The Hardest Part Of This Will Be Saying No

The thing that sucks about the fact that my relationship with Buzzard will never be wholly restored is that I can't just call him up at 9:30 in the morning and ask him to bring me a pack of smokes.  Or call him up and tell him that I haven't eaten in two days so that he'll take me to get some food.

He's got ulterior motives, and I knew this hadn't changed the second I looked at my phone the other night and saw that he was texting me.

Because, you see, I made the mistake of texting him on the way home from Baltimore the other night while I was still a shit-faced trainwreck.  (Thank God Chrissy was driving.)

I hate you because I'm hearing songs that make me think about you and I'm drunk as fuck [sic].

Oops.  His first response, that came at 4:00 Sunday morning, was "You want my cock [sic]."  Ugh.  NO.  That's not what I meant.  But when I discovered on Saturday that I had made the awful mistake of drunk texting him, I knew that was how he was going to take it.  I figured it best to just let it be.  But he wasn't having that.  So we spent all day Sunday afternoon going back and forth:

Him:  You texted me the other night do you remember?
Me:  Yea I found it the next day.
Him:  What's up you ok
Me:  I'm fine it was just a moment of weakness and lapse of judgement on my behalf.
(I was 4 Jagerbombs and 4 Bud Lights in at that point, remember.)
Him:  Laps [sic] of judgement lol so professional.
Him:  What are you doing
Me:  Laying in bed.
Him:  I'm lying on the couch playing with my cock
Him:  R u asleep
Me:  No sorry I'm on the other line with Tyler
(I was really talking to my friend, and I named him specifically because I can push Buzzard's buttons just by casually mentioning other males that I interact with, and Buzzard doesn't need to know that my friendship with Tyler is purely platonic.)
Him:  Who's Tyler
(Exactly.)
Me:  One of my friends
Him:  U should cum suck my cock
Me:  Really
Me:  I want to hot tub
Him:  It's not clean right now
Me:  :(
Him:  Sorry my cock could use you
Me:  Where's [your girlfriend]?
Him:  Home
Me:  Why do you want me to suck your cock
Him:  Cause you suck it so good
Me:  Mhm
Him:  I'm watching porn and rock hard
Me:  What else is new
Him:  Lol
Him:  Do u still like eating cum?
(Seriously?  I can't believe you're bringing this kind of shit up, you asshole.  But what do I do?  I play along, like an asshole.)
Me:  You could say that
Him:  Well if you hurry you can eat mine
(Ew.)
Me:  I just rolled out of bed

It goes back and forth like this for a while, as I keep delaying it, hoping he'll just finish jerking off and stop asking me to come over.  Because seriously, I was not going to get out of my pajamas just to go over there and suck his dick.  I managed to throw it in his face, that I thought he might actually want to hang out as friends since we haven't seen each other in almost five months, and I received a real-time picture of his dick in response.

I attempted to clear some shit up though -

Me:  I'd rather just hang out than suck your cock.
Him:  Thats cool too, has to be between us
(??)
Him:  Be a good little slut and drink me and go home
Me:  (after seething for a good ten minutes) Good to know you still think so highly of me
Him:  Of course I do, goes both ways right
(Yeah except if I actually did want to use you for sex, you wouldn't be able to get your dick hard because your emotion towards me is still frighteningly strong.)
Him:  I don't think I can wait much longer
Me:  I'm not sucking dick unless I get something in return and I still smell like strippers
(I did, I was at a strip club the night before getting wasted and throwing dollar bills at questionable dancers.  Good times.)
Him:  Lol.  What do you want
Me:  I dunno
Him:  How about one day this week I do some really nasty shit to you, want to?
Me:  (after more hesitation and deliberation) Sure what the hell.

He's breaking me down and he doesn't even know it.  Or, he does and he doesn't give a shit.  I don't know what the fuck I want, a friendship, a fuck-ship, or nothing at all.  I spent five months realizing I could breathe again because he was no longer a part of my life.  But I am the type of girl who will disregard everything I've told myself and plunge headfirst into a sea of regret.

No Fucking Trucks or Buses In the Left Lane!

It's getting old.  People really really really cannot handle driving on the interstates anymore.  I know I'm not the best driver out there, but when I'm attempting to merge on 476 and there's a big mack truck that decides it's going to cruise on over into the left lane and stay there so no one can pass it?  I get ugly.  Throwing up middle fingers, cursing, cutting other innocent drivers off, basically morphing into Queen Bitch of the Road.

There's no reason for an 18-wheeler to be hanging out in the left lane.  If I'm in that lane, and notice people are starting to scream past me?  I move the fuck over.  Because the left lane is for passing.

