M.’s toe is not broken, just badly bruised.
But, fucking “OW.” It still looks mighty painful.
Behold what the evil of petty burglary has wrought.
Perversity redux
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Monthly Archives: December 2006
Living perversely
Cursed. That’s what it amounts to — or without the awkward preposition dangling, and a different kind of awkard — Cursed is that to which it amounts.
Yeah, I fucked my own karma and M.’s too.
My thought at the eve of the new year whilst showering this morning was, “Huh, the suck part of an uneventful, rather contented life is no fucking good stories.” With the large amount of shithead guys of the past, I was guaranteed an awesomely tragic New Year’s Eve. Tears, for sure, maybe some yelling, perhaps an unanswered phone call or 386, woe, misery and the sense of shattered expectation and bad choices.
Ah, the good old days. Days of drama. Days of sturm und drag, sound and fury, rage and tears.
Good stories.
Now, I thought, what have I got. Peace with no narrative.
Until, the curse. Going out to the car and finding the glove comparment mysteriously open. Weird. Until M. looks up to the hole slashed into the convertible’s rag top, and sunlight filtering in where it ain’t meant to be. Fuck me.
The GPS device, not covered by insurance, has gone the way of the buffalo, or more apropos the way of the scumbag youth, likely. Unfortunately, not an endangered species.
The car, and it’s attached but now sliced in a few places roof, is covered by insurance. But, not until after the fucking $500 deductible.
Now, and here’s where my cursing M. comes in, we’re at the HMO HQ. Looks like he’ll be getting the last X-Ray of 2006.
Seems kicking a box in impotent rage and frustration over the aforementioned burglary was a poor decision for the big toe of M.
Results and news of anything beyond bruising to be told.
Merry fucking New Year.
Rest
Today is the day I declare the official day of holiday and rest.
I don’t have to do fucking anything. I don’t have to meet anyone, I don’t have to get or receive presents (what kind of bitch complains about the work involved in receiving gifts?), no planes, no rental cars, no malls, no nothing. Nothing.
I can just sit here in San Jose, where I have returned, and do fuck all.
I’m so basking in the joy of nothing, that I ain’t even going to write up all of my waxing and waning emotions and holiday falderol musings about X-Mas in New England. That, is going to wait.
Invientory, I guess that's what you might call it
Culturally, you gotta figure holidays and shit were invented to make you take a look at where your life might be. Mine might be fucked, who knows.
I really can’t complain. But, shit, I keep a weblog so complain I must.
My major holiday giggle is kind of two-fold. One is, I hang out with M., no fucking surprise, because I like hanging out with him. He’s interesting, he’s kind of the antidote to misery, he’s funny, and there’s a whole lot of shit I take for granted that he just doesn’t. Rock on, right, you gotta figure I got a bit of a lottery hit with that dude.
But, then you see him through other eyes. I’m thinking there’s one person in the fam who’s basically on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Any mention of his differentlly complected country of origin kind of prompts an “oh, that’s awful.”
Um, what? We all know he’s Asian, and he’s cool with that. In fact, um, it’s natural. And, by sheer volume his cultural brothers could kick our asses. So, yeah, it’s not racist to bring it up. (OK, some of the shit I say is racist, but not all of it.)
i love, though, that he likes lights. Christmas lights. (He’s not like a retard or autistic, drawn to any light.)
But, it’s awesomely ironic and great to figure that he hasn’t much use for a Buddhist-y//Tao-ist/ancestor-y shrine, and I’m gape mouthed at the 6-foot joss stick and infinite supply of oranges. While he has this, and he’s cool with it:
Anti-Semite X-mas
Christmas is watching your nephew’s bootleg copy of “Borat” and returning the phone call from Asia wishing the best of the day.
As a side note, some people just suck at telling stories.
Safety first
All week long there’s been a constant flow of “happy holidays,” “seasons greetings” and “happy new year.” Not a lot of “Merrys” in the realm of multi-culti, saving the world shit.
But, weird to me in the PC world of greetings was the twist on a pile of the emails. They all ended something like have a “Happy and Safe Holiday.”
Um, what the fuck? Safety is nice and all, but it ain’t a real joyful sentiment. You know, like is it safe like don’t get knocked up? That kind of puts a damper on the romance. Or, is it more like don’t get smeared on the pavement after sucking down some wassail?
Happy and safe. And, don’t do drugs.
Oh shit, and another thing
The beauty of the out of the blue email from the depths of sorry hell is it answers a structural question rattling in my brain pan.
To do something with the Pat book idea, I’ve been chewing on a story arc. To keep it all light and humor like, I’m thinking a thread, and workable arc could begin with the now classic episode of my life’s fuckedupedness — The house fire the week I first ever tried standup. Cuz, you know, nothing says funny haha comedy like, mom’s survived a fire, and I got a microphone.
The ending of that arc, could logically then be the ending of the real fucking arc, Pat’s and my relationship ending on this here mortal coil and all.
That’s cool, but I wanted more. The end that is the beginning, the point, the universal theme. You know, the smart shit, the pretension that makes a book an objet d’arte.
So, check it, my pretentious life’s lesson, story arc ending. The last fucking gift Pat handed to me on a silver tray of dripping irony.
Her death was the catalyst for the kiss off to the bad, bad man. The man who she suspected never treated me right, who she never liked, sight unseen, because he was too chickenshit to meet her.
If she hadn’t died, I may never had the scales drop from my eyes and, who knows, I may even have maintained some kind of fucked up, hobbled friendship with someone who isn’t capable of actual friendship.
