All of the Psycho, None of the Christian Slater Yumminess

While the past few years I’ve not deigned to think about this monster, I came across this post in my drafts folder where it doesn’t belong. It belongs out here, in the public air, because this sack of shit is still out there. And I have nothing to hide from anymore.


Fuck you, Robert Seckington. The only thing I suffer from now is the embarrassment I have from any connection with you. My dick will always be bigger than yours and here is where you can suck it.

Door off hinges

“Boo-fucking-hoo! It’s so fucking hard to be you!” I remember him so clearly screaming in my face.

And one of the very few times I dared argue with him, I weakly responded, “It is, actually.”

One reason why it was so hard to be me was the fact that the 6’2”, 230lb mass of violent rage was screaming in my face and ripping a door off the hinges yet again. He did that so often in the 5 years I endured this that I became the only non-contractor in town who can hang an interior door with razor-sharp precision.

I also became someone adept at cleaning melting ice cream dumped into my dresser drawers, a sweeper of my shattered appliances from the kitchen floor, a great organizer of the camping gear I had to keep in the trunk of my car in case of emergency shelter, a hyper-light-footed walker among eggshells, a professional ignorer of blatant evidence and gut-feeling-denier of obvious cheating, the bottomless swallower of unfathomable humiliation.

I still don’t get why I was the one who had to put the doors back up. Considering the rest, though, it was hardly the biggest concern.  

I don’t know what in particular spurred that comment during that bout of narcissistic rage but it usually didn’t matter. It would happen no matter how hard I tried. Looking back, the sudden randomness was only his whim; and often a way to get me out of the house so he could groom the newest girly supply of the month.

It only just finally now got through my thick skull that a lot of his instability (from my point of view, that is) came from his upkeep of his many single profiles on numerous dating sites he just “hadn’t taken down yet”, threats that I don’t come home for a convenient number of days, his “none of your fucking business” responses to my questions of who he was texting at 6 a.m., the vicious, cruel degrading rants about everything I did (wrong or not), his “solo” trips he outright denied me going with him to baseball games and drives to Idyllwild, to his repeated trips to the bathroom carrying his phone but never once flushing the toilet were clear-to-everyone-else signs that I was a chump.

I say that with the utmost love and respect for myself.

I was a chump; a sap. I’d been had. Whatever weird Svengali-like control this asshat had over me (not “whatever”—there was no doubt at all. It was lies, intermittent reinforcement, gaslighting, and threats) kept me there, unable to catch my breath long enough to get the hell out of there. I was duped into thinking I was in love. Once hooked, I was only something to work out on.

Not just that but the constant, barely-contained disappointment in my talents and gifts; things he was so proud of in the beginning. The under-his-breath “pfft–typical” comments and sneers when I couldn’t explain why there wasn’t peace in the Middle East. The small, leaking spiritual cuts I was inflicted with over and over again kept me crippled and dependent.

That kind of degradation eats away at a person’s confidence and destroys their soul. Living that way; made to feel like a disappointment, isolated, afraid, confused, and alone by someone you loved so much makes life not worth living. You can’t believe they can find more ways to hurt you until they do. Until, finally, they get so disgusted with the shell of a human being they made you, they discard you because of it.

Yes, discard you. Like trash. And they won’t tell you why. They’ll tell you everyone else agrees with them about how worthless you are, but they won’t tell you why now. Just that the market umbrella you bought, after they asked you to, was too “ghetto” and how they wouldn’t allow your “nigger-shit” in their house. When you tell them you can’t stand them saying those things, you’ll find yourself sobbing full-wracking sobs and feeling like a truck ran over you as you pack up your shit while he ignores you, whistling on his merry way to his date with the real estate chick near his office he’d been grooming for months.

It’s unreal what these people, these narcissists, do to a person. It’s cruelty beyond what you imagine people could inflict. You can’t prepare for something you don’t know exists.

As almost as bad as the abusive, malignant narcissist are the fence-sitters. Some could argue that the “flying monkeys” the narc sends out to the world to lure you back in or torture you from afar are worse but they are almost as easy to spot as their abusive intentions. The fence-sitters are the ones that reinforce the erroneous belief that it is all your fault, or that you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, because they suddenly retract, don’t react, don’t want to get involved, or suddenly don’t want to muddy their hands. They’re the ones who tell you that, “well, there is two sides to every story,” and “everyone deserves to be happy,” and “maybe you’re just having trouble letting go,” when it is outrage you need and comfort you crave from having to endure the monstrosity committed by someone who you thought loved you.