How Much Do I Love My Girls? Let Me Count the Ways

In the subway after a show at the Highline Ballroom

This girl is amazing, my road dawg from college

We can never keep our tongues in our mouths

It's a family affair

There Is A Hell, Believe Me, She's Seen It

I know I've been ranting about the whole mortgage nightmare that my mother's going through.  And I'm sure I come off as thinking she's entitled to a government hand out.  But here's the thing, that's not what I mean when I say she deserves some fucking help. 

It's not that she's asking for money.  She's not asking to have the mortgage company just forgive the entire balance due, on the second mortgage my father went ahead and put on the house under my mother's name without her consent.  She wants to pay it because she wants to stay in her home.  All she wants is to be able to write the fucking mortgage check every month without losing sleep at night.

This woman has been through it all.  I used to have a lot of faith, but not so much anymore.  I don't go to church anymore, and it's not that I don't believe in God or am bitter or anything, but if there's any example of demonstrating faith through hard times, it's my mother.  She doesn't give up.  She hasn't given up, and she won't.  There's those sayings that the meek shall inherit the earth, and that those who have suffered nothing but trials and tribulations on this earth, yet manage to stay strong in their faith, will redeem their reward in Heaven.  If that's the case Mama will have her own posse of angels waiting on her hand and foot when she gets there.

Her first marriage ended because of alcoholism.  Then my father came along and things were good for a while.  Then his alcoholism reared its head, along with his infidelity towards her with countless other women, among them her best friend.  So she was not only betrayed by her husband, but her best girl friend as well.

She's fought so many physical ailments over the years, but to look at her you'd never know.  You never hear her complain.  I have to yell at her when I catch her lugging some heavy-ass box up from the basement or I come home and she's cutting the fucking grass.  (Well, that's my job, so I'd yell at her anyway.)

She lost both of her parents before she was 50 years old.  She's got no one to lean on, because everyone leans on her.  When I bitch and moan about the fact that I still live at home, I stop myself mid-rant because right now, Ma and I need each other.  I don't think I'd leave even if I could afford to.  No matter how much shit I alone have put her through, (and trust me, it's been alot,) she will never disown me.  I jest that I will hand over my firstborn to her one day, but I'm kind of serious.

The other day I was going over some paperwork that my bank sent me concering life insurance.  It's not a bad idea to get some, no?  So I was talking to Ma about it, trying to decide how much to get, because if I got $300,000 worth, and I kick the bucket tomorrow, she can take the check to the bank and tell the mortgage brokers to fuck off.  But she looked at me and said, "If you go tomorrow they better dig a second hole right next to you to put me in."

I cried a little.




Mama with her grandson, Nicholas, August 2010

 

How Much Do I Love My Boys? Let Me Count the Ways

Toga Toga Toga!



Go Phils!




I really don't have any words...




Halloween 2010 could have passed for White Trash Senior Prom 2010



Great Times I May or May Not Remember

Don't Piss Off the Wrong One

I'm living two separate lives over here.  Dr.  Jekyll and Mr.  Fucking Hyde.  How long am I going to be able to keep up this facade?  I go from one personality, The Angel, to the other, The Devil, in the blink of an eye.

To break it down, we have -

The Angel

• Typically hangs around during the week
• A school portrait photographer that works with the kiddies and gushes all over them when they are absolutely precious
• An aunt that adores her nephew and plays with him, sings to him, and smothers him with kisses whenever he's in her arms
• Wholesome and nice
• Tee-shirt and jeans or sweats, minimal makeup and jewelry, hair pulled up 90% of the time
• Frugal with her money and balances her checkbook to the penny
• In bed by 10 or 11
• Generally unrecognizable to those who are more acquainted with The Devil

The Devil

• Comes out to play at night, usually on the weekends
• A trashy, brass, and generally slutty rock & roll groupie
• Will sleep with the guitar player, or the bass player, or the drummer, or all three at the same time
• Loud and obnoxious with a drink always in her hand
• Dressed to kill, in stilettos 24/7
• Makeup and hair done to a T, loaded down with jewelry that usually gets lost or left on someone's nightstand
• Did someone say shots?  Can be found stuffing money down the bartender's pants or throwing dollar bills at the ladies
• Stumbles in the front door around 5 am
• Generally unrecognizable to those who are more acquainted with The Angel

This past Saturday night I engaged in absolute debauchery with a few band members after the show.  (Gimme some credit though, I've known these guys and have been partying with them for a while now.)  Then I stopped off at another one's house for some more even later night action.  The other night one of the regulars at the bar did a double take after asking me my name for the 100th time because I was wearing yoga pants, a hoodie, my glasses, very little makeup, and my everyday jewelry.  *shrug* It happens.

I Know A Drugstore Cowboy, So Afraid Of Getting Bored...

Well, I don't really know if he's actually afraid of getting bored, but that's a line from a great 311 song.  This guy works at the drugstore down the street from my house, so I gave him an appropiate nickname.  I can't get this fucker out of my mind, and it's driving me crazy.

