Letter to my soon-to-be-EX-OB-GYN:

Dear Arrogant Racist Class-Warfare Anti-Birth-Control Midget Bitch:

For three fucking years, I have asked you, over and over again, have left phone messages that were never returned, every fucking opportunity, I have asked your narcissistic midget ass HOW TO GET MEDICARE TO PAY FOR AN EARLY MAMMOGRAM, because I've got a "family" history of breast cancer (Teh Dick's sister got it) and yes, BECAUSE I SMOKE. But every visit, every fucking pap smear, every breast exam, YOU IGNORE MY QUESTION, OVER AND FUCKING OVER AGAIN.

ALL THAT YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IS NAGGING ME ABOUT FUCKING SMOKING, WHEN THAT'S NOT EVEN YOUR FUCKING ***DEPARTMENT***, instead of dealing with my concerns about BREAST CANCER and, oh, y'know, WANTING TO BE STERILIZED.

Instead, you tell me that I "can't" have a partial hysterectomy, BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT YOUR JOB IS TO MAKE EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING PLANET BREED BREED BREEEEEDDD, and that MY DECISION ***NOT*** TO BREED MEANS ***NOTHING***, 'CAUSE YOUR ***JEEBUS*** WILL OVERRIDE MY OWN LOGIC AND MY OWN MIND and that eventually, I'll "want" to spawn.

Guess what, Gidget?

NOT. GONNA. FUCKING. HAPPEN.

And as soon as I can afford the gas money to go find one, I'm going to find a REAL doctor, who ANSWERS MY FUCKING QUESTIONS and who DOES HER FUCKING ***JOB***, instead of trying to shove her JEEBUS CULT BULLSHIT DOWN MY THROAT.

You have PURPOSEFULLY DEPRIVED ME OF MEDICAL CARE TO WHICH I HAVE BEEN LEGALLY ENTITLED FOR ***THREE MOTHERFUCKING YEARS***, and for that, not only should you LOSE YOUR FUCKING LICENSE TO PRACTICE, you should lose your tits, your cunt, and everything that you think entitles you to be called a "WOMAN." You are no friend to other women, you DENY US MEDICAL CARE, you deny us TRUTH, you deny us our FUNDAMENTAL RIGHTS. You don't deserve to BE a woman. And you sure as hell don't deserve to take money from Medicaid & Medicare for care that you DO NOT FUCKING PROVIDE.

If I hadn't spent a lovely 45 minutes on the phone with a very pleasant young man named Marlin this evening, I wouldn't even KNOW that you've been PURPOSEFULLY DEPRIVING ME OF MEDICAL CARE THAT MEDICARE ***WANTS*** ME TO HAVE. Preventative medicine is a helluva lot cheaper than SURGERY AND CHEMOTHERAPY.

Same goes for the midget idiot at the physical therapist's next door, who's been depriving me of physical therapy (traction for the 2 herniated discs in my neck, so that I don't HAVE to have massive surgery AGAIN) FOR THREE FUCKING WEEKS OF STRAIGHT PAIN --- for NO FUCKING REASON, because SHE DOESN'T KNOW HER ASS FROM A HOLE IN THE GROUND ABOUT HOW MEDICARE BILLING IS DONE.

If y'all see anything about a bloodbath up here (in Zachary or St. Francisville) on the news tomorrow, now y'all know why. Sure, that kinda makes it premeditated, but so was their PURPOSEFULLY DEPRIVING ME OF THE MEDICAL CARE TO WHICH I AM LEGALLY ENTITLED, so payback, as they say, is a MOTHERFUCKER.

Vanity, narcissism, melancholy, sentimental foolishness...

It's not often that casual/spontaneous photos are flattering for me, hell, even the posed ones are a crapshoot. So when I get lucky and actually look good, especially at my advanced age (I was fucking HOT when I was 23, dammit, but gravity & surgeries & steroids & sarcoid are a BITCH!!!), I can't help the urge to record those moments, so that somebody, somewhere might remember that I had my good moments, even if I didn't get to keep them. Kinda like the radio production career that I trained like a masochistic marathoner to earn, and didn't get to keep. Kinda like the spoken-word career that I almost had, but didn't get to keep that, either. Wahhh, waaahhhhh, waaaahhhh, whine-whine, bitch-bitch, blah blah blah. Check out this damned dress, though!
This is the best picture that I took in 1994, when Miriam & I got floor seats @ the Dome to see the Rolling Stones for my birthday. Our seats were very separate (and several rows back) from the rest of the station's staff, which may or may not have been on purpose, but we were not a part of that group. But despite that, with Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 at our aide (the REAL shit, not the wussy yuppie-scum 80-proof shit!), we were feeling no pain and only a few moments of rejection, dressed to the damned nines and making several guys get punched by their wives for rubbernecking as we sauntered to our seats.