After reaching out to my abuser’s fence-sitter, the one who counseled me through the outrageous yet unceremonious way I was discarded like trash, the one who reported back to me all of my abusers actions at work, kept me up-to-date so I could leave the house safely, the one who has herself been keeping records of his felonious acts, responded with such a dismissive, bland disregard later on that made me shudder in confusion and doubt. Makes me wonder how deep the deception runs. I didn’t know.

I sure as hell know now. It’s taken me a good year to connect the dots, to heal out of the damage he caused, to even gain the strength to get the help I need. But I have. And like everyone I talked to who has had anything to do with him, that’s how it goes. Unfortunate for us. But it does get better with time.

Time enough to get my voice back.

One of the best tricks in a narcissist’s arsenal is to deny their targets’ strongest qualities by diminishing them into obedience. One of my strengths has always been my voice. Outspoken and unafraid, I will tell it like I see it. I’m always me. I’m loud and I’m usually right. I’ll proudly admit when I’m wrong but be prepared to prove that I am first. But my voice was one of the first things to get quashed. Can’t have an “uppity bitch,” as he liked to tell me, in the harem demanding rights. It had to go.

It’s also one of the last things I seem to have gotten back.

It is coming back, though. In shaky squeaks and timid ‘ahems’…for me anyway…but it’s coming back. Good thing, too. I’m funny as hell.

And as I “me, me, me, me” into the quiet air, it comes back still.

And this time, it’s going to be clearer, stronger, and louder than ever.

Call me Veronica…because there’s a new sheriff in town.

From the movie, Heathers, 1989 = me perfectly defined.

The Devil Isn’t the Problem

It’s hard to ignore a red flag such as giant bat wings

-I found this in my drafts folder. I don’t know where I was going with it but it’s kind of awesome. Enjoy-

Here’s the thing that pisses me off.

Okay, jeez, I’ll amend that.

Here’s one of the myriad things that piss me off.

It seems that we as people are expected to weather everything with courage, grace, control with manners lest we face the wrath of everyone around us; for over-reacting or reacting badly regardless of the crimes against us.

Recently, I was reminded of a group of friends with whom I’m still in contact. Not so often, and some more or less than others. There hasn’t been a real break of this 30+ year friendship but a definite distance as such. Of these friends, I have felt, and possibly decidedly so from some, abandoned by. Because of circumstances at the time resulting from:

  • my unawareness of, therefore inability to navigate, my soul-crushing, untreatable, incurable hormonal problem that has ruined my life,
  • the closest people in my life conspiring behind my back with no consideration for my feelings,
  • was told to “suck it up”, that I “am overreacting” and “if I weren’t such a bitch in the first place…”

It’s that last part that gets to me. I can take accountability for a lot of the things I did carelessly, deliberately hurtfully, callously. I cannot take responsibility for having reactions to things that are reactionary.

Because, you see, it is hypocrisy in its finest form to be upset over another person’s reaction to that person upsetting them. Got it?

Let’s quiz.

Who is the worst in this scenario?

Random human I: I slept with your wife.

Random Human II: Omg! F**$%&% Y*$!, you mother f&*%*%!!!! You ruined my life! I hate you!

Random Human I: You are abusing me verbally. I refuse to allow you to treat me in such a manner. As I condemn you in my holier-than-thou calm demeanor despite my ruining your family.

Random Humans 3-100+: Yeah, Human II is scary and violent. Stay away from that jerk. Shun him!

University of Science, Mo Only Studies Dept.

If you chose Random Humans 3-100, you are correct.


“But, wait! There’s no way anyone would act that way,” you’re thinking, appalled reader. “Human I cheated with Human II’s wife! No one would be on Human I’s side!”

But I can tell you, as in every study in history proves, 99% of humans side against the person with the louder voice regardless of the logical outrage.

Institute of Mo, Bullshit expert

Humans are social animals whose main survival extinct is to strive to be a part of the herd, despite how much they say they don’t.

