shhhhh . . .

So I'm in this e-discussion with my best friend FrogsPond. At the heart of the matter is this little email ditty:

My mom was a homemaker and dad worked all his life and paid into SS. Dad has passed away and now my mom can barely make ends meet. While the possible "illegal" alien in front of her at the grocery store buys the name brands, my mom goes for the generic brands, and day old breads. She doesn't have out of state calling on her phone, because she can't afford it, and shops at the thrift shops and dollar stores while the "illegal" aliens go to Macy's, Gap, J.C. Penny, Banana Republic, etc. She considers having a pizza delivered once a week "eating out". She grew up during the Depression, watched her husband go overseas to fight in WW II a year after their marriage, and then they went on to raise, feed and clothe 5 children, scrounging to pay tuition for parochial schools. I'm sorry, but I can't see how the Senate can justify this slap in the face to born and bred, or naturalized citizens. It's already impossible to live on Social Security alone. If they give benefits to "illegal" aliens who have never contributed, where does that leave us that have paid into Social Security all our working lives? The Senate voted this week to allow "illegal" aliens access to Social Security benefits. Attached is an opportunity to sign a petition that requires citizenship for eligibility to receive social services. If you do not wish to sign the petition yourself, please forward on to anyone you think might be interested.

Ok, with the caveat that I don't "do" online petitions -- or any others, for that matter -- this has been a fun, fun e-discussion.

FPL: Just a quick comment...This petition seems to be about two separate and different issues. The first is Social Security benefits. My understanding is that you need a Social Security Number to get SS benefits. In order to get a Social Security Number you need to file the eligible to work in the US papers.(See link: http://www.ssa.gov/pubs/10107.html) The second issue seems to be to allow "illegal" aliens access to socialservices. (Quote from below "Attached is an opportunity to sign apetition that requires citizenship for eligibility to receive socialservices.") My understanding is that social services is medical coverage, school attendance for children and adults and things likethat. I would agree to signing a petition to restrict access to Social Security benefits. I don't feel comfortable signing a petition that appears to be for restricting social services access because I feel that health care, education and other services that fall under that umbrella belong to all of us, legal or not.

BBL: I'd agree to sign both.

I figure if people entering this country want access to the benefits that my tax dollars help pay for, then they need to become legal citizens of this country. In my mind, there's no excuse for living here for 10 or 12 years, having multiple babies and bringing over generation after generation of family members, and expecting US taxpayers to support them all without their becoming legal members of US taxpaying society. I think it's fine to emigrate to another country for better opportunity; I don't, however, think it's fine to break one's new home country's laws and expect those same laws to protect and support them.

Basically, my stance is this: "If you wanna receive US Social Security benefits, then show me your Social Security card so that I'll know that you're contributing to the US Social Security system." I just don't believe in something-for-nothing, especially on this large a scale.

That's what your Social Security number is for, really -- to ensure that should you reach a place in your life where you need Social Security benefits, that you are entitled to those benefits because when and if you have been able, you have contributed to the Social Security system, for the benefit of all of us. If you are not able to contribute because of physical or psychological difficulties, not a problem. But if you're able to work, part of your paycheck should go into that system so that you can reap the benefits -- and that can only happen if you have a SSN.

The government has made it easier than ever for those who have gotten here illegally to become legal citizens. Those who choose to not, in my opinion, need to be deported so that they'll stop taking advantage of federal and state benefits without being held to the responsibility of helping to support those federal and state benefit programs.

"Get Legal, or Get Out."

FPL: I didn't think that you were anti-immigration and I thought the last email was pretty clear about that. (nice tag line by the way) I have to admit, that I am persuaded by the statements you said below. *grumble grumble* :-)

BBL: So okay, let me explain where my response comes from:

Half my family came here as unwilling slaves. The other half was already here, and they got killed and had their land stolen by European invaders. So, needless to say, my ancestors paid a heavy price for my becoming a "legal citizen" of this country. I'm legal, not because I was born here, but because after all the European invaders did to my ancestors, I deserve to be.

See, to me, there's a difference between choosing to come here and being forced to come here. There's also a difference between choosing to come here and being forced to live under the laws of the invaders of your homeland.

Those who choose to come here are already at a distinct advantage, in that as soon as they enter these borders, they are free to come and go as they please, to work and get paid, and to live wherever they choose. That's a priviledge, and I think that they need to treat it as such by respecting the laws we have here.

Now, I'm no great fan of the European invaders and slavers that stole so much from my ancestors. But I will give them props for the imperfect system of government that (now) gives freedom, support, and protection to almost all of its citizens. I think that it's a show of gratitude (among other things) that make me okay with giving up part of my paycheck to the Social Security system. And I think that anybody who chooses to come here, of their own volition, owes a similar debt of gratitude because they couldn't get Social Security benefits in their own homelands -- regardless of who paid into the system. And since it's available here, and they want to be entitled to it here, then they need to pay into the system here -- legally, and without having to be forced to do it.

I'm not anti-immigration. I'm anti-freeloading.

I love it when I can make'er grumble . . .
for da frogster

Get Legal or Get Out.

The only fire and brimstone I believe in is the kind I hurl at people who piss me off.


clap on . . . clap off

for my good friend the frogster . . .

just let me flagellate myself

i promise i'll make it hurt

so there.


so is tony sinclair some corporate bunghole's getoff toy? or is there really a black scot named sinclair?

who's pissed?


so, like i'm watchin mary poppins for probably the fiftyfirst time and she's a carpet bagger.

i love this movie. it's like my favorite of all time. heh. imagine that.

i'm still workin on my essays, though not this minute cuz . . . well, i'm here. toughest essays for me are having to explain in detail why it occurs to me to do something. so, i've just decided to be completely honest -- or, at least as honest as i can be and not be only the nineteenth person [penguin break]
fuckin a

dick van dyke

fuckin hammer musta watched this movie too.

see, two fellers ain't gotta be gay t'dayunce t'gether. no shit

oh yea, . . .to get rejected by seminary. i've probably been on cloud fifteenhundredfiftytwo last coupla days. sometimes i wonder whether i'm the only one who gets giddy at the thought of their pastor okaying their going forward with seminary, but it fuckin rocks.

i mean, i think about celebratin my first Communion and my relationship with my mentor, the day i joined -- at both here and home -- and this and the not-cynical part of me is totally amazed that it seems like yea, God wants me. me. who the fuck am i, that God Almighty should want me to do stuff? i'm pretty sure this is one of them moses moments -- one of those moments when your surely-Lord-not-i is more of a holy-shit than an oh-shit-He's-right. the second kind is that peter kind. i'd like to say i'm done with those, but i know that i'm not. but well, at least i know my archetypes. (thxdb)

had to do this assigment a coupla weeks ago, writing prompts. geekgeek i like'em cuz yea, my favorite subject is actually me. which is why i have a blog. so i don't drive my friends batshit crazy exploring every single solitary bit of
bellybutton lint i come across. shitshitshit supercalifragilisticexpialadocious. i remember, my kid brother was six -- the one who's my stepmom's kid, not my mom's youngest -- he had to learn that word . . . well, song, really . . . and it's stuck in my head everytime i hear it or even just think of it, and it stays stuck for days and days.

my lil poohbear is sleepin on her red'n'black blankie. i've only ever seen one other like it. she's half on [clapclap] half off; she's gonna have a thick, pretty coat. she's already gettin her neckfloof. i can sneeze like a bitch and she doesn't move, but i get up and she's at my side instantly.

sara lee is using the ren and stimpy h2j2 to sell sweet, fat shit to people like me who don't need it. how fucked up is that. they're gonna get us . . . one way or another, they're gonna getchusgetchus . . .

she's gonna put me to sleep


funny . . . i'm watchin this law n order where this dude runnin this cult within the tunnels of the ny subway system. and this dude, he's got this thing called psomethingsomethingdothersomethingsophilia. i know it started with a p, but having just read that there's a philia for foot sex -- it, being podo (i'm sharin the love) -- i'll just leave it at that. light hurts. halucinations. they offer nuts up to their goddess in their down below. those nuts.
i'm impressed.
i'm arguing with my civ teacher because she's being unreasonable. hey, i'm a junior and i care about my fellow students. i'd like the perk, sure, but it's really for them.

gonna do homework tomorrow. i'm already too tired tonight.


oh i love cartman, hallway monitor

ike and the teacher . . . why couldn't i have that kinderbabysitter?

i got my pastor's okay to pursue to seminary. and i've chosen one. and it isn't here. i am so insanely giddy. inside, where it counts. i've got this . . . twinkle . . . giddy as a fruitcake. hooray!
one hurdle more, but i'm walkin in the light.

i won't say anymore.

not yet.


come on in
water's fine

that's what the sign read. i've always thought that was such a cool line, so i use it often. y'know, whenev. interestin stuff goin all round me, i see. it's a shit of a time to be in armpit, that's for sure. for one thing, God help'im, he reminds me smack of the manchurian candidate -- the original one, from the sinatra flick. you know, cheney's mom and batty ol'condi's the drunk stepfather. yea, he's mom -- the angela lansbury mom. she's a trip, ain't she.

y'know, if i were the grown up, on-my-own lesbikid of the full-o-vice prez, i could not keep silent. i could not live my life in that closet. i think i'd fuckin hang myself first. what the fuck is up with her? y'know five minutes alone with my tongue and she'd be blowin them closet doors clean off their hinges and the thousand tiny little splinters would embed in daddy and daddy's puppet, one needle at a time. or, so i've heard. maybe that's why i didn't stay in cali when i had the opp. puppetmaster cheney wouldn't be in that seat now if it wasn't for that. dammit, janet.

fuck, i'm beat. it's all i can do to stay up. and when it's this much of a struggle, fuck it.


my civ teacher wanted us to design a hell for the 21st century. . .