He's 23.  Sure at first I was like, 23?  And still working part time at Walgreen's?  That's what we all did in high school and maybe while we were in college, (seriously, tons of people my age did that, including myself, my brother, my best friend, a few other friends, and even some people I work with now,) but I learned he's got his Associate's in biology and is now working on his bachelor's at U of D.  Brownie points.

He is fucking gorgeous.  And he has no idea.  He's painfully shy but when the clothes come off he's a total rockstar.  I don't quite think he'd make a suitable partner for me, because he is so damn quiet sometimes.  In most cases quiet = passive, and we all know how much of a disaster that can turn into with me, but he does have jerk-potential, and of course that turns me on.  Plus our babies would be relentlessly beautiful.

I cannot get enough.  

FUCK, he makes my head spin.  Every time I walk into that damn store and see him I am reduced to a puddle of mush and I get a crazy tingling sensation in my belly.  I hate that he's got that kind of power over me, but it's okay because he doesn't know.  I have to play it cool and try not to trip over my own feet and make sure I wipe the drool from my chin before he sees me, and this is just at his place of employment.  I really don't know how I manage to keep my composure when I'm standing naked in front of him in his bedroom.

It's as simple as that.  I cannot get enough.  When I'm ridiculously horny, he's the only one I fantasize about.  We've been fucking around for about a year, and I still can't get over how beautiful he is, and the fact that I have actually managed to get him into bed.  It never, ever, occurs to me that someone as attractive as him would even give me a second look.  But he did. (Well, he had no choice because the night he walked into my bar I made a beeline for him, I introduced myself while running my hand through his shoulder-length hair, and charmed the pants right off of him.  Literally.)

I can't say I'd be surprised that I'm on his mind alot, too.  The booty calls at 3 or 4 in the morning a couple times a week give me that impression.  Usually I'm passed the fuck out, but that's okay, right?  If I jump at his beck and call then he'd get too used to it.  And we all know this girl doesn't want that.

So That My Kids Have A Place To Call MomMom's

Ma just ran next door to fax her 2009 tax return over to the mortgage company.  This is one of the million other things she's had to do since filing for a loan remodification.  For the second time.

Last October she applied for help through one of Obama's programs designed to help people refinance their mortgages so they can afford to stay in their homes.  Thousands of people got screwed over by shitty mortgage companies by unknowingly signing over their lives to loans that inevitably end in inammitorization.  (The interest keeps going up, the principle keeps going down, and you end up owing more over time than the house is even worth.)  I'm not going to get into the long, drawn out story of how my mother got involved in one of these scams, let's just say my father makes lousy business decisions and Ma is now suffering because she was married to him for 25 years.  I will also not go into detail about how much shit she has had to do when it comes to applying for any kind of help to get this fucked up mortgage back in check.  Discovering the meaning of life or climbing Mount Everest would be easier.  Trust me.

The first time she applied for refinancing, she was rejected.  Here is why:

MY MOTHER HAS PERFECT CREDIT.  ALL OF HER BILLS, INCLUDING THE ASTRONOMICAL MORTGAGE PAYMENT, ARE CURRENT.  WE HAVE LEARNED THAT ONE MUST DEFAULT AND EITHER ENTER A SHORT-SALE OF THEIR HOME OR HAVE THE BANK FORECLOSE ON IT BEFORE THEY WILL EVEN BE CONSIDERED FOR A LOAN MODIFICATION. 

The government will not help those who obey the laws, those who pay their bills on time, or those who have worked hard their entire lives to create and keep a home for their family.  Because, you know, my mother isn't some crackhead that keeps popping out babies, she's not unemployed, she's not looking for hand outs.  But because her and my father are now divorced and she wants to sever any financial ties completely with him, she can't afford the mortgage payments on her own.  I do what I can to help, giving her money for the electric or water bills, or writing her a check if something breaks, (read:  if I break something.)  Half of the mortgage payment would be an entire paycheck for me, and I don't ask for help with any of my own bills.

So, in other words, you have to be a real fuck-up before someone will help you. My mother would like to avoid fucking up her credit and losing her house. But the government won't help you until you have become totally destitute, and even then, your chances of any kind of break? Are slim to none.

We might be able to make it if I just give in and start robbing banks or selling drugs and/or my body.  Because honestly?  It's getting to the point where I would seriously consider doing any of those things just to give my mama some relief.  And maybe if I do end up a junkie whore with ten kids, one of us could get some fucking help.

Work Is Not Something I Can Take Home With Me

Work has been kicking my ass lately.  I've been driving up and back down from New York, northern New Jersey, southern New Jersey, and one day this week I'm down in Charles Co Maryland.  All of this driving is eating away at my sanity and it's hell on my lungs.

