So there's this thing I've had my eye on for a while; for the sake of this post, we're going to call it...
…
…
…
Potato Salad.
I really, really, really fucking want this Potato Salad. I want it more than I want my next breath.
Don't ask me why. From what I've seen, there's nothing particularly remarkable about this Potato Salad. It might not even be good - like everyone's had their hand in it, or it's made of old ass, stanky rotten taters and someone decided to dress it up as a salad to pretend it wasn't all stanky, or the flies have been into it. I don't know, I only know it's not my potato salad.
I think one of the problems is that when I first saw this potato salad, I was starving. Like, shipwrecked on an island with only coconuts for a year starving. By the time I got off that island, I might have fallen in love with almost anything that wasn't a fucking coconut - wheatgrass, raisin bran, and this potato salad just so happened to be the first non coconut thing I'd seen in forever, yet I never got a chance to have even a bite of it.
I've had a lot to eat since I got off that island, but that potato salad still haunts me to the point where it's the only thing I want. I dream about filling my mouth up with it, rubbing it lovingly over my naked body, having its potato babies...
And it's just a god damn fucking potato salad.
I don't even like potato salad.
But I want this one. Just this one.
I am so fucking brain damaged.
I stole the following image from....reddit? Instagram? Facebook? No credit. Not mine. Sums up everything I'm feeling right now, though.
That person or thing you've so desperately been clinging to really is the hand of fate at work?
Just, maybe not in the way you'd wanted.
You've been asking for signs.
"If xyz happens, then I'll know it was meant to be..."
"Please universe, just one little thing to show me..."
10 things go horribly wrong, but that one tiny miracle occurs and you run with it.
But the signs were already there.
The universe placed this person or thing directly in your path as a lesson in how to let go.
You don't stand in a burning house, hoping the sprinklers will save you when there's an open door right in front of you. I know you're worried about losing all your photos, your heirlooms, all the memories that made this house feel like a home, but in the end, it's still just a house, and you burning to death with it isn't going to make the water come any faster.
That pain you're feeling is a sign. That desperation in your heart as you look for any teeny, tiny reason to justify staying is a sign. Those prayers that go unanswered are signs. Your inability to move passed any of it because not one single, solid thing has happened to suggest the future will be different is a sign.
But, living out of a sense of pure spite is still an option, so maybe I'll try that for a bit.
Actually, I had a pretty fantastic weekend. I got books. I got tarot. I got a nifty little crystal cicada from one of my dear friends. I'm so predictable. I don't think that's a bad thing.
I've realized today that I'm apparently the world's greatest therapist, and I fucking hate it. Now, disclaimer: I'm just as guilty as anyone else in the world when it comes to bitching about relationship issues - parents, boyfriends, children, co-workers, friends. Half of the fucking shit I write here is just me whining endlessly about the past and done. But my god, dude, I have friends who hit me up every single day to moan about that horrible thing their boyfriend has been doing for the past 3 years. I have other friends who only hit me up when they need to rant about that thing their husband has been doing for 15 years, and then I don't hear from them again for 6 months.
The men, though...the men are the worst. I mean, at least with the women, it's relatable. Shit I've gone through, myself.
"I found his secret stash of barely legal..."
"We never do anything romantic anymore..."
"He forgot my birthday/anniversary/…"
I get that stuff. I do get tired of hearing it over and over and over, but I understand it. I can wrap my head around it. These men, though, they are out of their fucking minds.
"I know I cheated, but she doesn't get to decide to just break up!"
"Just because I missed the birth of our child because I was too hung over to drive her to the hospital, doesn't mean I don't care!"
"Hey Nymphae, I think you're really hot. Here's a compliment. Now, let me ruin it by telling you about the hot 19 year old I'm trying to bang."
Dude, wtf? No, seriously, what in the ever loving shit is wrong with you?
Remember, this is just my way of processing. I'm not crazy, I'm p-r-o-c-e-s-s-i-n-g! Get it? Got it? Good.
