water smoothes rock. Anger changes perspectives, and motivates people. Happiness is great in small doses, but happy people are less inclined to evolve. This lack of evolution can be connected to either complete contentment or the fear that if anything changes the happiness will lessen or end completely, giving way to pain.
Much like heat and cold, pain and happiness bear an exclusive connection. One could not possibly exist without the other. Without tears, how could you experience joy, or know it when you see it? Without the hurt of lost love, how could you take solace in the warm embrace of a friend? Without war, would we have a word for peace? Also, without a little happiness how could we see pain as anything other than the normal state of things, stagnant and unimpressive.
It is also my belief that in every painful event, there is a lesson. Even if the lesson is nothing more that reinforcement that pain is powerful, it is valid and necessary. Sit by yourself and look back on your lessons of life, how much in hurt, and what you learned from it. Take an in depth analysis of the pains that revisit you over and over again throughout your life thus far and find the common threads. Don’t encourage regret, that is just another roadblock waiting for you. Try to be impartial. The past is the past, picture it as a history book, and you are the author. Try it. I dare you. I dare you to be the valedictorian of your existance.
Hail Mother Spider
I have a spider in my bathroom, an English House spider to be exact. I sometimes imagine her breaking out the tea set with sugar and honey, inviting her friends to join her in polite conversation about the weather and the latest fashions. I never seem to make it to these parties. Very delicate and long legged is this type of spider, much like daddy-long-legs, but more streamlined, more graceful. The thought of killing her has occurred to me. Goddess knows she isn’t the only spider in the house, and certainly wouldn’t be the first spider to see the underside of my shoe. But for some reason, I just can’t do it. She built her web in relation to the wall and the bathtub, directly in front of the toilet. She built it such a way that during my morning bathroom rituals I don’t bother her and she doesn’t bother me, but she is in full view of everything. I wonder if she considers my bathroom to be her kingdom, and then my commonsense kicks in, of course she does. I suppose that I can’t just kill a female that is so brazen, such a rare breed. Besides, she eats flies. Bonus!
Last night I had a rare honor. I went to the restroom, and as I sat down to do my business I noticed that her web had two spiders. They were like mirror images of each other. They made slow gestures that seemed aggressive in their placement. As I noticed this I pondered whether or not spiders were territorial creatures. What I mean to say is, do spiders try to take over another’s hunting grounds? Was I watching a spider duel? I was intrigued. This went on for a minute or so, and suddenly the mirror image stretched out his fangs and then lurched his body forward. They connected and got sort of tangled. It looked like quite a struggle. Ihad expected one of them to stop moving, but when that didn’t happen an idea occurred to me…Spider Sex! Her majesty had a guest. I suddenly felt awkward for gawking at the entire arrangement without recognizing what it was. Am I jaded? I felt dirty. I felt so dirty, that I ran to the other room to grab my recorder. I already feel guilty, why not go to the next level. As I recorded the “last leg” of their entanglement, something occurred to me. How many spiders have watched me make mad passionate monkey lovings? I would imagine that there are quite a few considering my “passion” for the out-of-doors. With that in mind I felt justified in recording the exchange.
It must have been what spiders consider the missionary position. Do spiders have different positions? Is there a “spider style”? You know, your body doesn’t move all that much but you flail your arms and legs around wildly like you just won the fucking lottery. What about spider foreplay? Do they “play around” a bit first or do they just greet and go in dry? Can spiders speak to each other? If so, would they talk dirty?
And what should I do with the video? I’ve got it. It’s spider porn that I can sell to lonely spider singles all over the planet via (are you ready? This is a bad one. Brace yourself.) the world…wide…web.
Word Up, Sister! 