Category: Fiction

March 31, 2013

This Blog Brought to You By:

April Fools.

Because men don’t want to smell a flower. Men want to eat a steak.

Empower yourself to make his night.

I’m happy to announce our official sponsor: The Blackstone Group’s newest brand collaboration, Hungry Man Tampax Essence. As a woman with a vagina, I feel like this product was made for me.

Market research shows that since we got the vote, women have been getting jobs of our own. I know none of us understands the phrase ‘market share,’ but the boys at Blackstone do, and they’re coming up with all the things we never even knew we needed.

My body is my own to adorn inside and out in whatever way I feel will best please my man. Thanks to Hungry Man Essence, I now have up to five flavor profiles to choose from when “Aunt Flo” comes around comes to gross everybody out and threaten my physical attractiveness. It’s like I never menstruate at all anymore.

Tomorrow I’ll be doing a write up on the new Orbits Superglue Gum. Finally a product to fix how much I talk!

March 27, 2013

Sleeping – Chapter 1

“This is the beginning of the rest of my life” I thought to myself stupidly as I looked down at my wedding ring. It was a shitty old fake I bought at an out of town pawn so Joe never knew it hadn’t really been my mother’s. So Joe would also know I hadn’t actually had a mother. Like he would care. I picked him specially for his lack of interest in me. I knew I needed to find a man who would not look too closely. Impotent by preference, violent by necessity. I would have fucked him if I had to, but there must have been a lucky star in my sky when I met Joe.

He stumbled across my boots too drunk to drive at the end of the night, I affected a similar level of drunkenness and navigated us to his trailer while his fingers squirmed uselessly at the front of my panties. Worms trying to bore into the core of an apple.

Within months I had me an American husband. By all accounts, he had himself an American wife.

The waiting was the hardest part. Although I enjoyed the small talk with the other cashiers at the drugstore where I worked, I wasn’t a fan of the home situation. Joe hit like a bitch, and it was all I could do to rag doll and cry like La Chupa had taught me. Sometimes I had to step towards his sloppy right hooks, and run myself into furniture in an exaggerated clowning to get it to bruise. The tedium of the sheriff visits, the effort of the sobbing and the taking him back, even the dullness of my clumsy come ons to the butch female deputy were obnoxious and draining to me. Pretending to be prey, pretending to need saving was interminable. It caused me to hate the dirty town, the boring people. Even my friends at the drugstore were an outlet for my scorn. I especially hated how they assumed my anger was at Joe, or the romantics thought that maybe I hated myself for loving him so desperately I let him break my eye socket when I’d actually broken it myself out of frustration.

After more than a year of patient hibernation the word came down. All of my life, all of my training, all of the insipid gossip and terrible, watery beer of this place was finally paying off.

Joe came home in a mood as usual. He had started drinking on the drive over from the plant and I could smell it on him over the sticky burnt stench of his coveralls. As usual, we sat on the couch and he told me about his day, yelling in my face about this idiot and that moron. For the last time I marveled to myself at how deluded he could be to think he was the only smart man in a world full of imbeciles.

“Oh you don’t know” he sighed. “You don’t know the pressure of the kind of national responsibility I have. You probably couldn’t handle it.” he tapped a fat, dirty finger on the front of my forehead. Amused, I resisted the pressure of his advance. He looked like he knew he was missing something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Do you ever wonder,” I asked “how a person could be such a genius and such a loser at the same time? Have you considered the possibility that you are, in fact, just as stupid as everyone else here? That you’re just a fat, limp dick drunk in a rusty trailer on the shit hole edge of Tennessee? You’re not even a footnote in a self published novel of anybody’s life.” I drew myself up in a crouch beside him. “You’re nothin’ Joe, and that’s never going to change.” I knew what was coming, and it felt incredible. I ducked with the punch, rolled onto the floor and came up inside his reach without effort. While he was trying to get up, I broke his nose with the crown of my head and jammed my thumbs into his eye sockets.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful this is” I whispered from on top of him as I felt his eyes eyelids rip and his eyes squish apart under the pressure of my hatred. Quickly now, I shoved off and danced away. drew my razor, darted back and made short work of his throat while he squalled threats at me and tried to get up. I thought of all the times I had to pretend to be afraid of him, to whimper and scream and cry, wishing he could throw a punch, wishing he would make my job even a the tiniest bit easier. I was impatient for the moment of knowing, the instant of realization when he came to understand that he was the mouse in this equation. Almost sadly, I thought maybe I should have just broken his nose, and not messed his eyes up like that.