The other day I was at a job in Chester, PA.  If you're not familiar with Chester, it's pretty much the asshole of Pennsylvania.  It's run-down, it's ghetto, and my co-workers and I were joking about whether or not we should have just left our car doors unlocked so that we wouldn't have to worry about broken windows.

I was dreading work that day.  I had been to this school once before, a few years ago, and was gearing up to deal with asshole little kids who have no disregard for other human beings, chaos, it being so loud that I wouldn't be able to hear myself think, over all a giant clusterfuck.

And it was.  But I had the help of those handy little yellow pills my doctor gave me to take if I feel a panic attack coming on.  I popped one before we even started.  And I was even keel for the rest of the day.

"Okay, sit up straight for me?  Can you sit up straight?  Do you know how to sit up straight?  No, don't scoot forward, make your back straight.  Can you handle this?  Are you sure?"  The whole time in my head I'm thinking, "You fucking little asshole I cannot wait until you get out of my face and your picture is going to be bad no matter what because you are a sorry-looking motherfucker."  But I just put a sickeningly sweet smile on my face and do my job.

One particular thing about schools like this that sticks out in my head is that alot of these kids are poor.  Not just money-is-tight-right-now poor, their clothes are ratty and they're dirty.  Like one has to wonder when the last time some of these children were bathed.  And that breaks my heart.  Are mommy and daddy spending all their money on crack?  Or putting dubs on their piece of shit cars or getting their nails done instead of buying their child a decent pair of shoes and feeding them?  It makes me want to scoop them up and take them away from the hell they are living in.

I see this shit all the time, and there's not a Goddamn thing I can do about it.

Nice To Meet You, Please Call Me Deranged

I've come to realize that I've been conditioned to think that all men are whores.  Nothing but big, fucking sluts.  I don't know why or how this happened, but I cannot help it.  I do not like that I think this way, because I always end up refusing to give any man the benefit of the doubt.
It's not necessarily in a bad way, though.  Because I'm a whore.  A big, fucking slut.  Is that why I expect my lovers to be the same?  When my drugstore cowboy tells me that he hasn't had sex since the last time we hooked up, do I  believe him?  I don't really know.  (Actually I do kind of believe him because he's relatively shy; the only reason we ever made contact in the first place was because as soon as he walked into my bar I went right up to him and worked my charm as best and as hard as I could.  That was about a year ago, and we're still going at it, so I think I did a pretty good job.)  The other day P told me the last time he had sex was with me.  That was almost two months ago.  And he has a girlfriend.
When these boys of mine tell me this stuff I keep my mouth shut.  In my head I'm thinking, Really?  -This one- fucked my brains out last night.  Or -this one- and I fucked for like, four hours the other day.  But all I do is say, "No way," giggling, and proceed to do what I do best, and that is go down.

I assume this is the reason I'm single.  I'm not complaining though.  My last attempt at a relationship failed miserably, bringing me to the conclusion that right now, at this point in my life, every member of the opposite sex, with the exception of my two best guy friends, are only good for what's hanging between their legs.  Or, better yet, how good they can make me feel between mine.

Am I wrong?  Am I deranged for having this line of thinking?  Really, please tell me, does this make me a heartless bitch that uses and abuses men just to get her rocks off?

Oh God, Not Again!

11:30 last night I was laying in bed, attemtpting to fall asleep.  I hear my phone beep.  Actually, it goes "whoa whoa whoa whoa...", a clip from Above the Clouds by Slightly Stoopid, and it's fucking awesome.  I rolled over, figuring my Drugstore Cowboy was hitting me up for a booty call.

IT WAS BUZZARD.

The infamous douchebag that I dated right after I split up with my ex and who fucked my head UP.  The "friend" that I haven't spoken to since the fourth of July, for reasons I am still unenlightened about.

Him:  "What are you up to, ho?"
Me:  "Um, work.  Life.  Partying.  And you?"
Him:  "The same.  I have a raging hard-on and I'm stroking it right now lol."
Me:  "Some things never change.  Where's [your girlfriend]?
Him:  "Lol I know."
Him:  "She's at home."
Him:  "I heard you had a train run on you on Halloween."
Me:  "What are you talking about?  There was no train."
Him:  "On you, dork."
Me:  "I know what you meant.  Just because I was with guys all night doesn't mean I fucked them all."
Me:  "Just one."
Him:  "Oh ok."
Him:  "So when are you gonna suck my cock like a good little whore?"
Me:  "Yeah I don't know about that."

It went on a little more; he told me he wanted to see how work was going and how I was doing.  Part of me is really fucking pissed that he had the nerve to contact me, and the other part of me is indifferent to it.  I don't want to fall back into the same cycle with him.  I don't want to start sleeping with him again.  He knows how to push all the right buttons.  But I've learned how he works over the years and have had time to sharpen my skills.  If I do decide to give in, it's not going to be easy for him.  I do not have the time nor the energy for his bullshit antics.  I refuse to be sucked into his sick little world of sex and mindfucking again.