Granted I’ve known a lot of shady people in my life. Yet, it has never been the conventionally, obviously shady people, the ones who’ve picked my pocket while twisting the knife in my back, who have been the most deserving of shun. Nope, the most worthy and unpunished have always been those who had really no excuse.

Because, it’s been those closest to me, with cramped, knife-twisting fingers, that I’ve been able to forgive.

Because, if we haven’t all made mistakes. We deserve the punishments we’ve gotten and can forgive the oversights of others because of it. It’s what makes us learn how to become empathetic. It creates the understanding that we need to treat other as we’d like to be treated. I think there’s some kind of prayer like that.

I don’t care what you believe, listening to Darth Vader read anything is awesome!

I’m not a Christian but I do believe in the sentiment of the Lord’s prayer as much as I believe in the solid foundation of the Golden rule; (another oft-misquoted-yet-never-followed) rule of basic decency.

In summary, forgive people for their general misdeeds because you’ve made them, too. And with that, treat them as you would like to be treated; with empathy, kindness, and the understanding that you may be way the fuck off in what you think you know. In other words,

Think for once. You may not be right.

Good, basic standards for not being a hypocritical dick. You’d think, anyway.

Don’t worry, Freud, too, is flailing his dead arms in frustration.

It’s not those who have trespassed against me I have a problem with. In fact, I admire their courage.

It’s those who fucking went along with it.


I’m not going to blame every single thing I’ve done to hurt, or injure, or insult my fellow humans on my crippling, horrific, life-ruining hormonal condition that has gone undiagnosed, mis-dosed and disregarded for 37 years. That would be ridiculous.

Because sometimes, I’m just a fucking asshole. No bones about it. Sometimes, I’m a heartless, cruel motherfucker. But not nearly as often as you think.

Which brings me back to “Random Humans 3-100+” in our quiz scenario. Described by a shit-ton of mixed metaphors:

It’s been my experience that humans, in their social ways, would rather throw a squeaky wheel under the bus in order to smooth their collective fur.

There is only every cult, Nazi youth, or horrendous mob-mentality and wars of all sizes as example throughout ancient/modern history and current events to prove my point. People would rather hear what they want to hear, continue how they’d prefer to continue, rather than stand up for what is uncomfortable.

I truly believe that most people are cowards. I think they’d rather shut your mouth than listen to your truth.

Because you’re loud and it’s almost 7pm and Wheel is on.

I know, I know. Literally every single person in history who’s aged through the year 20 has repeated this same rant. All the way back to the ass-whooping Aristotle got from Plato because of the same annoyed whoopin’ Plato got from Socrates.

But repeated as it may be, it doesn’t make it any less true. We rant about it because nothing changes.

Because 99% of us would rather watch Wheel.

I had a point. If anyone can figure that out, let me know.

Thanks.

-NTZ

Truly

I say “truly” because I’m finding out that just not having actual face-to-face, virtual, or cellular interaction doesn’t mean I’m truly over it like I want to be. I need to be over it. I have to get over it.

I feel, and it’s only my opinion, that being truly “over it” is akin to the experience of going to Alcoholics Anonymous. You can go to AA because you’re told you’re not supposed to drink alcohol or are mandated by the court to do so. You white-knuckle it day-by-day, chanting the mantra, only to repeatedly fail and stuck in a torturous loop. Or you can go to AA because you truly, deeply in your heart, believe you have a problem with the way you think about alcohol, want to change that, and find only then do you make the change into who you’re meant to be. Lesson by hard-won lesson, one day at a time.

The important lessons are always hard-won.

I tried pure cocaine once. Decades ago. It’s not a euphemism. It was 100% pure cocaine. It was pure; pearly and flaky and amazing. It was euphoric. It was power and happiness and heaven. And the next morning, I wanted to die from the headache and shame. The cure for the shame and wanting what was bad for me was in already knowing it wasn’t good for me. Already knowing that dipping my toe didn’t mean I could swim. It didn’t lie; it’s just true.