Except for a single yelp, there was no sound louder than a whimper. A fitting end for an American coward, I thought. La Chupa would be upset by my dramatics at the beginning. I was always a reckless child, she had said. But I never was one to do the minimum and move on, joy in the work is what made me good at my job.

I torched the house in under five minutes, localizing the blaze around the corpse which lay where I had dragged it off the couch and into the center of the floor. I pulled the furniture in a circle around him and splashed gasoline everywhere. After that, I got the real accelerant and poured it onto his face, over his ruined eyes, his crooked nose and into his neat, straight wound. The heat of the blaze should completely melt his flesh, and consume the bloody couch, leaving only the speculation of the coroner.

Taking into account the fire Marshall’s report as well as Joe’s arrest and release record, he would likely conclude that I drugged him, burned him, and escaped into the woods. Given that the only detectable accelerant had been household mower gas, and that the man had a history of violent abuse of me and his previous wives, I felt safe in the knowledge that he would assume I’d probably turn myself in, distraught over my actions by the end of the week. The sheriff, already primed by my adolescent fumbling would be hesitant to find me, and conflicted about her motives. Joe’s abuse might have been enough for her not to chase me, but when I caught her looking at my ass in the grocery store some months before, a creative new insurance began to form in my mind.

I’d made the awkward approach after a particularly bloody fight. If I had miscalculated her own homophobia (woman in a male role, dutifully serving the same small town she grew up in, and was likely bullied in) I knew the blood and the bruising would definitely be a turn-off for such a secretly sensitive woman. I wanted pity and shame to be the primary emotions she felt when she thought of me, and the careful way she had peeled me off her while mumbling semi-coherently about the function of her position at the communities only sheriff’s deputy signaled that I would get my way. To celebrate I apologized profusely and cried harder into my hands, smearing bloody tears around my cheeks like moisturizing cream.

True to form, I did head for the woods at first. I had to get my supplies, make a quick change, and get back to the road. When I started off again I looked for all the world like a teenage boy on a BMX, not an unusual site on the highway in these parts.

Despite all professional admonishments, excitement and happiness bubbled up in me as I flew the 20 miles down the highway to the checkpoint. It was starting, and I was elated.

October 8, 2012

Robbery

This is a character Ben and I have been working on together for years. She’s meant to be our version of the perfect female action hero. So many times women in action movies are completely disappointing. Writers will put them in rape conditions, make sure they spend at least 1 out of every 5 scenes crying, or whimpering an attempt to make them ‘real.’ Shit they would never do to a male action hero, they do almost automatically to a woman. So, here is the first public glimpse of our hero.

“That’s the knife you’re trying to mug me with?” She looked embarrassed for me. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. If Nacho was here, he’d know how to put this bitch in her place. He’d say something like “cunt, I don’t play, gimme the fucking money.” So that’s what I said, but it didn’t come out right, and she didn’t answer right. She laughed, low and easy. It sounded like a growl.

I could smell the whiskey on her from 10 feet back in the alley, that’s how I’d known she’d be an easy score. Drunks in this neighborhood didn’t have much cash, but they didn’t fight back and they never called the cops. They all had their own reasons for being down here, just like me and Nacho did.

“You ever stab a man, son?”

She took a step forward, and her body seemed to drop. The muscles in her face and neck relaxed. She looked like a cat. Without thinking, I moved away from her.

“The knife resists the whole way in. You can’t hesitate, or you just make him angry. No one ever dies from being stabbed one time, and the bastard’ll fight you the whole way down. When it’s over, there’s as much blood on you as there is on him.” She paused. “It gets in your mouth.”

All I could do was grip the knife tighter. If she was going to kill me, I’d get my licks in.

“What’s your plan, here kid?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. She smiled, and it looked evil. “How old are you?”

“15. ”

“You go to school?”

“Dropped out.”

I had to keep her talking, delay the beating I’d brought on myself. “School was stupid anyway.” Her smile widened. Whatever I was doing, I had to keep doing it. “None of those teachers know anything about real life”

She chuckled. “And you do?”