So until I figure out if he really was just checking up on me or has ulterior motives, I will be struggling with my decision on how to react.

Fuck.

Pity Party Much?

There's a half empty glass of Pinot Grigio sitting in front of me and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

It is Friday fucking night.

I do not like sitting at home.  Ever.  I've done too much of it in the past to let any opportunity to get loud and rowdy pass me by.  But sometimes the opportunities are just not there.  See, most of my friends are all "settled down" and married and have kids and all that happy horseshit.  Yeah that's not my cup of tea, thanks. 

I guess what I don't get is that we're all fucking young so why shouldn't we be tearing it up as much as possible?  I've got stories of nights with Andy and Tyler where we have had a blast and some of it we might remember, some of it we might not.  (And I've only slept with one of them, never have and never will be in the middle of those two, thank you very much.)  I've woken up mornings wondering whose clothes I was wearing and why there was a naked guy spooning me.  There is a reason we're called the Shit-Show of Wilmington.  We've tried to rehash the night before, wondering if we're still welcome in certain establishments.

It's all in good fun, you see.  We work hard, so we party even harder.

That's What I'm Saying...

Please Tell BMTH Not To Wash Their Dicks

So I discovered this band over the summer. Not my typical style of music, but damn. Okay, I'll be honest, I saw him first, and my curiosity was piqued. I mean, fuck. The things I wouldn't do to this boy.

I tentatively started checking them out, making absolutely sure I wanted to spend something like $25 on iTunes for their sophomore album, Suicide Season Deluxe Edition. I dig it. And once the new album, There Is A Hell Believe Me I've Seen It, There Is A Heaven Let's Keep It A Secret, dropped, I was hooked.

Before the third album came out, I was super-hesitant to categorize this band as "metal." The first album, Count Your Blessings, maybe. But seriously? I can't resist that throaty, sexy growl of his.  Sykes' "Ohhwhhh!" is like the heavy metal version of Andrew Dice Clay's (and I know you know what I'm talking about.)  It's so hard to believe all that screaming and growling comes out of that pretty little mouth of his. But I'd have to say the only reason I hesitate to declare them officially "heavy metal" is the teenybopper-esque following that Oliver Skyes has gained. It's quite sickening. I will not put this band among the ranks of Metallica, Slayer, Judas Priest or Iron Maiden simply because of this fact.

Dane's Discography Breakdown:

Pretty good. The most "metal" out of their three albums, I'd say. Lots of fast guitars and drums.

"I whispered in her ear:
You better fear me dear, for I am Death,
And I'll take that shit you call a life,
In a single fucking breath

I'll take your hope,
I'll take your fucking dreams,
I'll take your love,

         I'll take everything you fucking bitch."

More of a trainwreck, but makes for good party music, especially the Cut Up! disc that comes with the deluxe edition. Some songs make me go, "Aw, c'mon boys, my ears are not trashcans!" but with lyrics like
"Party til you pass out
Drink til you're dead
Dance all night til you can't feel your legs"

with some angst such as

"If I had it my way
I'd slit your throat with the knife
That you left in my back"

And of course there's

"After all the shit you put me through
  I should have fucking pissed on you"

thrown in for good measure, it's kind of irresistable.

The boys I think have finally found their element. This album is more mature, very well-written, more melodic and holy shit, I cannot wait to have dirty, angry sex with it blasting in the background. Plus the double bass drum licks are enough to get me wet between the legs every time.

"Let's play a game of Russian Roulette
I'll load the guns,
You place the bets."

The Sadness Will Never End

This week is always the hardest one of the year.  Sunday, November 14, will be six years since my grandmother passed away.  It has never stopped feeling like it was only yesterday, but for some reason this year it feels like it's been a very long time.  You might think, Six years is a long fucking time girl, but you never got the chance to meet my MomMom, only the most wonderful woman to ever have graced the face of this earth.

I think this year it seems like so long ago that the entire family was camped out at my Aunt Mare's house, taking turns sitting next to my grandmother as she slipped away from us in the hospice bed, because we've had two new additions to the family in the past sixteen months.

Doesn't change the fact that it really fucking sucks that MomMom isn't here with us to enjoy these babies, even though she's up there looking down and smiling.  She still should have been here to hold them as soon as they were born, to spoil them with her awesome MomMom-love and to threaten them with the paca-paca if they get out of line.  It is not fucking fair.

Oh, Nickle Pickle

Seriously.  He's gorgeous.  (And yes, that's a Bobbi from Cappriotti's on his high chair.)

I can't smooch on him enough when I've got him in my arms.