The Hell of Our Dreams

I believe that Hell exists only as a construct of our individual minds – as if the thought of going someplace that we truly do not want to be, and spending eternity there, is enough of an incentive for most people to do what is “right” and not what is “wrong”. I believe that we have this good/evil paradigm primarily because: (1) early humans needed a way to explain why “bad” things happen and how our concept of God would punish “bad” people for their crimes; and (2) early churches needed a way to scare the masses into being faithful to organized religion, in order to distinguish between “us” and “them”, “civilized” and “barbaric”. Those are just my opinions, though – beliefs that I hold to be true, according to my own readings, life experiences, and studies of human behaviors. From that premises, the Hell that I would construct (if I were, Heaven forbid, ever given such a task, would look a little different to each individual whose fortune led to That Bad Place Where Bad People Go.

First, I must re-define the word bad, because I think that calling something “bad” confers upon it what author Robert Anton Wilson calls an isness, an ability to “be” something other than what it seems to be.[1] I try to see things as they seem to be, if I have to attach a value judgment to whatever it is I am looking at, at all. For instance, my friend Michael lost his partner of 19 years during last year’s holiday season. To say that he “is” still sad does not lend credence to the fact that there were many moments during the past year where Michael seemed perfectly happy, content, and adjusted. However, if I say that in this moment, Michael seems to be sad, that lends more accuracy to my perception of Michael’s current state of emotions. This is a technique known as English-Prime, or more simply, E-Prime (Wilson 99). So, to define the word bad as it will be used herein, I will simply define it as “having a quality that seems to not be beneficial for one’s self or for anybody else”[2]. Therefore, villains, we will surmise, are the people that commit acts that seem to “bad”.

I have trouble with that because I believe that whatever a person does, it is right, according to that person’s worldview. While a particular decision may not be one that I would make, if I were to put my self in . . . say, Hitler’s shoes, I can not completely guarantee that I would not have made the same choices that he did. Everything from his childhood to his religious beliefs, even to the semi-hallucinogenic effects of the syphilis he is believed to have contracted while in Vienna[3] made an impact on his worldview. He studied, and came to believe in, the works of Lanz von Liebenfels and Georg von Schoenerer; he learned politicking from Karl Luger.[4] If I had, too, would I hate Jews?

So, to design Hitler’s Hell, he would just have to be made to believe that he had it all wrong – that really, God (as he knew God) really did favor the Jews and Jesus was really a Jew. Or better, to have him believe that his own mother was Jewish. I believe that either of those scenarios would be worse than any amount of fire and brimstone for the poor son of Alois and Klara Hitler.

I chose Hitler because he always seems to be the obvious choice for people looking for someone to reserve a special seat in Hell for. But there are other “villains”, too, like bank robbers and rapists. A bank robber likely fears poverty, so Hell for a bank robber would mean internalizing the thought that no matter what that person has, s/he will always be looked upon – even by her/himself – as poor. Hell for a rapist, I think, would be spending eternity as eunuched sex slave. Or at least, having that rapist believe that that is what s/he “is”, and not just “seems to be”.

If I were to design a 21st century Hell, it would not be of bricks or mortar or other things that can physically decay. In my 21st century, Hell would be more subtle, like a post-hypnotic suggestion – and not one dealing with fire and brimstone. It would be one that made the Hell-bound one relive his most excruciating fear, over and over and over again.

[1] Wilson, p. 100
[2] Author’s definition
[3] http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/hitler.html
[4] Ibid.

Sources Cited

Adolph Hitler (1997). The Jewish Virtual Library: A Division of the American-Israeli Cooperative Enterprise. Retrieved 26 November 2006 from http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org.

Wilson, Robert Anton (1990). Quantum Psychology: How Brain Software Programs You & Your World. AZ: New Falcon Publications

gettin primed

caught myself the other day sayin somethin like how you know it's really bad when daddy bush looks good to vote for in oh-eight. daddy bush. that's when i realised that they've got me. subliminally, with all these political cartoons -- they know how much i love cartoons -- with the lesser bush slopped over his daddy's knee, gettin primed for the whupin . . . i agree, though, it is just a little late for that

but we're gettin primed, too, nonetheless. see, if they can just get enough of us lookin at what's out there, then maybe enough of us will say that we at least know that hell, but who knows what havoc will wreak if a woman who still gets pms happens to be runnin the country. what if she gets pregnant? could we actually trust ourselves to behave long enough for her to plop that little sucker out? prolly not.

and this barrack obama guy . . . he's pretty cute, to say the least, but could we take him seriously as white house material? if he's in the runnin, well . . . best maybe to let the woman take the top spot. it's always nice when she takes the top spot, ain't it? but don't let me digress . . .

personally, seein's how they've got me sayin daddy bush and poppa bush and all that crazy shit, best thing i can prolly do is never step foot in politics, not even to vote. big brother's watching, but what he don't know is that little sister is watchin him. you can be sure she's learnin lots, too, never forget.

i'm feelin pretty primed now. think i'll go find a vicodin and lull my ass to sleep.



suddenly, there's too much lint in here. i think i wanna make a movie.


rainy, warm, and grey
was it that way
the day you were born
do you remember
i wouldn't be surprised if you did
we are talking about you
after all

i told you that i would never forget
and i never lie
well, not to you, anyway

happy birthday, t or db or who . . . ever you are today
love always, n or yj or whoever i am today


amazing what i can do when i'm trying to not think about hurlin' by the side of the road every ten miles or so

i actually took these, by the way

up there
there is so much room
where babies burp and flowers bloom
everyone dreams, i can dream, too

up where
the skies are ocean blue
i could be safe and live without a care
up there


day three

so it's day three here in pittsburgh. steeltown is a beautiful city to hang out in at night. aims drove us all over the place -- her childhood home, places like that. at some point, we came upon this sign that said 'scenic overlook'. wow . . .

catching a cold, i think. silly me went out yesterday, wet headed. then last night, stayed out in the buttfuck cold to get snaps of city lights. well, the gargle with the listerine will help.

lovely time here, but i'm really anxious to get home. 'hello/goodbye sex' is awesome, better even than makeup sex. and i miss my dog. she's my little dyke dog. heheheh

should start writing the column, actually. maybe i will.


eye scream, ewe scream

i love ice cream. not supposed to have it, of course, because it tastes good and makes me wanna throw up, all at the same time. funny, that.

when i was a kid, ice cream was an especially momentous dessert. we didn't have it very often, so when it was in the house, everyfreakinbody'd better be good.

we always got neopolitan. most bang for your buck cuz nobody ever really liked exactly the same kind. me, i liked vanilla best. getting vanilla gave you a really good chance of scorin' all three flavors with just one or two dips. a little bit of choc on the right, a little strawberry on the left . . . that was heaven-in-a-bowl, and the longer you waited, the more choc and berry you were likely to score. being served last was never a bad thing, no matter what we were eatin'.

at the table, we learned how to be grateful -- or at least, sound as sincerely grateful as possible -- courtesy of my dad, who made us thank our mother and tell her that it was good before we touched even the tiniest morsel. that thanks-mom-it's-good-mom came right after saying grace, and we said grace at every meal. i think that was one of the first things to go once i was out on my own, although whenever there was before-meal praying in public, my head was bowed and my eyes were closed. i have missed the reverence i once felt for God. i lost it when i began to be afraid that God really would do something, something visible to my human eyes, and holy-shit-what-would-they-think-then. He did once . . . well, three times that i can remember.

the first time was at ten, in mrs. z's church's Christmas pageant, when i disappeared into God and literally left my body in that place, a ball of pure white light in the presence of Great. White. Light. never forget that. i never will forget that moment.

