About that.....

I've been thinking about the weight of my last post since I made it all those years ago. I've thought about the hate in it, and the simple cut offs that happened between people who used to mean something to one another. People don't end like that and there are reconnections, old feelings that are embers smoking under the surface. I know that's corny, but it's the only image I have because it's the only one that fits for me. I miss this blog and my band of friends who were my only readers. I miss feeling funny and navigating adulthood as a naive girl growing into a woman.

I have lost touch with a lot of people to my right.
Todd and I don't speak. And he doesn't speak with Jaccob, or any of the other guys to the right.
Alura and him divorced.
Kyle and I continue to intermittently talk. We piss each other off and then reconnect as if we didn't wish the other died.
Jaccob and I are still together and engaged.

I quit Target shortly after that last post. Had a string of dead-end jobs and now I work in storage.
If I had kept up this blog and wrote about my two-year stint when I worked at Super 8, this blog would have become viral. I have so many stories of police, drugs, sex, etc.... A missed opportunity.

One more semester in college and I will graduate after eight years of trying.

River is still my little truffle pig. We have traveled to Colorado with her via car, and Panama City Beach, FL via car. (She didn't like the ocean.) She's now nearly six-years-old. She's curled in the nape of my leg, snoring.

That last post had so much sadness and deadends. Life isn't that way. I have come to see that. I learned that through the endless amount of medication doctors prescribed me before, I found out that I wasn't bipolar, I was just anxious. I had too many feelings, and like a child, I couldn't translate them well. After years of therapy, I'm a little hippie. I listen to people. I don't say to people to wait for their kids to die. I want people to live. I actually write about poverty and its effect on masculinity, femininity, and gender. I want to learn about intersectionalities, and what makes a person's decision. If we are quiet and listen, we learn from people. I think the Dali Lama said that or something. I wish I could have done that then. I hardly remember those first couple years after my father passed away. I just remember this secondary emotion: anger. I just could never figure out what the first one had been. I think sometimes it was jealousy that my friends were just normal. They didn't have any afflictions and they could sleep and they could go to parties and enjoy themselves. And sometimes, it was my sadness.

It's funny, I still hear my dad sing along to our favorite songs, but I also hear his screams if I make a mistake. The dead are with us in memory, the good and bad.

I'm nearly 30-years-old. When I made that post I was in my early 20s and still navigating what adulthood meant.

The take away from all this is that I hope you all can look in your past and learn from all the hate you've had and wonder where it came from. Mine came from confusion. And I don't ever want to feel that hate again. That anger. I want acceptance.

Last Post In My Adulthood

See, since my father passed away, died, kicked the fucking bucket, bought that goddamn farm I've had radical changes. Wait, I shouldn't say that in past final tense. I'm still finding out what's wrong with me, who my friends are. I'm not meaning this in some fucking friendly fire to get attention like those mindless ginnies on facebook. I actually mean adult friends who won't ask questions and will stay with you until your mind goes. No, all my friends abandoned me when my moods started to swing like that pendulum in Edgar Allen Poe's tale.

I am not depressed.
I am not a spoiled bitch who wants attention.
I actually am bipolar.

This means that I cannot control my emotions. Sometimes I get so bad that I have to call people so I won't hurt myself or others. It's a nice little perk of knowing me.

Jaccob, Fallon, Becky, Marina, and my family have stayed, but the others... Who's to blame them? Who wants to constantly get called off or spoken down to. I cannot control myself in my fits of rage.

When my father died I had a belated reaction. Took me four months before I began to cry, on hands and knees, that he was dead. People don't get over death, they sort of keep it in the pocket of their goddamn hearts -- coping. Coping does not mean that they're over it and butterflies land on some fucking noses. Coping means you learn to live without the person.

To help understand.
I can miss my mother and sister. I can miss my father. But the difference is I can see only two out of the three. I will never be able to cure the missing with my father. He's gone. Utterly and completely deleted from this world. One of those files that fry with your hard drive. I can no longer ask, "Hey, daddy-o, remember that one song that I liked in the car that one time we went to get breakfast.... I can't remember past this one lyric....?" Nah, so many unanswered questions. It'll have to stay like that too. That's what people don't understand.

You know, when I started feeling the grief I couldn't sleep. Hell, I couldn't sleep since we left the hospital. I would sleep in two hour intervals, if that, and hope my family (who were greiving) didn't see my black eyes. It wasn't until I moved in with the fucking love of my life, Jaccob, could I sleep. Something about sleeping beside another breathing human you love helped me.