“Know more than they do!” I said, louder than I’d meant to. I looked down, at my shoes, at the knife. When I looked back up, her manner had changed.

“Why don’t you put the knife away, and we’ll go get some drinks?”

If she was going to beat my ass, at least I’d have some drinks in me. I unlocked the blade and pushed it back into the handle. At first I thought I’d give it to her, but she didn’t seem to want it, so I dropped it in my pocket. I can use it for later when this shit comes to a head.

—-

The late afternoon sun struggled through the dirty blinds and over the pile of tangled blankets, books, and an overflowing ashtray on the bed. Under it all, Arthur lay sweating in last night’s clothes. They had been last night’s clothes for a week. She couldn’t smell it, but she knew the alcohol was coming out of her pores. Her mouth had been open all night, and her tongue felt like a sock. Slowly, she opened her eyes, using her hand to shield them from the setting sun. Her boots were still on.

She staggered through the doorway from the bedroom to the living room, lighting a cigarette along the way, but she stopped short when she saw the man on the couch. Her cigarette paper danced with a tiny, cautious flame, she drew in breath, sucking the flame into the tobacco never to be seen again. Slowly, quietly she backed into the bedroom. Without looking, she reached into the bedclothes, pulled out her SIG and did a press check on the chambered round.

She heard gentle snoring from the living room. Whatever he was doing here, he’d made himself damn comfortable.

After clearing the rest of the tiny apartment, she leveled the SIG at his head. At close range, he didn’t look like a man at all. She tapped his head with the knuckles of her free hand.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The kid groaned, blinked and rolled over.

“I said” she yelled “Who in the cold blue motherfuck are you?!”

“Arthur?” The kid seemed to ask as he rolled back over.

“Well, Arthur,” she said “what the fuck are you doing on my couch?”

“Sleeping.” His eyes were still closed.

She sighed.

“10 more minutes” he mumbled.

“Look buddy, I’ve got a gun and if you don’t wake up and tell me what I want to know I’m going to tell the cops you were robbing me.”

The kids eyes fluttered open and he opened his hands in a gesture of surrender. “What? Arthur, man I told you I was sorry! Sarge, I’ll never do it again, OK? Look, I’ll just leave and I’ll never come back, OK? Shit, don’t shoot me, man.”

His name wasn’t Arthur, he was calling her Arthur.

“Because my name is Arthur, ” she said lowering the weapon.

“Yeah, Sarge. Whatever you say man”

She made the scoot over motion with the gun and sat next to him on the couch.

“How old are you?”

“15” he answered cautiously.

“What’s your name?”

“Beto.”

“You wanna job, Beto?”

“Sure, OK.”

She nodded her head. “Go home and get cleaned up, meet me back here in 2 hours. Dress like somebody who goes to school.”

This is a drawing of Arthur that Ben did awhile back.

June 13, 2012

The Time I Fired My Crazy-Ass Therapist

Ok, it’s been about 6 months since this happened so the chances of her finding this seem somehow closer to zero now than it did six months ago when I really wanted to write about it but didn’t. You know what? I should have done is write about it when it was fresh, saved it as a draft, and then publish it 6 months later. I always think of the best ideas after the fact. Well, next time. Also, this is TOTALLY FICTION and NEVER ACTUALLY HAPPENED. EVER.

So, in this fictional world, I started experiencing episodes which were later diagnosed as Depersonalization Disorder. In a panic, I searched for a therapist covered by my insurance and found one in the building where I work. How convenient, I thought, I can go on lunch!

I do not recommend.

At first, new therapist was awesome. She diagnosed my disorder, which made the one bad episode I had after I started seeing her a walk in the park compared to the blind, sweaty panic-fests they had been. But as we got to know each other more, things got a little contentious.

It started when, in one of the first sessions, I mentioned to her that I was a member of a 12 step program, and she told me that she didn’t really believe in that stuff, but that she respected my decision to believe in it. Not that I asked her. At the time I basically thought, ‘Well, I wanted another perspective, and here it is.’ But that was kind of a red flag since the 12 steps inform so much of my life, and her acting like I’d just confessed to calling the Psychic Friends put me off a little.