Had I not known, though. Had it lied about its intentions, lied about its aftermath, I would’ve been hooked. I would’ve been conned into needing what it gave me so teasingly. If thought I could have that dreamy euphoria once again, even as it vanished without a word, only to return with more tasty promises—always just when I had curbed my addiction—to suddenly, cruelly, and without explanation deny me access again…would I do anything to entice it back? Would I have hung around despite it screaming at me what a piece of shit I was so humiliatingly only hoping for it to throw a little of that paradise back my way like it used to? When we were new? Were lovers? Friends? Before it convinced me I wasn’t worthy of even mere crumbs? Would I subject myself to torture to bring back that euphoria like it promised? Of course I would.

I’m glad I didn’t have the option. It was fun once and that’s where it belongs. Once.

But drugs and alcohol are easy to vilify because they’re recognized as something not to do. For good reason. They destroy people, lives, potential, energy. They’re vampires. And, there isn’t anyone telling us we’re wrong about them being dangerous. Drugs and alcohol don’t lie. People do.

Because of that reality, I’m struggling with why I should bother. That tiny bit of euphoria offered to me, despite the horrific psychological, physical, emotional abuse that comprised the interim, has been more desperately comfortable to cling to than having to admit to all of it being over. To not have that comfort to withdraw to, as fleeting and as false as it was, is frightening. Even worse is having to admit to being fooled entirely; a euphoria manufactured from Day One. It’s humiliating, crushing, defeating. Releasing that tiny last memory is the last comfort left until total emptiness. I fear the worst but have nothing left to cling to.

And it is worse. The emptiness breaks my heart in what little of my damaged life I have left.

Now it’s just dark.

So dark that it seems like I’m reeling towards a brick wall at midnight at 100 miles per hour with no time left to wonder what’s stopping me from running headlong into it. I can’t seem to see past the brick wall, what little shadow I can see of it. All I see is end and blackness and stop. Not death, just apathy. Just nothing.

Yet, I somehow know it’ll get better.

Because it has to.

Because there is no going anywhere but up from….

–No! Don’t say it! Stop this now.–

That statement is dangerously untrue! It’s only a semantically tricky way to invoke danger. I know better than to ever say the words, “things can’t get worse”. Because they will. I’ve lived it before. When those words are uttered, the gods go out of their way to prove us wrong. Like some medieval-themed game played with a 12-sided die, saying it makes it true, no matter what kind of cloaking word devices I use. I know better than to tempt them that way.

So I take it back! I take it all back.

Clinging to comfort isn’t living. Clinging to life isn’t living. I won’t do it anymore. The new die is cast.

So instead of tempting the gods into perpetuating a violent felon’s idea of what I deserve, I’ll say instead…I’m aiming towards the black, brick wall. And running head-first.

Propelled and limping as I near it, pinwheeling weak baby giraffe-like legs harder and faster, gaining speed and strength as the force of my own acceleration peels back my cheeks into some kind of a smile. A one-two leap and I’ll launch over it, shoot skyward, bounce off intermediate hills and haughty mountains. Somersaulting then regaining my direction in tighter trajectories.

I’ll dodge swoopy bald eagles until the goofy one I can’t avoid connects, startled as myself. We’ll explode into a hilarious mass of feathers and laughter.

Landing hard on our backs, we’ll high-five while panting in catching our breaths.

Wondering at our luck in our escape, pride in each other’s soaring, we see that wherever it is we land, it’s surprisingly sunny there.

Truly.

Defend Your Sacred

It’s a weird place to be when you finally see with sparkling clarity that you ignored the bazillion red flags in a situation but went ahead with it anyway. Feeling a lot of regret that you wasted so much time and effort, having to clean up the damage, and a lot of beating yourself up that you weren’t thinking with your head. Feeling a lot of remorse for having suffered a lot more than you should’ve had you just listened to-every-single-person-you-ever-knew warning you off it.

But you knew better, right, buddy? Yeah, me, too. I’m now accepting applications for my personal decision-maker. I’m just kidding because I probably wouldn’t listen to you either.

We all do stupid shit that, in hindsight, kind of make you want to throw up in your mouth. We all do. What’s important is finding the lesson in it.

This isn’t a philosophical argument I’m making in this post. It’s a real pin-pointy kind of deal. This is more of a ProLifeTip. It’s a, “if you’re not going to listen to me or anyone else, listen to this” kind of lesson. So listen up, stubborn readers, I’m actually going to make sense here.

*Everyone has some weird thing.