These are some of my better Halloween pix, though not THE best, I still have to find those again and scan 'em in, somehow, someday...

"K-Mart Blue-Light-Special Dominatrix" 1993

"K-Mart Dominatrix & Peg Bundy," 1993

"Elvis As Played By A Drag Queen @ A Puerto-Rican Wedding On A Mardi Gras Float In Las Vegas," 1994 (with former dear friend Anwer)

my own (6" too tall) interpretation of "Mae West Lives," 2000.

And then, sometimes, I get damned lucky and wind-up looking remotely human without even TRYING, and I just wanna put it out there into the ethernet, even if nobody else ever sees them, 'cause it was a very small boost for my very dessicated/decimated ego, after a really, REALLY shitty year. When you lose 6 of your supposed best friends AND get fucked-over by almost every single fucked-up member of your so-called "family" in one year, you grasp at whatever fragile ego straws you can find. So sue me.

These are from a couple months ago, with my beloved great-nephew, as we try to "box" with only one pair of inflatable "boxing gloves." More goofiness than sport, but I don't totally suck in 'em. You can't really tell that the back brace is what's making me look like I have a "waistline," but that's okay. Be nice if we had technology that could make me look like I had ANKLES, wouldn't it?

Damn if I don't still miss my HAIR... *sigh* Gonna take another 2 years to get it back, too. Pantene had damned well better use my ponytail for those wigs, y'heard me?

Pantene Beautiful Lengths program of making real-hair wigs for ADULT WOMEN who are fighting cancer. Nothing against Locks of Love (though the scum @ Fucktastic Sam's makes them look really, really bad, at least to me & mine...), but every fucking thing in this country is "FOR THE CHILLLLLLDRENNNNNN," so it does my heart good to see something FOR WOMEN for a change, dammit, and not just in their capacity of Uterus-For-Rent, y'know?

2 more good reasons to retire...

...and I'll explain them later, but I've still got one trap out tonight (11:25P, CDT). Not to be a drama queen, but in case I show up missing or with a massive head-wound, please take note that there are a horde (5 males, 1 female) of crackers from DeRidder, LA, here working on either the new bridge or the expansion of U.S. 61, who are definitely fucked in the head.

Long story, but it's the first time that I've ever heard anybody (much less an ITINERANT RENTER) say the words, "Get the fuck away from here, we don't want no CAT LOVERS around here!"

I shit y'all not. This ain't no Halloween prank, my pranks are a helluva lot more creative than this, when I have the ways & means to pull them. Just ask the mormon missionaries.

Teh crackerz is breedin' worse than cockaroaches. And they haven't just invaded to colonize from B.R., they're coming in from all fucking directions. Who the fuck threatens a fucking ANIMAL-CONTROL VOLUNTEER?!?!?!?! AFTER making "jokes" about throwing kittens INTO THE FUCKING BONFIRE, like that's TOTALLY FUCKING "NORMAL." I was horrified when I saw a travelogue about the Australian Outback, where this one place way out in the SW boonies had a "cat tree," where the locals hung feral cats up to use as PINATAS (I shit y'all not, it was on PBS), but I'm damned sick and fucking tired of fucking ignorant-ass rednecks thinking that cruelty to animals is FUNNY!!!

Fucktarded redneck knuckle-dragging, cousin-fucking, mouth-breathing, beady-eyed, hairy-fisted, cheap-beer-swiggin' CRACKERS!!!!!!!

Anyway, back out to check that trap again. Way the fuck away from THEM. Well, most of 'em were human, but that one guy, he was a total fucking mental case. If I could run a criminal background check on him, he'd probably have a date-rape case in his past, he definitely had that "wimmenfolks ought not to speak up" face. And they were all driving leased GMC Sierras (white straight-beds, short wheel-base) with some swervy-road company logo on 'em. Sitting around a bonfire in the yard of the two rent-houses (well, one house & one shack) behind the Post Office.

Just sayin'. And yes, I still have my blade and my Mag-Lite. Fear not. I'm just saying, in case anything weird happens to me or the truck, y'all know where I went.

Drama-queen moment over, we now return you to your regularly-scheduled programming.

1:11A UPDATE: Welp, retrieved the trap, no bunny-cat, no high-powered rifles from the aforementioned crackers. Very, very weird night. SO fucking sick of this hick-ass town, wanna go back to the city, where the crackers are confined to the suburbs and rip-off bars on Bourbon.

Is it just me? Random thoughts & brain farts...

