The No Toast Zone

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  • Reflections on the Moon

    Reflections on the Moon

    Laugh, Goddamnit, or I’ll cut you.

    moon-963926_1920
    Don’t fall for its deceitful beauty

    The moon was so amazing tonight. So much so that I even pulled my head out of my ass long enough to, not just notice but, remember and still be thinking about it when it’s already packed up its game and moved on to another house to play.

    Cherishing a memory of what is actually a mundane, everyday occurrence, of its rising and moving on, its blind automation, doing what it’s been doing for billions of years, exemplifies the moon’s profound effect on us. So profound that it pulls our bodies, hearts, and minds to directions we don’t tend to normally swerve. It has a physical, emotional, mental, spiritual pull on us that, unless you’re trying to be oppositive just to be a dick, is undeniable.

    Of course, it just could be my mood.

    It could be the “reflective” part of my PMS swing. The part that is deep, contemplative, meaningful…right before the terror begins.

    The thoughtful phase is a good one. It keeps me mindful of where we all come from, where we all began, and how we’re all to return. You know, earthy. Once in a while, everyone needs to feel the Earth, the Moon and the stars in their body and soul. Especially before a knife-wielding banshee comes flying through the door demanding ice cream.

    You’re going to want to know your God then, my friend.

    My thoughtful reflectiveness, or “soul petting” as I’ve only just made up now, entirely depends each time on how late in the evening it is and how much wine I’ve had, whether I’m getting along with my mate and if he needs to be drawn up and quartered, and/or the imbalance in my hormones that is tied to the pull of the moon and how God hates me. All determining the severity in which I’m going to take it out on you.

    Granted, my getting along with my mate and his “moods”, (I mean, come on, moods? Men don’t know moods. Am I right, ladies?) or how much wine I’ve had, has nothing to do with these particular quirks in my day-to-day swings. Those things don’t really cause how badly you’re going to have to endure the destruction of the release of the Kraken. It has everything to do with that beautiful, hateful, deceiving moon and, its absentee landlord, gravity.

    There is science to back up my assertions but I’m not going to bore you with all the technical shit. And I’m especially not going to read right now in order to explain it. But it’s true: the moon’s gravitational pull has an immense effect on, you know, cycles. Don’t make me say it. Let’s be adults here and act like adults. Let’s insinuate, infer, and randomly assume things until we’re all offended by something not intended for us but still hold grudges for life, i.e. adult.

    But back to my point, this moon I was gazing so lovingly at is, at the heart as all things too good for us, evil. It is the cause of so much drama and pain in my perpetually annoyed existence. It rises, swoops in all pretty, like a smooth-talking, bouncing, fruit-bearing snake in a fast car, sweeping me off my feet only to make me pay for his abandoned bar tab. And I fall for it every time. You’d think after month-after-month for 30 years of this shit I would know better. You’d think that I’d be able to predict, summarize, talk myself out of, or rationalize my taking these mood swings out on random strangers that don’t know how to drive even though they all went to the same fucking driving course in high school that I did. You’d think there’d be a remedy. There isn’t. There’s no remedy for bad driving. Just stay off the fucking road, Goddamnit.

    Anyway, it is a beautiful moon and I’m grateful for the experience. Evil, though it may be.

    Okay, you either get the reference from an earlier post or I’m starting to sound crazy.

    -Waitaminute-.

    Yeah, I think “soul petting” has ended.

    zombies-598387_1920 Now, hand over the fucking ice cream…

    -NTZ

  • Molotov Ink: One woman’s explosive tale

    Molotov Ink: One woman’s explosive tale

    It all began when I decided that being the smartest, funniest, always correct, most meticulous and insightful editor, most fascinating writer, and extremely creative book cover designer in the room wasn’t enough. I felt had to bless everyone by sharing my natural skills and talents so otherwise lacking in the world of commerce.

    And I’m kidding. It’s true I have skills but I’m hardly the most of anything.