—Oh stop! That’s not what I’m talking about, pervs.–

I’m not talking about things as in possessions. I’m not talking about things as in people. I’m not talking about the overall big things we take to heart as citizens like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Or even beliefs we hold morally, religiously, spiritually, rationally and relationally. Because those grand things can be hard to apply to your personal situation and are easily manipulated by others. They’re also vague and what the self-help shit the Interwebs are rife with and always seem to point to.

This is far more precise.

What I mean is there is some thing; quirky, funky, odd, scary, eerie, abnormal, nonconformist, antisocial, exceedingly cute, unpleasant, beautiful, unconventional, or downright weird about all of us that we hold special. Chances are we’ve never shared it with another person our entire lives. Whatever it is, it’s ours and sacred to us and us alone.

These weird things, that if you look deep you can find, have always been a part of you.

It can be some kind of music, a dance, the awkward way you run, your pride in being double-jointed, that you’re psychic but have yet to prove it, that you cry when you see sea turtles laying eggs, your love of dancing naked to TV theme songs, or an indefatigable belief that dragons are real and making me type this right now.

I’m not saying those are my sacred things. Seriously. I’m NOT! Shut up! They’re all different. They’re all unique.

Because whatever it is, it makes you, you.

I’ve realized recently that finding this, or many of those, things that which we hold absolutely sacred is the key to having the ultimate protection from others damaging you in any real way. By defending those things that make up you, keeps you who you are.

Protecting those things will protect you.

And no, I’m not supporting some idiot who takes this to mean, “my thing is—insert depraved criminal act here—.” No, you’re a freak and an asshole. This isn’t for you.

And I don’t mean physical protection. If you’re in danger, call the police for Christ’s sake.

What I’m referring to is that thing you’ve loved and cherished since you were a kid and held tight to your chest ever since. That favorite piece of you, then and always, regardless of how you hold yourself now.

Because that thing is us.

Finding those things about yourself, pinpointing what they are and staunchly holding them dear, can repel anyone who tries to change those things and therefore you.

This method, of discerning what it is you precisely find sacred in yourself, not only gives you a tool to figure out who you are at the core but provides a fail-safe way of waving that red flag so full in your face that you simply can’t, and shouldn’t, ignore it.  Because should anyone attack your thing, they need to go.

Any attack on your very special thing is a deal-breaker. The ultimate deal-breaker.

Make this rule and always stick to it. Make it an unbreakable rule, true to yourself, regarding anyone you encounter:

If you, or anyone, who mocks, teases, abuses, ridicules, demands, threatens, cajoles, wheedles, cons, irritates, jostles, molests, bothers, pokes at, dismisses, insults, my thing?

Leave now. And consider keeping one eye open for the rest of your life.

End of story, that’s all she wrote.

It’s really that simple. It’s that personal and it’s that simple. The one moat that can’t be crossed. An impenetrable protection for ourselves, forever and always. It’s what we all deserve.

Always protect your thing, dear readers.

Me? I’m now wearing a cup.

All Your Thoughts Are Belong to Us

https://yourbias.is/

Great website. I found it through a guide I was drawn to about logical fallacies, seeing as it’d been a continuous battle I’ve had to fight until recently. Trying to find logic in illogical arguments will make your head spin until you give up and follow. I’m trying to learn to not argue this way and, more importantly, not fall for them.

It’s tough, though, because of our strong emotional biases this website so clearly delineates. This causes a lil mind-fuckery for enquiring minds like the one in my giant noggin.

So, now, I’m totally confused and have no idea what is logical and what is bias and who deserves to receive my frustration the next time someone doesn’t argue the way I want.

I’m trying to have a more discerning eye regarding emotional-tactical arguments. You know, those using the lowest common denominator to elicit a particular response based on fear, and those evil fuckers that use them; politicians, assholes, exes, middle managers, trolls, cops, lawyers, bullies, etc.

It reminds me that it’s sort of like advertising; something I actually have huge admiration for.

You weren’t expecting that turn, were you. Boom! Bait ‘n’ switch. Muahaha!

I have my reasons for my admiration. Well, one reason.

Satan.

