Just Like You

I met someone today who blew me away. Picked me up, spun me around like a hurricane and got me going in the right direction again. As everyone knows it’s far too easy for me to be angry, to hate, to be glass half empty (and cracked). Far too easy for me to be Negative Nelly. Bitchy bitchy bitch bitch. Then came him and the hurricane. Here’s how it went. I complained, he came back with compassion. I bitched, his was a brighter view. I ranted, he rallied. I was negative, he said never say never. I smirked, he smiled. Back and forth we sparred.

Take this story – I have a hanger-on. Someone who just won’t go away. I was feeling cynical and snide. Loved to be evil, warming up to the hellish conclusion. When I was done I thought he would agree. I thought he would share in my negativity. Instead, he smiled. Smiled and offered me this HaveYouThoughtAboutThisWay? different angle. He cocked his head to the side and said, “from everything you told me I can’t see what the big deal is. I don’t know Your Problem so I can’t judge except to say I don’t see the problem.” It’s the “I don’t know…so I can’t judge…” part that got me. Why am I quick to say weird? Why am I eager to say wrong? Exactly what is the problem?

I’m sorry I have been so mean to you when you weren’t looking. I’m sorry I painted a bad picture when really you are a masterpiece. I’m sorry to have confused you with something sinister. I take it back.

To my new friend. Thank you for being compassionate. For being caring without knowing. For listening to me judge without a jury. While you drove me crazy with your “to be fair” sentence starters I see where you are coming from. And to be fair, I want to be just like you.


Survival of the Twits

I don’t think I care. Nope, can’t say as if I do. For nearly eight years I have been dealing with you and now I think, no – I know I am done. Done. Done. There have been some others I have ceremoniously said goodbye to, but none quite like this. I’ve done the sliding away, glad you haven’t called route. I’ve done the I’ll Make You Mad Enough To Leave Me routine. Been there, done that. This is different. This is me forcing you out and being really glad about it. It’s Survivor meets Lost. Get off the island and stay off. Trust me, you won’t be missed. Or looked for, much less found. This is me, giving you your walking papers.

I can’t stand mimics. Those people who try to flatter you by trying to be you. It’s just not cool. I believe in residual relationships – giving and taking. Adopting, if you will. I don’t care for copycats. Find your own voice. Your own hobby. Your own island. Let me go my own way. Without you.

Here’s the thing. I liked you. I grew fond of what you could be, until you showed me who you really are. Not who you want to be, but who really lives under your skin (and makes mine crawl). Sound the alarm. Scream bloody murder. Cry wolf. Do whatever you need to do – whatever will help you move on from me. I want you to jump ship or else someone will make you walk the plank. That someone might be me.


The Crazy One

I’ve given up trying to figure out what constitutes sanity. What makes someone more balanced than not. Isn’t it easier to just say everyone is just a little touched these days? In light of recent events I’m certainly feeling a little undone myself. I think I am relating to Matchbox 20 (or is it Twenty?) just a little too well, “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little impaired. I know right now you don’t care.”
Last night it was the grip of insanity and the insatiable urge to talk to someone until my heart bled dry. I did not. I dreamed my conversation away.
Today it was the sight of chicken turning my stomach inside out. Covering my plate to keep my dignity. Monsters in the mall. Voices jamming up my thought process.
This afternoon I had to fight the urge to break every pencil in sight. Break them just to say I could. Laughing like I’m losing it. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am.

Last night I stared into the darkness trying to write words on the walls of my memory, hoping to remember them come daylight. I did not. Phrases slipped away, faded with the dawn, disappeared in the sunlight. Didn’t matter. Not worth much without what went with them. Reasons.

I thought about the bugs, real and imagined. I thought about the eggs that dared to dance across my plate. The quivering of confusion as a heart lay down to die.

I have gone back to running…again. The love affair that I can’t say no to. I simply cannot refuse you. They (all three) have been modest runs: 2.5mi, 2.54mi, 2.63mi – just long enough for me to curse and carry on like the crazy one that I am. It’s in those 25 minutes that I sort it all out. Get it all out. By the time I am finished with the run I am finished with the rant. I come off the treadmill a little weary and maybe, a little wiser. But, I’m still questioning the sanity.


Breast Wishes

breast wishes

Dear Soon-To-Be-Ex-Husband,

 

Sorry I screwed with your closing. You see, this is the thing. My spirit and anatomy have recently been deflated. It’s your fault.

Longer letter later,

Your Soon-To-Be-Ex-Wife


To Hell With It

If only I could be in a video game...

If only I could be in a video game...

Somehow I knew this would happen. I celebrated too early. Wished well too quick. Happiness not. I ended up being wrong. To push out my anger I turned to the tread. Not to walk. To hell with that. I turned to the tread to do what I do best; to do what I have sorely missed. I turned to the tread to run. Simply run. Screaming to ‘Paint It Black’ and angry sirsy songs and songs about Stupid Mouths I pushed my tired body and seething heart to pick up the pace and pick up my feet. I’m out of shape. I’m way out of touch with what it means to really movemovemove. It hurt. I hated. I should have had something to bite down on. Bear my teeth and draw blood. Instead I looked at a purple sticker and thought about the pain. A 12 minute mile soon became 11.5 and then 11. Still slow as molasses, but able to stick with it for three measly miles 35 minutes later.

So. So, it was only three miles but I stepped off the tread feeling vindicated, feeling somewhat stronger. I still have the hate and the hurt but the run has brought back the healing.


The Bug and the Butt

I have a bug up my azz. I will admit it. I won’t sugarcoat it. I won’t play nice. If you read my “about me” page you know you have been forewarned, I won’t shirk from the truth as I see it. This truth is about work ethic and being an adult and having a little consideration. Bottom line: the fact that some people do not understand the word “responsibility” is the current bug making a beeline up my behind.

To the people who consistently refuse to go above and beyond: Your work ethic sux. You do the bare minimum of work and then have the gaul to ask, “what’s in it for me?” You watch the clock like it owes you something. Like it would kill you to work two minutes over your eight hour shift. I have a strong desire to put you on a time clock to see just how many hours a week you do work. For real.

To the people who don’t understand the word busy. You spend all day on the computer. You write 100 emails and get mad at me when I can’t answer every single one directed at me. Chill out. Despite the fact I don’t have children, I do consider myself in a family. I have two jobs. I love my friends but I’m a loner by nature. I don’t need your “Are You Dead?” emails to remind me that I haven’t answer the last 50 messages you sent.

I could go on, but I won’t. Obviously I am having some issues with people wanting too much from me right now. No. I take that back. They don’t understand what it means to negotiate life. Someone calls out sick – someone else has to cover the shift. Plans change. I can’t stop cancer from taking the people I love so I’m not going to bitch about their “bad timing” of a relapse. Remission is just another word for wait. Life is one big swirling mess and I just pray to the powers that be that people chill out. Give me a break.


Sorry for That

You are an azzhole. Royal sh!tface fukc-up.

There. Got that out of my system. I feel better. Much. To my friends: sorry for that outburst. But, to the person I am swearing about:
I am sorry that you don’t have an original thought in your pee sized brain. I pity you and your need to take MY words and use them for your weak-azz porn site. Obviously you can’t string two sentences together so you have to steal other people’s intellence to pass it off as your own.  Your slutty picture just adds to the offense. You say you have a blog. I say you have a sh!t filled bog. I’m just sorry my words had to end up there.

Fukc you.


What You Owe Me

What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.