Firstly, lemme process ya this cute alarm clock I've had now for almost 20 years, just to make things nice and easy. We'll jump off the deep end in just a tek.
Ready!
Set!
GO!
It's pink! It's a piano! And most of all, It's Hello Kitty!
The CD player isn't working. I don't know if that's just because it's old, or because all my CDs are jacked up (seriously, all CD-R, all left in my hot ass car for approx. 84 years, manhandled, etc). BUT, the alarm works. The radio works. I can pick up all the local country and gospel stations I totally do not care about at all. Huzzah, mofos.
I don't know where I'm gonna put it, but here it is.
So, now that I've discussed something happy and light and fluffy, please allow me to crush it with something dark and icky and blargh.
A conversation I had today got me thinking about some thaaangs, like how I've (until recently) always thought of myself as an introvert, but the more I've branched out, the more I've realized that I am....probably still an introvert, but not nearly as much of one as I thought.
I'm not sure how I always found myself in such fucked up situations, but I guess that's not unusual when you come from a fucked up background. Fucked up is familiar, it's safe, it's expected and known. So I don't know, maybe we're just drawn to those people and things that feel like home to us.
Anywhom, I was having a conversation today that just reminded me of the reasons I hid from the world in the first place. Things I still struggle with right now like:
"Believe me, you wouldn't wanna go anyway. It's boring." - in response to me wanting to tag along to something like a rave or concert
"You don't wanna hang out with them, anyway." - in response to me wanting to meet people they seemed to be hanging out with pretty regularly
"Only trashy people talk about their dirty laundry, I can't believe you'd do this to us! YOU are making me look bad!" - in response to talking to people about getting hit or cheated on or, you know, something else that was totally your fault because you should have known.
Then there's like a billion other things that contribute to your reclusive state, like how you're a big, fat, boring, ugly nobody and how can anyone possibly want to even be in the same room with you? You're a burden to the people you love when they could be out living their best lives, if only you hadn't come along and fucked that all up. You're the reason they act like they do. You're responsible for everything, or you would be if anything had ever happened, which it didn't. Oh, I know you have screenshots, but that doesn't prove anything except what a psycho you are!
And you know what? It's all fucking bullshit.
Let me fucking tell you how shocked, SHOCKED, I was when I realized oh holy fuck! People like me? Even though I'm boring and ugly and stupid and ugly?
But it gets even crazier than that. There are some people who think I'm kinda cool. There are some people who think I'm kinda funny. There are some people who think I'm kinda hot. Insane, I know! I didn't believe it either, at first, not when it was so easy for an ex to go try to mack on some 14 year old or cry about how badly I'd ruined his life.
I guess that's when it slowly hit me, that I'd been living my life based on the shitty, stupid opinions of just a handful of shitty, stupid people. Like how I spent years not singing aloud because I have a horrible parent who openly mocked me in front of all our neighbors during a party. Nobody laughed at that shitty parent of mine (and looking back, I'm sure they were actually horrified...I would be), but I've been careful not to even hum in from others ever since, and that was almost 30 years ago. That's not me being shy or introverted, that's just terrible parenting.
People like me. Whoa. I got fucking COMPLIMENTED for belting out Oh Suzannah in the most hokey ass, dramatic way possible when I decided to just stop giving a fuck.
Wild, right?
Fuck the dickbags of the world who want to shut you down and shut you up. Chances are, you are a brilliant fucking light and they can't stand the fact that you outshine them in every way.
Let me start by showing off the super cute squishy my guy got for me.
It's Shock, from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Isn't she fucking PRECIOUS?!?
So, so squishy. Remind me to show off my other squishies later.
I wanted the others, because they had squishy versions of Lock and Barrel as well, but alas; I am but poor white trash and had to settle for one. They also had a squishy Sally, but the trio really did me in.
You know what this means, though? Somewhere out there, a squishy version of Jack Skellington is floating around. What a cruel world.
Anywhom, this is the first and only Halloweenish thing I've done for the entire month of October. I know, I'm fucking shocked, too. I've been terribly down in the dumps about lately. I've got a shit-ton of catching up to do and I'm not quite sure where to start. It's giving me brain spazz.