    But being talented and humble is a benefit to anyone needing editing, book cover design, and/or writing services. Because I’m not happy until you’re happy. I’m not going to throw something out there with the complacent, self-satisfied contentment of someone inordinately proud of their own bull. I won’t stop until you get what you need. It’s all about you.

    I’ll work my ass off for you…because your opinion of the results is better than mine. It just is.

    So, click on over to Molotov Ink and let’s light something up.

    -Mo of the NTZ and Molotov Ink

    molly@molotovink.com

  • To My Dad for Father’s Day

    To My Dad for Father’s Day

     

    IMG_0757
    Bow to the master.

    I’ve already and always considered my sweet S.O. as someone possessing extreme patience but I hadn’t really considered how patient until he had to see me every single second of every day. Granted, just moving, in and of itself, is enough to throw someone over the edge but moving in with someone is enough to throw the most stable person into a full blown tizzy. Considering how I, and the little people in my head, are usually teetering on the edge as it is, I think I’m doing pretty good.

    However, he has been spending a whole lot more time at work and now is hitting the gym after that. I suppose that 24-Hour Fitness really does mean just that, but who knows.

    But recently, as I’m tooling happily around what is now “our” house to me, “whatthefuckhaveIdone” to him, I’ve been obsessively cleaning, putting things away, avoiding things that really need to be done,  worrying about my cat because he’s sleeping now 21 hours a day instead of his usual 20 hours, acquiring and scratching at what looks like a million bug bites all over my body, talking in my sleep, and audibly whining when I don’t remember doing it. You know, normal shit… he actually asked me, “Do you do this all the time?”

    I said, “What? You mean walk around and talk to myself? Of course.”

    “I, um, I don’t know.”

    “Could be worse, I could be my dad. He cruises around all day long whistling, singing, then suddenly arguing with himself and then goes right back to whistling again.”

    “…”

    “What? You don’t…? Is that weird?”

    “No. I…um. Okay, baby.”

    “I think my cat is sick.”

    “Of course, babe. He’s fine.”

    “I think he’s sick, I mean, he’s like all… oh my God, I forgot to tell you, never mind…you know what’s weird? I was talking to…”

    –both parties file separately out of the room. One still talking, the other locking himself quietly in his office.–

    I had no idea that this was unusual.

    Apparently, it is. It’s not unusual to me because I’m my father’s daughter. Wandering around muttering to people that aren’t in the room, actually arguing with them, and then supposedly making amends with them all in a span of 10 seconds is NOT a normal thing shared by all. In fact, I’m surprised people haven’t called us out on it more. Then again, I get that they were probably afraid to.

    Or things such as making up nations, full with their own languages, maps, and currency, (Before you ask, yak calves. Yes, baby yaks were the currency of this fictitious nation he made up) and pitting your children against one another to compete in its national sport, was NOT a normal thing for fathers to do in most families. Who knew? Not me.

    So, to sum up: Sorry, Dad, this actually is NOT a tribute to you.

    Don’t get me wrong. You are, in every way, an inspirational role model, hero to family and nation, man of honor and strength. You’re also bat-shit crazy. Thank God.

    However, the true hero in this legion of on-the-cusps is the woman who not only married your brilliant insanity but stayed married to you for 50+ years, gave you two female replicas of you, raised them, too, and still stayed sane.

    All hail Mom. Now THAT is a true American hero.

    Happy Mother’s Day, again, Mom. You deserve it. Celebrate it on Father’s Day. Dad already has his audience.

    Love to you both,

    Mo

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    img267 - Version 2
    IMG_1568 - Version 2

  • Because “Nice” Isn’t Getting Me Anywhere

    Because “Nice” Isn’t Getting Me Anywhere

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    The title of this post is meant to be somewhat ironic because, for anyone who knows me, the word that first comes to mind when describing me isn’t “nice”.

    The fact is, however, that I am nice. I don’t sound nice, I don’t come across nice, but when you notice what I’m doing for you, or to lessen your burden, or go out of my way to help you, especially when the chips are down, I am actually quite nice.

