I’m Not a Bigger Person

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Have you ever sat up nights dreaming of someone’s demise? Have you ever focused so hard on someone getting their just desserts only to be disappointed by their head not exploding? Have you ever envisioned that someone running so hard, running hard but slower than you, from a bear?

Or are you lame?

Hm?

Don’t give me the “forgiveness” diatribe, either. Fuck forgiveness.

I read the best news today. I can’t wait for the rest and I hope it hurts. God, I hope it hurts someone responsible.

UCSD Investigated for Bullying

I’d explain more but I’m too busy celebrating these people who had the cajones and credibility to stand up to a system that has encouraged systematic abuse and unethical behavior. There’s more unearthing to go yet and I hope it gets muddy.

Keep on, heroes, for the countless number of us who never got our moment. We’re cheering for you every step.

A PSA for Our Public Servicers

I know that’s not a good way to say that but I’m keeping it. 

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I happened to look over towards the sound of a freight truck sliding its back door shut and catch a glimpse of our new postal carrier. She’s attractive, fit, peaceful, pleasant, and seems quite content with her duties.

Being it such a beautiful day today, I thought how nice a walk would be and get paid with good benefits. I was admiring her for choosing a vocation that would be nice to have on a day like today .

I wonder if I could do that.

Sure! I could totally do that.

If I did NOT have to:

  • Get up at 4 am.
  • Walk in any kind of weather that:
    • is over or under 68 degrees
    • is too bright
    • is too windy
    • is raining
    • is snowing
    • looks like rain
    • somewhere where it snows
  • Walk in dangerous neighborhoods.
  • Walk when I had cramps.
  • Talk to people when I didn’t want to.
  • Talk to people.
  • Walk.

It occurred to me all the bullshit our postal workers have to deal with every day. It occurred to me how much our new postal carrier deserves this beautiful day to walk around in this safe, quiet neighborhood.

Good Lord, does she deserve it.

The Ratio

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A question: what is the karma:schadenfreude ratio? I can’t seem to get an answer that satisfies.

What I mean is, how much do I get to celebrate someone else’s misfortunes before karma bites me in the ass?

This is important to me because Karma is probably the only thing that keeps me in line. I know this because of every single thing I do. If I even think of a bad thing happening to someone, that thing will happen to me. If I giggle at someone falling down the stairs, arms and legs pinwheeling so hilariously that it renders even the most morose crippled in hilarity, I know that I’ll slip and tumble faster and more wildly with my next step.

“…I don’t care if he is my boss. That guy is a total assh–Oh Hey! Didn’t see you standing there…behind me…listening…–shit–”

Every time.

Knowing this, the temptation is still so there. It whispers in my ear, “Come on, Molly. He bounced, like, 4 times! That was hilarious! And he was a total dick. Go on, you can laugh.” And I want to. So bad! Knowing that my next step will send me on my own trip down the stairs, I still want to guffaw and flip them the bird.

Ugh! It’s almost painful.

So, if there exists… if there were some kind of equation that could give me the odds…some kind of impartial measure with which to weigh the consequences v. giggles enjoyed, I could decide on my own whether or not to do it.

I know that my real decision should be, “don’t laugh at others’ misfortunes,” but when has that ever been a real option?

Never.

I’ve never been good at math, so, I’m just gonna buy a helmet and wait for you all to figure it out for me. Thanks!

You Need Our Dark

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Monday

I’m not called an asshole on accident.

It’s because I’m often being one. I can come across as a little…rough.

-Stop laughing–

My “assholeness”, you may have figured out by now, concerned reader, comes from a darker place. But that’s just me. Not everyone’s outlooks are made up of cherries and groovy disco, you know.

That’s just the way it is. Always has been. Always will be.

Some of you are born with a view of life filled with fairies flying through rainbows handing out pure cocaine.

Others of us are born simply grateful to have quieted a little of the distracting, blaring, off-tune polka bands in our heads while we scratch at our prickly insulation suits.

It can make one grouchy. It’s not just because I can hear you when you chew.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a feel-sorry-for-me diatribe. I have nothing for anyone to feel sorry for; I’m quite blessed.

The problem lies with those fairy-type people telling me to turn my, “frown upside down! Life is great up here on top of the rainbow!”

I don’t have time for your advice when the accordion just hit a flat F on my way to pick up my re-prickled suit.

Just because we’re frowning doesn’t mean we’re unhappy, We’re just uncomfortable.

We don’t need your help. We need you to stop.