So tonight, I did what I do. I asked Tarot about one of these things.
This is what I got.
Top is Chariot, which to me didn't answer a damn thing. Or maybe it does, and I'm just not seeing it.
The Chariot is a representative of the number 7 (spirit, creation, deeper meaning, etc) and the astrological sign Cancer (sanctuary, maternal and self care, emotion). The Chariot itself is confident and victorious, determined, blah blah blah. These are all good things, but do you see that Knight of Swords down there? Do you see Death? These aren't bad cards, but with that Chariot, I'm wondering if maybe I'm chasing something a bit too strongly without a mind for the consequences. Maybe this is symbolic of me letting go.
And then there's the Empress. She embodies and may even intensify the strengths of the Chariot, sooooo...I don't know.
I've never been good at reading for myself, though. I'm biased, and this creates a conflict of interest where I don't get to interpret the cards with the first thoughts that come to mind. I'm looking at those acolytes at the foot of the chariot and thinking, "yeah, okay, this is a surrender to fate." Because I'm dramatic like that.
Stupid brain.
In other news, I've decide to memorize the Rune Chant part of In Maidjan the same way we grew up singing our ABCs. I've been trying to remember the Elder Futhark in other ways but I've been at it for years and I'm still less than halfway through it. Also, I just dug through my bag to find them and they're not where I thought I put them.
This was supposed to be a Halloween post. See what I mean about my brain being a spazz?
Okay, that might be a little harsh. Can we call it an acquired taste? It's like the first time I lit up a cigarette when I was 12 or 13 and hated that fucking shit, but because I was a dipshit donkey I keep doing it. It made me look cool and grown up or something stupid like that.
To be honest, I still kinda think I look cool when I smoke, like some slick ass Hollywood bitch from the 40s, all glamorous and lazy with no fucks given about what anyone thinks. Fuck your standards, and all that.
The reality is probably much less pretty. Not that I smoke any more, but when I did, I was never wrapped in silks and satins with powder white skin and perfectly crafted curls. No, I was sitting on a stair with my hair tossed into a lazy bun - frazzled, jittery, broke as shit, probably pissed off about whatever dumb thing had driven me outside. Most likely a dude.
Dudes are an acquired taste. If I was ever in long term relationships with women I'd probably say the same thing about them, so don't get your panties in a wad there, fella.
I'm not complaining, not really. If I were a more functional, competent, and well adjusted human being, I bet none of this would even be an issue. It'd be like lighting up that smoke when you're hanging out and having fun, and then putting the pack away for the next 6 months and forgetting it even exists. Because balance or some shit.
But no sir, not me. When I'm in, I'm in it 1,000%. Ride or die. I'm chain smoking not only the pack, but the whole fucking carton, lungs be damned.
And since I'm not a well adjusted, functional adult, I act the same way in my relationships. I was the cool chick girlfriend who was understanding that guys had neeeeeeeeeeeds, ya know? Blue balls are like, totally a thing! He needs to leave me at home with the baby alone all weekend because he's gonna be really resentful if he doesn't get to be plastered with his brofusses until the sun rises. Consider it therapy because he had to change a diaper a week ago. It's not his fault I got pregnant. If he cheated, it was definitely my fault because I always knew how much he liked naked women art. If he hit me, it was my fault because I definitely should not have been upset about him forgetting my birthday or an anniversary or because he spent my entire paycheck on some very important stuff like meth.
But I digress. I was bitching about the acquired taste part. See, I didn't grow up with the ambitious desire to cry myself to sleep every night. When I was younger, I'd dump a boyfriend I'd had two days (I was like 13, don't even give me shit) if he didn't meet me by my locker exactly when he said he would. I'd dump a boy who expected me to stop hanging out with my friends to hold his hand in the courtyard and listen to him whine for 3 hours about how sad he was. We all go through it, buddy. Do something about it.