After I told her about my program, the last 15 minutes of every 45 minute session were devoted to her telling me how ill equipped the 12 steps were to deal with my problem. Um, if I thought the 12 steps could help me with depersonalization disorder, I’d be at Depersonalization Disordered Anonymous right now. The very fact that I walked in the door of her office means I’m admitting that my program is out of it’s depths. Why are we wasting a third of the session rehashing how much you disagree with me on one aspect of my life that has nothing to do with you?

This became especially annoying when she started telling me that I should have never done a 9th step (the one where you make amends to people you have harmed) because I was a victim and therefore not responsible for my actions. Which is a complete load of horseshit. I was a victim for the period of time that a crime was being perpetrated against me and no longer. She didn’t see it that way, although I have a hard time believing that any adult would subscribe to the belief that things a person does at any point after being the victim of a crime don’t count. I guess she thought that they counted, just that I shouldn’t apologize for them? Which opens a whole new can of worms. If child abuse absolves me of my need to take responsibility for my actions, than no one in my entire family is responsible for their actions!

Then there was the time that I’m pretty sure she antagonized me on purpose so that I would have a depersonalization episode. Thanks to her diagnoses it wasn’t bad at all, which may or may not have been her point, because she was trying to illustrate to me that depersonalization was something I’d always done and I only noticed it when it became inconvenient for me. I guess that’s good, except that when I went back to work I was completely useless for the rest of the day. It’s hard to focus on your job when all you can think is ‘this isn’t real and it doesn’t matter at all.’

Then there was the time I left her office thinking that I had no real friends because she told me to list my friends in order of importance and I couldn’t do it. So she said “if you don’t have any friend that’s more important than any other friend, than do you really have any friends?”

The next week, after talking to some of my apparently nonexistent friends about how just because I don’t think anybody’s more important than anybody else doesn’t mean that I don’t have close friends in my life that I confide in more than others, not because they’re more important, but because they’re closer to me. I guess it’s just semantics, but when I brought it up to her that the last session left me feeling like I didn’t have any friends because I don’t consider them more or less important, but rather closer or nearer, or maybe sharing certain qualities but not others, she was like “so why do you feel like you don’t have any friends?” As if I’d just manufactured the no friends thing and this was the first that she’d heard of it! Then our 30 minutes was up and she told me how stupid the 12 steps were until I had to go.

The final straw for me was when she started “analyzing” my relationship with my boyfriend, coincidentally the only thing in my life at the time that wasn’t causing me grief. It was all very ‘take the car in for transmission problems and the mechanic fixes everything else for 6 months until the transmission really does go out and you spent all your transmission money on shit that wasn’t broken.’

First she wanted to know why we weren’t engaged after 8 years. I told her that we had talked about it, that we actually frequently talk about it because marriage is a thing a lot of our friends are doing, as well as a thing we get pressure to do from time to time. I said that the conclusion we’ve come to every time we check is that we don’t see any value in the institution, we don’t want to waste money on something we don’t even believe in, and at 26 (at the time, 27 now) we were both far to young to be getting married, even if we wanted to. In fact, I said, we’d basically agreed that there was no reason to marry until kids were on the horizon. Not because parents should be married, but because that would probably facilitate adoption, which has always been my plan for children.

After listening to all that she said “Yeah… but don’t you want to get married?” She dragged out the word “yeah” and “want” while nodding her head like she was trying to hint the right answer for me. Having said all I had to say on the subject, I again told her no, I do not want to get married. “Yeah, but when you go to a nice wedding, don’t you sit there and think ‘oh I wish that was me?’” Again, with the nodding, like I’m failing a test. I told her that I’ve been to some very nice Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, at no point did I want that to be me. You can experience a nice ceremony for someone else and not have to have it for yourself. She seemed unsatisfied with my answer, but unwilling to try a fourth time.