There’s a prevailing idea that seeing things on the brighter side is necessary for a full life. We see it. We just can’t find our sunglasses and our eyes are sensitive. Just give us a second—they’re around here somewhere, hold on, found ‘em, cracked? shit!— and we’ll squint, see what you’re so adamantly beaming your huge smiles at and nod, “yes, it is bright.” Now let us Gollum back to our caves; it’s sweaty out here in the sun and we’re getting hives.

Because, for us, it sounds tiring to be doing all those cartwheels off fluffy clouds and we have other things to do. Your insistence we change is fucking with our schedule.

And, it’s not as bad as you think. There are benefits to living in the darkness.

We’re more sensitive. We pick up on the tiny changes in the atmosphere, subtle shifts in the force. We know when there is pain because we feel it, too. When it’s dark much of the time, we must feel, not see, what we’re facing. With all the uncomfortability, polka bands constantly tuning up or finding a comfortable way to sit, we can always sympathize. We can empathize with embarrassment, pain, and awkwardness. There’s little we can’t understand. And if we can’t, we will help you learn to laugh at yourself because we’re usually laughing at ourselves already.

We’re funny. Because after a while, it just gets funny. It has to be.

We’re hearty. The caves where we creep are littered with holes in the ground, twisting our ankles; stalagmites rising up to break our toes; stalactites smacking our heads. Having to navigate around with broken toes, itchy suits, and being always a little dizzy, while leading around this fucking ten-piece polka band is tiring. Yet, we carry on. It takes endurance to continue every day; an inherent toughness to reset our own bones in the dark.

We’re realistic. Because shit happens. A lot. We’ve seen it all.  And we’re never blind to the consequences.

And why we’re so important to you who live in the clouds.

Because without us you’d fly into the sun. It would be the brightest yet last thing you ever saw, Icarus…without us tethering you to the ground.

So, the next time you feel the need to tell one of us to, “turn that frown upside down,” without knowing what we are, rethink. Understand that the polka never stops but we’re ignoring it right now for you. We’re the great listeners who’ll be there for when you need us, anyway, (and maybe a little happy just to sit down for a minute.) Just don’t tell us how to be.

Honor the darkness that follows us around, wrinkling our brows and breaking our toes, because that’s what makes us who we are…

And you need us. Be grateful for the balance.

Born Without Fucks to Give

My hero: Calamity Jane

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I’d love to wax rhapsodic over this photo but I can’t improve upon perfection. Calamity was a war-hero, a frontierswoman, a pioneer in a literal and figurative sense.

A woman actually born with no fucks to give.

Wikipedia says it better than I could, particularly the last line:

Martha Jane Canary or Cannary (May 1, 1852 – August 1, 1903), better known as Calamity Jane, was an American frontierswoman and professional scout known for her claims of being an acquaintance of Wild Bill Hickok and fighting against Indians[1] She was also known for her habit of wearing men’s attire.[2] It is known that she was illiterate, an itinerant alcoholic, and an occasional prostitute.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calamity_Jane

An “occasional prostitute”. Because, meh. You just have to love a woman who wouldn’t let herself get pigeon-holed.

There is so much awesomeness in Calamity Jane that I don’t have the time to start. You’ll just have to trust that reading about her is, at once, terrifying, hilarious, triumphant and mind-boggling. And please do read about her. You can’t make this shit up.  (I’m not all that keen on the whole Indian-killing part but it was the misguided-ness of the time; hindsight and all.)

There are many accounts that say much reputation was fabrication. Hers. Much of what she did, wasn’t. Who cares? We’re still talking about her. I can’t say the same about any of us.

Again, there is nothing I can say better than what has been said to who she was or to paint a greater character. I’m just sharing an inspiration. An inspired life once you run out of fucks to give.

CalamityJane

-No Toast

P.S. I’ve never considered myself a fan of Westerns or pioneer U.S. history until I read this book. If you’re looking for, by far, the greatest Westerns and in-arguably one of the greatest historical novels ever written, try this:

deadwood

Considering how often I’ve recommended this book, I deserve at least a “thank you” from Pete Dexter. Still waiting, Pete.

The HBO mini-series, Deadwood, was independently researched and not an interpretation of this book, by the way, and also fabulous. The dialogue alone is worth the binge.

The difference explained here.

The New Road

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I pray my new road to success is a bullet train powered by thinly-veiled resentment and mocking sarcasm because, so far, paying tolls with subservience and break-room-birthday-party-small-talk has gotten me nowhere.

No Truer Words…

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Planning for the Sort-of-Inevitable

Keith Morrison

I’m not saying it will happen, at least not any time soon. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be around to annoy everyone for way, way, WAY too long. Too long for you, too long for me, to the point of, “Seriously! Just shoot it already.”

But just in case I land tits-up in some colorful, wildly-improbable crime scene, make sure that Keith Morrison is my Dateline narrator. I like them all but only Keith will make my strange demise sound so…intriguing and eerily graceful.