No, I’m not a Satanist. I’m just an admirer of…well, not an admirer…it’s just…okay, I’m saying a lot of things here. Anywho…

I think of advertising as an entity/profession that is truly evil to the point of awe. In that, I admire it. An entire industry bent on manipulating us to want something by any means necessary. It’s so…insidious. Like a little tempting gift from Satan every 30 seconds. It manipulates how we feel about everything. No matter how much we can try to see it as something outside of ourselves, we’re totally affected by it every day; how we feel about our bodies, our successes and failures, dreams, lifestyles, fears, relationships, everything. The result probably isn’t much different from any other society-controlling entity from history. Like religion or the aristocracy, advertising is just another method of controlling the masses. Our interpersonal dynamics, to families to cults to autocracies, how we’re told and what we’re told is ideal is usually based on some form of logical fallacy, then perpetuated by the herd. And it’s fascinating.

Our free will and independent thinking is negated because of how we’re raised in a certain culture containing core beliefs about what is ideal. Though it’s a chicken-or-egg-type of causation; if advertising causes our ideals, or if society already defines them and advertising reinforces that ideal, our bias is so heavy toward one belief or another based on what we’re shown, read, exposed to, then constantly reinforced. And back and forth, again.

Yet, just to fuck with us, we’re still told we all have choice.

We don’t, but you are free, -wink-, to believe what you want to believe.

I’m no conspiracy-theorist but it doesn’t mean they’re not controlling us.

Sorry, I forgot where I was going with this. My favorite Progressive Insurance commercial was on.

Now I totally forget my point. I’m giggling and nostalgic about the uncomfortably hilarious Health class videos we were forced to watch and not at all thinking about things. Forget I said anything about Satan. Forget that I’m only trying to appease our Lizard Overlords.

Forget I said anything about advertising being evil. It’s only entertainment. It doesn’t control us. It’s alllll good, Flo.

I gotta go make a phone call. Anyone catch that number in the video?

Dismissed to Compete with a Gecko

I had reservations about saying anything at all because of the age-old adages about living well being the best revenge, taking the high road, and not screwing some kind of something, maybe a snake or wiggling cat or something, because whatever. I don’t care. It’s my blog and I have a readership of almost 8. They demand satisfaction. You can’t stop a runaway train, my friends, and I must bend to the will of the people.

The irony is this rant was inspired by some dude whose biggest fear was that I would blog unfavorable things about him. Try not being a dick and you wouldn’t have to worry about it, genius. Besides, nothing to worry about here. There’s nothing to worry about a dismissed, disrespected, angry woman with freakish investigative skills and her own blog.

Why. Would. You. Worry?

See? Adorable.

Yeah, I thought this could go in a really bad direction, too. It’s not, really. Again, this blog is about slipping on banana peels, not forcefully shoving them into someone’s tailpipe until they cry. That would be mean.

And no one has ever accused me of…okay, people accuse me of being mean all the time. Because I can be. I’m not going to justify it or excuse it because it’s a shitty thing to do.

So, I’m sorry for being mean.

I’m sorry to everyone who felt disrespected, insulted, ridiculed, and who clearly didn’t get the humor.

However, I’m really good at it and you probably deserved it.

My purpose right now isn’t to be mean. It’s to make light of a stupid situation. To remove the weight that it doesn’t deserve. If someone feels like I may hinder their competition with a talking cartoon gecko, so be it. I can’t compete with that lofty goal. All I can do is take responsibility for my part in a no-win situation and walk away shaking my head.

Yes, pretty much just my head. My enormous, oddly angular, head. I’m okay with that. My almost 8 readers will agree that’s enough.

Almost 8 readers will also agree that it was all your fault.

I’m Not a Bigger Person

girl-3338616_1920

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.

You Need Our Dark

thorns-2013825_1920
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.

Add “Pigeon-hole” to My Murder?

It happens. My little girly brain thinks about things; even stuff not relating to ducks. But, as you know, thinking is tough for the penis-less. We’re just silly girls made for pairing and breeding; not thinking or obstinately expressing those thoughts. I mean, what else are we here for?

Not much else, I can assure you. As a woman, it’s unconscionable to be carrying around an unused uterus like I do. It is simply a defiant protest against nature, God, and true American Values. Shame, shame, shame on us childless, wasteful, worthless meat sacks that take up space and valuable oxygen that should be reserved for the precious children borne from the fertile, silent, white-gowned, obedient ones.