second time was about four years later, during a vacation Bible school recess. i . . . there was nothing wrong with me. i'd said that i had to go to the bathroom, but it's safe to confess now that i didn't really have to go to the bathroom. i just wanted to be away from the loudness of the laughter and the whispers i felt everywhere i went in that church. it was my stepmother's church, where the best kept secret was that my father was an abusive alcoholic whose children were in the center of the longest custody battle ever waged. what most of them didn't know, though, was that i was, sometimes, the instigator in it all. yup, i'd get pissed at my mom and run to my dad's, and vice versa. i was the product of two people whom i would have never let get together, so thank God that i'm not God because if i was God, i probably wouldn't exist. but i digress . . .

at my stepmother's church, i was noticeably and awkwardly different. i was not a pretty child, although i do like the way my face has filled out and matured over the years. as a kid, though, i was just awkward -- always nervous and completely alien, especially around other girls. that, right there, shoulda been my second clue. the first one shoulda been the girl with whom i shared almost nothing, but drank in her presence like water, when we were both seven years old. never occured to . . . well, that's a lie. it occured to me at fourteen, but that's another story.

that day, during recess at vacation Bible school, when i lied and said i had to 'go' . . .

i walked into the church, not making a sound. i'd entered from the field, across from the back of the church, where we'd all been playing kickball. as i walked in the doors, i entered the hallway that separated the fellowship hall and the sanctuary. the fellowship "hall" was actually a large room where we held special dinners or fashion shows, things of that nature. it was the room where everyone sort of hung out after services -- especially if it was raining or snowing outside. i could hear sounds of stuff going on in the fellowship hall. nothing major, but enough that if one of the women who worked in the hall's kitchen saw me bobbing around aimlessly, i'd either get told to get back outside or i'd get snitched on -- or both, neither of which was particularly desirable at that point.

i walked with a particular effort to see around, inside of the fellowship hall, before i ventured each step. at first, my back was to the sanctuary. then, i don't know why, but i turned around. i was just tall enough that if i stood on the balls of my feet, i could see in the window, into the sanctuary. i felt this pull, almost instantly, from just a little above my belly button, all the way to in front of the altar and the pulpit. scared me. when i rounded the corner to where the bathrooms were, i almost made a pit stop to ask to speak to the pastor. i stopped my self.

third time, i was celebrating my first Communion during my deacon candidacy. God . . . that was the high point for every candidate, i think -- our first Communion.

we'd had a Pentecostal kinda service that day, with people gettin' happy and jumpin' and shoutin' . . . it was an amazing service. i was so nervous, standing there at the Altar. when i opened my mouth to speak, a woman in the second row began shouting, caught up in Spirit as she was. and so i waited. God said, 'hold still'. after a moment or two, i opened my mouth again, and again, her shouts rang out, filling the Sanctuary. 'be still and know I am God', He said. after the third time, they were able to calm her. i began reciting the Canon, which my mentor had made sure i memorized and could repeat upon request, even though we would always have a copy of both long and short versions of the Canon right on the Altar with us. my mentor was the best.

as i recited the Canon, i felt filled with so much love . . . so much . . . Light, i wept, openly, before my congregation. and then, a little later as i concluded the Consecration, a beam of sunlight broke through and shone down on me, right where i stood. for the first time in my life, i understood what Jesus felt at His Baptism. ironically, my pastor called that my 'baptism by fire' -- she still does, in fact. as far as she knows, no other deacon candidate from our parish has ever been 'baptised by fire' the way i was. felt kinda cool when she put her hand on my shoulder and told me that i'd done good.

sometimes, a scream is good. even though it feels good and makes me wanna puke, all at the same time.


the bloodwriting on the wall

when i was about eight and a half years old, i awakened on some ordinary morning and i found our little three-bedroom apartment eerily quiet. two of my brothers were asleep in the bedroom that i shared with them. my parents' bedroom door was shut tight as it always was. but something wasn't right. i could feel it. not that prickly feeling some people talk about, or that skin-crawling fear thing. something much more subtle than that had led me out of bed that morning.

i walked softly around the first corner, into the dining room. if there was anything out of place, i didn't notice it being so. my mom has always kept a very tidy house. not so neat that it couldn't be lived in, but always nice enough so that if unexpected guests arrived, we wouldn't be embarassed. thanks, mom. the table was clean, the chairs were in their places . . . sometimes we even had placemats, and i think there were some on the table that morning, too. maybe. it gets hazy. none of the furniture seemed out of place, though -- and on the surface, it looked as normal as normal could look in our house.

we were poor as churchmice sometimes. maybe that's why i feel so connected to the children at el tamarindo -- regardless of economic circumstance, those parents give their children the best they've got. they were always as i was when i was their age: poor, but clean and relatively content. back then, i never felt discontent. i was about three years into my mother's older son's sexual abuse of me, but it was so indelible that i've retained only two clear memories of it before the age of ten. i sometimes almost wish it were so, for the time after that.

he'd been given the den, my older halfsibling had. my father had wanted to give it to me, being the only girl. but all my mom could see was that i was his favorite, so the room went to her son -- the oldest -- instead of to his daughter, his favorite. i wasn't my dad's favorite just for shits'n'giggles, nor because i was the only girl-- although that went a long way in my father's family. i was his favorite because i made great grades, was so far advance that i was among about a handful of kids in our school who got to take french in fourth grade, and i was pretty tough, quiet, and smart. i wasn't 'daddy's little girl'; i was my father's kid. my dad liked me hanging out with him; my brothers and halfsibling, he could take or leave. given the choice, he would leave his wife's son with her. every time.

but i wasn't thinking about any of that on that morning as i walked through the small path that separated the dining room from the kitchen.

i can remember hearing my father saying something. he was praying, i knew, but over what now, i had no idea. he prayed a lot, my dad did. especially when he'd done something stupid like hit my mom. my belief is that God had already forgiven him. it would be another decade, though, before my mother would be able to do the same.

so i knew what the garbled ramblings usually signified, but this morning was somehow different. i remember listening for the tv and noticing that i didn't smell oatmeal. oatmeal was a staple breakfast food in my family. it was the only thing that went far enough to feed four kids and two adults on a daily basis. i don't ever remember eating breakfast at school, not even after the divorce. my mom fixed us breakfast every morning and we wore t-shirts under our clothes from october through may. i never caught a cold until i started living on my own. thanks, mom.

the kitchen was dark that morning -- another sign that something had gone awry. as i walked softly past the kitchen, i looked down at the corner of the wall, where the kitchen met the living room. there it was. all of a sudden, i could hear my father clearly, begging, 'bring her back, Lord. safe and sound, Lord.' it was my mother's blood, splattered on that wall corner. i could only vaguely remember the sounds of their argument from the night before, but as soon as i saw the blood, i knew clearly who it belonged to.

my mom had left. and she'd taken that bastard of a son with her. eighteen or twenty months later, the divorce would be final.


mi amor

mon coeur

eyes like mine
fearing all
afraid of nothing

eyes wide open
we take the plunge
into life's great beyond



Hmmm . . . this could be the start of something quite nice.
Last updated 24.9.2006



Term GPA 4.000


Course Section Title Final Grd Credits CEUs
1 SOSC-105-60 Introduction to Sociology A 3.00
2 SCNC-106-60 Introductions to Science A 3.00
3 HUMN-303-01 Professional Ethnics A 3.00
4 LEGL-103-01 Legal Terminology A 3.00




you've never looked into my eyes, but don't u wanna know
what the dark and the wild and the different know

there are some things in my life I'll never understand
but they become the force that makes me who I am

you've never been to the moon but don't u want to go
under the sea in the volcano

you've never looked into my eyes, but don't u wanna know
what the dark and the wild and the different know

i like that song
makes sense

damn she rocks
i'd forgotten


i wanna come over
lol i love this song
melissa rocks


i've been trying to figure out what's been depressing me over these last six weeks or so. since i've been back. and i think i know what it is. i think it's having to come back to the same shit i left behind. the same fears the same insecurities, the same arguments and the same emptiness that was all here. it was exhilarating, being down there. being taino, having a sister and lots of little golden brown babies running in the sun. i have the means, the motive, and the opportunity to be down there. i felt whole down there.

i feel a hole up here. not a gaping, gasping chasm. just a hole. hey, i've got a hole joke for ya. if it takes ten men seven hours to dig a hole five feet wide by three feet deep, how long would it take them to dig half a hole?

it wouldn't take them any time. you can't dig half a hole. lol
in some ways, being with him was like being with you -- as if somehow being with you could be replicated half a world away. like the day he walked me to the bank, or the day he walked in while i was standing there, in front of the tv, half naked and blushing purple. his unexpected presence did not scare me. it excited me. sort of like you did, when you walked up those stairs in your kilt and nothing more. like everytime i saw you after that. like everytime i saw him after that. i think it's good that we didn't speak the same language. still, when he calls, i smile at the thought of talking to him in my broken spanglish, and he to me, in his broken espingles. my friends don't seem to believe that everything that happened there, and since -- which wasn't much, really -- was an accident. like the fact that he called the other day. they don't believe that him giving me his number was an accident. nor that me giving him mine was.