1. Is it just me, or did Asshole McSenile sound like THE WORLD'S CREEPIEST FUCKING CHILD-MOLESTER --- EVER?!?!?!?!? Seriously. If Hannibal Lector ate Mister Rogers and then shat-out a crazy homeless guy who thinks that he's a sex symbol, THAT'S WHAT IT WOULD SOUND LIKE, that patronizing, overly-"soft," creepier-than-fuck pseudo-stage-whisper, oughta-be-hanging-out-at-a-playground-in-a-trenchcoat, should-have-to-register-with-the-local-cops Megan's Law NASTY-OLD-MAN MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!! Absolutely fucking DISTURBING on about 17 different levels.
It's not just when he says, "MY FRIENDS" every other fucking breath, as he AVOIDS ANSWERING THE FUCKING DIRECT QUESTIONS, though the affected voice for tonight makes "My Friends" sound like an invitation to a cannibalistic orgy --- it was every fucking babbling, blathering word out of his dry, shriveled, lipless-crust of a mouth. Something NEW is very, very fucking wrong with that man. Somewhere along the lines of the domestic abuse on the trust-fund/trophy-wife, but far, far more insidious and disgusting. Pay attention, something big is about to surface on that nasty bastard, kids, and it's gonna make Shitty-Diaper Vitter look PALATABLE.
Yeah, I know, today's attack on Barry was that BARRY is "the angry one," to go along with all of their not-even-veiled racist hyperbole & fear-mongering, so McSenile might've been playing up the Mister-Rogers-On-Bad-X voice to that end, but somehow, I don't think that he's bright or concentrated enough to play a character to that depth. I think that it's far more than subconscious, it's conscious and it's gnawing its way to the surface. Just wait.

Annti's gut is never wrong.

2. I only managed to watch less than a third of tonight's debate, between trying to apprehend a crack-whore who was attempting a B&E on one of the old ladies' here apartment, and of course, by the time teh local piglets showed up, all they did was bitch about mud on their shoes and roll their eyes at me. Second time in three days that I've caught this crack whore in trying to pry-off the screen on that window, first time that I've called the cops, and didn't have my digital camera on me to get evidence. Yeah, I *could* have tried to run her down and beat the fuck out of her with the MagLite, but come on. This is ME we're talking about here. One of those rare moments when a cell phone would've been actually USEFUL, but such is life.

3. Y'know how bad things happen in threes, like deaths, clusterfuckatastrophes, etc.? Well, I figured that Biggus Dickus was #2 and what I'm about to describe would've been #3 (when it was SO a rank, steaming example of a NUMBER TWO), but nooooooo. Losing one of my nearest & dearest friends was #1, of course, 'cause I disappointed her by not turning into SOMEBODY FUCKING ELSE, then Biggus Dickus came to town, and after the OTHER number two was over, the recurring abscessed tooth kicked my ass all morning from 3A on, thereby becoming #3.
Well, it turns out that Unca Dick wasn't the #2 (which he so obviously is, that giant steaming pile of soulless, greed-whore SHIT), DULLARD MCDUMBASS WAS. No, I don't mean John Asshole McSenile, I mean DULLARD MCDUMBASS, my last and final ex. A closet-case cocksucker who caused me to RETIRE FROM SEX, because of the emotional scarring that he inflicted, and because of how I was such a BAD FEMINIST for taking his totally BULLSHIT excuses (the "voices" made him constantly lie his face off, destroy most of my belongings, and accuse me of FUCKING THE ENTIRE TRI-STATE AREA, right. Riiiiiight.) for all of the emotional/psychological abuse that he dumped on me for every fucking day FOR A YEAR.
The pathetic part is that THE SEX WASN'T EVEN EVER --- EVER --- FUCKING WORTH IT!!!!!! Not all of it was because of his inadequacies about his 1/4-Japanese penito, though that was a part of the problems. Most of it was BECAUSE HE'D HAVE PREFERRED TO HAVE A BIG DICK --- INSIDE OF HIM --- than to be the teeny dick inside of me. And when they never let you forget that YOU'RE NOT AS GOOD AS A GUY WOULD BE, that's kinda hell on the ego.
Unlike all of the other motherfuckers who've fucked me over, fucked me up, and just fucking fucked me and split, I didn't talk much about this one, while it was going on or when it was over. I have this 1970s social-worker-era guilt thing that you can't make fun of the "disabled," even when they use that "disability" (in his case, 300X diagnosed schizophrenia & borderline personality disorder, and he was about as reliable & trustworthy about taking his medicine as he was about EVERYFUCKINGTHING ELSE) --- not supposed to mock the "disabled" EVEN WHEN THEY USE THAT DISABILITY AS A FLAMINGLY FALSE EXCUSE TO ABUSE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU.