Acquired taste. I didn't always need to get my validation from others. I wouldn't say I was always confident in myself or my decisions, but I knew what I liked and what I didn't. I didn't tolerate excessive amounts of shit. Again, with the smoking comparison, it's like that first time you inhale and end up hacking up a lung, and everyone around you tells you not to worry. You'll get used to it.
So, you do. My goal in life never included getting my ass kicked by my drunk boyfriend, so I was constantly checking to make sure I was doing it right. Is it supposed to hurt? Yeah? Okay, just making sure!
Acquired taste. More like a fucking eating disorder.
TL;DR I love these fucking bugs and these are all the reasons why.
I'm including backstory, but it's hidden in case you don't want the sob story.
March 2011. Brood XIX Emerges.
I'd just left an abuse relationship. Well, kinda left. Long(er) story so we'll save that on for later, shall we? I'd been living with my best friend, but that also fell apart very quickly. Things were so bad, I'd been forced to send my oldest two children to live with their grandparents for safekeeping since the DV shelter I was attempted to get a room in didn't have room for all of us. They ended up not having room for me and the younger two, anyway, and were actively attempting to send me to another shelter in a state I didn't even live in. One day, I decided I couldn't wait any longer. I packed what little I could cram into my Dodge Caravan - a handful of clothing, my rabbits, a computer, a few odds and ends - and left every single thing I owned behind. I slept in my van, or sometimes on my dad's couch. I let my ex keep our younger children until I got my youngest one back with head injuries, where he'd been leaving my baby with a horrible crackass woman he was (maybe successfully?) trying to bang. My baby stayed with me after that, even though he didn't have a bed or anything. He preferred being homeless with his mama. I felt like fucking shit for failing him and the others so hard. I should have removed myself from that situation years ago, I shouldn't have allowed it to go on as long as I did, because I'd thoroughly fucked myself over with wishful thinking and Disney happy endings. I was suicidal, and literally the only thing keeping me from hurling myself into traffic was the thought of sending my sweet four year old back to live with a bunch of drunk, methed out, wife-swapping assholes who'd abuse him again. And that was the year The Great Southern Brood emerged. I don't have any pictures or anything to share. The second hand phone I'd been given was a prepaid thing I rarely had money to blow on, so any pictures/video I'd taken in those days is long gone, but I remember. They caught me by surprise, at first. I knew they were cicadas, but they looked funny. Skinny, long (heh heh), and they had these intense red eyes that were honestly kind of creepy at first. We woke up one day to about a dozen of them, and by the end of the week there had to be thousands. And they just kept coming. What sounded at first like the low drone of heavy machinery in the far distance soon became a steady, strong and constant hum of what had to be millions of individuals in the treetops of my dad's neighborhood. I romanticize it a bit, but I kinda understand why some people see them as a nuisance. There wasn't a day that went by where you weren't picking 10 of them out of your hair, or have one slam itself into your face full speed like a clumsy little brick with wings. I've been through a lot since then. I used to think of that time period as my rebirth, but I don't anymore. It's more like, these last 10ish years have offered me a very slow period of awakening - a lot of growth, a lot of learning, a lot of setbacks, but also a shit ton of self awareness that I did not have back then - and by the time Brood XIX returns in 2024, I'll finally be ready to emerge with them.
If you know me, you know I am OBSESSED with cicadas in all their forms, but especially Magicicada, particularly the 13 year variety. 13 happens to be a very appropriate number for them, too, as the 13th Major Arcana in most tarot decks happens to be Death.
Dude, hang tight, I promise you I'm going somewhere with this, just gimme a second, okay?
This card also happens to be associated with Scorpio and Pluto. I'm a scorpio, so I'm taking this shit and running with it.
Okay, see, (XIII) Death isn't just about death. This is transition and rebirth. These are our great milestones in life, the periods of change that come as we exit childhood to become adults, become parents for the first time, get married or divorced, graduate, whatever. These are the moments when you can never go back to the way things were before.
And for some reason, we like to associate those moments with butterflies.
I mean, I get it, Really, I do. Fat chubby caterpillar enters its metamorphosis phase and exits as a whole new, beautiful creature. That's pretty fucking symbolic.