i should call him tomorrow, just to say hi.

deseo tocar su estrella otra vey.


oh fuck, part deux

how eerie is it that the plane crashed a few hours before conan obrien headlined a skit about a bad plane crash on the emmys

there are two people in the world whom it would suck to be today

thank you God that i ain't one of'em

oh fuck

how eerie is it that a plane carryin 50 people crashes and the only one to get out alive was the co pilot?
is anyone else having serious car crash syndrome with the squidbillies at 4am on a monday mornin?



well, my shrink says that gettin some of the shit outta me on here is a good thing, so i'm gonna take another trip down memory lane

i think i left off at my parents, which is where all of anybody's shit starts, and at least i know that i'm at least halfway normal. well, in that regard anyway. really, though, a lot of this shit inside me needs to go to my mother's bastard. well maybe not. i mean, he obviously either had shit happenin to him or he was just plain born evil, which i can't dispute since i dunno who implanted the twisted little fuck into my mother's womb. maybe he's the twisted little fuck of a twisted big fuck and the whole thing's genetic. shame that genetic waste actually gets to live beyond its first month of breathing oxygenated air, especially when waste equals shit like the little shiteater my mother brought with her when she married my dad. i wish he'd've been a retard, but if he would've been a retard, there's little chance that my parents would've been my parents, which really isn't that much of a bad thing to consider anyway. not that i don't love my mom or anything, but if i'd've been given any choice in the matter, or if i'd've had to make a choice, i'd've chosen to be offspring of my father's clan over any chance of having the downside of the genetic material available on my mother's side. turns out that i got the best of both of'em, which is a whole lot more than i can say for the fuckups called my siblings. the best of'em, excluding my stepbrother, who i've heard is quite the fuckup in his own right -- what is it about mothers with fucked up boys that attracted my dad anayway? -- but of all the ones i grew my first thirteen years with, the best of them is terminally ill and has been hangin on a dialysis needle for almost thirty years and refusin any form of transplant cuz he doesn't wanna contract another dreaded disease on top of the one he's already got. sorta makes sense in an odd little fuckup way. he's the smartest of my mother's three boys. sux, don't it.

so i've figured out that i'm avoiding sex because i don't feel safe enough to engage in it with the partner i've chosen to walk this leg of my journey with. prolly why i got a hard on in dominicana last month. boy had me with a look and it don't hurt that i had him with one too. god, i miss feelin safe. miss walkin down the street knowin that they knew who i belonged to and seein them feelin the fear that such knowledge brought forth. i miss belongin to someone i feel safe enough with to wanna belong to. so i guess i've hit the point where i finally have to accept that my life consists of what never existed before he did and will never exist now that he is no longer in my life that way. i've been runnin from that, i guess, though that's about par for the course for me. run from that which i don't wanna see and abdicate all responsibility whenever possible. i wanna belong to someone, not have someone belong to me who doesn't seem strong enough to have me belong to them. i can keep runnin if i want to. but i don't want to. this relationship will probably end, and i don't wanna run from that either. hell, sometimes i wanna run toward that, but that's another discussion entirely. but there are some separatory issues that we must face together because in my insanity, i've allowed myself to become a babysittin enabler and that shit don't jive with who i know i'm really meant to be. and i don't wanna be taken care of, either -- especially by someone who sounds like their soul is shatterin into a thousand tiny pieces everytime they say that they're worried about me. dammit, if you're gonna tell me you're worried about me, at least sound like you're strong enough to actually handle bein worried about me, otherwise it just creeps me out and makes me run like hell in the other direction. but i digress . . .

so what does this have to do with my parents, my twisted fuck of a brother, and how can i reconcile it without hatin my parents? trillion dollar question, if i've ever seen one. well, far as i can tell, it's true what my shrink said when she said that our/my mother/s teach me/us how to be in a relationship and my/our father/s teach us/me what to do in a relationship. i be too thought-filled and i do run like a bitch when the goin gets close. i never ran from him, though -- the one i belong/ed to. that goin got real close. guess it's a good thing we never shared living quarters. don't think i'd remember how it felt to love what that was if we'd've had to do the day-to-day shit together. 'sides, it's good to have that to look at sometimes cuz when i feel like runnin, at least i don't run for real. or, at least, biologically, anyway. though i guess i do, especially when i start wishin my period would start so i can say fuck no with impunity. i hate feelin guilty about sayin no to a pair of eyes that adores me beyond words. it's a fucked up world, no doubt.

when i was fifteen and sixteen years old, i was not allowed to have friends. that may be a bit exaggerated, but while my mother's bastard was out runnin the streets and gettin locked up for way stupid shit -- that's another chapter entirely -- and my younger sibs were out havin a grand old time doin whatever the fuck they felt like doin, my mom told me that i had to come straight home from school and not leave the house for any reason except emergency because she needed me to stay in the house in case somebody important called or in case she needed to call home for whatever reason. what the fuck was that about? that's why i've been so fucked over the last year or so. i'm still in that babysitter/enabler twistercane. godDAMN it, says the eight-year-old with the foul mouth that i love so dearly. speakin of whom, how fucked up is it that michael mcdonald was/is so petrified of losing his christian-music fans that not only is the satan character NOT listed in the bigger/longer cast credits, but his name doesn't even appear on the screen until almost the very last credit -- meaning, we don't see michael mcdonald's name until after the caterers and fiftyfifth assistants, but before the production company logo reappears. i listened to that song he sings at the end, the one that talks about the darkness in a child's soul and what bastards they really are and havin his friends detail your car for about twenty bucks. he must know a lot of latinos. but he does all that, plus that fuckin tripped out up-there song -- is that a fag connotation or what -- and he's so scared shitless that you don't even know it's him unless you're a geek who sits through to the very last scene before the screen goes all ashy. like me. i love that movie. i watched it every night for about ten days, and i watched it four times just yesterday, in part to make up for not seeing it for several days recently. layers upon layers of the best fucked up shit i've ever seen. thanks for turnin me onto them. and the squidbillies. some of that adult swim shit is . . . just lovely.

well i've got a paper and a coupla other shiteatin things i gotta do but i gotta sleep too and what with the new pup and all, i need to get outta my own headspace for a bit.

new baby

and today, she climed up and down the main stairs all by her self!
an immediate spirits-lifter, she is . . . can't wait to take her to the scottish festival next month and on our next road trip and on the road to see aerosmith (maybe) . . . something about independent, intelligent, unconditional love that makes almost everything almost okay.

is she spoiled already?
you betta your sweet ass she is!

next week's challenge? learning to sit and stay. i'm a damned good dog trainer, that i am. Roll


And God said, 'Let there be queers' . . .

And there were queers. And God looked upon them, and saw that they were good.

God's Party Aboard Noah's Queer Ark

The First Sign
And it came to pass, in those days, that two dykes were driving upon the road in their cherry red chariot. Darkness had formed across the land and the dykes hungered. And they thirsteth.

And the first dyke saith, I thinketh that McDonald's soundeth most good to me just now.

And the second dyke saith, Yea, that soundeth good to me, too, sister. And though I loveth the House of the Waffles, I wanteth it not. I, too, wanteth McDonalds.

And they droveth on their way, looking for a blue sign with golden symbols.

Then, lo and behold, a blue sign appeared. It had golden symbols that arched and crossed. And the first dyke saith, Lo, my sister. Hereth is our sign. Let us therefore come to the place where the golden symbols shall meet. And the second dyke saith, Yea, my sister, driveth us further, that we may partake of sacred cows and stringed potatoes.

And so, the two dykes droveth to the place beneath the golden symbols. And they droveth around to the speaking pipe and a new sign appeared, with all manner of food and drink. And in that moment, the dykes saith, at nearly the same time, Let us therefore eateth of the fish of the sea, for that seems more pleasing than sacred cow. But alas, the place was darkened and no voices answereth their call. The two dykes droveth around to the window, wherein they saw another sign.

The second dyke saith, This place hath closeth at midnight. And the first dyke, looking at the hour, saith, Yea, and it is now seven past the midnight hour. And the two dykes sighed, for they were sorely hungered. And they thirsteth.

And the second dyke saith, Let us therefore driveth further. Perhaps we shall see another golden sign.

The Second Sign
And it came to pass, after they droveth their chariot further down the main road, another blue sign appeareth, with another golden symbol like the first sign. And the first dyke saith, Behold, here is our second sign. Surely this one shall be open. And they droveth to the place underneath the golden and arched sign. Alas, this place, too, was darkened and there was no room at the inn. There was even no light within the place, and the dykes were discouraged. And still they hungered. And they thirsteth.

And the second dyke saith, There musteth be a place of golden arched sign that is open.

And the first dyke saith, Yea, let us try another place.

And the two dykes droveth off, into the darkness.