With the marriage issue thoroughly beaten to death, she then moved on to finances: Did Ben and I have a joint bank account? No, we don’t have enough money to spread it around three bank accounts, but the plan is that when we’re in a position to do major saving, like for a house, or for vacations, we’d get a joint account and put the money in there. “Why not put all your money in one joint bank account, no separate accounts?” Who the fuck would do that? It’s a book keeping nightmare, I can barely keep up with balancing my own checkbook, now I’d have to balance for both of us? (Ben’s personal accounting practices kind of appall me, so he’d not be allowed near any joint account of ours.) Besides, we both have different banks. I hate Chase and will never give my money to them again, and he’d have to come up with about $150 in order to do what we want to do at my credit union. Added to that, there’s only two locations, both of them far from our house. “Why don’t you guys get a savings account at a third bank, and just make that your joint account?” Because that would be insane! We’d be unable to transfer funds between the 3 accounts, so we’d have to drive to an ATM whenever we wanted to put money into our savings account, where we’d inevitably have so little money that it would be eaten up with banking fees and that’s totally stupid. I picked my bank because it is literally 400 feet from my desk at work. Why would I want to fuck that up?

Finally, the session was over, and she was like “we’ll talk more about this next week.” Oh. My. God. There is no way I’d want to delve deeper into why my perfectly healthy relationship with a man I love and communicate with, who understands me and supports me is actually shit and I just don’t know it. My next session with her was my last.

I had told her ahead of time, so instead of spending the last session talking about what worked and what didn’t work, she tried really really hard to convince me that I was completely unstable and super needed help, and shouldn’t leave her and in fact should see her twice a week instead of once. While she succeeded in scaring me a little bit, she mostly just made me hate her more.

So far I haven’t seen her in the elevator or anything, but I still dread it.

August 19, 2009

Short-story idea to be fleshed out later

Young scientist loves birdsong, builds machine outside lab window that will give food when birds sing. Over the course of a lifetime, teaches birds not to hunt, but to sing. Scientist dies. No-one to fill bird feeder. Birds sing themselves to death. Possible alternate ending: People think birds dying are somehow a tribute to their great friend.

This is very Ulysses dog waits in trash heap until his return, dies happy.

August 17, 2009

Choose Your Blog Adventure: Mob Style

So I put the call out on twitter, asking for some blog suggestions. Here’s how it went:

Marinaisgo: About to write a blog. What should I write about? I’ve been thinking about money, punk rock, and sex lately.

Bebe33:@Marinaisgo I like hearing about money.
Moopigpoo: @Marinaisgo I like hearing about sex.

Jaynatopia: @Marinaisgo sounds like the start of a novel
Marinaisgo: @Jaynatopia I only wish I had some sort of narrative
Jaynatopia@Marinaisgo it starts out with a sex symbol punk rocker breaking into the mob’s bank vault; now run with it!

Your wish is my command.

I’m a punk rocker, I’m sure that someone thinks I’m a sex symbol (that poor dumb bastard-thanks though,) and I often think about breaking into bank vaults, but probably only because I know I’m not supposed to. Does the Mob have it’s own bank vault? I can just see that meeting with the executives at CitiBank:

Don Vito: I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.
Citibank: And what’s that, Don?
Don Vito: Please, call me Vito, all my friends do.
Citibank: Ok Vito, what is your offer?
Don Vito: Citibank, my friend. I’m gonna let you build a whole other vault next to the one you already got just to keep my family money inside of. How’s that sound to you my friend?
Citibank: You’re joking, right?
Don Vito: No. Why?
Citibank: You want me to use bank funds to build another vault next to our existing vault so that we can keep your family’s money in it, which will only make us the most at risk bank in the city, possibly the nation?
Don Vito: I don’t see the problem here.
Citibank: I do. Not only will every rival hood in the…
Don Vito: Woah, who said anything about hoods? We’re a family. That’s a racist misconception of Italian descended individuals.
Citibank: Than why do you need a whole other vault to put your money in?
Don Vito: I’m sorry?
Citibank: Why would you need a whole other vault to keep your families money in, unless for illegal activities Mr. Vito…
Don’t Vito: Call me Don, please.
Citibank: Don, here at Citibank, we’re no strangers to handling large fortunes. Our most famous client, Mr. Stephen Baldwin, of the Hollywood Baldwins, has no qualms about letting his substantial fortune mix with the smaller checking and savings accounts of others.
Don Vito: Where does Alec keep his money?
Citibank: What?
Don Vito: Are you going to build my family a vault or not?
Citibank: I’m sorry. We don’t do that here at Citibank. Besides, it looks like you have a bankruptcy on your account.
Don Vito: I see how it is. I thought you might say that, which is too bad for you. Come on boys, we’re going to Bank of America, where they understand us.

