Part of the Process

Dear Blog

2008-01-17T08:24:00.001-08:00

I miss you. What have you been doing lately? I'm job hunting, myself. Other than that, well, things have changed since the last time we talked.
Sorry to have left you for so long; I'll fill you in later, after I get The Kid to school.

I'm glad we're taking time to reconnect. It's been too long,

Impulsivecompulsive

The Future Is*

2007-02-18T16:42:00.000-08:00

Back when I was a drunken, irresponsible slut I always thought that if when I quit that shit it would be replaced with....something. I had this pretty little dream where by becoming a mother, I'd have to grow the fuck up. And in the process of growing up, I'd settle down, quit playing with men, go to school, learn something, and get a grown up job and have grown up relationships and maybe even learn to cook.

And I did it: I quit the drinking, and the fucking, and the irresponsibiliting. And what have I gained?

30 pounds
$75,000 worth of debt
A complete and total terror of any man I find myself attracted to
2 zits big enough to have feasted on the corpses of every single zit I ever accrued in my teenage years
Bad study habits

I call not fair, dammit.

*End of title removed due to copyright violation

Steal-o-Meme

2006-11-24T19:59:00.000-08:00

Stolen via Pandagon, who did not steal it from Lauren, because I needs to post something on this here blog.

Here's what you do:
1. Open your music library
2. Set settings to "Shuffle"
3. Press play
4. For each entry, type the song that's playing
5. For new entry, press the next/forward button

Editor's note: I reordered this list according to the original, then moved everything that I haven't yet done to behind those things that I have done. Logical, no?

Opening credits: Wolf Parade - Shine a Light
Starts out all optimistic, don't it?

Waking up: The Moldy Peaches - NYC's Like a Graveyard
Appropriate? Well no. I've never been to NYC. Heck, I'm not even American. But hey, it's a good song to wake up to, anyway.

First day at school: Morcheeba - Let Me See
And things start to go downhill....

Life's okay: The Killers - Mr. Brightside
How are we defining "okay" again?

Mental breakdown: Macy Gray - I Try
Okay. This would've worked out better if it was post-falling-out-of-love, but it ain't. Well, ya can't always win on the shuffle, I say.

Birth of child: Snow Patrol - You're All I Have
Well, that's fucking depressing. Let's go back to mental breakdown. Or for a smoke.

Prom: (AKA College graduation, for those of us who kinda skipped out on that whole high school thing) Britta Persson - Defrag My Heart
Heh. That's kinda funny.

Falling in love: Broken Social Scene - Pitter Patter Goes My Heart
Awww. Now that's just sweet. Now I wanna fall in love with something that doesn't need batteries.

Breaking up: Sleater Kinney - Roller Coaster
Well, at least I'll take it well.

Driving: Count Bass-D - Seven Years
I'm taking this to mean that I'm going to have a license by the time The Kid is seven. I hope. Seriously, would someone please lend me a car so I can get my license? (And no, Shadow, it doesn't count if that car perpetually has three raging kids in the backseat. I refuse to practice driving under those conditions, thank you.)

Flashback: Long Beach Dub Allstars - Sunny Hours
I shall flashback to the days when I said "ya'll" every second word. Ya'll right, ya'll?

Getting back together: Broken Social Scene - Swimmers
Hmmm. Two BSS songs in one meme. How unoriginal.

Wedding: (AKA: willingness to commit for life) Lou Barlow - Caterpillar Girl
I have no idea what that means. I'm just a creepy little bugger without a man? The conservatives were right? Who knows.

Final battle: Arcade Fire - Neighbourhood #4
WTF? This is just getting stupid. Ohhhhh...."Time is creeping through the neighbourhood, killing old folks...." I get it. Movin' on. No wait, this song just gets more and more depressing as we go. Well, then, that fits.

Funeral song: No. No way. I'm not doing another BSS song. I'm breaking the rules, and hitting forward again.

Funeral song: Headstones - Tweeter And The Monkey Man
Go figure.

End credits: Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Follow You Into The Dark
Hah! Hah hah! If I'm going down, I'm taking all of you with me! And in a very depressing and emo kinda way! Hah!

So, that's about it. Make your own, impress your friends!
Bye.

Night of the Inane Comment V (IV? VI?)

2006-11-03T23:07:00.000-08:00

Link Farmin'

I got nothin. How 'bout you find it for yourselves:

Squirrels: They're here, they're evil, and they're getting worse. Yeah,those little fuckers are cute, but they've stepped it up a notch from attacks on innocent puppies (last years news, find it, I'll give you a cookie), to attacking the neighbourhood postmaster. Yeah; information, it ain't coming free anymore. It's coming your way at the cost of life and limb for some. Fuck anthrax, the squirrels are where it's at. But damn, they're cute. Not as cute as ducks, but close.
That's it. I got distracted. By Natural Family Planning. Movin on.

Natural Family Planning

I plan my family naturally, in that the nature of the capitalist system has put me in a position where by my student loans make it unfeasible for me to go out popping out the offspring of the nearest annual boy toy.

Natural Family Planning: Fucking in such a manner as to ensure the certain demise of whatever sperm may kick around awaiting the arrival of a viable egg. Starving those little fuckers into submission, as it were.