The Third Sign
And it came to pass, after they droveth their chariot further, another blue sign appeareth, with another golden symbol like the first and second signs. And the first dyke was encouraged, and she saith to the second dyke, Behold, my sister. Another sign of gold and arches. And the second dyke was also encouraged. She saith, Yea, my sister, let us therefore go and partake of the fish of the sea and the stringed potatoes.

And they droveth, but did not see the place underneath the sign of gold and arches. Alas, it was darkened and looketh like it had been abandoneth for several hours. They nearly passed the place underneath the gold and arches, but then they saw it and parketh in it. And the dykes still hungereth. And they thirsteth.

And then the second dyke looked up to the heavens and saith, Yea, Father, we now knoweth that thou doth not wanteth us to eat at the place of the sign of the gold and arches. Whereth wouldst thou have us eateth?

And the first dyke saith, Yea, Lord, where wouldst thou havest us to go? For we are hungered. And we thirsteth. Where wouldst thou have us eateth?

And the second dyke saith, Yea, Lord, whither thou leadeth us, there we shall go.

And the first dyke started the chariot once more, and the two dykes droveth on their way.

The Sign of the House of the Waffles
And lo, in just a few cubits, they saw God's sign through the trees and the darkness. They knew it was God's sign, for it was the sign of the House of the Waffles. And they dykes rejoiceth, for the House of the Waffles was open. There were other people therein, and lo, there was room at the inn.

Alas, there was another sign on the door of the House of the Waffles. The two dykes must goeth and changeth the plastic denari into paper denari, for the plastic denari changer worketh not at the House of the Waffles.

Seveneth Eleveneth and the Sign of the Exploding Slurpee Dispenser
And the first dyke saith, Behold, there is a Seveneth Eleveneth next door. And the second dyke saith, Lo, and a Slurpee wouldst be good just now. For still they hungereth. And they thirsteth. And the first dyke saith, Yea, sister, getteth thou a Slurpee. And the two dykes entereth the Seveneth Eleveneth.

As the first dyke changed her plastic denari into paper denari, the second dyke fixeth a cup for the Slurpee. The second dyke saith, My sister, the Supermaneth Slurpee looketh most pleasing. And the first dyke saith, Yea, tryeth that one.

Alas, the Slurpee dispenser explodeth upon both dykes. The second dyke, not believing this sign, tryeth the Slurpee dispenser again, and lo, it explodeth a second time. The second dyke, still not believing this sign, tryeth the Slurpee dispenser again. It explodeth a third time. Then the clerk, having seen the exploding Slurpee sign three times, saith, Lo, the Slurpee dispenser hath brokeneth.

And the second dyke saith, Yea, Lord, thou doest not wanteth us to have neither Slurpee nor food from the place of the gold and arches.

And the first dyke saith, Yea, Father, thou wanteth us to have only good food, from the House of the Waffles. Whither thou leadeth, there shall we goeth.

And having received the third exploding Slurpee sign, the two dykes therefore wenteth out of the Seveneth Eleveneth and wenteth back to the House of the Waffles.

The House of the Waffles
And lo, in the House of the Waffles, there sat hillbillies with unfriendly countenances and yellow people who wouldst not understand queerspeak. But God had a plan for the two dykes, and soon after they arrived, the hillbillies and the yellow people lefteth the House of the Waffles. There remaineth only the two dykes, a queergirl, and a gayboy.

And God said, Let there be queers. And lo, the queers entered two-by-two and the House of the Waffles was transformed into Noah's Queer Ark, where there was much rejoicing. There came the transchildren and the babydykes, and the queergirl and the gayboy and the two dykes made merry into the night, for it was the Lord's night, just past midnight, at a House of the Waffles in Southern Virginia. And God said, Let there be music. And lo, although no one toucheth the juketh box, gayboy party club music began to play.

Parable of Sunday Queer Night
And the second dyke asketh the gayboy, Sir, is every Sunday night Queer Night here?
And the gayboy answereth, saying, No, noteth usually.
And the second dyke saith, Well, it should be.
And there was much rejoicing, for the gayboy had thought that the second dyke was a hoe-moe-phobe and was much relieved to findeth out that she was not.

Parable of the Invisible Smoke Screen
And the first dyke began to walk outside to smoketh, but the gayboy saith, No, you may smoketh in here, but you must doeth it here at the bar, for the booths are the no-smoketh section.

And they laughed about having an invisible smoketh screen that would keep the smoketh from traveling from the bar to the booths that sat right next to it. They laughed and laughed, until the smoke behaveth and only stayed where it was supposed to. And they marveled at the goodness and mightiness of the Lord, their God.

The Dykes Depart
And it came to pass that the dykes left. And in their leaving, they wisheth God's queerchildren a goodnight and they rejoiceth all along their way. For they knew that God had led them there and that God had thrown them an impromptu queer party, down at a House of the Waffles, just after midnight, on His night, in a sleepy little country Virginia town.

The Final Lesson
Sometimes God just wanteth to hang out with His queerkids.
And there ain't nothin wrong with that.
Ay Mayun
so we were drivin down the road and the sign said christianburg, next exit
i looked out the window and said christianburg, just two lanes over
and she immediately jumped us
one more lane over

now THAT is a fuckin BEST FRIEND


four hours later

boi: you know, you're a difficult woman to love sometimes. sometimes you say you want this and then you don't want it and then you . . .

girl: i know. i am very difficult.


girl: thank you

how hot is it?

satan-in-a-speedo hot


well fuck, i just got this email from fp about doin a slurpee run. dammit. i didn't even have school today, but i went to a game with boi. there were a few fun moments, but nothin feels quite right. i dunno, maybe i'm overreacting, but i don't think so. the fuckin with my head, i coulda prolly dealt with cuz i can at least give him the benefit of the doubt. but that pretendin everything's just peachy even after i got better and the planned ambush during session . . . and most importantly, he knows -- how i feel about honoring agreements, especially given the number of agreements i adhere to for his sake. it's not the email itself; it's the principle of 'let's not ambush each other when we go into session'. let's lay our cards on the table, go in without any sort of ulterior motive.

and believe it or not, he and i have talked several times about his pretendin everything's fine when it's not. i feel like everything he did for me while i was sick was a complete lie. all that time, even after i got better, he never said a word til he was ready to pull out the email during the session.

how am i supposed to feel safe in going into sessions with him if i'm always on guard in case he comes loaded with stuff that he hasn't even had the decency to tell me he was having a problem with? maybe i am overreacting, but these sessions are supposed to be sacred space and i'm not a big fan of planning ambushes on people in sacred spaces. i trusted him to be up front with me and he wasn't.

oh and wanna hear the latest?

the first was about the shakespeare set he got me. it was a really sweet gift and i so appreciated his thoughtfulness. until he started askin me if i'd told anyone about the gift he got for me. for two or three days, no shit, he asked me that. the last time was at some ungodly hour of the morning when we'd been up talking and i finally had to tell him that i would be sure to tell people about the gift if he would just please go to sleep. and i never realized how much he did that -- how much he seems to always want me to tell everybody i know about every little nice thing he does for me -- until he did it last week with his birthday gifts to me. he even did it when he made me jello when i was sick -- wanted to know if i told anyone. and everytime somebody asks how i'm feeling, if he's around, he makes sure to mention that he took care of me while i was sick. is that the only reason he does nice things -- so he can check in and see how many people will be patting him on the back for the 'good job' he did?

talk about feelin cheap.

and then . . .

we were on the way home tonight. i had to stop by my mom's and drop off dominica gifts for her and my kid and pick up my b-day gifts from them. my sweet kid comments that it looks like i'm losing weight, which felt kinda nice to hear. so i get in the car and tell boi. you wanna know his response?

