Monday, July 31, 2006 

Dog Lover

Any one who advises you to get a dog hates your guts. They look at you, with your nice clean and orderly life, and they hate you.

They hate your clean floors, your carefree life, your shoes sitting there all nice and gleamy sporting no teeth marks living a nice long healthy life, and they think, "How can I fuck that up?"

And for a while you think, 'Oh dogs are nice, dogs are fun!' But then you count up how much the dog costs you, how many shoes it's chewed up, how many times you've had to rent a carpet cleaner, and you think


But it's too late. Now you love the stupid dog. The stupid dog that licks your feet, trips you while you're going downstairs, and gives himself blowjobs constantly.

Yes, yes you love that dog who's breath suspiciously smells like cum and it just makes you realize, you have no standards whatsoever.



Mommy Dearest

Recently I mentioned Joan Crawford in a post, coincidentally enough it was on my own mother's birthday. This led me to remembering bits and pieces of the camp movie, which I don't remember as camp so much as I remember it as slightly scary, so I went to go look up the book and movie on amazon which is when I realized this movie came out when I was three years old.

Now, why was I watching this movie at such a young age? I really couldn't figure it out, so when my mother called I answered the phone:

"Hello Mommy Dearest"


"Do you remember that movie? Mommy Dearest?"

(very droll) "Yes"

"Why was I watching that so young?"

"Because you would always call me that, 'Oh Mommy Dearest, please come here,' I kept telling you to stop but you wouldn't. So I made you watch the movie."


"And you still didn't stop. It was so embarrassing"

This part I remember. I remember there being a funny twist to calling her Mommy Dearest and that at some point I found it hilarious to continue on with the title. Five year old with a sick twist of humor? Yep, that was me.

"I wonder where I picked that up?"

"I have no idea."

"Well... she did die in 1977, and I was born two years later..."

(in old person's voice)"Oh Ms. Crawford, is it really you?!"

Although, apparently I was always having trouble with what to call my mother. When I was very little I refused to call her mommy, and instead called her Mayuh. I know this sounds weird, but I had a lisp when I was little and my mother's name is Mary, so not being able to pronounce an r turned her name into Mayuh.


My uncle once cornered me, sat me up on the counter top, looked me dead in the eyes and said, "CALL HER MOMMY!" I think this was at my third birthday party. I just remember being dreadfully confused. Why was I supposed to call her mommy? My uncles and aunts called her Mary, other women were called mommy, sometimes when I was in a store the only way to get her attention was to call out Mayuh. So I replied very calmly to my uncle, "But that's not her name."

Seemed logical to me.

And by the way, I had older sibs who DID call her mom. I was just weird.


Friday, July 28, 2006 


My mother, I think, is trying to commit suicide by having me kill her.


I'm so addicted to this site,, that I'm probably going to get fired from work.




Do not quote Ann Sexton at your wedding, on your invitation, on your guest book, or in your photo album, just... don't. It will only make you look stupid, and fat.

Do you even know who the fuck Ann Sexton is? Do you know anything about her life? Do you even UNDERSTAND the fucking quote you just read? Because if you did you would realize that she's probably about the last person you would ever want to quote.

Here, if you want a quote from Ann Sexton that illustrates her views on love that you can actually understand without having to think, why don't you use this one?

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won’t be heard
and none of your running will run.

What's next?

Quoting Joan Crawford on the birth announcement of your children?

*unless this is some really ass backwards way of telling us that you plan on being miserable.


Thursday, July 27, 2006 


So I just heard some SHOCKING news. I'm so shocked that I might later have ptds, which stands for, I was once shocked. I'm looking forward to my syndrome though because I think it will give me freedom to throw things in restaurants, and then people will say,


and then other people will say, all hush hush,

"She suffers from Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome"

and of course the people who called me bat shit crazy will feel stupid and ask,

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Well, it's really quite shocking, she found out Lance Bass, from N'Sync, was gay*, and she's just never been the same."

*Really, who in the fuck cares?

**This was what I named my dog*** in the third grade.

***There was no ** and you probably just went back and scanned the post looking for it, sucker.


Wednesday, July 26, 2006 

I Have Something Very Important To Say



the end.


Tuesday, July 25, 2006 


don't you wish we were at the beach?
you could be standing in the sand, talking on the phone being all important, and I'd flash you


Monday, July 24, 2006 


oh look, I have a blog.


Wait, I have to post shit here? But it's all, hot. And I'm hormonal. And I sort of hate breathing today.


I'm not even responding to emails today.