Plan B: Fucking in such a manner as to ensure the certain demise of whatever sperm may kick around awaiting the arrival of a viable egg. Starving those little fuckers into submission, as it were.

The logical conclusion? One and the same, say I. The illogical conclusion? Any woman who fucks (but only between days eleven and seventeen) ought to be punished with a child.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd like to believe that my child is a viable human being, with love, flaws, quirks, and spirit; not a punishment. But hey, I'm a babykilling mofo, so my opinion don't count.
So on to:

How To Kill Potential Zygotes; Canadian Style:

1) Don't use condom. Just don't. Realize that condoms are a mile away from you, and fuck, it's been half a year since you've, well fucked. Pills make you cranky, the shot makes you bleed for six weeks at a go, and the IUD is still pending you finding the time to get your sorry ass to North Burnaby, therefore insuring that this non-condimated fucking could potentially lead to your sorry ass getting pregnant.

2) Do midterms. Do more midterms. Hell, throw in another one.

3) Take a fiver from midterms to scurry up to the drop in clinic.

4) Meet a new doc. He reminds you of your dad. So much, that you find yourself offering up unsolicited confessions of wrongdoings, just so you can revel in that semi-sarcastic, poker faced reproof.
Ahhh, the parents. How we miss them when they choose to allow us to live our own lives.
Ohh, ohh! I smoke a pack a day too! Hell no, make it two!

5) Get prescription for Plan B: yes, said prescription may be unnecessary, but it'll save you twenty five bucks at the till to come with it.

6) Get pill. Commiserate with pharmacist over medical plan's decision to exclude pill from coverage since said pill became over-the-counter.
Fucking medplan.

Movin' on; again.

The American experience:

I phoned my doctors office which informed me that the office was closed and that I had to call the local hospital and have her paged in order to reach her on the weekend. So I called her and had them page her. A little while later she called back and I answered the phone immediately. She sounded tired and really grumpy; I apologized for having to page her for a thing like this and then asked her if I could get a prescription for EC. She explained that I needed to go to the Emergency Room to get it.

He puts me on hold and I sit on the edge of the bed frowning and fiddling with a pen. I wait on hold for 15 minutes before he finally comes back on.
"Have you talked to your doctor?" he asks.
"Yes, I talked to her this morning and she told me to go to the ER" I reply.
"Oh, so she won't prescribe it for you?" he asks.
This possibility hadn't occurred to me. I just assumed that the ER was standard procedure, "Hmmm" I say, "Well, I guess not. It's not just standard procedure to go to the ER?"
"No, not really. We don't really have this happen much."

"Well see," he begins, his voice dropping a little, "the problem is that you have to meet the doctorÂs criteria before he'll dispense it to you."
"Criteria?" I question.
"Well," the nurse sounds decidedly nervous as though what he really wanted to do was hang up the phone completely, "Yes, his criteria. I mean...ummm...well, are you ok? Is there any, ummm....trauma?" he asks me.
My face changes expression and I hurry to explain, "No, no" I said, "No. I haven't been raped. This was consensual sex."
"Oh..." he trails off.
I wait expectantly.
"Well, ummm....*clears throat*...So you haven't been raped?" he asks again.
"No. I have not been raped. The condom broke". I state, becoming very frustrated at this point and wondering what the hell is going on.
"Ok, well ummm....Are you married?" he mumbles the words so low I can barely hear them.
"No." I state plainly. "I am not married. I've been in a relationship for several years and I have three children, I don't want a fourth." I respond tersely.
"Oh, I see." He says and then he hurries on, "Well, see. *I* understand. I want you to know that I understand what you're saying. But see, the problem is that we have 4 doctors here right now but only one of them ever writes EC prescriptions. But see, the thing is that he'll interview you and see if you meet his criteria. Now, I called the pharmacy but I also talked to him and well....*clears throat*....you can come down and try to get it. You know, if you meet his criteria he'll give you a prescription, I mean, there's really no harm in trying." the nurse trails off, his voice falters as I realize what I'm being told.

Folks, the condom broke Friday night and I searched all weekend for someone who could prescribe me EC. It is now Monday and I have to report that I have been unable to find anyone who will write me a fucking prescription for EC.

I have been asked about my sexual practices. Whether I'm 'monogamous' or 'in a relationship' if I'm married, if I have kids, how many kids I have, if I was raped or 'traumatized' but there wasnÂt' ONE question about my health. Not one.

How does this end?

Ask Biting Beaver how her abortion went.

Yes, I'm serious. Save a sperm, kill a zygote.

Which brings us to:

Lovin' Life

Don't do it.

"Life". It's not all it's cut out to be. First of all, it's been here, all along. Learn this. Love this. Every time you stub your pinky toe, that's a part of life. When you roll over in the morning, and wipe the crusties from the corners of your eyes, smack your dried out, stanky lips, and slip the curtain back to reveal day three of those one hundred and eighty two days of Vancouver winter rain? That's life.

Don't give up life for "loving life" to it's fullest. "Life" doesn't need you. And "love" doesn't either. Leave them the fuck alone.