Of course it would never happen like that. Citibank is just dying to get into bed with the mob. They would do anything to drop that fuck Stephen Baldwin. I heard he overdraws every single pay period. You should have stayed in Threesome, Stephen Baldwin. It’s a cruel, hard world out here. Even at Citibank. ALLEGEDLY.

What am I forgetting here. Oh yeah, the sex.

Well, I can tell you that Don Vito is destined to die whilst fucking his mistress, an unpopular girl who went to his daughter’s high school. She spent 3 years after graduation as a low-rent stripper in the ghetto, scrimping and tricking before she could afford to buy herself breast implants, and get hired at the good club, where she met Don Vito, and through a steady habit of refusing to give him a hand-job in the back room (mostly because he was gross), she became his angel and he set her up in a fancy 1 bedroom in a complex with a gym in the basement and a pool on the roof.

One night, while he’s huffing and puffing above her, chin sweat dangerously close to dripping into her grimacing mouth, while she moans “oh donnie, donnie, you’re drivin’ me crazy,” in an almost hypnotic manner, and tries not to remember her step-father who did the same thing every Wednesday night until he died while driving home drunk, Don Vitos’ heart gives out.

They found her three days later, when a neighbor complained about the smell. Doctor’s report that she tried to satiate her initial thirst by licking the sweat from the folds of his fat, where it had pooled as his body cooled and bloated on top of her. But in the end, she had been her own worst enemy, her prized breast implants had ruptured on impact of the old man’s body. Had it not been for the silicone leaking into her blood stream, she could have survived, licking sweat off the corpse of her dead Mafia don boyfriend while she waited for help to arrive.

Of course, if it weren’t for the breast implants she’s still be giving $20 blow jobs in the alley behind ‘Big Jims Booby Barn’ on interstate 58. So there you go.

June 8, 2009

Thank You Letter from Yourself

You Know Who
Paradise
555.FUCK.YOU
you_suck_go_die@yahoo.com

June 08, 2009

Sucker
Queen of Being a Lame Looser
1615 Idiot Ave Apt. #Eat a Dick
Suckerville, State of Depression, You’re So Fat You Have Your Own Zip Code

Dear Sucker,

Thank you for thinking that I was a good influence long enough for me to take everything from you.

If only you weren’t so bitter about what happened, you’d see how great it is here. All the women are beautiful, with traumatic sexual histories that cause them to love fellatio and hate cunnilingus. And their self esteem! It’s so low that I can hardly rest between energetic fuck sessions in which I reassure them (one by one or in groups) that they are lovable, even if they are not loved.

All of the babies have been aborted and all of the Gods are judgmental old white men.

Everybody’s so helpful and glad to see me. I’m so happy I took everything from you. Your loss has been particularly helpful in making me so universally well liked and adored.

Don’t Ever Change,

Your Misogynistic Self Hatred, XOXO *hearts*

May 6, 2009

Freestyles

I pulled this off of the freestyle thread on the Keith and the Girl forums. Just in case it gets deleted. Many are cheesy and only relevent to the post and/or day that they were made on, but I like them so I’m not changing a thing.

This thread is awesome opossum, and all the other animals.
I think my rymes are fine, you know marina brings the lolz.
I was just jerkin my gerkin, over a the youporn thread
I like it when they work the shaft and then suck on the head
You people know I’m go and all the lights are green
this shit is mad and bad, here at the katg scene.

I used the word thread twice, at least I didn’t try to rhyme it with itself. I didn’t even realize til just now

You have to make it rhyme, like this:

I’m totally addicted to the KATG Forums
My man says he is leaving,
And you know I just ignore him
It’s okay though, while I’m still breathing
he may be angry, he may be seething
But I am the one
Who makes it so fun
To live and Die in Anaheim
‘Cause I am his and he is mine
True love geek style,
M4K3S M3 TYP3 W1LD
I think that maybe, you just got pnowed
I gotta find my baby, so we can bone
Pre-marital victory sex, I do condone.

I agree with be leaves
just give me some of these…
Islamic titties

Allah ack-bar
Give me some more

Girls who wear lipstick
Under their Niqabb
Are girls who work dipsticks
Like it’s thier night-job

Give me rebels
Shi-ite and Suni
This white devil
Loves Eastern Booty

Just Kidding you guys
I’m straight, and not white
I don’t give one clean fuck
about other girls head-lights
I just wondered if I had good luck
Rhyming about islam, boobs and such.