I yelled at O about something that was completely unrelated to her.

And then when I asked someone their opinion about a problem I find myself in, they were all, "Oh you know, everything works out."


What kind of shit is that?

Why don't you go take your platitudes, build a boat, and sail off on Pacified Lake.

I will drill a hole in the bottom of that boat and name it Lady Submerged.



Thursday, July 20, 2006 

I Wish I Were A Man, Stupid Femininity

Here's the thing about hormones, let me just lay out the shit for you, they fuck with you. They fuck with you like a kid that missed it's nap in a toy store. And I'm not talking Toys R Us, wide aisles, toy store, I'm talking KB, tight ass fucking aisles with shit all over the floor and shelves piled up to the ceiling, toy store. The kind where you have to walk around the entire fucking store through a maze of aisles to find the front door and there comes a point where you think you will never see daylight again and seriously consider suicide as an option.
You want to know a fun thing about getting older that no one ever told you? You start having PMS all fucking month long. Oh no, you don't get the joy of having it right before your period, or even during, now God loves you so much you get it AFTER, and then two weeks later when you're ovulating it sneaks up and smacks you in the face with a 2 x 4 littered with rusty nails poking out towards your face.
Don't worry about your face, you're getting old, it's not that nice looking any longer anyway. At least with a few scars you might be able to claim "Colorful character" as a descriptive adjective.*
Luckily my recent hormonal difficulties only add to my naturally charming disposition, and so even more people find themselves flocking towards me, to touch my sleeve, steal a lock of my hair, and just generally bask in my presence. Why, just last night the Irishman turned to me and said, "Dear Terra, you're such a lovely sight to my sore eyes, and joy to my lonely heart, let's fly off to Paris and get married by the glow of the Eiffel Tower's lights!"
What can I say, the Irishman is a bit of a pussy.
But frankly, I've been stressed as all hell for the past week or so. I've had work and side work, long days of unpaid overtime, fretful juggling of the bank account, accompanied with the realization that I hate my apartment, and my rent check's about to bounce.
Fuck me.
I've never bounced a rent check in my life.
I've made twenty dollars stretch two weeks, cover food and gas (this was back when gas didn't cost the same as your mortgage), and I've NEVER bounced a rent check. I'm 26, I'm fucking miserable, and unbeknownst to me I'm about to ovulate and am about to have the worst three days of mood swings that I have ever experienced and while I am having a complete and total breakdown I will look at my calendar, count how many days since my last period, and I will decide that this CAN'T be hormonal, there is no fucking way, I am, as always, completely rational.
There comes a point during these three days where I gather all my bills, add up my income, take a good long look at my budget, and instead of being able to tell myself, "OH THERE'S THE PROBLEM, MY THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH COKE HABIT" I instead realize that I have about negative 50 bucks for spending cash each month. Translation? I don't know how I do it.
I suppose that's when the thought occurred to me, "I really understand why some people just off themselves" I probably should've heard the
alarm going off in the building and surrounding villages, but I didn't. And because I was so miserable I lit into the Irishman like there was no tomorrow.
Really, he was asking for it. He was prancing around, "Oh look at me, I make a good income, I don't have to hunt and forage for my food, la dee fucking da." His happiness made me want to smash every childhood dream he ever had. How dare he be happy while I'm miserable? How. Fucking. Dare. He.
Of course, the option of him leaving and being happy somewhere else was NOT an option. Then I would've imagined that he was at a puppy store, laughing and rolling amongst puppies while he used 100 dollar bills to light up cigarettes and flirted with the counter girl.
The counter girl's a whore and I've never trusted her.
So yesterday, after I had done as much damage as possible, calmed down enough to realize, "ooh, my side's hurting, I must be ovulating..." thanked the God of hormones and apologized to the Irishman, I also had time for some serious self evaluation.
I'm in love with the Irishman, and not in the, "Oh I'm a kid and I'm in love with love" kind of way. But real love.
The kind of love you find after you've grown up enough to know yourself, your faults, what you don't want but need, what you do want but don't need, and what you hope for but most likely will never find.
I have spent the last six months finding every fault that I could possibly find in the Irishman and then exploding it into the largest catastrophe man has ever known, and still, there are just not enough of them for me to justify leaving.
He talks too loud but he also listens to my horrible fake accents and only occasionally has been caught wincing or rolling his eyes. He has a horrible temper over the stupidest things but when I yell he listens quietly and let's me burn myself out, which is exactly the best way to deal with me. He's super friendly to random strangers and goes out of his way to talk to them, which if I thought about it too much would annoy the fuck out of me, but he also drives to the store when I don't feel well, gets all of the medicine I need to my exact specifications, and then brings them to me in bed.
And the things I love about him that are of absolutely no benefit to me?
He's made up his own theme song, and it's actually good.
He's been sober for three years even though none of his friends thought he had a problem.
He says he's a bit stupid but knows so many random useless facts (well, history/political/sport shit that's useless to me, anyway) that it can be quite amazing.
And he's always been as much of commitment phobe as I am.
Being with the Irishman has made me forget all of the reasons that I never wanted to get married. Reasons like, becoming invisible, unimportant, and the last person on every one's priority list. Or at least I thought I had forgotten. You see, the Irishman bought me a ring in Boston and before he gave it to me he told me what life would be like with him, what marriage would be like, he promised that it would be difficult but it would also be great and he asked me if I accepted this and I said that I did. I accepted this promise ring, given to me until he can afford an engagement ring which might be this year or next, but given to me with the full intention that I will one day be Mrs. Irishman.
Sometimes while arguing with the Irishman I am not battling just him but every single one of my ex boyfriends and many adults that I was placed in the care of while growing up. Sometimes the Irishman stares mournfully at me and says, "Why did you say that? You didn't need to be so mean," and thus reminds me that this is not a battle ground, that I don't need to go for jugular every single time, that if I enter the room unarmored chances are I will come out unscathed. I wish I had had that self possession the last few days. I wish I had experienced the moments where my mouth opens and closes like a fish because if I'm not on attack I am somewhat lost, looking for a new road, an unpaved but softer road, with less rocks and jagged cliffs. Why did I forget the guidelines I've made up in my head, always touch during a disagreement, say 'I love you' out loud, not to remind him but me, and if you have nothing nice to say then make something up. It's not always easy, this whole, being nice, thing.
That's the last thing I love about the Irishman, not only does he try, but he reminds me to too.
*I forgot how to spell adjective and originally spelled it this way, 'adjetive,' then sat staring at it for five minutes wondering why it looked so funny before it occurred to me to use spell check. Now, how do you spell Moor on?