But he didn't understand at first. No one fucking did so I give a huge berth of understanding. Hell, this is funny, so pay attention. Jaccob knew I couldn't sleep without him -- we fought on the weekends he wanted to be out at 3AM. One particular night Todd (you guys see that fucking face to your right? Yeah, him) hosted a guy night. Jaccob promised me home by a decent hour since fuckface lived five minutes away. Well, to sleep, because I had to work the next morning, I had to stone myself into a goddamn stupor. Crawl to the bed, and leave my mind to force my body to shut down.

He didn't return home until fucking 2AM, because Todd's wife, Alura (referred to as cuntface now) decided to get "accidentally" drunk at a house party (with people she didn't know) at 31-years-old... Two kids sleeping soundly in their beds under the ages of ten. Hell, this is funny, isn't it? Because Jaccob and Eric decided they didn't want to stay and watch two sleeping children. Naw, they picked up Cuntface's ass and left me be. When I turned over and he walked in the door I freaked out. I thought he had been home in my stoned stupor. I got pissed, needless to say.

I stopped talking to Fuckface and Cuntface, just to calm down. I was trying to get over it because I didn't want people to change their lives for me, I just wanted people to understand.

So, in the midst of my anger, this happened between Cuntface and I:

Nothing changed, that's what we said to each other. Target told me I still had to respect her as my superior, even her husband who agreed with everything she said.

You know what's even funnier about those two? SHE CHEATED ON HIS ASS. Because he wasn't manly enough, she was bored, she wanted to ruin her life, I don't know, I don't care. Todd was told he had until August to be a better man. He's going to try for her. Although she cheated.

Know what's funny about cheating assholes? The ones you loved since high school and always fucked with your head. That's Kyle fucking Grimes. I loved him. He always told me he'd wait for me. That didn't happen. He took whatever threw itself at him, no matter how nasty. The night I told him about my father was the night he changed the subject about his friend that may be going to jail. We tried talking again, but we was making fun of me for having love for my boyfriend, how I cried after sex because I was utterly happy. One time, not too long ago, Jaccob and I came at the same time. Exactly. To the very second. How many movie moments do most couples have? So Kyle can go to Hell, just like the other two shitfaces on here who said they were my friends.

Fuck everyone.
I hope to never see you again.
I hope everyone moves the fuck away and leaves me the hell alone.

Fuck you.

Fucking Body Image Part 2

I got to thinking for months that I think it's wrong to post how women should love themselves, and want to it better for health, not a skinny body (that's not permanent). So, I'm posting my own story:

I remember looking in a mirror, staring at my naked body. I felt the curves of my waist, the rolls of fat jiggly there in my grip. I watched my stomach move and asked myself, "Who would find me attractive?" I have stretchmarks, and bags under my eyes, and rough feet, and no boobs? There was never any intention of it being answered; it was a completely rhetorical question. There cannot be an answer, unless you want one.

I put my arms down at my sides, and tilted one foot, to look at my ass in the mirror. It was red from my skin tone. Red bumps that women get, fat rolls where the indention of my bra remained, and two thighs with no air between them. I sighed, asking myself, again, "Who would find me attractive?"

Then the question didn't seem less answerable.

I remember smiling. Some smile you would give in polite conversation when you quite didn't hear the joke all the way. "Me," I whispered, smiling at my reflection who gave me the same smile back.

I remembered when I was a little girl. Below fourth grade, I thought I was pretty. No one had called me ugly yet, except the ones flirting and all. Somehow in the midst of my childhood, the times were changing outside my little world. Then they started to invade my classmates before it reached me. They were all about body image and what guys might find attractive. Even in fourth grade I was seeing girls trying to make themselves look like The Spice Girls, or something. All that make-up and sex appeal starring a shred of cloth stretched up on breast, waist, and ass.

Boys from then on teased me about my short, stubby fingers; about my chubby stomach (that was only matured with me through adulthood); and about how I ate too much at lunch. I tried to change who I was. One time, in my Junior year of high school, I wanted to impress a boy. I knew he only liked skinny "chicks." So, before the school bus would arrive around 6:30AM, I would wake at 4:30AM to run and try and be skinny so he would like me. I did try. Really hard. He just never saw me as anything. He's married now, growing kids somewhere in the states.

I let them tell me if I was attractive or not. I had always thought I had been, looking back. Despite the false livlihood of my classmates and peers, I always wondered WHY I wasn't pretty. I had everything I felt attractive in. Even I embraced my stretch marks, never having lost my virginity until my early-twenties because of the fright I would be even more horrosome.