So, the story will end with how I have continued on in a way, I think and at last, where she may actually have been happy and proud of me. Pat wasn’t Jesus, and lord knows, though swell at playing the martyr, she wasn’t a saint. But through her death, I was reborn.
Or some shit like that. It’ll be a comedy book, I swear.
Tis the season to look back or the black heart of nostalgia
I pretty much dig the whole X-Mas card deal and the reacquainting, reconnecting, revisiting, blah, happy joy shit. I mean I know I hate people and all, because really, what’s not to hate? But, on the cold, dark and short nights, I get a little bit fuzzy, a little bit warm. The hating softens to pastel gels and wavy flashbacks and flattering light. Sunshine and puppy flavored rainbows.
Getting some good feedback on this year’s card. Throughout having this website, I’ve realized you never fucking know who might stumble out of the past. At least one old boyfriend, a couple of roommates, old friends, recent friends, real-live relations and, as it turns out, elementary school kids. Rock on the shrinking world of the inter web tubes.
I’m kind of happy, maybe proud, maybe delusional, but mostly there’s no one who’s stumbled into the scope of my consciousness who I think sucks beyond redemption. You know, a little life rule, don’t hang with the unredeemable. Unless you’re like a hitman or something cool like that, and then once you’re done hanging, bang fucking bang, bad guy is gone.
Still and all, there is one putrid worm, cue satanic imagery, wriggling up through the underworld who I never, fucking ever, not even through a lead screen and 10-foot thick concrete, suitable to block radioactive toxins, do I ever want to have contact with again. That collossal douche, perhaps even the Collossus among all douchebags in the world, just sent one of my bestest buddies a “Hey remember me, happy holidays” email.
Fucking hell.
Two thoughts occur — It could just be my own conceit that somehow the douche king is using her to somehow channel some attention from my direction. Afterall, she’s cool on her own and is one of those folks in the world who acts the social lynchpin. The thickest address book, the most current emails.
The second thing is in a completely sick way, I owe Douchey McDouche, the walking Vagisil, a debt of gratitude. He is that rock bottom, absolute low point in my life that Bill W. and the AA crew use to signal wanting to change. In my own life’s reinvention, the 12-step recovery of dating bad men and making bad relationship choices, he was the turning point. The clarion call. Redemption.
Our last communication was essentially being so drunk you vomit blood on your grandmother after letting a gang of busboys bang you in the bathroom of your sister’s wedding reception. Finally, you know what every one else has already said, enough is fucking enough, something has to change.
It was just a month shy of five years ago. I’d be due a chip and a cake, I think, in short time, for taking stock and changing my life’s course. I’ve stuck to the program and haven’t fallen off the shitty, asshole, low-self-esteem-inducing boys wagon.
I guess evil exists, and emails our friends, to remind us of the light and joy and goodness.
Time's a wasting, wasting time
I should never have felt so proud of getting my cards done. It was inevitable that karma would sneak up and fuck me in the ass.
Pride goeth, blah, fucking blah, so I ended up losing my cell phone at a mall and running around getting it canceled and getting a new sim card and shit. That, of course, after back tracking around said mall for a pointless search that turned up nada.
I had a schedule. I had plans goddamnit. Why must the gods be smoting gods?
Among the Christmas joy and falderol and lights and irritating songs, I had a cool thing crop up via the place of work. Someone of the emeritus variety associated with the school down the road is hanging in some office space writing a book, on a Mac, which is where I come in handy. I’ve been providing ad hoc sort of tech support, hand holding when documents have acted up. (As is required by Microsoft Word regardless of OS.)
Anywho, the guy needs some formatting help and proposed I help for a price, given his usual student helper is under the weather. Alright, I say, ‘cuz your jammed up, but I can’t commit long term, all account of the book idea I have my own bad self.
We meet more formally to discuss what needs to be done for him. We go through that, he slides his notes aside and says something like, “I got some stuff published, yo, so let’s talk about your book idea, and maybe I can give you some advice.”
Awesome. Cool info, good insight, really encouraging when I tell him a couple of the stories I want to flesh out in the department of Pat and Dee-Rob, the adventures. I let him know the title and why. He’s either wickedly polite, or honestly interested.
Light editing and some mano to mano writing talk, makes me all tingly inside.
The punchline is for those who knew and loved Pat, or realized a little bit of the leit motif of our relationship. The book the guy is writing, it’s on GUILT.
Rimshot.
Wee hours and feeling a bit of Christmas
I’m taking tomorrow off with the plan to get the shopping all wrapped the fuck up. I will likely fail.
In other news, I’ve been rocking the sound of loneliness with the beau on a business trip. It’s freakish how you just kind of get accustomed to the breathing next to you and notice when it ain’t there. On the other hand, I’ve trashed the apartment with craft projects unabashedly. Totally loving the freedom to litter.
Tonight’s big craft news was completing my completely retardly awesome Christmas card with the worst pun ever, printing it and writing up the old seasonal greetings. I tasted vomit in my mouth from the treacly reality that I have officially become the kind of gal who signs her name and her mate’s together like it’s one entity. Eww. But, he is a featured player in the featured artwork, and I am quite fond of the boy.
I am digging the card a lot. It’s very stupid and yet I am disproportionately proud of my own cleverness. It’s a sad level of conceit.
With the day off tomorrow, I’m planning a bit of weblogging recording of what is some core awesomeness of my Cali life. But, again, sugar sweet and bile enducing happiness. Blah.