“Her life, like the melon-baller that ended it, scooped until it clinked into the rind-like bone, now dry and bereft of…sweetness. “

Or something awesome like that.

Just be sure you don’t tell him that we already know how ridiculously I end or he won’t do it. And I really need him to do it. I just do.

Especially, since I don’t know where to find Bill Kurtis.

Bill Kurtis’ hard-hitting, often disturbingly so, Cold Case Files was the beginning and, in my opinion, the end-all, be-all of crime shows. The original is still the best. Kurtis still remains a master.

However, nothing but the dulcet tones of Keith’s silky Vincent-Price-esque,  sinister narration of my life and subsequent tragedy could truly honor my Dateline-worthiness.

So, to whomever is in charge of that, get on it. I only have 30-40 years left to play this out and I got shit to do. Thanks!

-NTZ

Basement Scrote

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Did you know that it was actually possible to take the high road in social media? It’s true. It happens all the time. As the trolls are out trolling, being assholes, banking those negative karma points, it is possible to actually ignore them and move on.

Ours has become a very bare-naked, explosively explicit, vulnerable world. Armed with the power of anonymity, it’s far too easy to exploit those brave people who put their bare selves out there, into the vast, angry Internet.

It takes a strong, self-assured, supported, courageous person to rise above such trollish comments and assume, heroically, a stoic posture. It secures one’s place in righteousness. Integrity is, after all, how we act when no one is looking. What we emulate, what we project, what we teach by our own actions is who we all should aim to be.

Having said that…fuck that little fucking prick who so rudely commented on my site. Fuck you, you little worthless piece of shit. Your mother is ashamed of you. If your father knows you exist, he wishes that the fifty cents he paid to fuck your mother in the first place included a condom without a hole in it. Keep trolling, Dick. It won’t erase your shame, your tiny dick, or your herpes.

And take a shower, you fat fuck, I can smell your basement scrote from here.

I didn’t say I was taking the high road…just that it was possible.

 

Beautiful Day for a Bitchy Rant

BoschHere’s a little tip; something you may not know about me. A Pro-Mo tip, if you will. There’s no real reason why you should know this so don’t get all angsty for not knowing something, even though I’m totally appalled at your misstep. How can I count on you, faithful reader, to properly stalk me and compile a truly complete dossier on my extraordinarily exciting life if you have these gaping holes in your research? Huh? Shameful, really.

I’ll let you slide this time.

This little tidbit of info is difficult to admit to because of the stigma that surrounds it. I would like to preface this ‘reveal’ by saying, please don’t pigeonhole me by my admitting it. Just because I indulge in this activity doesn’t mean I’m one of them. I promise you, I’m not. Besides, there are functional research reasons for doing it. Kind of like social research to better understand the strange creatures…out there. Outside. You know, public. Ugh. Yuck.

Anyway, here it is: I watch daytime TV. I don’t just watch daytime TV but am quite religious about catching the 3pm “Dr. Phil “and then almost immediately taking a nap. I can’t help the nap part. Something about wanting to pretend it was all a dream or just being soothed by that holier-than-thou, sanctimonious Texas drawl that puts me to sleep.

Also, the other reason for watching is that Dr. Phil actually did do me a tremendous amount of good once.

There was a time that I was subjected to complete bullshit perpetuated by a mannish-looking whore who somehow slimed into my life for 15 years and then left it explosively, leaving a trail of sour-smelling drug store fragrance and half-decomposed roofie-puke. Upset and confused as to why I would allow someone like that to share my same existence instead of stomping on it like the slug she is, Dr. Phil talked me through it. Of course not me specifically but, during his self-congratulatory hour every day, he was able to convince me that there are people out there that just suck.

Very much unlike Oprah, Dr. Phil doesn’t ask that you, us, we accept that all people may have pasts that cause their evilness so therefore we must empathize with them. He admits that there are some people out there that just suck, who are truly evil, and to just get the fuck away from them. I like that. The “Oprahfication of America is over,” to quote another self-righteous, sanctimonious character.

(And if you can guess where that quote is from, message me. We can toss quotes to each other from all 20 seasons. I’m not ashamed to admit where it comes from. I’m just curious if anyone else can place it. )

I find this refreshing. Refreshing because there is something doubly injurious to take away the anger and resentment rightfully owed by justifying another’s evilness through their demons and I want that to stop. All this bypassing of responsibility is making my head spin.

–There’s a point here, I swear. Somewhere. Cut me some slack, my chick-ness demands that I talk in circles. I can hang with the dudes but I’m still a chick no matter how much better I can swear than they can.–

What was that point? Oh! Evilness.

