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.

dog thing bosch

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.





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






Death Isn’t Private and a Promise for a Long Lost Friend

If there ever comes a time where I’m told it’s the end for me, here’s my plan: I’m throwing a huge party and everyone’s invited. Afterwards, while we spike my IV with Diet Coke and vodka, we’re playing the original Trivial Pursuit I’ve memorized by now and Pictionary (I get to win even if I am only drawing sticks). We’ll all be wearing stupid hats and making faces with scotch-tape. Then, I’ll be passing out the lyrics to the horrible show tunes with your names on them in the order you have to do your solo at my wake. During the service, T-shirts, with my huge face silk-screened onto them, will be air-cannoned out to the mourners to the tune of Yakety Sax….or the theme song to WKRP in Cincinnati, a true classic. And there will be an open bar. I hope you all make similar plans.

I don’t want anyone to find out I left without signing their yearbook. I want everyone to have the chance to tell me what they want when they know I can hear it. (Good and bad, though that would be a odd time to tell me I was a jerk, you would still get the chance, weirdo) I found out that my old friend passed on as quietly as one could in this information age and it took me years to find out she was already gone, right around the time my search to reconnect with her really began. I wish so much I could’ve told her how much she meant to me and hopefully made her laugh but it was too late and my dear friend perished bravely, though cruelly and tragically, without so much as a whimper. And again, though late, all of my love is sent to her poor family.

I searched for years for you, Jess, only to find I tried just a little too late. It won’t happen again, I promise. I didn’t get to say it then so: Goodbye, my friend, you’ve always been some of my favorite memories. Your wit and humor and kindness and cynicism were a template for my own life. And your genuine awesomeness is always with me. I wish we could’ve cracked-up together again but maybe I’ll just see you on the other side and embarrass you then. I’ve got more ideas for our radio show. Even if my afterlife might be quite a bit warmer than the beautiful place I’m sure you are, we can maybe Skype or I’m sure I’ll have Facebook down there. Whatever the case is, I won’t let the afterlife get in the way. I’ll start looking for you the moment I reach the gate.

The Canyon of Lost Keys


I already knew what I was doing wasn’t a smart thing to do but sometimes “smart” gets superseded by “gotta get some”. I was going to his house to fool around with my ex that night and, not surprisingly, it got weird.

Not in the way that you may think. This site isn’t full of porn, it’s full of awkward.

Instead of a night of lusty, hard-earned shame, we got into a huge fight about something ridiculous and I stormed out. I’d been drinking though and, since I’m only self-destructive and not an asshole, I was going to go sleep it off in my car.

I’d show him, the jerk. Continue reading “The Canyon of Lost Keys”