After that total steaming heap of horseshit that he fed through my phone last night, I'm over that now. I finally got the opportunity, without even raising my voice or my blood pressure, to tell him that I knew exactly what the fuck he was, why the fuck he did the things that he did, why he treated me like DOGSHIT and expected me to LIKE IT, why he hates women, and how much money he STILL FUCKING OWES ME, not to mention the many IRREPLACEABLE THINGS THAT HE COST ME, like 1950s black FiestaWare, things of my Nannie's, my unbelievably small/fragile ego, my femininity (yes, it's true, it did exist at one point, it's not just a myth or fairy tale), and my VERY hard-won sexual security. Oh, yeah, and the fact that he made me HATE MYSELF FOR TAKING HIS SHIT, WHEN I FUCKING ***KNEW BETTER*** and that I was ONE REALLY LOUSY FEMINIST whilst I was shacked-up with Dullard McDumbass. I even STOPPED READING (other than blogs) while I was with that moron, because 1. I never had the time or privacy, 2. He kept me too pissed-off to concentrate on a narrative, and 3. He never "read" anything aside from GAMBLING WEBSITES and MALE "FITNESS" MAGAZINES, so he had to CONSTANTLY INTERRUPT AND HARANGUE ME, EVERY FUCKING TIME THAT I TRIED TO READ.

Reading has always been my very best friend, my entire life. My escape, from whatever shitty circumstances, my defense, when I'm alone and want to be left the fuck alone, in a bar or restaurant, my way to travel the world that I still haven't seen, to meet people I'd never meet here in the 13th Century known as Louisiana, etc. And I gave that up so that HE wouldn't feel STUPID, being a functionally-illiterate high-school dropout, mental-hospital TRANNY HOOKER. Seriously. He wore makeup and grew his thick, silky Japanese hair long so that he'd look even MORE girly than he normally does, so that when the bigger boys plugged him in the barracks, at least he'd get to "consent," though he usually MADE A PROFIT off of it.

If it weren't for Terrible, Le Petite Fromage, Dan, Tammy & Andy (as much as he pisses me off, I still appreciate his snotty ass), I would never have regained my one true love, my love of books and losing myself in them. Joy, suspense, snark, brilliant imagery --- I gave all of that up, to make a fucking WASTE OF OXYGEN "feel better about himself."

Yes, I know, I was a fucking moron. Many of y'all know the PTSD that I went through, living with THEM for 18 months, way back when, and how fucked-up I was when they cattle-chuted me into L'Hotel du Fucktards, so of COURSE I was the IDEAL TARGET for a parasitic sociopath like him. I was hurt, wounded, and lonesome. I was an official welfare queen and would never see a "career" again. My life had no purpose and I hadn't even been able to escape the reach of my two biggest tormentors, BECAUSE THEY APPROPRIATED OVER HALF OF MY SOCIAL SECURITY SETTLEMENT, which was only ONE-TWELFTH OF WHAT IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN. And along comes a young, dumb, full-of-cum little pretty boy, perfectly willing to be my housepet. Stupid, stupid me.

I do feel better, finally getting some of the nightmares off of my chest. I've been holding this shit in for three and a half years, which is a land-speed record for me. And yet, somehow, I have not yet been netted & strapped-down, carted-off to the looney bin. Fucking imagine that. I'm just damned grateful to have the kind of blog when I can occasionally get this shit off of my chest, and to have the friends and readers who won't hold that against me. Yeah, I still miss my "spoken-word" days, but there were sexist pigs trying to pass for "artists" and "hippies" EVEN THERE, who LOATHED me for being so brutally fucking honest, especially when the ones who were supposed to be my "friends" treated me like shit, so nothing is perfect. Even my first radio station was rife with testosterone-poisoning, outright sexual discrimination, overt sexual harrassment (oft times, in front of THE ENTIRE FUCKING SALES STAFF, and my "BOSS" on the programming side told ME to "DEAL WITH IT LIKE A BIG GIRL"!!!!!! Y'know, rather than handling it like the FUCKING ***LAW*** SAYS THAT HE, AS MY FUCKING *BOSS* SHOULD'VE DONE.), very loud & violent threats against my personal safety, blackmail, guilt trips, fuckovers, liars, thieves, and whores. But even for all of that, what I wouldn't give to relive it, knowing what I know now.

I am the queen of 20/20 hindsight. But maybe it's a "good" thing, maybe Biggus Dickus really was #2, because it gave me not one, but TWO opportunities to get shit off of my chest, that has NEEDED SAYING (like some people who, as our beloved Molly said, NEED KILLING!!!) for far, far too long. So thank y'all for hanging in for the whole ride.