Life
I'm not gonna come down to hard on life right now. After a couple of years of trying to live up to a real life, I've recently come back to realizing that it's not so different. What you imagine you live, well, it's no less real than what you live. Have fun. Take a moment out to pretend to be who you really are, and run with it. You'll go wrong, I'm sure, but it'll make a great story.

Love
Fuck you.
Grow the fuck up, and figure it out.
1) "Loving life" does not mean using women as brood stock. Until you've put in your time proving your love of the plankton, you have no say in the love of your own damn sperm. Bigger is better, after all.
2) "Love" is not yours. You can't keep it. You have to give it away. Kinda the rules of the game. So:

My daughter is not a weapon that you can use against me, and trying to make her so doesn't prove your "love".
You. Your family (Ha! I called them family!) they may not understand how truly evil you are. Maybe The Stepsister did, when she was five. And hell, mayber The Sister, my friend, would have, if she hadn't spent the next twenty years with shit like you. Maybe now she'd know that you're not okay.
And you? Biting Beavers physician? I'm gonna throw you in here right after that fucking piece of shit that fucked his five year old step-daughter.

Why? How can you do that to me? I only loved the unborn children!

Because that's not what it's about. You don't love people, you give your love to people. You offer it up on a shiny platter, and squat, humble at their feet, hoping they will accept it from you.

There is no you. In love, there's sheets. In the bathtub, at five a.m., wringing out the vomit, with no anger. There's finding the last sock when you got too damn good at hitting that snooze button. There's the tweak-your-eye this way, then they tweak-their-eye that a way, and the conversation's done. There's the way they look like a newt from a certain angle.

And there's no you. There's no you, deciding that you love them too much to wait for the next thirteen years for them to become legal age. There's no you, making major life decisions for them, there's no you, telling them what they need to do to live up to your love.

Fuck your love.

Fuck it.

I hate your love. And you know what? So does every one of those people you profess to love. I'm not the only one; We All Hate You.

So here's from all the liberal assholes in world, who may not realize that their liberal, or that they're assholes; I don't care. I'm speaking on your behalf:

From T, who doesn't know if her family will stand by her: Fuck you, asshole. You're a pedophilic freak, and it's only so long until you realize that you can't hide from this.

From M, who still doesn't know that wrong is not the only way: Fuck you, Dad; There is good out there. I'm not gonna settle for the idea that everyone is as evil as you. Fuck You Dad. You're nothing but a twisted anomaly, and one of these days I'm gonna figure out that people are Not Like You. And then I'm gonna be okay.

From S: Fuck you, grandma, uncle, dad. I've said it once, I'll say it again. You can't kill my morals; they're here to stay. Living in a dream world, where everything is okay? Yeah, well, it's gonna be, as long as there's more people like me, who don't listen to more people like you. So deal.

From me: Fuck you. I missed the Rockies so much last night that I cried myself to sleep. I want back, I want my home, and I can't have it, because you "love me".
Fuck you for stealing my home from me. Fuck you for taking away the feeling of glacier water on my broken hip. Fuck you for taking three hour games of tag away from Satan's Cat. Fuck you for stealing that first breath of fresh air in the morning, knowing that people paid thousands of dollars to visit what I owned, and that life was perfect.
I woke up last night, dreaming of the piano I used to play at that hotel; and I can't go back there.
Because you "loved me".

From everyone: Fuck all of you who have been in "love". Fuck you for using people to meet your own ends, fuck you for your simplistic justification for fucking over everyone who is worth ten times what you are. Fuck you for not realizing that the reason you need to find something to live for is that you....by yourself....have no value.....to add.....to life.

You're nothing.

Fuck you.

Best. Song. Ever.

2006-08-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

I Started A Blog Nobody Read

Go there, and listen.

Coffee Talks

2006-08-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a verbatim coffee break conversation, from beginning to end. Enjoy.

D: Scatalogical?

Me: Okay.

D: Misanthrope.

Me: Sure.

D: So....scatalogical misanthrope.

Me: .....uhhh.....

D: Oh, you can do this. Who'm I thinking of?

Me: Oh...we know?

D: No. Cccccc....cccc...

Me: Um, um...

D: Ccccee...

Me: Celia Celia Celia SHITS!!!!!
Swift. I'm good.

Tidbits From The Pride Parade

2006-08-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

1) My daughter is a drag queen trapped in the body of a five year old. The level of admiration and adoration she had for them was adorable. She was eventually reduced to half-words, cut off by exclamations of joy: look at...ohhhh...she's beauti....oh! oh! look at her sparkly crown....ohhhhh. Gorgeou....oh! look at her! in the red! ohhhhhhh.

2) There are some people who simply should not be in a pride parade. Yes, that means you, Conservative Party, and you, Fathers for Justice. Back the fuck off. We know you're not here for gay family values. You ain't fooling no one.

3) I'm a great cheer-starter. What can I say, it's a talent.

Cute

2006-07-29T12:19:00.000-07:00

Via Pandagon.

Woot!