    I’m not the kind of person that will help you move; I am the kind of person that will help you move bodies…until my patience runs out with one leg still sticking out of the shallow grave yet to bury. But that’s usually because I’ve already done all the work so far. It’s only one leg left and I got you out to the desert to begin with, and dug most of the grave so, you know, good luck on the rest and quit whining.

    But because I will pick you up in a Tijuana jail at 3am, I tend to get taken advantage of as much as the nicest of people. Actually more so, because of the whole shallow-burial-thing, you now think I’m going to come clean up all of your messes; that we’re bonded for life; or at least will be doing life together. And outwardly nice people tend to not get taken advantage of as much because they’re seen as too nice to take advantage of. Me, being outwardly bitchy, people tend to think I have it coming. Not true, mean reader, I don’t. Next time, you break your own victims knees to get them in the trunk yourself. You’ll see how nice I’ve been.

    (more…)

  • Not Hard to Imagine When It’s Happening

    Not Hard to Imagine When It’s Happening

    KeystoneKops

    Someone asked me recently where I get my literary images of what I write about. He was asking in reference to a post I wrote called,

    Chiroptera-faecis psychosis

    and the description of me dangling by my foot from scaffolding. I explained to him as I’ll explain to you, my ever worthy reader.

    Images? That’s easy. Have you seen me? I’m always in the midst of battling my way out of some domestic tornado from my own making. Sort of like Pigpen from Peanuts but instead of dirt circling, it’s constant bullshit. The image of me dangling 30 feet in the air only held up by the ace bandage I’m wearing from my previous injury comes from the fact that it actually will happen. I know it will.

    Hell, yesterday, I celebrated my 18th stabiversary; 18 years of surviving what would’ve killed most people…and still partying like life depends on it the entire time, which would kill most people, too.  So considering that my worst injury so far is just a good ole stab in the throat; oh, or maybe the whole infected foot thing two years ago; or the carpal tunnel I got in my right hand (though it did make masturbating interesting) that rendered me useless for six months shortly after that; or when you consider that most of my childhood stories, as told by my family, are punctuated by, “that’s that other time when Molly almost died,” over and over, coming up with images to describe my every day isn’t difficult. It’s who I’m meant to be and I, apparently, take it seriously.

    Motivational speaker, I am not.

    Oh, then there’s the recent series of events that inspired me to write this. Not exciting. Not terribly tragic, either, but kind of funny. And kind of funny is all I’m aiming for right now. And Medi-Cal. C’mooooooo’on Medi-Cal. Because someone’s gotta pay for my ricochet. Being the subject of a calamitous farce of real life but with no paying audience doesn’t get me Blue Cross.

    I’ll guess I’ll have to settle for funny. The ridiculous images of my ultimate demise…which will take so long and be so ridiculous that videos of it will be up on youtube long before anyone realizes I’m actually dead this time.

    And if I weren’t dead, I’d laugh at that, too.

    So, when are you coming to Cali?

    Any more questions? I’m a veritable fount of clumsy here at the No Toast.

    -NTZ

  • “Googley”

    “Googley”

    sheep-678196_1920

    As a break from something else I was doing, like writing the most amazing resume ever created—information on resume writing services at http://molotovink.com aka shameless plug–I came across an article from BusinessInsider.com about the interview process at Google.

    “The 19 toughest interview questions you may have to answer if you want to work at Google, the best company in America” [edited] http://www.businessinsider.com/best-company-in-america-interview-questions-2016-4

     “Google may have done away with its notoriously impossible brainteaser questions, but doesn’t mean you can expect an interview there to be a breeze.

    So what tough questions can you expect to be asked to get there? We looked to Glassdoor reviews from the past year to find out:”

    I did take a look at the impossible brainteaser questions mentioned in the article but they are so impossible that they’re not even funny. So, why? What its worth if it doesn’t give the interviewer a chuckle? Unless those questions are what translate into funny at Google; in which case I say, never work at Google. Working there sounds like being forced to sit at the nerd-table in the cafeteria in high school. Sure the nerds rule over all of our lives now but it doesn’t mean I enjoy getting sprayed by the milk shot out of one’s nose.