Ladies and gentlemen, I will put something very personal, so let's supress our giggles and laughter. When I masturbated, I even loved the feel of my own body squirming, sweating, just moving in those special ways. The special ways I never felt with someone else until I lost my virginity. Instead of feeling the scalded opinions of pop culture, I felt attractive in bed. I always wanted to know why another human being couldn't find what I found in my own body. I was ashamed to feel anything uplifting about my appearance, humliated to never be esteemed enough to wear a skirt or a dress, or even a shirt that slightly gave a hint of fat. God forbid.

I faced the mirror again and thought of how my body must seem to my boyfriend. Took me a good month to take off my shirt during sex. And two months before I gave him head (afraid I would awful at that as well). Even after I gave oral, I still had a hard time being on top. He took this with immense patience. I adore him for it. With me afraid of even dressing in front of him long after we began having sex. All the times I hid away and he would ask why, I would just joke it off. But, to really hone in on all the little details, I never noticed him NOT being attracted. He was always hard, even if I walked in the room naked. He loved touching me, not caring about the rolls or the stretchmarks. He even made me feel as sexy as when I touched myself.

Now, I do chores naked in front of him. Let him do what he pleases without apprehension. I try moves I saw in a porn once and wanted to try. And knowing he never cared about those imperfections I saw in the mirror, helped me realize that I shouldn't have either. He is of a different string of male, meant for a distant planet and not here, on earth. A few are stranded here and what a rare treasure they are. My epiphany comes from him: never be ashamed to love your body. I don't care if it's falling apart, growing, flaking, smoking, or combusting, you should already have a predetermined view of yourself and don't allow for the invasion to begin; I hear it's really hard to recover from.

Father's Day

No, this isn't a post about my father, may he rest in peace, but it's about what modern society is doing to itself.

Out of all the Father's Days I have celebrated, I used to buy my father so much shit. So much of it that it becomes worthless after awhile, half the stuff people have to remind me I bought it for him. Everything does, if you think about it, in some prophetic way. I just want to say that I regret buying anything, despite being a person who loves homemade gifts and just spending time with friends on my day of any kind.

I see all the cards.
I see all the ADs being prepped for the last week before Father's Day. See, I prep the next week's AD at Target and its theme is Father's Day. Hell, we even have graphics everywhere there can possibly be about "buying this for your father, make it worth his while!"
Honestly, it kind of makes me sick.
In my new found maturity of how to perceive things better than when I was a spoiled cunt, I see that I shouldn't have bought him anything, but probably his and mine's fishing licenses. He tried for years to get me to fish with him. He tried for months before his death to have a father-daughter day (like we did when we were kids). He tried so hard for me to go learn about cars (that I now see he was preparing me for the hardness of life after he wasn't there to be overprotective). My father was a very intimidating man. And he never had the best attitude. And, you know what, despite the typical teenage angst, despite our fights (are very serious, hard fights), and our special way of hardly talking so we wouldn't argue, I regret not having more fights, more disagreements, and more complaints working on my car -- to learn about it for future's sake.

As a human, we don't typically believe the future will ever reach us. Hell, I never thought I'd live to be 23-years-old, and I can't believe I'll ever see fifty. I never believed, either, that my dad would be dead at 42-years-old, at 2:25PM in a really nice afternoon of cool November weather.

It makes me sad all these people rushing to get to stores and show their love through their gifts that were on sale, because that's what "the man" makes you believe he wants.

I say, what he really wants, because if your dad truly loves you, he'd be happy teaching you something, fishing, driving, playing a game he likes for you to join him. Parents love their children. Hell, I love my sister. We are two different people, probably wouldn't be close friends if we weren't family, but if I get to do anything with her I'm happy. I'm happy because I love her and it makes her happy. I HATE watching movies through their entire playing time. And I do it, for her. I watch them because it makes us happy to do it together.

That's the message I'm trying to get across.

Do something with your parents, on any of their days, that they're interested in. Let yourself see the gleam in their eyes from talking about it, showing it. Let a smile they don't realize they're giving make you smile. Even if you hate it, find it the most boring thing in the world, let them show you their love for it, how it calms them down. Learn about your parents. They were kids once. They had hopes, and they, too, did the same thing with their parents.

I wish I hadn't been such a fucking cunt-face toward the end when my dad was trying to mend our relationship. I regret that the most and it makes me angry how selfish I was.

Please, ask them what they want to do with you. Anything they want, just like they ask you when you're sick, having a bad day, your birthday, or just to spend time with you.