2006-07-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

Two points:

1) There's nothing better than popping up and down like a manic prairie dog because you can't decide if you should sit up straight so that you can clearly see the most beautiful sunset of the season without your balcony railing disrupting the view, or if I should stand up, so I can clearly see the reflection of the sunset in the river, or if I should just hunker down and watch the baby seagulls on the roof across the street testing out their wings.

2) I am normal. After a fifteen pound weight gain over the past six months, I have finally figured out that my new found fattitude equals exactly two pounds under the exact medium level of what constitutes exactly healthy for a woman of my size. Fuck you, weight-loss plans, this tissue ain't going nowhere. I'm 5'10", 149 lbs, and I'm sticking with it. Paris Hilton can kiss my fat ass, while I'm busy downing as many pieces of left-over birthday cake as I want.

I'm gonna go eat some b-day cake now. Goodbye.

Life

2006-07-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

Player 1: It's your roll

Player 2: Five. Shit.

Player 1: You landed on single mother. Go back to the begining. Tough luck, that.

Player 2: Yeah. Alright, your go.

Player 1: Nice! Got a raise.

Player 2: Nice luck, but hey, I'm still a contender. Better be watching your back, it's my roll.

(Rolls a four.)

Player 2: So I'm on....

Player 1: No you don't. You're a single mother with student loans. You don't get to move.

Player 2: What? So what, I'm just supposed to sit here?

Player 1: That's how the games played, dude. Learn the rules.

Player 2: Well, shit. For how many turns?

Player 1: The rest of the game.

Player 2: Fuck this, I'm gonna go watch t.v.

Player 1: No way, man. You gotta play 'till the end.

Player 2: But I'm not allowed to move. How long I gotta do this for?

Player 1: Well, you're a smoker, but you are planning on quitting in September. You don't eat too well, but not as bad as the average American, anyway. You get you're daily dose of moderate exercise walking every day, and given that you're never going to be able to afford a car, you'll probably maintain that daily exercise.
I'd say you've got fourty to fifty years to go.

Player 2: You want me to sit here and roll these fucking dice for fourty to fifty years, and not move one space?

Player 1: Might just be thirty five, if you're lucky.

Player 2: Fuck that, Supernatural is on. I'm watching t.v.

Player 1: I told you already, that's not how the game is played. Besides, Supernatural sucks.

Player 2: That guy with the lip is freakishly cute. I don't give a damn how good the show is. I don't like this game anymore.

Player 1: Sorry, you don't have a choice in the matter. Sit down, quit you're fucking whining, and roll the goddamn dice so I can take my turn.

Player 2: I gotta play the game this way?
So what can I do, then?

Player 1: Buy groceries. Barely. Not on the months when you have to get new contacts or glasses, buy school clothes for The Kid, go to the dentist, or anything else like that. But on the other months, you should be able to afford enough groceries.

Player 2: I hate this game.

Player 1: I hate your bitching. I'm not playing with you anymore.
Fuck this, I'm gonna go watch Supernatural.
I'll come back and see how you're doing in a year or two.

Player 2: Couldn't you at least tape it for me?

Player 1: Nobody owns VCR's anymore, dipshit. Burn yourself a DVD in a couple of decades.

Player 2: Fine. Bring me a coffee when you come back.

Player 1: Sure thing. But don't complain if it's cold.

You Can't Hide Behind A Dead Cow

2006-07-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

Is the mantra The Kid repeated for hours on end today. As a social experiment, I have to say my daughter may not be a good test subject.
Although we can always use a new proverb, and you can't go wrong with, "You can't hide behind a dead cow."

So: Darfur is Dying. No shit, you say? Well, MTV has gone and made an online game with that very name. Check it out. I'll provide the link, just as soon as I'm done talking.
Exploitation, or education? I'm sure that's the issue that'd be surrounding this here game, should there actually be an issue. I don't know. I can't be bothered to find out.

The idea is to try to keep a refugee camp alive for one week. It ain't easy. You need a hell of a lot of water (and don't go sending that girl in the purple dress-she's always caught-at least in my attempts).

So, fuck the exploitation shit. Question is, will kids who don't give a fuck actually start to give a fuck based on this game? Probably not. (Although I'd hazard a guess that should the game be better developed, some people might find that it makes them give a shit.)

It's an interesting approach, anyway. And if anything, should The Kid find herself in a desert while being pursued by militia, she will find a better hiding spot than in the carcass of the dead cow.*

So the link: Darfur is Dying

*Course, the crappy thing is that there are kids my daughter's age who found that one out the hard way. Kinda funny, how we choose to believe that today, no child died of dehydration after their mother couldn't safely go for water.
They're not real. They're just a game.
Really.

Updatery

2006-07-04T17:41:00.000-07:00

To add to the last post: Head on over to Shadow's place. Do it. Now.

Don't Mind Me

2006-07-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

But I'm tuckered and cranky. Too much water park, too many kids, and a long weekend pretty much did me in.

Still, the guilt over the lack of posting is getting to me. I'm planning, I'm plotting, I'm putting it all together. My head's compiled an assortment of goods; Umoja, nekkid boobs, that old porn standby, Harper's general ass-fuckery of me and mine, and the joys of compound interest acting against you.