Now I know that you’re feelin’ me
Although I think that moonrose is for peace
And not for Bin Ladin,
That stupid hot-head
That man just needs to get laid
72 vigins is no way to get paid
Christian, Muslim, Jewish or other
Can’t we all be sisters and brothers?
Life is too short
Tell your cohorts
Blowing yourself up
Will not spread love
Where’s that white dove?
Time to rise above
Well that’s all I got
This is my seceret plot
To turn freestyle battle
Into the Freestyle peace talks

Kirstin Dunst?
Oh, fuck that cunt!

As for this being the united nations
With you I’ll have to have some patience
Besides America, the Iraq and the Asians
On these forums, we have people from all places
You sir, are canadian,
To my country you are alien
Over here we’ve got the Duchies
To the south you’ll see the Kiwis
Look around at all these countries
That are gathered in this place.
We have members from every race
Saint Marcos, it’s time to embrace
The truth and it is this:
Next time you try to dis
This particular “princess”
Realize this shit
There is something I don’t need
And that is to be mean
Cruelty is for weenies
Who think that they impede
me with their screaming
when really they don’t see,
They’re up against a Queen.

I think you see now that in so-cal this is how we wow the crowd
Marina has beat ya at this creature and you thought you had it down

Sorry to say friend, I’m not some egg-head
I read the news and, I’ve had to count the dead
I feel like this shit has got to end
When are we going to send
Our children to college
Instead of through carnage?
How much is too much?
To see young bucks in crutches
Missing legs, pissin’ blades
Youth laid waste is too much to pay
For someone else’s voracious rapacious
Racist-assed monopolies.
These “rap atrocities”
are not anomalies.
You are being contradictory
Please get straight with me
What is it you believe?

That shit’s pretty long
for a fucking swan song
Man, that was a neutron bomb

I’m coming at you like IEDs
When you’re done with me
You’ll remember these:

Thou whilst not spit game that, while rhyming makes no sense
Thou shalt not dis men who have bad timing but good concepts
Thou would not incense me by incessant whining and not being honest

You are not the shit,
In fact, you’re a bitch

These are the commandments
I have to demand this
From n00bs who need practice
Do me a favor and take this poultice:
Come back after solstice
When you can do something besides take a piss.

Thank you G3 for your suggestion of solstice as a rhyme for practice.

March 26, 2009

I am Not a Swiss Cheese Person

So… this is about to get really lame. Stop reading if you’re tired of hearing about my stupid momma drama. I’m hoping that this won’t just be another of the millions of poor me, I cut my self and the sadness pours out of me, LJ-style pity-fests, so here goes nothing.

Monday my mom called me, and if you know me, you know that I haven’t really talked with her since May of 07. After years of trying to be a good daughter and have loving compassion for her as a child of god despite her pill addiction and various other crippling, untreated personality disorders I decided that the only way to be a good daughter to her while still preserving my self respect was to take a break from her. Well, she never really understood the meaning of the word “no,” so she continues to call me every so often, much to my distress. While this will probably sound crazy to all you normal people out there, it makes very specific sense to me and probably will to you if you are lucky enough to have a chronically lying, manipulative addict for a mother like myself (and if you do, God bless you and thank you for not shooting yourself in the head).

Anyway, I recently moved from Anaheim (see Seven Years with Good Rent) to Hawthorne-surprisingly without a rent raise BTW-to be closer to work. I chose not to tell her I was moving, and not to tell her when I moved and not to give her my new address. Not so much because I mind her having these things, but really because I still don’t want to talk to her, and I see no need for her to have this information. So much for that.

So on Monday, I get a message from her that her crazy money hungry grifter of a fake Hindu holy man is coming to Hawthorne “I believe that’s the town you moved to” and would I like to come listen to this wack-job promise me eternal whatever the fuck I want for the low low price of $500 + every paycheck I’ll earn after he ropes me in + my estate after I die, especially if I am rich and old. Every normal person who’s reading this is probably just thinking ‘she’s in a cult, it’s what they do.’ First, let me just say: aren’t cult leaders supposed to discourage their members from family contact? The one good thing about my mother being in a cult is that this fuck could keep her locked up in his fake ashram and far away from me. I’ll bet he knows she’s insane and has her calling me in the hopes that I’ll hire a team of anti-cult activists in a van to kidnap her and take her off his hands. No deal swami gimmi monie, no fucking deal at all.