#4: If you haven't bought or rented "Bill Hicks: Satirist, Social Critic, Stand-Up Comedian," DO IT NOW. I don't mean, "someday" or "add it to your Netflix queue," I mean fucking TODAY. Even 14 years after the fact, the man is STILL a fucking genius and a vision of the future that we are fucked-with today. And yes, if I'd had the chance to hit on him, I'd have borne his little Randy-Pan The Goat-Boy spawn. He's the only one. That's why it never works out with lesser beings, my "perfect man" died in 1994, and "Prince Charming" was shot-down over DaNang in '69.

Re-creating what someone else had no right to delete

For those who've followed the overnight drama at M.O.B., I did (as always) save a copy of my edit of Jaye's idiotic post. I never mentioned her name in my birfday whine-a-thon, but her paranoia saw it another way. And if I'm going to post her idiocy here for all to see how she REALLY viewed me (however errant that perspective may be), y'all are going to get to see MY RESPONSE, despite her chickenshit overnight DELETION of same. In perpetuity, unable to be deleted by anyone BUT ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday, October 05, 2008

bite me or here is where I use your blog to tell you off and apologize at the same time? conflicted, moi?

This "post" has been relocted to the Storage Unit, though it should never have been posted at all.

Mark of the Beast is supposed to be the ANTITHESIS of all back-stabbing, insecure-middle-aged batshit-crazies, amateur-shrinks-without-the-accreditation, hormonal-flux issues locations.

I.E. I don't fucking do "cat fights," those are for cheap '50s soft-core porn, Springer, and other assorted white trash. You got something to say to me, say it to me in private. I used no names in my birfday post, you took it upon yourself to embarrass us both by posting this horseshit HERE. If you can't handle the fucking truth, that you are just as, if not moreso, mentally/emotionally/psychologically fucked-up as me, then who in the fuck are you to get on MY fucking blog and WASTE THE WHOLE FUCKING FRONT PAGE preaching to the fucking cheap seats? I don't come to your fucking blog and piss in all four corners of the room, and you're not going to climb up on your fucking cross and play the martyr who "only CARES about you" bullshit HERE.

You threw me away. Your immediate reply, when I spoke to you of depression that I've been battling for a YEAR, and handling pretty damned well, if people are to believe YOUR condescending portrait of me, and it was TOO FUCKING MUCH TO ASK OF YOU, TO SIMPLY FUCKING LISTEN. All of my other friends can manage that, and most of them do a helluva lot more, like not HOLDING IT AGAINST ME WHEN I ASK THEM TO LISTEN. You treated me the way your snotty old rich-bitch friend (who obviously has more in common with you than I ever will) TREATS HER ILLEGAL-ALIEN HOUSEKEEPER --- how fucking DARE I waste YOUR precious billable hours (oops, wait, can't bill legal rates yet, huh, but you know how to give ME a career back, you betcha!), how fucking DARE I EXPECT YOU TO DO FOR ME WHAT I'VE DONE FOR YOU, AND IN HUGE FUCKING SPADES.

I never asked you to come here to "take care" of me or "watch over" me, BECAUSE I'M NOT A FUCKING CHILD. I offered you my minuscule hovel of an apartment during Ike, so spare me the martyrdom of landscaping. I was trying to save your life, not REMODEL IT TO RESEMBLE MY OWN, which, apparently, is the only "acceptable" way to act around my "betters" like you, right?

Tell that to the community college kids, they might buy it.

See, that's not a "cat fight," that's a fuck-off and keep going. You want to pretend that your dying brain makes no difference in your life, you lock everybody who cares for you OUT OF YOUR ENTIRE SPHERE, because you wanna pretend like you're NOT GONNA DIE, like it's not even a POSSIBILITY, so instead, you take it upon yourself to tell ME that I deserve nothing more than TO BE INCARCERATED IN A STATE MENTAL HOSPITAL. You need to study your Louisiana history for a change, pumpkin, 'cause no, Uncle Earl DIDN'T fucking "enjoy" imprisonment, he loathed it every bit as much as every other unjustly-imprisoned person does. Look it the fuck up.

I hate putting shit like this on my blog. That's why I invented the storage facility. But you had to drag this shit out here, to waste page space that could be SO much better used (see how I did my post at the storage unit? Yeah, that's 'cause there are OTHER PEOPLE WHO MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SAY), when there's more important shit going on than your hissy-fits. I realize that MY hissy-fits aren't universally understood, or even universally entertaining. That's why I built the Storage Unit. This shit you puked-up here tonight, I don't think will even be THAT. You used to be so good, but now, I wonder what I ever saw. Maybe it's just the brain damage, maybe it's menopause, maybe it's your whole bipolar PTSD world, who knows.