    I have a couple-second clip of a movie that illustrates what I’m describing so vividly but because of, well, me, I’m having trouble getting it on here. You understand.  I’ll add it if it doesn’t cut into my sittin’ around time.

    And for those of you thinking, “Um, Molly? You may want to stop calling that kettle, ‘black’.” I’m not a nerd. I’m a dork. Huge difference. Not a difference I should be proud of but a difference nonetheless.

    Witness:

    According to Urban Dictionary, a nerd is:

    A stereotypical label used to describe a person that is socially inadequate [but highly intelligent]. A four-letter word, but a six-figure income.

    And a dork is:

    Someone who is slightly nerdy and geeky, though they are also adorable and somewhat charming and cute. Being a dork doesn’t mean you’re uncool, just not popular.

    That’s me, adorable yet tragically clumsy, a foot-in-mouth-diseased dilettante–not totally nerdy but not terribly cool–dork to the core.

    Add the fact that I just corrected the spelling on those definitions means something else even less flattering but I won’t get into that right now. Just know it’s not making me a six-figure income but certainly annoying my loved ones.

    Anywho…back to the Google interview.

    I’ve prepared my answers for when the big day comes when, like all of us eventually, I’m shuffled into the corral to await my Google indoctrination.

    Let’s begin, shall we?

     ‘Sell me anything at all.’

    I have water. You don’t. You’ll die without water. Give me all your money. Boom!

     ‘If ads were removed from YouTube, how would you monetize it?’

    Duh, porn.

    ‘Which do you think has more advertising potential in Boston, a flower shop or funeral home?’

    Funeral home because the ads could be hilarious. I don’t need flower shops when I can just grab flowers from my local funeral home dumpster. Wait, where are you going?

    ‘If I give you $1 million right now, what would you do?’

    Jump across the desk, pin you up against the wall, and pat your pockets down. If you have a million dollars on you right now, what are you hiding? No, I don’t always carry this shiv but that was pretty awesome how fast I pulled it out, though, huh?

    ‘What does ‘being Googley’ mean to you?’

    That my assumption of how nerdy you people are is correct.

    ‘What is your favorite Google product, and how would you improve it?’

    What’s that thing called when you need to find something on the Internet? Oh! Google. That’s my favorite. I would improve it by putting it on a computer program that can access the Internet giving me lots of options to choose from. So, what is it you guys do around here?

    ‘Estimate the number of tennis balls that can fit into a plane.’

    Two at most. Depending on the size of my pants.

    ‘Define a service that would allow you to travel to the future.’

    Run by a wacky neighborhood inventor, it’s silver, has 4 wheels. It uses a flux-capacitor and needs to get up to 88 miles per hour. No, I’m not available for a date.

    ‘If you came to work and had 200 emails in your inbox, how would you prioritize answering those emails?

    I would first send a screen shot to my mom to show her that I did so have friends. Then I would “delete” all the “spam” from the “adult” sites that mysteriously made their way to my inbox. After that, I would take a look at the last two.

    ‘Google employment has doubled each year for the last x years. Given the current employment, how many years before Google employs the entire world population of y?’

    –the “Google corral” idea from earlier doesn’t seem that crazy, now, does it.—

    I don’t know but I would like the Google Overlords to know of my obedience and my gratitude for everything they’re doing with our planet. They can always count on me to report any acts of insubordination to them immediately.

    ‘How do you think the digital advertising world will change in the next three years?’

    I think advertising will become more personal, fitting seamlessly into our lives full of thirst-quenching Coca-Cola and delicious McDonald’s-brand meals nourishing our families. I’m loving it!

    ‘What is the market for driverless cars in the year 2020?’

    Wait. I thought you were supposed to know this? Are you just mining me for information? Do you even work here?