Shut Up and Drive

I like my job. Most of the time. But lately things are getting a little ridiculous. I've lost count of how many times I've had to drive 3+ hours and overnight in some cruddy town in New York. I'm getting my oil changed every month instead of every three because the miles just rack up. Yes, I get reimbursed, but not sufficiently enough. Sometimes I spend more time in my car than I do at any given job. And since I smoke, it's hell on my lungs, because what do I do when I drive? I smoke. And then I smoke another. And another. And if I'm stuck in traffic, I yell and curse and smoke some more. For instance, tonight I have to drive to drive up to Long Island and overnight to work a job tomorrow that will probably be nothing less than an absolute clusterfuck, and then fight New York and New Jersey traffic on a Friday afternoon just to get home.

Do not get me wrong, I am thankful that I even have a job. But I do bitch and complain, just like anyone else. Some days I want to leave my equipment on the side of the road in some Godforsaken town a million miles away, other days are a total cakewalk and I'm reminded of why I do what I do and the fact that I love it.

Shape Up or Ship Out

It never ceases to amaze me that as we get to know someone, they shed those onion layers one by one and all of the sudden it's time for the break-up talk, aka, "It's not me baby, it's you."

I liked this guy. He was a decent one. Really fucking attractive. And good in the sack. But I abruptly learned that just because you need to be schooling the masses on the tricks and techniques of oral sex, doesn't mean we should get married and start popping out babies.

I laid out the Good, the Bad, and most of the Ugly on our first date. He returned the favor enough to satisfy me and lead me to decide to go home with him. (Yeah so? I'm a big girl and I can make my own decisions.) As we started spending more time together, (especially after I decided, Okay, you're my boyfriend now and you can call me your girlfriend,) all the things he seemed to be? Like, aggressive, motivated, willing to take on the world one battle at a time? Nowhere to be found.

I was very disappointed. I had friends tell me that if I really wanted to settle down with someone who A) doesn't have a rap sheet, and B) isn't married, then I should just accept his passive nature. "He's a nice guy and he sexes you good right?"

Not good enough for me.

If I'm going to be someone's girl, he better be head over fucking heels crazy about me and prove it, not be worried he's going to scare me off. I don't care how nice you are, grow some fucking balls and 1) Stand up and defend yourself when you've been wronged by someone, (especially your fucking employer!) and 2) Fight with me! I'm stubborn, I'm obnoxious, and I will swear the sky is purple so you better prepared to tell me I'm wrong, no matter how many punches I may throw.

Bottom line is, he didn't step up to the plate and keep me in check. If you act like you don't care what I do, where I go, who I go out with, then it seems to me you simply don't care about ME.

My personality is dominant and I am the shot-caller in my everyday life. Sometimes I want to hand over the reigns and just be pretty on his arm.

Oh yeah, and after I told him I didn't want to sever ties with him totally, I still wanted to keep in touch because things could change so don't be a drama queen and delete me from your Facebook friends, what did I discover this morning? The bastard de-friended me. Fuck you, fuck you very much. Grow the fuck up.

Growing Older, But Definitely Not Growing Up

I don’t know what is happening to me.

It’s like ever since I hit my 27th year, my body is telling me to fuck off.

I can’t skip a day when it comes to washing my hair anymore. If I do my roots get greasier than an oilslick underneath an ‘82 Chevy Silverado. But of course the more I wash it, the bigger the halo of frizz that graces the crown of my head. (Because, as I’ve recently discovered, if I don’t blow it dry, it decides to wave up all on its own. SINCE WHEN? Not when I wanted wavy hair, of course!) Doesn’t matter how much I spend on hair products either. Just makes it greasier.

Don’t get me started on facial hair. I mean, I am Italian, so I accepted the fact that I needed to start shaving my legs at the age of 10, waxing the brows at 13, and that my brother and I would both be trimming our “mustaches” at the same time in the bathroom mirror on occassion. But seriously? When did the brows start creeping up my fucking forehead? It seems like I have to position the tweezers closer and closer to my damn hairline every day.

Not to mention the horrific discovery of a giant black hair coming out of my fucking neck one day. And the fact that my mother pointed it out to me. (I mean, shit, we only have each other, so I sure as hell am not going to let her leave the house with lipstick on her teeth and I expect her to look out for me as well.)

WHAT THE FUCK.

My skin has gone from normal-to-oily to “Here Ma, let me just smear my face all over that fry pan you’re about to cook sausage and peppers in, you won’t need any olive oil!” Doesn’t matter how much I spend on skincare products either, and I guess I’ll be saving money now that I don’t need to moisturize anymore. Thank God I never had/don’t have an issue with acne.

The change in seasons is forging a major assault on my senses as well. My sinuses hurt, and I cannot, cannot drink enough water because all the natural moisture in my body is going straight to my face. (But, and I’m sure this is TMI, I have no problem down there, thank God.)