But you picked a fight with the wrong fucking bitch. I didn't pick a fight with you, I was explaining how fucked-up my year has been and why I haven't devoted my entire energies to the blog or to politics or to much other than recovering from spine surgeries and trying to avoid a neck surgery. If you don't get that, if you truly think that it IS all about "you," then there's really nothing else to talk about. Not everybody in this world wants a "mommy" or "daddy" to "take care of them" because they don't want to take care of THEMSELVES. Maybe that works for you, but most of us out here, down on the ground, not up on the suburbanite hills, need our FREEDOM and ADULTHOOD, not to be told that our issues or our sadness deserves no compassion, only incarceration. You made it pretty fucking plain that I don't mean a fucking thing to you, so why can't you just let it go?

bite me or here is where I use your blog to tell you off and apologize at the same time? conflicted, moi?

Sunday, October 05, 2008

The friend that alienated you so, whose hand you held through at least two nervous breakdowns a week, probably didn't realize that you are afraid of confinement and meant nothing suggesting that "confinement is for you." She probably meant that she was concerned that sometimes, we are all a danger to ourselves. She didn't mean that being a ward of the state is the best thing we can do, but if it keeps us from hurting ourselves or others or getting a med check and getting straight on the drugs that may counteract each other or create a whole new drug when used together--it isn't bad to check in and have someone check on you while you sleep, feed you three times a day, let you walk around the grounds and generally keep you off the roof.

The friend probably loves you, is probably terrified at how close she can get to your nerves, probably seriously wishes she had driven to your home but could not because she is busy cutting down trees and trying to make an insurance adjuster come over to her house.

But the wear and tear of not knowing how to help someone who is suffering did indeed wear her ass out. Did indeed make her wonder what the fuck was she complaining about when her friend sounded seriously in trouble and keep insisting that her mind was made up, her best option was to embrace her problems because they certainly keep her shielded from the world--not that it is a bad thing, but this is the only rock we live on--and we are either going to adjust or find ourselves and reject conformity. Unfortunately, she also knows that you are wicked smart, could really take better care of yourself and if you aren't locked into thinking you're are shit then you are kidding yourself about confinement. You are confined.

There isn't anything you can't do if you want to--current medical situation or not. But please don't use your current medical situation as your excuse. Be damn clear that it isn't why you don't change your life. You don't have to be happy, you don't have to like people, or even get along with those who are not worth getting along with, but this feeling sorry for yourself because you think you are worthless, useless, damaged goods--and the rant about your shitty family is what that is all about. It isn't about crippling car wrecks and horrific abuse. It is about some sort of "See, I will show you. I will hurt myself by not living the way I want to live so I can prove that you are right, you do think that I am worthless and I can believe your evil reality." You could separate yourself from them rather than complain about how they hurt you. Only people that matter to you can hurt you. Get over that you don't matter or accept that you need them and are stuck with them because they provide you with a way of defining yourself.

You do good things for people and animals. I think you can make it pay. I think you can write and I think you can start a non-profit. And if that makes me a lost friend then so be it. (All right you smart asses, you knew it was me that pissed her off all along. But I don't have privileges to blog at the storage building of MOB.) But I am not going to be your partner in making you miserable because you don't want to be conventional. Don't be conventional, but do not let medical conditions and anything else limit you because you can do it medically disabled or not.

So you might lose the state's support. Isn't it helpful. You don't want to be a ward of the state but you are as long as you hurt yourself in the various ways you do. What might help you improve your health? What do your friends have to be for you? Supportive to the point of watching you waste your gift? All right I support you. But that also means telling you some things you don't want to hear. Like you may have some physical challenges but you can make amazing organizational, focused plans and frankly, I think you are afraid that you might not need to be where you are. You might need to be what you can be.

I was worried. You needed some help and I couldn't get in the car and get there and watch you. I wanted a pro to watch you. If you think that it is the Snake Pit then that is exactly what it is but there is no conspiracy to make you suffer. You are complicit in your suffering and I asked you to stop it or give into it. You don't want to go to a hospital because you don't need to be in one, not because you fear confinement. You like being stuck between where you are and what you could do because, "freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose." You won't give in but you won't give birth to what you are. So you are in labor, in pain, and are stillborn. So your family thinks you are shit. Why do they have to be right. We know they are wrong. So get free of them. You can get better insurance through your talent to run a non-profit. You can write grants. Get to writing. You can move people. Get moving. You can get grants through women's' organizations, you can get student loans, you can get a damn grant through Paul Newman's dog food products to open a shelter.