Wednesday, July 19, 2006 

The World Is On Fire

So last night I dreamt that I lived in an apartment (bear with me, I know posts about dreams suck ass) where I was conducting secret top secret stuff.

It was... secret.

And one night, while slipping into my jacket, I notice that the apartment directly across from our window is empty.



So I get all, evil eye looky, and stare intently at the vacant rooms.

When that spy comes back to spy I'm going to kick his ass.

After waiting a while I see a maid wander into the room. I scan her body to check for any cameras but don't find any. Hrm. Maybe they have something new and cool and techno geeky.

Then a small child wanders into the room. No. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't send a six year old to spy, that would just be retarded.

Then, FINALLY, a man enters the room. He has to be the spy, never mind that he's not staring into my apartment, equipped with binoculars, or holding a camera, stupid SPY can't fool me.

Oh, he's also Jimmy Fallon.

So I start banging on my window to get his attention, I'm all, "Hey you fucking spy, look up here!"

Finally Jimmy looks at me, now you need to understand that he's standing there completely relaxed looking with his hands in his jean pockets, and when he looks at me I immediately start screaming obscenities.

Then I pantomime choking him.

I point to him, then me, then I make my hand imitate a little guy running away while another little guy chases him. Then when one hand caught the other I pantomimed kicking the shit out of the first guy while pointing at Jimmy Fallon.

Jimmy Fallon's eyes got all big and he looked around like, "Who? Me?!"

And I started screaming, "Yes you, you dirty fucker!"

I woke up laughing my ass off.


Monday, July 17, 2006 

I've Since Calmed Down... Sorta

Apparently today is national fuckwatt day and, yet again, no one has bothered to inform me.
And since it is national fuckwatt day I am assuming that EVERYONE'S brain has been affected and so therefore, someone on this godforsaken planet can explain to me:
One: Why you feel the need to restate everything I say in a super slow monotone voice and then finally conclude with, "Oh, well, can't help you there."
Newsflash, I didn't fucking ask you to diagnose the problem, I told you the problem, told you how to fix it, asked if you were the correct person to be speaking with, and yet you somehow still couldn't understand that the string of consonants and vowels coming out of my mouth were forming words which then went on to make up sentences.
Two: Why, when you say one thing, such as sugar, do you automatically assume that I know what you actually mean is Equal, when there is a big jar of sugar sitting right in front of us, and then, when I ask for clarification, act as if I'm the stupid one?
I almost, would rather sit on my fat ass collecting unemployment, or welfare, or even WIC, watching Dr. Phil (which I detest), while my fat ass grew fatter, then listen to this bullshit one millisecond longer.
But no, I've decided I'm going to keep going to work, and keep putting up with people that prove natural selection doesn't work, just so I can get into heaven.
Boy, heaven better exist or I'm going to kick Jesus right in the teeth.