So about those nekkid boobs: Amongst my peers, we've been complacent in the notion that, Harper or no Harper, at least we'll not be fully Americanized as long as we can strut our stuff with our nipples basking in the sunlight. (I think I've talked about nipple-basking somewhere before. I guess I'm just a big fan of the Basking Nipples, me.)

Lounging in the park this weekend, a bitter truth was fed:
Women's nipples are not, after all, allowed to bask free.

We discovered this after a woman who had previously been sunbathing topless was 'asked' by the local police to put a shirt on. She complied, all went on as before, less some expanses of flesh.
Except for our confusion of course. "Shirts? Legal? Necessary? Didn't that one go straight out the window a couple of years ago?"

Turns out even the police couldn't confirm that without some troubles. One officer was kind enough to scour through the annals of Canadian legislation and found that it is, indeed, still illegal to go topless.

Still confused.
Then what the hell have we been celebrating all this time?
So today, Shadow did some internet-legwork, and rustled up an article which said that the matter has been dropped as criminal, and is now up to provincial or municipal jurisdiction.

Here's the fun part: The part where I don't have to post....

I took a peek at that article, which was posted at the REALity: REAL Women of Canada.

I like that name for a group. REAL Women. "Real." It's got a nice ring to it, not to mention being exceedingly useful for political causes. When ever anyone disagrees with you, just let people know that they ain't real. Or a least not "REAL."

Of course, I'm a little confused as to what that would make me, in their eyes. A man? But no, they're there for men's rights. They love their men, much more than they could possibly give a flying fuck about themselves. They certainly wouldn't be putting down the gender by lumping such nasties like me in with them.

Maybe I'm just....not real. A figment of your imagination.

Warning: if you are reading this post right now, you are FUCKING INSANE. Get thee to a mental institution for immediate attention. Ask, no Demand, your right to a lobotomy, for if there's anything more dangerous then a lunatic who's hearing voices and/or reading non-existent blog pages, it's a lunatic who's hearing left-leaning, single-mother, feminist voices or reading the blog pages of said.

So, my lovely little nutbars, this would be worthy of a post, would it not? Of course! The pages have been bookmarked and mental notes on complete hypocrisy made.
(Brief aside: Here's a good game: find my favourite hypocrisy - it's a little contradiction between the "Topless" article and the "Our View" section.)
Then, I hit the news for some dope to knock me out for the night.

And what do you think I found? That's right: no need for me to be writing this imaginary tidbit on my imaginary blog, because Heather Mallick has been kind enough to do it for me.

So everyone put your (potentially imaginary) hands together in a big round of applause for Heather! You won't see me giving up my day job any time soon!

Read on: Attack on feminism hurts women here and overseas, by Heather Mallick.

Heck, she even fits in that bit on breast smooshing that I'd previously forgotten that I'd pre-previously planned to eventually post about.

Once I got around to actually posting anything again.
Which will happen.
Someday.

Until then, I'm going to bed.

2006-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

Ode To A Beautiful Night

2006-06-20T22:36:00.000-07:00

The stars are shining, the air is warm, the city lights are reflecting and refracting off the river below, and the strip club is near silent.

And over at Pandagon, Amanda posts a link that proves that It's All Gonna Be Okay. Because no matter what the baby wars (with the "threat" of Muslims "outbreeding" the Godly Christians or Republicans "outbreeding" the Liberals), no species, no matter how prolific - be it the long passed Dodo, or that most hallowed and most appealing of flightless fowl, the Kakapo - can outlive massive doses of stupidity.

And here you have it, proof positive that Republicans are a dying breed. (Remember folks, this here excerpt was written by a Repub pundit, the wisest of the species, the, dare I say it? expertisers.) Heck, this is worthy of making up a name, it is.

Without further ado, I give you

Dennis Prager on why the left fears global warming more than the right:

The Right tends to fight human evil such as communism and Islamic totalitarianism. The Left avoids confronting such evils and concentrates its attention instead on socioeconomic inequality, environmental problems and capitalism. Global warming meets all three of these criteria of evil. By burning fossil fuels, rich countries pollute more, the environment is being despoiled and big business increases its profits.

Okay then. Why is this so funny? Well, remember, this is intended as an insult to the left.

That boy actually believes that being worried about social inequality and environmental problems shows that Teh Left is going craaaaaazy, while honest, salt of the earth folks are more concerned with pissing in their panties whenever a brown person waits for the same crossing light as them. Shit man, their brown, and their stopping next to me. Every good Godbag knows that brown people can't tell the difference between red or green lights! Take cover, Betty, their gonna bloooowwwwww!!!!

And if that quote wasn't enough to send you into the mad hysterics that it did me, there's always this one to fall back on:

The Left believes in experts.

That's right.

No need for thanks, you know I'm only here to please you.

Impulsive Out.

Post #3

2006-06-18T04:03:00.000-07:00

Yeah, this is the third post on the same subject. But you know what? I don't like hiding behing the pillar in my building's lobby, hiding from anyone driving by outside, while waiting for the elevator. I don't like having to sprint down the street to building entry, timing it right so that little fucker won't know what building I went in to.

It brings back memories.

I didn't like sleeping with my back pressed into the wall, so HE couldn't see me if he found out where I lived, and chose to peer in the window.