All I can say is thank God my tits are still where they’re supposed to be. The day I discover my belly button between them is the day I think I’ll just throw my hands up and say, “Well, I had a good run!” And proceed to slit my fucking wrists.

If you made it through this post kudos to you, if you care, even more awesome. But I AM bitching and just may continue to do so because why? Because I can. I’ve been through enough bullshit in my life to be thankful that at this point, aside from the massive amount of debt I’m in and the fact that I have no savings starting to gain interest in any kind of bank account, my biggest concern is painfully dry sinuses, frizzy hair, and oily skin. But hey, I still manage to look like a million bucks every day, even if I’ve only got $5 in my pocket.

To Be [A Slut] Or Not To Be

From January 10, 2010


So my reputation has surpassed me. It took the most unsuspecting person to point it out, even though I subconsciously have been aware of this fact. Am I ready to settle down? I don't know. Am I having fun picking and choosing my sexual partners? I don't know anymore. Do I want to be the girl at my current watering hole that every guy has been with? I'm pretty sure I already am. However, that does not bother me much, because I knew from the second I walked into this place that it was highly doubtful a suitable mate would ever walk through the door.

I believe I am entering a new phase in my sexual journey. While I enjoy sex, and I love to experiment, is it really necessary for the number of people I have slept with to keep growing? I am becoming uneasy with adding to my track record. So I've made a pact with myself - no more new encounters for the time being. I'm not strapping on a chastity belt and throwing away the key by any means. I'm just starting to feel jaded by the one-nighters. There's not much satisfaction in the Liz Phair "Fuck and Run"-esque kick I've been on since my Ex and I split up. I've got enough cock in the arsenal to keep me in line, at least for the time being. There's Buzzard, HB, The Other Photographer, The Boy...

Maybe I will just start making them work a little harder at getting into these pants. Make them put forth a little more effort. While I am far from perfect, I still think I'm a pretty decent catch. I don't need a lobotomy to keep this pact; I can still trudge on with my aggressive personality, but there's a big difference in approaching someone I'm physically attracted to just to brush my hand against their crotch and approaching someone to strike up a conversation out of sheer intrigue.


Update: What the fuck was I thinking? I'm never going to run for president so do I really care about a reputation? I've replaced most of the FWBs that caused me strife with ones who DON'T. Last night I was talking with a girl at the bar and she said to me, "Why do you call yourself a slut? If you see something you want and you go after it, that doesn't make you a slut. It means you're a self-confident, powerful woman who knows what she wants." I raised my glass to her. Or my beer bottle. I can't remember.

Do Not Stop or Start Taking This Medication Without Consulting Your Doctor

So my bouts with the depression have subsided significantly over the past few months. I don't really know what snapped me out of my funk; all I know is that I was really bad off for a while there and caused alot of people I care about to worry relentlessly.

I decided on my own (well, technically my health insurance company decided for me when my coverage was terminated due to me not paying the monthly premium,) to ween myself off of the medication I was taking daily to keep me...normal. Bad idea. Very, VERY bad idea. I was taking 300 mg of Effexor XR once a day, and Effexor is not an anti-depressant you can just stop taking. If I ever forgot to take it just once, the withdrawal symptoms kicked in almost immediately. I got the shakes, cottonmouth, and my brain felt like it was rattling around in my skull. Literally. I felt the damn thing vibrate.
So I started out gradually. I would take 2 of the dark red capsules every other day. And since 30 days worth would have cost me over $300 without insurance, I'd have the pharmacy just fill me ten at a time. Once the symptoms became managable, I went to taking only 150 mg every other day. Then I'd spread the days out as far as I could. It was a fucking nightmare. I was going through full-blown withdrawal and felt like I was stuck in hell. I couldn't afford to go to the doctor to get off the meds the proper, and safer, way, so I had to do what I had to do right?
I have enough background in pharmacology to know that I wasn't going to be able just stop taking the 150 mg pills. Ideally I would have gone from 300, down to 150, down to 75, and then down to 37.5 if need be. But again, I couldn't afford to sit in the doctor's office just to have him write me a script for a lower dosage. So I just dosed myself.
One day a friend and I just happened to be discussing depression and anxiety and comparing the meds we've taken over the years. Turns out, her doctor had her on the Effexor as well, but it didn't do the trick for her. She still had two bottles of it leftover, one of 75s and one of 37.5s. She got them to me as quickly as she could.
Once I started taking the 75s, I felt so much better physically. Surprisingly, my mental health did not suffer as much as one would think it should have during this time. I wasn't taking the 75s very long when I realized I had stopped taking them altogether. And my head didn't feel like it was about to fall off of my shoulders.

Today I am chemical free, aside from popping a few Prevacids on occassion because my stomach likes to tell me to fuck off, and honestly? I like to drink, alot. And I like spicy food. So that doesn't count.

Although I really should start thinking about going back on the Pill....