This EXTREMELY sarcastic conclusion comes from the recent news and made-for-tv movies surrounding the 20th anniversary of the murder of JonBenet Ramsey. It is also sparked by the literal, non-stop loop of Dateline I always have on.

Watching these shows, I’m inevitably irked and pretty disgusted by the identical refrain parroted by the loved ones of dead or missing women. (I could add, “sad” about their horribly violent deaths but…whatever.)

But it’s this drivel that gets me all riled up:

“We’ll never get to see her get married, have children…”

Not to diminish anyone’s grief. I can try to imagine losing someone to the myriad ways depicted on shows like Dateline. The loss of a loved one is always a heartbreak, violently losing one must be almost unbearable. I get that.

However, what pisses me off is why are these things, marriage and children, the only markers people use to express their regret of a life cut short? Why do these loved ones exemplify their loss by only using these assumed events?

I find it extremely condescending. It’s assumptive and belittling to reduce a woman’s greatest future milestones to marriage and family. What if, gee, I don’t know, she never wanted kids? What if she didn’t believe in the institution of marriage? What if her greatest goal in life was to cure cancer, orbit the earth, land on mars, map the sea floor? What if her greatest goal in life was to do what no one ever had before and change the world? What if her assumed milestone was to be an educated and productive member of society?

Marriage and family shouldn’t be what defines her nor should it be what others assume for her. What if her family stood in praise for her accomplishing things that actually took talent, skill, and determination?

What if the people who loved her looked forward to her future in terms of mindful accomplishments, such as: graduating from college? Starting her own business? Successfully helping someone in need? Inventing something to transform life as we know it for the better?

In almost every single show, there is the automatic, robotic regret of not seeing this lost loved one reach these commonalities; of pairing up and breeding. Along with that is the implication that it’s her sole purpose, her greatest gift she can give… and not the pedestrian, biological events they really are.

Because, guess what? I got news for you out there who think you’re somehow special for having spewed out some resource sponge—you’re not special. There are three billion other people in this world that are born with the same ability. They’re called “every other woman on the planet.”

–Which leads me to a side rant I must throw in: Motherhood is NOT the hardest job in the world, people. If it were, there’d be 6000 people on the planet instead of the six billion we got now. And, by the way, the goal is to raise a responsible, contributing adult, not the snot-nosed little asshole you post potty pictures of on Facebook every day you leave to television to raise after age five. Oh and this last thing, kids DO have users’ manuals. Check Amazon.com. There are tens of thousands of child-rearing books out there. Pick. One. Up for once and quit using your laziness as an excuse for your bad parenting. But I digress.—

Now that I’ve successfully alienated most of my readership, I still want to get my point across to you remaining three.

My point, as is usually clouded by some randomness on my part, is that there needs to be a sea-change in how we view women’s futures and purposes in life. The automatic response should be indicative of the complex people we are/reflective of our unique abilities, hopes, and dreams. Not a response mourning mindless, obsequious duty to shallow, hollow rituals.

Every little girl should be looking towards her future as, even assuming it to be, filled with trial and hard work in order to accomplish great things for the benefit of society and herself. She should see marriage and having children as an option, a possibility, a choice. If and when she decides it’ll fit into her plans of accomplishing real, valuable things.

The anticipated future of all women should be looked at in terms that define her as a woman of skill, determination, strength, and acumen. It should automatic and expected. That is what should be common.

Because we’re all so much more than that. We’re worth so much more than babies and our “big day” when she is passed from one man to another.

So, when my Dateline airs, because someone has finally had enough of my “thinkin’” and has buried me in a canyon somewhere, please don’t ever express your grief in terms of loss of witnessing my stumble down the aisle or the birth of my cross-eyed mini-me. Mourn what more I could do, that actually define the intelligent, capable, weird, obnoxious person I am now and could be.

As a little treat for your patience, weary reader, a word of warning: just in case I don’t make it to witness the enlightenment of current attitudes, if anyone does utter the words, “we’ll never see her get married and have kids,” to Keith Morrison regarding my bizarre brake fluid-tainted jello/hockey stick murder, I’m coming to your house and, skillfully, bravely, uniquely…haunting the fuck out of you.