I didn't like ripping my newborn child out of her swing to cower in the bathroom (the only room without windows) when I heard a car that sounded like it might be his stopping in front of my house.

I don't like cowering. I don't like fear. I don't like knowing that there's someone out there who has the legal right to use my child to get revenge on me.

Here's the thing:

You're right; I never loved you. I didn't. We only dated for three months. The only reason I let you move in was because I was too fucking lazy to find a new roomate. You were stupid, but maleable. I was bored, and lazy. And so we met.
Sure, I did you wrong. I gave you the time of day, and I shouldn't have even done that. As to how far things went, and how fast? I can't take full blame for that. Three months, is, after all, three months.

No matter: My child is not your weapon. You may have done what you could to alieanate all my friends (as if you could), and may have stolen every possesion I had (as if they weren't replacable), but you do not have the option of using my child against me.

You don't have that choice. It's not yours. You denied her: you debated her relation to you. You said that no woman who was carrying your progeny would refuse to marry you.

Pick one. Either you were wrong, or she's not yours.

Legally, she isn't. She's mine. My daughter. I carried her. We sat in the parking lot together, baking in the heat. We ate cornflakes. We went to the hospital. Then she became she, and lazed her slow-assed way out of me, lungs sealed, heart trembling, yet still refusing to be rushed. She came, and screamed for six months straight, and hollered when I put her down to take a shower, and roared when I changed her diaper, and frothed when I changed my socks.

But you wanted to use her against me. Not as your daughter, but as a free grenade to throw. And you sat outside the window, and breathed into the other end of the phone, went to my parents house and scared their dog. And you went to court, and hoped that they'd feel as badly for you as you did for yourself.

You didn't even want anything out of it: you just wanted a public forum to call me a bitch.

Well, here it is:

I'M A BITCH

And to your alter-egos, that drive alongside me at night, and demand submission:

I'M A BITCH

Done. I've said it, twice. Is that good enough for you fuckers? Will you beleive me now? Because it's the truth. IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.

I'M A BITCH

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Patriarchy

2006-06-18T03:10:00.000-07:00

That's some shit from the seventies, isn't it?

No, that's where a couple of guys feel like they can follow me home and threaten me, simply because they know that deep down, it's kinda close to being okay, just as long as you don't say that out loud.

But you were mean to him.

You don't see it? You honestly don't see it, do you? That boy drove along side me. Hell, to look like he wasn't pulling that shit, he then sped up to circle the block, then DROVE ALONG SIDE ME AGAIN. And repeat.

Let's put this in context of a trial. I'll be the judge.

Well, okay...Since you're the only public voice I have, I guess I don't have a choice, now do I?

We'll be editing your reply. But next: Were you flirting while at the bar?

No.

No seriously, you're a young woman, single, 88.4% straight, yet you're telling me you weren't flirting?

No. I was hanging out with my girlfriends. The closest I came to flirting was telling one of the bartenders that I'm not into straight guys....Wait. What the fuck does it matter if I was flirting or not?

Well, don't you think you might have brought this on yourself?

What? Pardon? Are you serious?

You met him prior, didn't you?

Yeah, he made some asshole comment, and I ignored him. So what?

But what did you do to deserve the comment. You were dancing, weren't you? And to Shakira, if I'm not mistaken.

Well, yeah. I was wearing an ankle length skirt, and an anklet, and an Egyptian necklace. Kinda gotta dance to Shakira, given the circumstances.

So maybe you led him on, given the dress. The song said, "My hips don't lie," so don't you think that maybe he misread your hips?

What of it? Did he misread me flipping him the bird as he sped off, the first time, after I told him to fuck off, repeatedly, since he was cruising along side me, alone, at night? And after I'd called him an idgit, prior to his retreaving his car just so he could tail me with less effort? How was that leading him on? And how would that matter, anyway?

Well, I'm just sayin': You're cute. You've got real big tits. Maybe it's just not your place to be galavanting around in bars, and clubs, and pubs, and restaurants, and parks, and school, and on the streets, and all that shit. It's just too tempting.

Tempting?!? Fuck that, no one sober wants a peice of me. It's not my fault if he was too drunk to realize that. I'm bitchy. I'm scared of commitment. I get knock-kneed and tongue-tied around people I'm honestly attracted to, and that makes me a shitty conversationalist. Plus, I've got really scrawny chicken legs. That's not tempting. That's his insanity.

Well, obviously you fooled him. Maybe you should dampen it down a bit, ya think?

No! I only danced with the girls! I didn't even talk to the guys that are friends with the group. The only time I had any contact with men was when I was going too or from the dance floor, and they tapped my shoulder, and you know what? I kept walking, and pretended I didn't notice them! I didn't flirt, with anyone, at all!

But you earlier admitted to flirtatiously mocking the bartender for being straight, did you not?

No! That's not what I said! Well, it is, sort of, but....Wait: What does this have to do with anything?

I'm just setting up the hypothesis that maybe, you were being a flirt. And that may have caused the alleged stalker to reason that you would be attracted to him, too. And therefore his following you home was a completely reasonable response, given your demeanor.