A while ago, I met up with an old “friend”. She was a former BFF from middle school who is one of those evil people. Just like the man-whore who insinuated herself into my pristine adorable existence except meaner. Sure, she has a past and feelings that were maybe stepped on and because of that she could still be a festering, hopefully infected, sore from all of it, but…

Fuck her for taking it out on me.

As opposed to the slut, the depth of this canker sore’s evil is much deeper, more sinister, crueler, and, if it weren’t unleashed on me, somewhat admirable in its insidiousness.

Long story short, –yeah, yeah, yeah, shut up– having reached out to this festering boil to make amends over my completely erroneous impression that I, too, was somehow at fault for our falling out, she took it upon herself to inject her venom in me yet again, almost 30 years later. The conversation we had was over 2 years ago and I’m still pissed. I’m still angry about how she tried to make me feel and now even more pissed that I’m allowing her to rent out my head. You can’t learn that kind of evil skill, it’s born. It’s burst forth like some Bosch-style nightmare creature born out the ass of Satan trailing mung fish minions.

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Not only did this diseased-freak-of-a-human imply that she, and other small people I had known, spent an unusually long period of time discussing the cruelties I had inflicted on them 30 years prior. Sitting around spewing fecal tales about me that were untrue and then had the audacity to tell me about it, it comes to my attention she lied about all of it.

I don’t know why that lying part galls me so much. I don’t put it past her to do something so intentionally mean because I don’t put it past her to do anything mean. What I didn’t expect was ANYONE doing that. It’s so beyond any consideration, will, or energy of mine to bother.

Because of my lack of ingenuity, I guess, here it is 30 years later and I’m stupid enough to extend an olive branch so we can both go on about our lives without baggage. Yet she comes slithering in carrying a steam-trunk full of bile and vitriol, holding it out for me to take like a porter on the Titanic. I should’ve known even though I didn’t.

Back to Dr. Phil…

One of his go-to’s is this piece of advice that has served me well after the fact. He says, in essence, that as good people, we can’t anticipate or know how really evil people can hurt us, because, as good people, we can’t imagine it. It is beyond our capabilities as decent people to produce imaginations so indecent, much less act on them, that we can’t prepare. It’s like when people assume that getting murdered would be the worst thing that can happen to someone. It’s not. It’s so, very much, not. There are far worse things in this world people do to others that would make them beg for death. You don’t want to know what those things are, just assume you never want that kind of knowledge.

Knowing this about them, however, doesn’t make you better able to prepare yourself for that kind of evil. You can’t prepare against something you don’t know exists. You can steel yourself. You can move cautiously. You can decide to not assume a polite, politically-correct stance that flies in the face of intuitive caution regardless of how rude it may seem.

Because it’s better to offend someone when the other outcome is to bleed profusely out of a hole made in your neck by some hate-filled assfuck you crossed paths with, only because you didn’t want to seem rude, despite what your nagging intuition told you. Because being rude is not the worst thing out there.

Remembering that there are worse things out there, as Dr. Phil has suggested, may be the thing that keeps me in the future from getting too close to the evil I know not of. Being cautious and keeping my guard up could possibly save me from having to write another long-winded rant about some worthless piece-of-shit who insulted me just for fun two years later.

garden boschDon’t get me wrong. I’m not naive. I know that the scandalous, entirely-surgically-modified-except-for-the-huge-Adam’s-apple-that’s-not-fooing-anyone whore, and the waste-of-oxygen hate-filled throat-aerator, and even this last slimy Hell-baby who’ve skittered their way into my life aren’t the faces of extreme evil. They are blips on the scale. They wouldn’t have, however, wreaked as much damage as they did had I been a little more cautious; had I been a little more conscious; a little less idealistic. Armed now with Dr. Phil’s podunk-idiom-rich advice, I’m praying that I can at least deflect other stupid fucks from getting close enough to reach me. It’s not much but it’s something.

I’m not 100% sure what my point is, really, now that I have written circles around it. It could be that I have a blog that I can write whatever I want, which today is a vulgar, profanity-filled rant about assholes who deserve to be called assholes. Or it’s that Dr. Phil isn’t as bad as he seems, maybe having a good lesson to share, seeing as his show really has helped me when I needed it. Or that I’d rather no one think I’m one of those people who sit around all day watching crappy TV and comparing it to nothing concrete because I don’t leave the house and by writing something about all of that using an occasional 50 cent word makes me feel justified in my “research” continuing. Who cares. I feel better.

Total lack of point notwithstanding, it’s time to go. Dr. Phil is airing soon and I need some ice cream and grab a nap, I mean, work.

And kids? Watch your back.

–NTZ