I was at a shelter today and I can assure you it was a cluster fuck.

I love you and I am going to keep loving you even if you delete the post, take me off your mailing list, and stop trying to communicate your anger to me. I can take your anger, I cannot take you crippling yourself.

Now, shut the hell up about me, and make up your mind that you are done living in mental pain, live with the physical pain which is probably the mental pain trying to get out. Decide to take care of yourself, get on with being a god blessed witch and force of nature and fix the things that make you ache so you can quit aching and look yourself in the eye. The animals need you. The world needs your writing. Or you can sit there and decide that the people who make you mad and make you disappointed deserve to watch you choke on your anger. You aren't making any of us as miserable as you make yourself.

I love you. I don't like what you do to yourself. I don't like how you treat yourself. I don't like it when you close you mind to your power, your abilities, and your gift for embracing things like health, education, physical strength to help you rebuild your mind and body. When was the last time you went someplace safe to walk and walked long enough to feel better. I am not going to be a negative mirror for you. You hurt my feelings, too.

Labels: gee watching is fun, isn't it?, public cat fight

Posted at 2:34A by Jaye Ramsey Sutter on THE WRONG MOTHERFUCKING BLOG TO START SHIT WITH THE ANNTICHRIST.

Doomed suck-ass birfdays and other narcissist whining

I want a new Ramones shirt, the original seal logo (size 3X) (Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, Tommy, not Marky), because I never got my first one back after my nephew was murdered in it, 3.5 years ago.

I also want to start a fund to save-up for my Tater tattoo (memorial), that I've fucked-around and never managed to get in 3.5 years, because I owe it to him and I will never get over it.

My birthdays are, 89% of the time, DOOMED. Either nobody shows up at the parties that I've thrown FOR MYSELF, (ages 8, 13, 19, 28 & 30) when I thought that I had enough friends to actually HAVE a party, but as usual, overestimated my worth. I've had two and a half GOOD birfdays, when I was 22, and my roommate Miriam & suitemates & friend Julie surprised me with a cake in the bathroom, and when I was 24 (floor seats in the Dome for the Rolling Stones with Miriam, both of us drunk off of our asses and me in the hottest dress that I've ever been able to actually look good in); the half-a-decent-birfday involves a 21-year-old guy who could breathe through his ears, who my doomed 30th party not quite horrible. But he, like so many others, woke up, sobered up, and ran, screaming into the night, away from me. Well, actually, it was broad fucking daylight, which is SO much more fun.

In the past year, I've been fucked-over by a scumbag closet-case lawyer; treated like royal SHIT by the hypocritical catholics at the most feudal excuse for a "hospital" on the fucking planet; had the Fallen Uterus bring her CHILD-MOLESTING ALCOHOLIC COKEHEAD PIECE-OF-SHIT PRECIOUS SON-KING INTO MY MOTHERFUCKING HOSPITAL ROOM WHILST I WAS UNCONSCIOUS FOR A FIVE-HOUR SURGERY WITH MY GUTS SPLAYED OUT ON THE FUCKING TABLE, SO THAT HE COULD STEAL FLEXERILS OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING PURSE!!!!!!!!; had HIS eldest child, my FORMER niece, lie about me and fuck up not only MY entire life but also those of my cats; and I've lost six close friends in the past year, not one, not two, but SIX.

Al Hill, I (and the world at large) lost in June of last year, and if that shit wasn't fucked-up on every motherfucking level, I don't know what was.

But THEN there was the condescending closet-case who talked to me like I was a retarded dog, probably because I didn't have a penis. Then someone whom I still miss, who still sends goody boxes but no correspondence, pretty much just dropped-out of my life. One of the people whom I've most respected, as long as I've known her, but I'm not even worth an explanation or a severance letter. Then there was the guy who saved my computer (and probably saved copies of incriminating photos that are no longer on my hard drive), the guy whom I considered one of my best friends ever, who then instantaneously decided that I was less than human, because I believe that child rapists do not deserve to waste my oxygen. Wished that he'd never met me. That quick. In a fucking heartbeat. As usual, I obviously overestimated my worth to other people, I thought that I was his FRIEND, not his fucking ENEMY. Still fucking hurts, aside from being utterly ludicrous and otherwise against all tenets of reason and logic.