"well it probably looks like we're both losing weight. y'know j**** s**** at work told me that it looks like i'm moving better and my pain levels have been way down."

not, 'gee honey, that's really great. i'll bet that felt good'. no, 'wow, i thought so too so i'll bet it feels good to hear it from another source'. not even a, 'that's really nice. congratulations on that'. no, all i got was that apparently i don't deserve to enjoy a compliment that's just about me unless he feels that it's true about him too. and no conversation about anybody's compliments can be complete without another rendition of 'how many people complimented the little transboi, too'.

he tells me that somebody compliments him, i'm like, 'hey that's great. good for you', 'bet that felt great to hear' . . . something along the lines of how nice it is to know that other people compliment him in different ways. but i guess compliments that i get can only be valid if he can include himself in some way.

i can't count the number of times i've had to listen to him tell me about the same compliments from the same people. or even the number of times we discuss how low his pain levels are and how he's moving better and on and on and on. and still, even if i have to remind him that he's told me that story, he still gets that wow-that's-great-and-you-deserve-it kinda response. but from the first time i tell him of a compliment i've gotten, it's off to the races again about him. i'm not jealous of the attention he gets; i'm pissed because when i get attention, he attempts to downplay my own achievement by making sure i remember that he has achievements too. i know it's just a function of his own insecurity, but how long should i allow him to diminish my achievements by inserting himself into them? i think four years is enough of that.

talk about seein things for the first time.

sometimes it ain't about cheating. sometimes it's just about being treated with respect and consideration. but a new day is coming. i'm at the point in my education where i can actually take classes only one day a week -- saturdays -- and do the rest online. i'm looking at federal jobs, and my grades qualify me for positions making . . . gee, almost the same money as he does. i think the lowest i can be considered for is around 35-40K on a good day-- but with my grades, i can start at just under 50. can ya beat that? lol

i sent in my resume for about six of them last night. a 3.72 gpa should get me pretty far.

i think the worst thing i did was trusting this transboi when he encouraged me to step out on faith to heal and get back in school. i put my trust in him that i wouldn't regret it. and i do regret it. it'll be awhile before i get past regretting this, but you can bet your ass that i won't be doing this anymore. i've had to fight tooth and nail for every sliver of consideration and respect he's given me over the past eighteen or so months and i honestly feel diminished as a person for doing so.

when i was in dominica, i thought about whether the only reason i was attracted to yeis was because of the way transboi fucked with me before i left. sad to say, it was part of the reason. i guess it just felt really good to have somebody be considerate and thoughtful of me in all of the same ways that i am for boi -- but that i don't get in return from boi. yea, yeis was being paid to guard and guide us, but if he hadn't been especially attentive to me, neither of us would have gotten the amount of ribbing we did -- especially he did from his 'boys'. lol i saw it and almost felt sorry for him. almost, cuz it felt damned good, but it wasn't long before both of us figured out that unless we told the backstory to every single private joke we had, we were both gonna catch hell from the same people.

but even that was kind a nice -- and it felt nice, too, to not have to answer a million questions about why i wanted what i wanted or needed what i needed. i've missed that.

nice to not have to hear a weak-assed sounding, 'do you want me to help' when it's obvious that i'm struggling with something heavy and/or bulky. i've missed that.

nice to not hear a weak-assed sounding 'i'll try' everytime i said 'please do this my way'. i've missed that.

and nice to just feel safe in knowing that although he was there to protect me from physical harm, he was so confident and so strong, i would have never even had to think about protecting him. boy, i've missed that.

nice to be around someone who didn't feel the need to proclaim that that they were a 'trained killer' cuz really, people seemed to know to not fuck with him anyway. i've missed that.

and nice to know that if we had've slept together, there would have been no confusion and his first move would not've been to lie down sounding more like mickey mouse than a mature adult in bed with a woman that he wants. can't tell ya how much i've missed that.

and nice to be treated as a woman in my own right, not as an extension of whosever hand i happen to be holding. can't tell ya how much i've missed that one either.

it felt nice to flirt and giggle and even engage in a little mindfuck seduction with somebody sure of who they are and what they want. for the first time in a really long time, i actually felt completely safe -- emotionally, spiritually, physically, and sexually safe with someone. it's been around maybe eight or so years since i last felt that with anyone. the absence is of it is rather painful now that i've seen what i've been missing.

it's not really about yeis personally, although it was my attraction to him that allowed me to see the deficiencies in my own relationship. it's about remembering what it feels like to be the girl in the relationship and only floating into tomboyland when i want to -- not cuz i feel like i always have to. it's about enjoying the hell out of that polar-opposites thing cuz i like the balance that having male and female energies bring to a relationship. i'm attracted to butches, dominates, and ftms who really are male and not still not-completely-decided.

i'm the girl. i'm always the girl. i'm always the only girl in any relationship. i was my daddy's only girl and i no longer settle for any less from anybody i'm fuckin. i hate it when lovers forget that. i don't date girlie lookin or girlie actin or girlie fuckin people, no matter what kinda body they were born with. i've missed bein with someone who never forgets that.

it's about waking up.

it's about 'wow . . . why the hell have i been putting up with this boi's inconsiderate behaviors, his wishywashyness about his gender expression, and his lack of ability to accept and celebrate me as a woman in my own right without having to assert his place in my life when I receive well-deserved praise? i'm the one who washes his dirty fuckin underwear, for pete's sake! doesn't he know how lucky he is?

it's about waking up and asking my self what the hell is so wrong with me that i've been protecting his feelings for four years while he gets to say whatever the hell he likes without any regard for my feelings.

so maybe i'm overreacting, but maybe i'm not. maybe i'm just tired of having to train someone to treat me the way other people treat me without my having to ask for it.

why am i still waiting for this boi to learn to think about what he says to me before he says it?

and why am i still waiting for this boi to help me feel safe in our sacred spaces when that's all i've done for him for the past four years?

why am i still with someone for whom thoughtlessness is as natural as breathing when i know i deserve better?

i dunno why. but at least now i'm asking myself the questions.

ironic cuz i do love him and i even liked being married to him.

but it's not about love.

when love is not the question, love can't be the answer.

pretty fucked up, if you ask me.


Talk about your garden variety moron . . .

Yanno, my trip to Dominica put a lot of things in perspective for me. I mean, I talk a lot of shit about fuckin Yei for a week, but on the serious tip, while I was down in Dominica, I really realized what's important in life. And I am so over raising a 53-year-old child. I dunno if it was coming home to realize that lover wore the same nasty pair of jeans -- without washing them, mind you -- for the whole week I was gone or the fact that he let his laundry pile up while I was sick (he said he did that because before I left, I told him not to worry about it, but fuck, I came back really sick -- doesn't that kinda indicate that maybe that would need to change a little??) . . . Or I dunno, even the fact that he had clean pants hanging in his closet and he even had another pair of jeans downstairs in the dryer but he was too fuckin lazy to go get'em . . . and by the way, the stuff in the dryer didn't dry very well (my mistake, I didn't set the dryer high enough) but do you know how clothes and blankets smell when they've been sitting wet in the dryer for two weeks? Which means that after I got home and lover went down to get his other pair of jeans out of the dryer, he didn't even have the common courtesy to put the blankets and other clothes back in the washer for a rewash. And all the while, I'm celebrating the fact that he made me jello. God, I feel like such an idiot sometimes.

But you know, all that crap . . . why am I in a relationship where I constantly have to explain common sense stuff to somebody who's fiffuckinteen years older than me? I love my lover, really I do, but what kicks me in the gut is that these kids -- these sweet little, poor-as-dirt kids -- kids who have nothing in the world except the clothes on their backs, these kids were more considerate in a week than my moron at home has been in the past month. FP, I had to do all of my own end-of-life paperwork by my self -- no help from him in even locating the forms to print out. And I did it, all of it, plus you saw me packing for my self and doing all the laundry and I made sure that when I left, the only thing my darling dear really had to do was eat and clean up after himself. And I get back -- it's been 100 degrees in my classroom every day, so I'm heat sick (in fact, I spent the first two days there so heatsick that getting out of bed and surviving the day was cause for celebration) and I've got this nasty stomach flu and I'm weak and I'm tired and overly emotionally and physically drained -- and I'm, like an idiot, celebrating that lover made jello for about three or four days, meanwhile not only is he allowing the laundry to build up til I get better enough to do it, but he's also harboring this pissyassed grudge because he said somethin stupid that fucked with my head and he got the 'a' answer instead of the oh-honey-it's-okay 'b' answer he might've gotten if I hadn't've been up for over twentyfour straight hours, put together my living will and my last will and my advance directive, packed, done laundry, cleaned the house, and comforted his pussyassed separation anxiety-riddled mommy-please-don't-go crock of bullshit.

And oh, by the way, the key that started all this -- my key -- was in my backpack. I'd put it in the inside pocket on the Sunday before I left because he'd taken me to do a deacon visit at the old folk's home and I didn't want to take the chance on leaving my keys in the car when I went in. It was just in a different pocket than normal. Ask loverboi where his keys were when he had to pay some stranger to break into our car in the middle of the Giant food parking lot that Tuesday before I left.

So yea, he heard part of the 'a' answer before I left and he got the rest of it as soon as I got to a computer. And he carried that shit around with him and printed off the email to take into session and hid it in his back pocket, and he ambushed me with it while we were in session. Granted, in session, I was pretty angry about the whole laundry thing, but I honestly didn't know that I felt that way until we were in session talking about it. That happens sometimes. Often with him. Not with me very often, but it does happen. Boi can't claim he didn't know how he felt about the email. He purposely ambushed me with it, planned it out so that I would not find out how he felt, or even that he was still dealing with it, until we were in session.