(Turns to face the camera): And as this shows, ladies, you'd be better off not to cause such contraversies. Don't mock men by entering bars or pubs, and be certain not to wear a skirt which exposes your ankles to them. Although I'm sure you're too naive to realize the response that a well turned ankle (especially when combined with Shakira), will elicit, trust me when I say: You don't want to find out.

Stay home. You're safer there. And better safe then sorry.

Why I Live Across The Street From a Strip Club:

2006-06-18T02:23:00.000-07:00

Here's the deal: You act like an asshole, I'm gonna call you an assshole.

And the fact that the bouncers also feel that you're an asshole does not reflect on me.

Therefore, you do not have the right to drive by me, twice, on the way home.

Or a third time.

*****************************************************************

Advice to all single women:

Move into an apartment across the street from a strip club, and only go home at closing time.

If someone is harassing you, feel free to, quite literally, jump on a bouncer. Seriously, grab some bouncer, and don't let go. If it hasn't reached that point:

WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT LEAVE THE VICINITY OF THE STRIP CLUB.

I don't care how safe you feel. The shortest, slimiest, least-suspect guy will be the one who circles the block repeatedly.

Never Open Your Door Unless You Know Who's Watching You.

And that's life. I know it, you know it. We know it. We live it. We know that if I didn't hide myself with the stripclub patrons, then dash across the street when he drove around the corner (again), I would have deserved it, had he broken into my building and raped me.

He was at the same bar as me. That means I wanted to fuck him.

He spoke to me. That's damn near the same as pissing on a tree, that is.

Fuck it, I'm tired, I'm cranky, and it's way past my bedtime. And I'm not being to clear, am I? So here goes:

Really, this is it. All of it:

Him: Hey, bartender, that chick wants you!!!

Me: blank stare, followed by silence

Two hours later.

Him: Hey, Baby!

Me: You're an idjit.

Him: Why you sayin' that mean shit to me?

Me: What ev'.

Bouncer: He bugging you?

Me: No, he's just an idjit. You know him?

Bouncer: Fuck, no.

Me: Well, if you meet him, let him know that pulling this shit isn't gonna get him laid.

Bouncer: Alright. You okay?

Me: Yup.

***********************************************************************

And that's it. That's all I had to do with this guy. Until he drove by, that is. And needed and "explanation" for why I was so rude. Or when he drove by the second time, with less accolade to my beauty. Or when he whipped around the corner, on the third round.

I love my strip club. I love it's patrons, that aren't willing to go home at closing, and instead mill around out front. I love the bouncers that are too fucking lazy to attempt to pack those millers off home.

Because, guess what? If I didn't go straight from the bar to the strip club, I could've been in real trouble. And don't tell me that Tool wasn't trouble, the boy was willing to circle the block THREE TIMES because of me.
Me and the fact that I stomped on his manhood by calling him and idjit.

What ev.
I don't have the energy to fight right now. If you don't get this, I can't explain. So I give.(Now let's hope like shit that he didn't see the building I went into, or I'm sure in deep doodoo, ain't I!!)

In Other News

2006-06-17T01:03:00.000-07:00

Ann Coulter is peeved that she's not news. Check this:

"Liberalism is a godless religion. Hello! Anyone there? I've leapt beyond calling you traitors and am now calling you GODLESS. Apparently, everybody's cool with that.*"

Poor, dear Ann. All she wanted was a little attention, and no one delivered. Don't worry, Annie, I'm here for you. I'll listen. Occassionally. When I'm bored, and need a laugh, anyway.

*Straight from the Page of Ann, that. I won't link there, as I'm pretty sure that'll give my computer some fucked up virus, but you can find it on your own. Google it. Done.

Bored?

2006-06-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

I got nothin', beyond my endless supply of writers block. So I feed you instead:

506 Comments About Blowjobs .

Go nuts. Get off. Hell, give someone head, or don't, as you choose. Run around the streets poking someone with a bratwurst while screaming, "Cocksucker!!!", or just tell people that you are purposely writing a contrarian post because, well, you wanna, and sit back and watch the commotion.

Whatever you do, Do Not Comment.
It's over, it's done. You don't want to jump on that bandwagon. The only reason I'm still talking about it is because I'm that person that laughs uproariously at anything you say, then proceeds to repeat that Funny straight back to you, fifty times over, garnished with an obnoxiously hyena like laugh each and every time.

Not wanting to dig through the whole mess? Here's the breakdown:

My bad, I got four paragraphs into a detailed breakdown, then realized that I was finally bored with the subject. So you don't get none.

Here's the shorter breakdown:

If you wanna see the commentary on a caustic rant deteriorate from tongue-in-cheek joking into completely unwarranted personal attacks *over blowjobs, for christ's sake* see Twisty's posts. (That'd be the links in the "506" and the ".", I'm pretty sure.)

If you wanna see people go off on how Twisty has no right to write what she feels like on her own damned blog, see, um, "About". I think. If I'm right, then "Comment" will get you too one liners involving blowjobs, and Rick Santorum's penchant for Bush head. Or vice versa. Or a combo. I can't remember.