Back to the facts. The facts which are this: The only important part of that message is the part where she lets me know that she knows what city I live in despite the fact that I did not tell her this thing. Remember when I said that I really don’t mind her having my address? I kind of don’t, but now I actually do, because she can’t just have my address and take solace in the fact that someone in this family is still dumb enough to communicate with her tongue chewing, toxic, carcass (Grandma, I’m looking at you-you’re a sweet old lady, but you’re letting the wolf in). She has to call me and lie through her teeth about something which she knows I care nothing for, all the while trusting that her secret mom-code will worm it’s way out of the phone speaker and into my brain like a fungus of anger and guilt. It totally worked.

So now I’m obsessed with the concept of her baffling ability to get under my skin a full year and a half after I decided that the door was closed, that the deal was done, and that she wasn’t allowed inside my fucking head again. She’s back like a cockroach, shitting and reproducing behind the stove of my subconscious, eating away at my mental property value shit by shit. Why do I do this?! Why is it that I absolutely lack the ability to be corporeal when faced with the succubus that is my mother and she’s not even here?

A co-worker had to point out to me that I didn’t have to listen to her voicemail. To be honest, it never occurred to me not to. Here I just opened the door and said “please do come in, vampire queen, tear my heart out and eat it, shit it out and jam it back into my gaping, bloody chest wound. Can I take your coat?” What is so important that this woman has to say to me that I can’t hear it from somebody else faster and more accurately?

I don’t know what’s worse, the idea that this is the relationship that I get to have with my mother who used to be a real person, and not this cliche sack of nastiness, or the fact that I’ve done this to myself. I hold the only key into my mind and heart and I give it to her every fucking time. I don’t have to listen to a word she has to say. If there is anyone alive in this world who has lost the ability to command my attention, it should be her, and yet, I waste my time thinking about her intent, her process, her cruel and selfish actions. Why do I do it, why do I open the door like this? I guess I really have to know that every time she’s going to fuck with my head, I have to test the oven to see if it’s still hot, every single time.

The good thing that comes out of this for me is that next time I’ll be less likely to listen to the message, and the next time I’ll be even less likely than that. I think I just have to know a thing a hundred percent. I have to be sure that the mom that I knew from when she was sober; the good, loving woman that I trusted and cared about, who I learned from and looked to for guidance and comfort is completely dead. And no matter if I answer the phone or don’t, if I listen to a thousand messages from her or I never hear from her again, that trust is broken. I guess sometimes it’s better for me to check the message, just to be sure than to never check the message and think that I could have seen the person I loved again, if only for a little bit. But the truth is that there’s no romantic come-back. There were only 9 years of her life where she wasn’t a miserable cunt and just because I was there for them doesn’t mean anything now. I have a life that I cherish, that I built from practically nothing, and I can’t let the shadow of her addiction, of her depression and desperation cast itself over what I’ve worked so hard to carve out for myself in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. It’s sad that she’s such a mess, but I can’t fall apart because of it

If you managed to slog through all that I hope it was entertaining enough. I tried to make it at least a little bit funny in the middle even if it got pretty sad at the end.

December 15, 2008

Obligatory Anti-Christmas Rant In Under 10 Minutes!

I just wanted to say that I could really do without Christmas, completely. Like, I understand that there needs to be a festival of lights, long dark winter, the nights getting shorter in anticipation of new beginnings etc, but this is ridiculous. This is some bullshit. We’re all broke this year-fuck, we’re all broke every year and yet, we keep digging ourselves a deeper hole just to give crap to douche bags we don’t even like. Well, you do. Everyone I’m getting a present for, I like. And on the one hand it is rather nice to have a day where we remember not to be assholes and give shit to our friends instead of just focusing all our rampant American consumerism on ourselves and our pets. But on the other hand, it’s a lot of hassle and we’re all dealing with it at the same time. Everybody has to take vacation at the same time, everybody has to be at the airport at the same time, Isn’t there a better way?

Also, suck it Jesus, you don’t even figure in to this shit!