That's a violation of one of our sacred agreements. Soon after therapist put us on the shared-journal thing, Boi tried to ambush me. I'd written some pretty angry responses to some pretty stupid shit he'd done, and he'd tried to sneak it into the session without me knowing about it. But the thing is, I don't care if he needs to bring stuff to help him focus on what he needs to say. All I ask is that if we're going to bring stuff like that in, that we tell each other -- give each other the heads-up -- so nobody feels like they're being hit with something way out of left field. It's one thing to have shit come up unexpectedly in session; it's a whole nother thing to come into session loaded for bear and not give your lover the courtesy of a heads-up about it. Boi decided that ambush was, again, his best option. He printed out the email about the key and while we were talking about the laundry, he said 'i wanna talk some more about the key. i brought the email so we could discuss it'. No shit, that's the first time I've heard that he had anything going on about that. I had honestly forgotten about the whole incident.

See I kinda knew that one of the reasons Boi pulled that shit was because he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, looking for something to hit me with as I was leaving, so that my mind would be so focused on him and on figuring out what was wrong with our relationship, I wouldn't have time or energy to focus on anything I found cute and fuckable in Santo Domingo. And oh yea, I found something definitely cute and fuckable in Santo Domingo. Only one, though. I must be losin my edge. But I digress . . .

Boi hadn't planned on telling me that 'the problem' was about misplacing my keys. All he'd planned on telling me was that there was something wrong, but that it could wait til I got back and we'd discuss it in session.

Now, if you're about to get on a plane to go halfway round the world and your lover says that to you, yea, kinda you'd spazz. You're even more likely to spazz if you haven't slept in over twentyfour hours and all of your time and energy that wasn't spent on packing was spent on taking care of your lover, comforting your lover, and making sure your affairs were in order should you happen to die before returning home to your lover. Yea, that 'something's wrong in our relationship and we need to discuss it in therapy' would send a panic attack through you even if you don't have panic attacks. Which I do.

But Boi never planned on telling me the truth of what was 'wrong'. He only planned to bait me, to give me just enough information to send me over the edge, just enough so that I'd spend my week away wondering what the hell was going on. On some level, I saw through his charade and I called him on it. I took the bait and said, 'what the fuck?'

Who wouldn't?

That's when he had to come out with the truth. That there was nothing really wrong. He was just pissy cuz I couldn't find my keys. That's when I went off the deep end, FP. I didn't go off the deep end when he came home acting like a little pussy because I was leaving for a week. I didn't go off the deep end when he locked his keys in the car and had to pay a stranger to break into the car, in the middle of the Giant food parking lot. I didn't go off the deep end when he decided to play games on his computer, watch TV, and then sleep half the night instead of helping me decide what to pack or even helping get the laptop ready to go. I didn't go off the deep end when I had to make those hard, horrible decisions about unplugging me when I'm brain dead all by my self without any input from my pussypissy partner who's still acting like a bitchytwitchy little girl every time somebody says the word 'death' because he's still suckin his thumb and not dealin with the death of his mother. I didn't even go off the deep end when his shit got me so frazzled that the only way I could relax and enjoy the last few moments at home before I took off was to put his whiny ass to bed and go out for a Slurpee run with you and my kid.

I did, however, go off the deep end when the 'problem' he felt we needed to discuss was a fuckin carkey.

I'm so sick to death of this. I probably wouldn't've given it another thought if it hadn't've been for his attempt to ambush me when he knows that I go into session with all my weapons laid down and with nothing in my back pocket that he doesn't know about. I wish so much that I could be back in Dominica. It felt so good to be around people who knew what family meant, people who know what's important in life.

In the end, I know that it all boiled down to Boi being jealous of my being able to go to Dominica without him. He's been all over the place, even been a Korean linguist and he's owned his own businesses and just done all sorts of shit that I'll never want to do. But he's jealous of where my sense of ministry takes me. He's jealous of the number of people who confide in me and he's jealous of me having people who would pay for me to go and work in another country, but who would not even think to ask him if he wants to go. Hell, Dude, diva la musica is arranging to pay for my hotel and conference fees in November for the conference in Pittsburgh; she'd even take care of my transport, which I may ask her to do, actually. You know, of course, that Boi had to pay his own way to Puerto Rico for that conference, as well as his own conference fees. The only reason he didn't have to pay for his hotel room is that it was actually my hotel room and I was nice enough to share it with him. The church took care of that for me. Boi envies a lot of what I do and he's afraid, too, that if I travel somewhere and fall in love with the place or a person there, that I'll just stay gone. He doesn't realize that when he pulls shit like fucking with my head and ambushing me in what's supposed to be a safe space, he's pushing to get the exact same thing he thinks he's trying to fight against.

Anyway, I'm sorry for rambling on like this. I've probably said the same stuff fifty times just in this one email. The stuff with your loveydearest kinda brings this shit with Boi into really close proximity.

Hey, I've got an idea. When we go to Santo Domingo in February . . .

:-) I've gotta get down to school Chat with you later,
fore i go to sleep

i'm not gonna call you on the fact that you broke our agreement to give each other the heads up when we were bringing "evidence" to a session. if you wanna sneak shit in, that's your right and i really don't give enough of a damn to worry much about it. anymore. bring your shit, either out in the open or buried in you back pocket. whatever blows yer hair back.

i'm not gonna bust you for fuckin with my head over a fuckin stupid carkey either. next time we're in session, you'll be gettin it back. i, for one, believe in fair warning. fact is, i don't care to carry the extra carkey, but if i can't find it, i don't wanna risk gettin my ass reamed for not havin it on me just before my february trip down to dominica. hell, i'm over the car altogether. far's i'm concerned, at least metro doesn't fuck with my head or plan to ream my ass out if i don't have my copy of the bus schedule in case the doofus bus driver forgets his route. sorry, mate -- a key just ain't worth all the bullshit you attached to it. not for me, it ain't.

in fact, i'm not gonna bust you for nothin because what's the fun in that anyway. i'm not gonna try to sound like minniemouse and lull you into a false sense of everything's-okayness from now until our next session because that'd be lyin and i have to do what's right regardless of what others might do. everything's not okay. but i don't really give a fuck about talking to you to make it right. you fucked with my head, you broke our agreement, and in breaking our agreement you actively planned to ambush me at our last session. you did good. i hope you enjoy the fruits of your labor.


but now that it's out in the open and now that i know you've been pretendin that everything's fine these past two weeks when it hasn't been, i'm sure you justified it by saying that you weren't honest with me about the email because i was so far away and then because i came home sick and then because i got impatient when you wanted to me to wait til i got back to talk about the damned car key so you were afraid or didn't want to take the risk that i'd be impatient again if you told me about your still being upset about the email and that's why you didn't tell me you were taking it with you into session.

hope your justifications keep you warm at night cuz in my book that's bullshit all the way down.

here's what i see happened.

you didn't think about what you were saying to me when you told me there was a problem that we needed to discuss in session. you didn't think about the fact that if it was small enough to wait til i got back, then it was also small enough to not bring up until i got back, given the fact that i was on my way to fly halfway round the world. you didn't think about the fact that knowing there was a problem in our relationship might concern me, especially given all of the end-of-life decisions i'd had to put in writing before stepping onto that plane. you thought that it would be okay to let me know, five minutes before i flew halfway round the world, that i'd displeased you in some small and insignificant way -- and you thought that if you just told me that much, it would be okay and that i'd never give that a second thought. you didn't even have the courtesy to tell me that it was a small and insignificant issue; you let me believe that it was something so serious that we'd have to wait til our next session to talk about it and resolve it. obviously, a key is really that big a deal to you. wish i'd known. but it ain't the key. it's the fact that your mind is like a sieve and rather than putting any significant time into practicing better memory techniques, you'd rather just enjoy the freedom to bust my ass when i forget -- that way you don't have to face what a dumbass you really are for not improving your memory when you've had the chance.

cuz you see, i notice other things now too. like how, if i ask you the same question twice, you get all impatient and snotty with me about having to answer again. in those moments, though, i know that you don't think about the number of times i have to not only answer the same questions fifty times from you, but that i also have to repeat phone numbers, access codes, and other important information to you -- sometimes twice in the same fucking five minutes. because . . .you don't write it down and put it where you can find it the first fortynineandahalf times i tell it to you. you don't think about how little aggravation -- or how kindly i show that aggravation -- you get from me when your memory starts lapsing ninetynine times a day. you don't think about that when you're getting impatient and cocky with me over a single question asked twice.

you didn't think twice about planning to ream my ass over a fuckin car key -- how insignificant it really was in the grand scheme of all that was going on. you didn't think twice about planning to ream my ass at all, in fact, because 'we'd already discussed it before' -- guess you felt justified in planning to ream my ass because we'd discussed it before and i still wasn't 'getting it'. guess i'll feel justified now in planning to bust your ass everytime you forget those little somethings 'we've discussed before' but that you STILL DON'T FUCKING GET.

you didn't think twice about warning me that i had a reamin coming to me after i got home. you didn't think twice about issuing that warning just before i got on a plane headed for a third world country. you didn't think about how what you said would affect me, about how i would feel receiving a warning like that, or even what a weeklong separation would do to me with the dark cloud of your discontent hanging over my head. you didn't think about how preparing for that trip was affecting me at all.