Last but not least, if you want excruciatingly detailed comments on the methods and manners of the best darned blowjobs ever, click on "Blowjobs" (Oddly enough, that wasn't planned).

There. That oughta keep you amused for the next 36 hours.

You're welcome.

Must. Update. Now.

2006-06-14T00:23:00.000-07:00

1) Writer's block's still going strong. I ain't got shit.

2) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your two week disposable contacts, which you've been wearing for the last nine months straight, decide to free float around your eyeballs, causing your eyes to turn into beady little faucets, and your nose joined in the waterfall game? No? You may be lucky.

3) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your passive-aggressive instructure, who reminds you of your mother, lectured on how e proved that God existed, and any good mathematician should know that? Once again, Lucky.

4) In other news, I finally bit the bullet and put The Kid in swim lessons. For your information, I'm terrified of having The Kid around water. Scares me shitless. But I'm gonna get through this, because the only thing that's gonna keep her safe around water is knowing how to swim and learning water safety skills. That, and she's a freakin' fish already.
Wish me luck. She doesn't need it, she's stoked.
I, however, am panicking.

Two Points

2006-06-07T00:18:00.000-07:00

1) I'm already cheating: There's three points. Number one being that I have some serious writer's block, which shouldn't even be possible for this level of bloggery, but hey, it happens. I can't even muster a giant happy face. So instead, I'm sending to places that are writing things:

2) Read this here post at Feministe. And if you're brave, try to make your way through the comment thread as well (I didn't, but I'm a lazy assed fuck and it's way passed my bed time anyway). After a bit of internal debate, I came to the conclusion that this should not be an issue. Nicole/Nicholas is a child. A pre-schooler. Give me one good reason why a pre-schooler should have their identity formed around their sexuality. I've said it once, I'll say it a hundred times: Kids and sexuality don't mix. Remember that. Live it, love it, learn it.
There's something seriously wrong with our society that a child should have to decide that their transgendered at the age of five. Who wrote this gender shit in stone? Not history, that's a load of bull. Turn back a hundred years, and you couldn't tell the difference between a boy and a girl. It just wasn't an issue.
I'm not saying that Nicole isn't Nicole. Hell, I'd lay bets that she is. But the fact that a five year old has already determined that her nature is so different from other boys that it could only mean that she's born with the wrong gender doesn't say anything about Nicole, it says something about the drooling fetish we have with sexuality and gender as a society as a whole.
This isn't about a girl, or a boy. This is about a fucking child.
When did we get to the point that pre-schoolers are studying the issue of the biology of gender, and making life changing decisions based on that?

3) I lied again. We're gonna get up to four points. I just discovered that there is a reason for those people who type all in caps locks. Seriously, Keep your fingers off the shift key. I don't care if you're not typing anything, and you just wanna rest that there pinky for a minute. Don't. Because if you pass that eight second mark, you'll lose all control of your keyboard to the Microsoft demons. Don't do it. Back away from the shift key.

4) I was going to write a much more grand opener for the newest, shiniest link on here, but between the procrastination, writer's block, complete inability to schedule, and the fact that after spending the last half hour trying to figure out how to get that fucking caps lock off, it's now way, way past my bedtime, I'm just gonna plunk that link down here. New Millennium Nigga. Read. Laugh. But laugh in a "it'd be funny, if it wasn't true...I think I'm gonna cry," kinda way. You will enjoy. Heck, I'm offering up a money back guarantee on that one.

5) I got a new fish tank. I'm gonna beg, borrow or steal a camera to commemorate this occasion. Until then, I'm going to bed.

The Kid Fights Norms

2006-05-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

This morning:

The Kid: Mommy, why do only boy's voices change when they grow up, and normal people's voices don't?

Quiz Time

2006-05-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?

You're Elizabeth Bennett of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen!
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Because.......

2006-05-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

Here's the funny thing about rape cases. Something you may not have realized. Something they don't tell you.

It's not the victim who is on trial.

See, this is the way the system works:

1) Innocent until proven guilty holds true even in rape cases.

2) This means that even the victim is innocent.

3) No, seriously.

4) I don't care what Fox News said. She's still not the one on trial.

5) Yes, even if she has kids.

6) Yes, even if having kids doesn't mean she'll marry whomever ejaculated near her in a means of becoming a proper little lady.

7) Hell, even if she won't bleach her skin all shiny-white like.

So, if you have an urge to delve into the depths of self-hatred, check out Feministing, where the "debate" is raging between one self-hating woman who can't figure out why no matter how much she get's her hate-on against other women, she still hasn't bought herself a hubby (see: me again), one little white boy who's terrified of the possibility that being white may not be a "get out of sin" card after all (see: hujo), and a nineteen year old punk who's really hoping that the interweb will hide his acne from all, and make everyone think he's a Real Man (see: no name).

Some fun quotes for your parusal:

I don't doubt your statistics either. The problem I think is that blacks aren't very well educated and they don't seem very inspired. I'm not sure of all the reasons why this might be, but I know black people are capable of being much better than they currently may be.

My bad. By 'quotes' I meant 'quote'. Figured I head on over there and pick up some good ones, but that right there hit me in the face right off the bat, and well, that pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

Fuck.