Except, I was NEVER a butterfly gal. I can't relate. Happily engorging myself on tasty things, weaving a magical chrysalis of wonder and joy, peacefully napping as a deconstructed puddle of goo until the
I told you, it's an obsession
marvelous day I emerge with brightly colored wings and spindly legs and a long, pokey mouth thing for sucking on flowers. Must be nice.
No. I relate more to the dark and brooding Magicicada, who spend years in the dark underground, where the light is hidden from them. When they do eventually emerge, they do so at night, tunneling their way up up up. Up. Up. Up.
And it doesn't end there. Once they're out, they have to keep going, searching for some place high enough where they might be safe from most predators. They don't get to build a pretty little cocoon to hide away in and wait for the change to come. No snoozefest or cozy naptime; they have only hours to drag themselves through the earth, find a place to attach themselves with their bare legs, crack their way out of their own filthy skin, and....
I TOLD YOU
...and it's not like they come out of this unrecognizable. They're not a whole new creature, completely unrelated except in DNA to the thing they once were. They remain very much the same. A little bit bigger, maybe, a little less dirty, and they now have wings and can sing.
I imagine, when my change comes, it'll be very much the same. Shedding old, dirty skin that no longer fits. Enjoying the view from the top. Singing my own praises.
I don't like one of my friends today because he's an asshole. He's always an asshole, but today he's especially an asshole because he made me cry. I'm not telling him he made me cry, though, because I think he secretly enjoys it, being an asshole and all. The list of reasons I have for maintaining this friendship grows shorter every single day. At this point, I feel like I'm basically just his emotional support donkey - He dumps his emotional baggage across my back haphazardly, and I am allowed the privilege of hauling it around for him, across some wasteland shithole that never ends because it's shaped like a hamster wheel.
So, here's a list of the things I'm too nice to say out loud.
Dude, you're a:
Donkey Slut
Bag of Farts
Public Masticator
Feedbag of Fucks
Nuclear Douchenozzle
Anally Inept Shitgibbon
Ladyboner Serial Killer
Half Chub Scrub
Oh, you want details? Well, let me see:
I think you once imagined yourself to be a bit of a donkey tamer. Maybe you once fantasized about whipping your team of Emotional Support Donkeys into a protective frenzy by pretending to be of any use. You're no Knight in Shining Armor, friend. You haven't saved anyone; in fact, you've run them all off. I'm the last donkey standing, and your days with me are numbered.
Literally hot, stinky air. You talk out of your ass. That is all.
You seem to cause mayhem and havoc wherever you go, like one of those machines that turns giant trees into mulch in seconds flat. It's always someone else's fault, though, never the fault of the guy who happens to be the epicenter of drama every single time the shit goes down.
Not the good kind of fucks. You fancy yourself a smooth talker, and I suppose you can be, at times, but mostly you are filler. You give just enough to make people think there's something more wholesome and sustaining there, but before long they're scraping the bottom.
Your dating record speaks for itself.
It'd be one thing if you had some kind of control over your brain sphincter and could keep the flow of verbal diarrhea down to a steady trickle, but no sir, not you. No no, 'tis a river, more grand and volatile than the mighty Mississippi, and you sure like splashing around in it.
See all of the above? Yeah, that shit might fly when your girlfriend is 19 with self esteem issues and stars in her eyes, convinced by romance novels that her love is strong enough to fix the stupid shit that is wrong with you. The rest of us see you as a walking, talking box of red flags.
Walking around half cocked at all times.
That's enough. I got it out of my system and I feel better, now.
I've already sorta covered this in my previous post, Sunk Cost Fallacy, but that was way more empowered and badass than I'm currently feeling so this time, I'm here to bitch and moan.
Have you ever tried to forgive someone, only for it to blow up in your face?
Like, maybe you caught your best friend stealing from you to support their pill habit, and the only thing you ask is that she buy back Grandma's precious family heirloom she pawned. She think this is just too much, though - FORGIVENESS IS UNCONDITIONAL! HOW DARE YOU REMIND HER OF THE HORRIBLE THING SHE DID! She was high, she was out of her mind, it's so unfair of you to expect her to fix the wrong she committed.