Then a former in-person friend, phone and e-mail after she went "home," DROPS OFF OF THE FUCKING PLANET FOR THREE FUCKING MONTHS, leading me to believe that she's either O.D.'ed in a gutter somewhere, robbed & gang-raped by her so-called "friends" up there who KNEW that she was being raped as a child and yet DID NOTHING TO FUCKING ***STOP IT***!!!!!!! Felt like somebody cut off a fucking limb. And then, magically, she POOF! reappears a couple of weeks ago, spouting shit that makes Scientologists look "logical"/"realistic", like she's been doing ALL OF THE *WRONG* DRUGS, and pretending that her DISAPPEARING OFF OF THE FUCKING FACE OF THE FUCKING EARTH was nothing more than a "minor inconvenience." Nope, sorry kid, don't fucking work like that. You give me a fucking stroke from worry, without so much as a note in a bottle or a fucking postcard to let me know you're fucking ALIVE, even if you don't wanna speak to me ('cause, y'know, I might FUCK UP THE MYTHOLOGY THAT THOSE BULLSHITTERS ARE IMPLANTING IN YOUR HEAD --- open your mind TOO MUCH, and YER BRAINS FALL OUT!!!) --- and no, I don't just "get over it." Fuck you. You fucked me, now fuck you. Loved you like a fucking sister, and no, not like the hate-mongering whores who allegedly "are" my biological siblings, like a REAL sister, and you just pissed that away like it was broken Mardi Gras beads.

Then my one and only in-person best friend IN THIS ENTIRE FUCKING STATE, someone who'd babysat my cats after the February fuck-over, who'd made my cat-wrangling possible, who'd made my LIFE possible by making me feel like I actually "belonged" here, unlike every other single motherfucker in this toxic-soup of a state. It was half my fault, half hers, but the fact that she wouldn't even talk to me about it, that she threw my things in the garbage (including the best nightgown I've ever owned, 100% cotton and softer than a baby's butt), that she wouldn't even let me properly apologize for my part in the tragedy... that damned near killed me, but of course, the fates are NEVER fucking merciful in my case, they never WILL let me fucking die and get out of this punitive "life." I still think about her all the time, still miss her, and as far as she's concerned, I'm dead to her. I should be so lucky.

Then there's the last person to haul-ass away from me, the one who rejected me in a way that makes my so-called "parents" rejection from CONCEPTION seem like a WALK IN THE FUCKING PARK, the one whom I thought was the most LIKE me, which is beyond unusual, because I'm a hyperlexic freak alien who's never fit-in anywhere in my life, though New Orleans came close. I've never met ANYONE who's actually LIKE me, but we shared PTSD, we shared horror stories and head trips put on us by others, we shared a lot of the same scar tissue. I was there for her, for everything. Two nervous breakdowns a week, on average, on the weeks that she actually spoke to me. I was always there, and I was ALWAYS on her side, willing to break legs and gnaw jugulars to protect her. So when I reach out to her about the hellacious depression that I've been battling for a fucking YEAR, without talking about it to ANYBODY, because really, who wants to hear that shit??!?! --- she tells me that Earl K. Long "enjoyed" being INCARCERATED IN STATE MENTAL HOSPITALS by his whore/social-climber "wife" and her relatives, and that I SHOULD DO THE SAME THING TO MYSELF.

KNOWING what I'd been through, those lovely 6 days in East, the most draconian "mental health" facility on the continent, at my last suicide attempt in 1997, she still tells me that shit. Knowing my claustrophobia and control issues and fears, she tells me that my feelings don't matter for shit and that I am inconveniencing her by asking her to be my FRIEND and just fucking LISTEN, and that I should become a WARD OF THE STATE OF LOUISIANA.

'Cause, y'know, THEY DO SUCH A BANG-UP FUCKING JOB WITH EVERYFUCKINGTHING ELSE!!!

So that's my pity-party for the year. There won't be a birfday party, there won't be any surprises, and with the Fallen Uterus in MONTANA (off on a little lark of a road trip with her massah Dick...), there ain't gonna be a cake or cupcakes. I want cash. I want my Ramones shirt, I want a carton of cigarettes, and I WANNA FINALLY GET MY TATTOO FOR MY DEAD NEPHEW. It won't fix anything, it won't make me a better person, it won't do a damned thing to support any REAL charities, but it'll make me feel a helluva lot better.

I've been addicted to tattoos for 17 years now, and I haven't gotten a new one in FIVE years, and need cover-ups on THREE different abortions that were TOTAL FUCKING RIP-OFFS, but most of all, I need my Tater tattoo. It's catharsis, it's an endorphin rush, and it's an homage. And if I weren't such a fucktard, I'd have found a way to do this on my own by now. His birthday is on November 12th, and I'd like to get it before then, if possible.

And thus concludes my narcissistic hissy-fit/whiny-baby bullshit for this doomed damned birfday. Contribute at the MOB PayPal button if you can, send me dirty postcards if you can't. Just remind me that I'm not a total waste of fucking oxygen, as the rest of the world seems to think. Yes, I'm pathetic, but we already knew that.