    ‘How would you explain cloud computing to a 6 year old?’

    “Clouds are made when God cries and the tears dry up a little in the sky. Computers go there when they die.”

    ‘Model raindrops falling on a sidewalk (sidewalk is 1 meter and raindrops are 1 cm). How could we know when the sidewalk is completely wet?’

    Well, all we have to do is watch any San Diego news weather report. They will tell us, often breaking into regularly scheduled programming, how the rain is wet, how long it’s been wet, how long it’s going to be wet, and how San Diego sidewalks are affected by its wetness. They will do this for a very long time with urgency.

    ‘At this stage in your life would you prefer earning or learning?’

    Well, Socrates said…dude, um, I’m 43 years old. If I had a nickel for all the tidbits of useless information in my head, I could retire; which is coming up soon and there isn’t a wildly-random-tidbit/monetary exchange system that is paying right now. I’m gonna go with A.

    ‘How would you explain the importance of HTML 5 to Larry Page and then to my grandma?’

    …  You guys have a cafeteria around here I could visit real quick?

    ‘You have a grocery delivery service (similar to Amazon Fresh) which delivers food within 24 hours. Estimate how many trucks you need to operate this service.’

    I’m pretty sure only one. I can’t imagine I would need to eat a truckload of food every day. More than that seems a little excessive.

    ‘A coin was flipped 1,000 times and there were 560 heads. Do you think the coin is biased?’

    Waitaminute. That’s a job here? Can we go back to that? Who do I need to talk to?

    ‘Would you remove the link to an extremist piece of writing?’

    Like this one? Is that a Googley way of asking if I approve of book-banning?… You know, books? Books!!! Those things made of paper fastened together with words on them. B-O-O-K-S. Oh my God. I’m going to back out of here slowly before your robot head explodes.

    ***

    I haven’t heard back yet about the position I want as Lunch Lady but, you have to admit, it is a tough interview process. Hopefully my resume-client’s interview process won’t be as difficult. We’ll find out. We’ll all know eventually. If I were you, I’d start studying these Google interview questions now. It may help you land a cushy position once the Google Overlords take over. If not, I’ll see you in the cafeteria.

     

  • The Bitchin Scale

    The Bitchin Scale

    portrait-828398_1920Despite what the  “melancholy”, “artistic”, and “deep” aura this photo is trying to convey, these girls walking on the “train tracks” at “dusk”  says quite a bit more than what’s on the page….something like… that I typed in “friends” on a royalty-free pic site and got this.

    Hence all the quotation marks. I’m not buying into this photographer’s ultimate mood but it somehow met my goals which makes this photographer even more successful than he or she ever intended. Good for you, Mr. or Ms. Trying-too-hard! I wish I could aim so high. Seriously. I’m aiming at about sea-level at this point so this grasping at something is better than my just grasping. They will probably never know it but I just bumped up their awesome one tiny notch on the “right on!” scale.

    There is too such a scale. It’s called something else, or I just made it up, but we all already know what it is. It’s that level to where no matter how lame that thing is you’re trying to do, you’re doing it/attempting it/going forth with a vision yet unforeseen and you’re gonna do it come Hell or high water. And for that, and even just for that, you totally deserve a medal. I’m being honest. I love that Mr./Ms. Trying will go for it, in the face of everyone telling them they shouldn’t. I wish I could pat them on the back and tell them how awesome they are for trying. In a world so rife with anti’s, I love anyone that will power through and go pro.

    So if there isn’t a scale yet, I’m starting one and calling it, The Bitchin Scale.

    If you’ve ever tried and failed, had someone call you an idiot, been told that “it” would never work, that you need to do what we tell you to do, told to focus on something real, had your dreams crushed before 8am even though you woke up at 7:50, had someone laugh when you finally opened your heart and told them what you wanted in life…but proudly thought/tried/wanted to with a passion anyway? You’re a 8.534 on the Bitchin Scale.

    Which is pretty high. It’s awesome. I’m just so bad at math that it’s really hard to follow my logic. Just know it’s a good score.