Or maybe you found your husband's secret gay hook-up profile. He blamed it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol and begs for forgiveness, but you ask that he stop drinking to prove he's seriously committed to making this right. Naturally, he's the real victim here. HOW DARE YOU ASK HIM TO GIVE UP THE ONE SINGLE JOY HE HAS! HE SAID HE WAS SORRY, DAMMIT! NOTHING HE DOES IS EVER GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU! You're making him look bad.
Maybe your coworker threw you under the bus. Maybe your friend group is talking shit behind your back. Maybe your cousin borrowed money for an overdue light bill and immediately went on vacation.
Honestly, this really is your fault. Not to say that anything you did caused it, these people are indeed assholes, but you stuck around anyway. You're a pushover, an enabler, a people pleaser who shuns confrontation, and assholes like attaching themselves to people like you, because you're easy to exploit.
Be honest with yourself. That best friend who pawned grandma's precious heirloom - this isn't the first time she's done something like this, is it? How many times has something gone missing when she's been at your house? How many times has she borrowed something and conveniently forgotten to bring it back for 2 years, until eventually she admits that she must have "lost it"? And what about your husband? How many lies have you caught him in? How many people have sent you screenshots of conversations he tried to drunkenly instigate? How many people have asked for favors, money or babysitting or rides or anything else, that they've never bothered to return?
And you let them. You have no value for your own boundaries or being, why would anyone else?
Don't expect anyone to change for you. This is something you have to do for yourself - that, or accept the fact that these people will continue to exploit you as long as you allow them to do so.
Empty promises won't fill that void. Stay whole and let them choke.
I guess it's a little cheesy. I never finish these.
…
Softly treading footfalls speak
upon the witching hour
Angry floorboards groan and squeak
against his drunken cower
Curled within an raging ball
of peaceful, sleeping hate
failed ambush, to spiteful sprawl
impatiently, she waits
And even though she knows he knows
the war that's soon to come
A minute more, and they'll be foes
But at least for now, he's home
He stops and leans against the door
And waits for her to stir
…
That's it. My 15 minutes are up.
The fight is the principle. I guess in my own fucked up way, this is proof of love. He's home, he's alive, he's in one piece after whatever dumb thing he was out doing, and even though you know you're gonna have to rage, there's a moment of calm when everything is just okay.
Someone threatened to read my blog a bit ago, so I had to make a mad dash for Deletesville because I couldn't remember what kind of horribly embarassing shit I'd probably written here.
So here I am, working on all new embarrassing shit to share with all of the ghosts who haunt my blog.
Let me start off by saying I really, really, really hate covid. Don't we all? Yeah okay, but I've found out that I have a handful of really jackassy friends who don't mind spreading it to other people because they had it and it wasn't that bad. All those dead people are probably just faking it. /eyeroll
I also found out that the kind of jackassy dudes who get all butthurt about you refusing to play temporary fuckdoll (R.I.P. inbox) get extra super pissy when you tell them no because you don't want covid on top of the many STDs they're probably incubating. Dammit, woman, I just wanna fuck! Who gave you the right to reject me?!? Jeez. Go punch a fucking a hole in the wall and put your dick in it, studmuffin.
What else? Hmmm. Oh, okay, here's an interesting thing I've learned. People who enjoy gossiping will actually get irrationally angry when you, the object of their cattiness, make them look like a liar. It wasn't the fact that they were lying, oh no sir, it was just very rude of you to expose it by correcting the misconception.
For real, though, I thought most of us got over that bidness waaaay back in middle school.
I also learned that there is a cooking channel for men on YouTube, featuring an incredibly scantily clad woman who fingers raw chicken. Ladies, if your man suddenly becomes very passionately interested in some very ordinary chicken and rice, well...
looks dry
I'm sure there are 1,000 other things I'm forgetting right now, but it is 2:22am and I'm kinda done sooooo, see ya.