you didn't think about the fact that i hadn't slept in over twentyfour hours and that that sleep deprivation might have something to do with not remembering where my keys were. you didn't think about the stress that your whinywimpyneedy shit was putting on me and you didn't even consider how much more energy i was expending on making the separation as easy on you as i could make it. not once, when you were planning to ream my ass about a fuckin carkey, did you stop and think about the fact that when you locked your keys in the car that day, i did nothing but stand by you and comfort you and tell you that it was okay because i understood that you were stressed out and upset about my leaving -- that i had understood that there were extenuating circumstances for you. not once did you think about the fact that maybe there were extenuating circumstances for me, too.

you didn't think about anything except how upset you were that you wouldn't have my copy of the carkey to fall back on when -- and it's always a question of when with you, not if -- you were to lose your own copy of the carkey.

and then i called you on your thoughtlessness. i emailed you and told you EXACTLY what i thought of your wanting to bust my ass about a carkey, given all the shit i'd put up with you from the moment you got home that day til i finally got you to take your ass to bed so i could actually pack in peace without your high-intensity separation anxiety fuckin up my concentration.

you got my answer. you got my a answer.

you got what happens when you just blurt out stupid shit without thinking and i don't have the energy or the desire to think about the stupid shit that i'm thinking to say back to you to make you shut the fuck up about the stupid shit you don't need to be blurtin out to me at fiveoclockinthefuckinmornin. you got the unedited response. so if you wanna live in a world where you get to say shit without thinkin or considerin my feelings, don't fuckin cry like a little bitch when that's what you get right back, cuz that's what you're gonna get back. i'm way over protecting your feelings in those moments when you don't give a damn about mine.

i'm not getting ambushed by you anymore. i'm not gonna interrogate you or anything but i don't trust anything you say with a smile on your face anymore. fuck you. i will not be lulled into your false sense of everything-is-fine shit anymore. fuck you. nothing is fine anymore.

is our relationship okay?, you ask.

well, really, . . . not so much.

sucks that i just looked you in the eye and told you the exact opposite, don't it.

see, i can play stupid rabbit hat tricks too. hope it's as fun for you as it's gonna be for me.
i hate being ambushed

after telling you over and over how much it hurts to be ambushed, you ambush me. deliberately and with forethought, you ambush me. you act like nothing in the world is the matter except the same bullshit at your work -- but that's not true, is it? that damned email was eating away at you every day and you made no attempt to even try to work it through. yes, i was sick, but we have a journal, right? you couldn't use the journal. you couldn't even give me a heads up, even though i've made every effort to let you know that it's okay to take shit with you to talk about. and that's all i've asked.

i guess i should've known the other day when you didn't want to talk about work. you'd acted as if that was all that was on your mind, but when i came to comfort you, you said that you wanted to wait to talk about it in session. i should've known that you were hiding something else because you never not want to talk about work. you'd talk about it to God if you thought God had nothing better to do than listen to you whine incessently about how many managerial levels of people you've whined incessantly to, how many different managers or directors you've whined to even though half of them only stay around for maybe six months of your incessant 'they won't respect me' whiny assed drivel. but suddenly, that friday evening, sitting at your desk with your head lodged between my tits, you somehow didn't want to talk about work. that should've been my first clue.

i hate being sick. but more than being sick, i hate being ambushed.

at any point, you could've said, 'y'know that email you sent me really hurt but let's talk about it in session'. i've never had a problem with that. well, not true. i did have a problem with it when you said it right before i was scheduled to get on a plane and go halfway cross the world into a third world country. sometimes i think you pulled that shit about the key because it was the very last thing you could do or say that would make me delay leaving. you knew i could never leave you knowing that there was a problem between us.

or if you didn't know, you damned well should have. what the fuck made you think that after having to go through the whole process of making sure my affairs were in order by my fucking self, after doing all the fucking laundry and packing and cleaning by my fucking self just so that YOU could live and not worry too much about taking care of the house in my absence, after spending time comforting you in your whinywussypussyassed blubbering -- time i shoulda spent finding my keys cuz THAT'S what you decided to use to fuck with my head five minutes before i needed to get to the airport . . . what makes you think that after doing all of that BY MY FUCKING SELF BECAUSE YOU WERE ABOUT AS USEFUL AS A DULL KNIFE ON A SOFT WRIST, that i would be okay with leaving with my relationship with a problem so huge that my lover felt the need to tell me we'd have to wait until i got back to work it out?

you fucked with my head. you deliberately fucked with my head. and then when i called you on it, when i told you how hurtful it was to have you jumpin my shit over a fuckin CAR KEY -- that after you wussed out and laid in bed and fucking spazzed out so i couldn't do anything but take care of you wussinpussyin out ass and LOCKING YOUR CAR KEY IN THE CAR . . . and me taking all this in stride and being understanding and making sure someone would check on you and cleaning up and doing all the laundry and doing all of my own packing with more help from a dead fly than i could've EVER have gotten from you and taking care of all of those oh-shit-i-might-die documents with only a weakassed 'thank-you-honey' coming from you . . . after busting my ass to take care of both of us while being understanding and sympathetic of you going through your weakasseddodderingoldlady form of separation anxiety . . . that the thing you thought to be such a huge problem that we'd have to wait and talk about it in session . . . that that thing was a fucking KEY. you were upset because i couldn't be your wheres-the-fucking-carkey backup???? you were upset with me because you might forget and my key wasn't available for you to fall back on??? you know what? YOUR MEMORY SHIT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM!!!!! or at least, that's what i remember you telling me, so long ago when you started feeling like a useless sack of shit when i TRIED to HELP you find ways of remembering stuff.

and even if it ain't, what gives you the right to bust my ass about my keys when YOU'RE the one who had just LOCKED YOUR OWN FUCKING KEYS IN THE CAR that very day? at least i could get to mine without having to ask a stranger to break into our car -- with a whole parking lot full of people as an audience. you wanna talk irresponsible? fuck you.

and after dealing with that . . . after telling you what a crock of shit it was for you to even consider bustin my ass over somethin stupid -- and telling me that just before i fly halfway round the world . . . i . . . sorta . . . forgot about it all. i relaxed and enjoyed being home. you took care of me. i was so sick and you took care of me, lulling me into the false sense of security that comes with believing that everything was okay. but it wasn't, was it?

you know, it's fine that you were still hurt over the email i sent you about the fucking car key. it's even fine that you wanted to wait and discuss it in session. sometimes there's stuff that i only want to discuss in session, and i let you know that. i don't tell you just as you're leaving for work; i tell you in the evenings, after you get home, and then i tell you again a day or so before the next session. i don't sneak shit in to talk about. i tell you if i'm bringing something because we're there to work together, not fight each other. i'm not preparing for battle with you. i'm preparing to work in love with you. i don't want to sneak-attack you and i don't want you to feel ambushed cuz that shit just hurts. it fucking sucks. so if i've gotta bring something to help me focus my thoughts on whatever it is i need help in discussing with you, i'm gonna let you know what i'm bringing and why i'm bringing it. i'm not gonna waste energy and effort by hiding my intentions from you. that's not the relationship i want.

you got what you deserved when i went off on you about the key issue. it was minor, so minor in fact that you knew that it was something that could've waited til i got back to even bring up. you knew i didn't need to know that in that minute. and if you didn't, you should have. because we're adults, and adults think things through before they say them. adults are considerate and they don't fuck with each others' heads by throwing them into a panic attack over little minor shit. if you knew that it could wait til i got back to discuss it, then you also had to know that it could wait til i got back to even bring it up. and if you didn't, you should have. because that's the way i treat you. i would never let you walk out the door, whether you're going to work or you're going halfway round the world, never let you walk out the door with a relationship issue hanging over your head -- not an issue about a sex, drugs, or politics, and DEFINITELY not an issue about fucking carkey.

you fucked with my head. whether it was an accident or an intention, that's what you did. and you did it five minutes before i had to leave the country. and you did it knowing that i had been awake for over twenty-four hours straight. and you did it knowing that i'd busted my ass to take care of you, in every way i could. and you did it knowing that i did all that with nothing more than a few weakly, trembly thank-you-honeys coming from you. oh, and the pleasure of watching a stranger break into our car to retrieve the keys you'd locked in there.

if anybody else had fucked with my head with even only ONE of those conditions present, they'd be lucky to live to tell about it. you're lucky i didn't knock your funky little ass halfway into the next county for fuckin with my head over a fuckin car key. i have killed for less than this.

and then you ambush me . . . you sneak shit into session as if you're preparing to do battle and you don't want the enemy to know what you're armed with, or even that you're armed. and you ambush me with it.

and you ask me today if there's anything we need to talk about.

no. not really. i'm just glad we didn't fuck last night. i'd really hate you, if we had've.