The Land of Fuck by Erica Jong

The land of fuck
is not for sale.

Caught between
the muslin curtains
of the nursery
and the red damask
of the whorehouse,
the gambling den,
the mafia chieftans'
restaurant
(in whose backroom the big men
with big bellies,
big guns,
and little dicks
gamble lives
away
on a flipped card
or a throw
of bones)-

The land of fuck
is not for sale.

You can steal it
if you dare.

In a dream
you can ascend
to the special room
above the shadowy El
where, amid the rattling trains
carrying bug-eyed
exhibitionists
and drooling
adolescent boys
with perpeptual
hard-ons,
the students of Fuck
go to spill their lives away
and the semen pools
under their luminous chairs.

The Land of Fuck
is not for sale
anymore than
the sea is,
and it smells the same.

Ocean wreckage
at low tide: salt and rot
and sea meat left in the sun
too long,
sweet slime
between epochs of bone
and dust.
The Land of Fuck
is not for sale -
which does not mean
it has no price.

The tax
is tranquility, calm,
and the stillness of life.

The Land of Fuck
has a price.

Boys

From Saturday, February 27, 2010

I love boys.
I can't get enough of boys.
I am addicted to boys.
I am under their spells
and under their thumbs.
Is that so wrong?
I don't discriminate
when it comes to boys.
I love boys.
Boys whose hair I can grab
in fistfuls.
Boys with none to pull on.
Boys covered in tattoos.
Boys with no tattoos.
Tall and skinny boys.
Tall and stocky boys.
Boys with piercings.
Boys with goatees.
Ones with bright blue eyes,
ones with dark brown eyes.
Boys that drive big loud trucks.
Ones that shoot guns,
ones that flash dimples.
Boys that love me,
boy that hurt me.
I love boys.
Ones that treat me right,
ones that break my heart.
Boys to spend the night with,
boys to kick out of my bed.
Ones that make me scream in pain,
ones that make me scream in pleasure
and ones that can do both.
Oh, how I love boys.
Boys that ride motorcycles.
Younger ones, older ones,
ones close to my age.
Boys that fuck me,
boys that make love to me.
The ones that exist
only in my imagination,
the ones that I see
almost every day.
Boy friends, boy lovers.
What difference does it make?
They are all still my boys.
Even if I can never
call some of them mine.
Whether I've cried over them
or under them, I love boys.
Whether they've used their weapon
for my destruction or my pleasure,
I can't stop loving them.
I love boys with my heart
or I love boys with my cunt.
I let them decide which it is
they want to accept.
I love boys even when
they don't love me back.
Boys I've known for years,
boys I have yet to meet.
I love them even when
I say I hate them.
Boys with a twinkle in their eye,
boys with a sinister one.
Ones that make me cum,
ones I will not allow
between my legs.
God, I love boys.

I'm Back!

I'm going to get back into updating this thing. Stupid Tumblr has to be awesome and take up most of the time I spend on the damn computer. Oh yeah, and then there's life, too.

Currently,

-Ma and I are still in the house. It's still rocky and a little uncertain, but we're still here, and I believe in my heart she's not going anywhere. I will fuck someone's day up if they try to make her. Seriously. I will fuck their day UP.

-I've severed my ties with my father, for the most part. I see him at family functions, but I've moved on from trying to sustain a relationship. I was given the responsibility of closing down the shop over the summer when he started his new job. The last straw was having a contractor try to rip me a new asshole because of my father's actions. Nothing like telling a guy you don't even know that what your father does is no longer any of your business, you don't give a shit, and to please fuck off with tears rolling down your face. After that episode I calmly but firmly told my father that I was walking away from the business, that I don't care what he does in his spare time, I don't care anymore if he's drinking, and I did not appreciate getting bitched at as a result of his actions. That was that and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

-As for the other toxic man in my life, the infamous Buzzard, all ties have been severed with him as well and Holy fuck it's like I can breathe again! We haven't spoken since the 4th of July. To this day I don't know why, but I do know that I am SO much better off.
But I do love the fact that I'm still fucking one of his friends, unbeknownst to Buzzard of course, and his cousin and I are talking again.

-Work is going really well and I am kicking serious ass.

-I have found a wonderful friend in Andy, my road dog, my sidekick, my partner-in-crime. And Tyler. The three of us are the ultimate, most entertaining Shit Show of Wilmington.

-My nephew is growing up SO fast! He just turned a year old and he's walking and talking and seriously? The most beautiful baby. Ever. No doubt about it.

-Yeah, I still sleep around like it's my job, (sometimes I wish it were because I'd be making serious loot and maybe actually pay off my student loans before I die,) but it's all in good fun.

So hopefully I can manage to keep this blog fresh, as I've been tweaking my writing style, and for anyone who actually does take the time to read it, thanks. I hope you continue to enjoy.

Love,
Dane