Thursday, July 13, 2006 

My Best New Idea EVAH

I've decided to hand out refreshing drinks to marathon runners. While pondering what sort of beverage to provide them with, it suddenly occurred to me: VODKA!!!
I can imagine it now:

*pound pound pound* of feet on the sidewalk. sweat dripping down the forehead. a tired citizen wipes their eyes, glances up ahead, and sees my glistening cup of salvation, they extend their hand, perhaps they even give a nod of thanks,

and then,


Or better yet,


And they're all

'Oh God, my eyes, my eyes, they burn!'

And I'm all, laughing, 'hahaha!' because, you know that shit's gonna be funny.


Wednesday, July 12, 2006 

Life Questions

Do you think I could stab someone and then blame it on my self diagnosed case of ADD? Because, if not, then I feel completely fucking jipped.


Tuesday, July 11, 2006 


I was over here reading this, and memorizing that, when it came to me
I used to write
I mean, write.
You know, shit that makes you shut the fuck up and think
Paint with words
I used to use combinations of words that made people cry, laugh out loud, contemplate the cosmos
And right now and for the last I don't know how many days, I've got nothing. Just absolute nothing. I'm always getting distracted, struggling with the fact that my brain just wants way too much shit out of life.
Part of me wants to be a criminal. It sounds like fun. But I suppose that would fuck up my day job and perhaps hinder me from having a steady place to live.
See, like where in the fuck did that last sentence come from. Which brings me back to my original stupid pointless point, it has recently been pointed out to me that my mother has the worst fucking case off ADD that they have ever seen.
Like, for reals?
Cuz I saw some shit on CNN that would just fucking blow you away.
For reals.
Shit that has never occurred to me, but after it was pointed out makes complete fucking sense. She is such a fucking spazz. Which reminded me of the time that my college instructor accused me of having ADD and told me to seek treatment. She was such a bitch that I immediately complained to the office.
No, I wasn't the only complaining student. Don't you believe me? I said she was a bitch, translation, complete cunt.
So two years later, hear I am looking up the symptoms, and wouldn't you know it, a lot of the character flaws that I possess and have always struggled with are listed.
Right there, on the page.
All of the shit that I do that pisses off strangers and makes me want to cut people.
I'm not speaking about the obvious shit either, like not being able to finish a book or  watch a movie (all things that I regularly do), but the not so obvious signs, like:
not being able to focus even when you want to
being so honestly blunt that you often offend strangers
flash temper
often late
over committing your time
difficulty thinking when things are disorganized
really hot and sexy
And then it goes on about how some adults have learned to cope with it and therefore don't realize that they have ADD. What did they list, oh many of the organizational strategies that I often apply so that my life doesn't become a chaotic fucking bag of shit mess. I've blamed it on OCD for years, the fact that things have to be my way or I fucking break down instantaneously, but maybe it's time I blame my bad habits on something new?
Plus, maybe I can get some meds to sell to the high school dropouts.... SWEET.




They say, ‘seeing is believing,’ which has always confused me, because believing has always been based on some sort of faith and people are always urging others to take a leap on ‘blind faith.’

You said you saw me lose my faith.

Which made me stop.


Did you? Did you really? Can you tell me the time, the hour, the day? Can you tell me if it left in a flurry of gray smoke or describe the way my chest rattled from its death cry?

I’m sorry.

So sorry.

Didn’t mean to scare you there. I’ll let go of your shoulders now, smooth the bunches out of your jacket, pick up the packages I scattered in my haste. It’s just; I don’t remember it now. Only the memory. And it haunts me, that feeling of being larger than I was.

Look at me.

All wild hand movements and exaggerated facial gestures. What must you think? A crazy girl gone crazier, that’s what… but, here, take my number, call it if you remember anything. Even if it’s in the dead of night. Don’t worry, I don’t sleep that well any more. I sit up finding monsters in the shadows and wrinkles on my face.
Yes, yes, of course you must go. You have places to be, people to hug, loved ones to check up on. But… call me, whenever, tomorrow, I get off of work at seven.