    I’m proud of you. I’m proud of Mr./Ms. Two-girls-walking-all-melancholy-down-train-tracks photographer, right the fuck on.

    Now, what the hell was I going to rant about?

    Suddenly stoked,

    -the NTZ

     

     

     

     

     

  • For fans of the No Toast Zone…

    For fans of the No Toast Zone…

    Please check out what I do when I’m not whining.

    We are launching the exciting new thriller, Animal Parts A Peter Romero Mystery, on April 10th. Check out the video on Molotov Ink!

    -MoAP=Whole cover-k-Upload*

  • How to Deal

    How to Deal

    Here’s something I rarely do…rant.

    Just kidding.

    Anyway, I was talking to, seeking advice from actually, a good friend of mine about her success in her relationship. She then sought advice from me about Depression/Anxiety/whatnot. Especially, what to do about thoughts that just won’t go away. Ruminating, Obsessing, Freaking out, Mo’s normal Tuesday, whatever you call those thoughts that haunt you in your waking and sleeping hours. Those. They’re terrible and horrible when they’re benign, they’re downright menacing when they’re not.

    Considering my obnoxious list of things that bother me, afflictions, excuses, fucking-pick-one, I have become somewhat of an expert in the art of un-fucking my mind. I mean, c’mon, no one else is going to do it for me. Especially not one. single. therapist. who has ever lived a life. So, I’ve adapted.

    And here’s what I found that has helped:

    For those thoughts that are raging, when you feel down, when you feel downed-upon, when you feel angry, when you don’t feel angry enough, and if you don’t mind some incredibly loud cursing, then this is what you do:

    Play Rage Against the Machine’s ,”Killing in the Name of” as loud as you can stand it in your car, preferably somewhere safe, when Zach de la Rocha starts in on, “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.” sixteen times… you scream along until your voice hurts, capillaries burst, and your voice hurts more. Finally, he hits, “Motherfucker!” and you scream it as hard as you can.

    Don’t feel better? Don’t like cursing? Don’t like the loud music? Then stop. Wait. Yep.

    Now, try it again. Do it until you just feel stupid doing it any longer. If you’re like me, you’ll start to laugh. If not? Do it again. And this time, scream it like you mean it.

    Works every time.

    But, wait, there’s more…..

    Some ruminating thoughts aren’t always angry and need this kind of violent…dispatch. Some are heartbreaking and sad. Some, you don’t necessarily want to get rid of. Some just suck… but you just can’t stop “the loop”.

    I don’t have to explain the loop. If you know, you know.

    For those, there’s this song…

    Now wait, don’t skip ahead and think, “I know this song. It gets stuck in my head worse than anything ever!”

    For some reason, it doesn’t get stuck in my head but I may be lucky that way. What it does do for the people I’ve experimented on in a non-creepy way–don’t bother asking, you don’t want to know about the creepy experiments–is amazing. They should prescribe it along with Well-Butrin.

    Again, for those who know, you know…

    This you’ll either love me for or…well, it works for me.

    Now, hear me out! Listen to this all the way through. If you’re thinking of anything else other than who this Centerfold chick is…listen again. Then, come talk to me. I got way more up my sleeve.

    Enjoy, my fellow-ruminators.

    –Mo @ NTZ

     

  • Why This Is Eve’s Fault

    Why This Is Eve’s Fault

    apple

    Update: Read it again. Don’t question, just do.

    I’m PMSing. Hard. Soooooo hard. My body hurts. Noise hurts. I want to cry and I hate everyone for not loving me enough. I feel like chasing the driver of that trash truck with a bat because I’m pretty sure he’s banging those trash cans harder and noisier than he needs to. I can see you, you asshole! I know he’s going especially slow in the alleyway because it’s louder there and he knows how much it’s bothering me.

    I tried to sleep but it was no use. I’m achy and irritable and choking down occasional sobs. In a moment of rare charity, I got up so that my love could sleep. He works hard and deserves his rest and he is sleeping like a kitten. A soft, warm, cuddling kitten whose blissful contentment makes me want to punch him repeatedly. Hard. He’s just sleeping away even though I can’t get comfortable no matter what I do. So I got up and left the room…after standing over him for a few minutes trying to burn him with my eyes. Still, he’s just snoozing away, handsome and sweet. The fucking nerve of that guy.

    I know I’m whining but I can’t, no—don’t want to—stop. I don’t want to go on and on and be all, “Whaaa, my PMS is worse than yours—even though it totally is— whaaaa…Feel sorry for me…This sucks…Men are somehow responsible for this…whaaaa.” I’ve been ruminating on it ever since I gave up trying to sleep and realized whose fault this really is.

    It’s Eve’s. That stupid bitch.

    I’m not a Christian, and even if I were, I wouldn’t and don’t believe, even on my most irrational days, that all of humanity came from one dude and his little magical-rib companion. But I’m going to pretend for now. And, in efforts to continue on this “charitable” trend, I won’t really voice my opinion on those that do believe that fairy-tale. However you believe is…

    Anyway…

    Let’s say it was true. Let’s play make-believe and assume that Adam and Eve are the parents of all us and their being cast out of the Garden of Eden was for Eve’s lack of restraint.

    Let me explain.

    Genesis tells of the birth of man and the Garden of Eden. How everything is blissful and equal and Adam and Eve don’t have to do anything but eat, play with their animal friends, and walk around naked like living in a hippie commune…as long as they don’t eat the fruit from the one tree. I don’t know why God would put that one tree right in the middle of their playground. It would be like putting an Iron Maiden in the middle of a kindergarten. “Now go have recess but whatever you do, don’t play in that giant, spiky, man-shaped toy!”

    So this is what happens according to the Bible:

    God tells Adam and Eve in no uncertain terms…

    “But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” Genesis 2:17 ESV / 18

    And eventually, this happens:

    “Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Genesis 3:1-24 ESV / 5

    I applaud her need to know; I’m a curious, some say obsessive, investigator myself. And no man, not even Old Testament Male GOD, can tell me to not do something just because he said so. But “DIE”? I mean, come on! Barring the fact that she probably didn’t know what “die” meant, she didn’t even think twice. Just cruised on up, took a bite, and shared it with her ribless mate with no backbone. All because some crafty serpent with a fast car tells her she’s missing out on something. That’s more than just intellectual curiosity, that’s recklessness. What’s worse is that the damn snake didn’t even have to buy her a drink first. She’s the worst kind of slut that gives the rest of us a bad name. Yeah, I know what I said.

    So Eve didn’t die. Uh-huh. Right.

    So this happens:

    “Then the Lord God said, ‘Behold, the man has become like one of us in knowing good and evil. Now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—’ therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.” Genesis 3:22-24 ESV / 118

    I didn’t have to leave in the whole cherubim part but I like the literary ring to it.

    Back to my point. God punishes the serpent by making him slither and punishes Adam by making him have to cultivate his food and he punishes Eve by doing this:

    “To the woman he said, ‘I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” Genesis 3:16 ESV / 7

    Now, I’m not gonna touch the whole “weakened by my lust for my man” thing and especially won’t touch the whole “men will rule over women” thing. I’m PMSing and I don’t have enough quality property insurance to open that can of serpents right now. BUT! the whole “multiplying pain in childbearing” thing is really pissing me off.

    I’m of childbearing years. I have the body of a childbearing woman and all the imbalances, hormonal and otherwise, that it entails.

    Because of Eve’s lack of restraint and her immediate bedazzlement by a slick-talking, bouncing snake, I feel like crying while I throw things and question your motives.

    Because Eve was too selfish to think of the consequences of her actions, just chewing on any old dangling fruit, I’m stuck on the couch chain-smoking and eating ice cream at 8am.

    So, yeah, I’m PMSing hard, I’m blaming it on Eve…
    but I’m gonna take it out on you.

    God speed.