Chronicles of Madness

I am glad that you are not here to see me grow up, because I tend to make a muck of things. And if I am anything in the future like I am now, you will know that I have a tendency to take something small and insignificant and blow it into proportions no one, not even God, saw coming. This applies to all things good and bad. I imagine the good things will occasionally make it seem like my boundaries are limitless, my dreams better than Disneyland, but the bad could make life hard.

I have a tendency to be cold and unfeeling. I give no quarter. I hold people up to the microscope and I point out their flaws, and when I do it I present it in a manner that expresses my disappointment so clearly, making success seem less than an inch away, and your failure a product of laziness instead of human nature.

I can't imagine under what circumstances I would allow you to read this, but the need to write it came to me today. For the past few weeks I have been making a list of my failures and setting out to right them. And I'm doing it. And I'm proud, but there are hard days. Days I want to kick myself in the teeth for being this disorganized at 27. Unfortunately, I'm not quite as limber as I used to be, and so my teeth remain intact.

And so, what I wanted to tell you is this; know that when you are struggling your worst to become better and I have just laid into you in my calm collected manner that makes you feel like absolute shit, after you left the room? I was filled with doubt. My skin was itchy and I walked towards the door several times to tell you, it's okay. But I was afraid, like I'm always afraid, that if I give an inch someone will take a mile. That you would run out the door, down the street, buy as many syringes, uppers, downers, as you could find and go on the biggest drug binge known to man and then, after waking in the hospital room, your first words would be, "Mom said it was okay! Jesus loves me!" and then proceed to drool on your hospital gown, letting me know that you're now brain damaged and my responsibility forever and ever amen.

Because, as you knows, everyone's just one condoning sentence from mom away from an overdose. Or at least I am.

Love,

Your apparently always screwy mother

Letter To My Future Step-Children

I'm probably not going to like you.

I just learned a lesson in futility. Can you hear the sarcasm?

(my foot's itching to kick someone in the face. bad foot, bad)

Because this one is staying up until the end of the contest. I know. You hate me.

This year for my birthday I'm asking for something free, and surprise surprise. It's not a piece of ass. Although some of you still might give that up right? Right? But no, I read a celebrity gossip page religiously, and they're holding a karaoke contest. The person with the most votes wins, wait for it, a Prada bag! Wouldn't that be a great birthday gift for me?

I'm aiming for 200 votes, which sounds like a lot, but with six degrees of separation I know 200 people easy!! I have faith in the power of blogger. Not so much that we should all go out, buy matching rings and fight crime, but you get the point. So please send this to as many friends as possible (I don't have their email addresses) and feel free to bully your significant other into voting for me too (actually, just switch over to their email account and vote for me ;p), and let's see how many votes we can get!

Here's the link to my entry

Vote for me on Bix.com!

voting is easy! All you do is register for a free bix account, and click the little thumbs up under my song. Thanks so much guys!

xoxoxoxox

PS

I think only two accounts per computer is allowed, any more than that and the votes get disqualified. While you're over there... make sure you don't vote for anyone else. I'm not going to go around making threats, but I think it's implied.

PPS

If I win I'll take a dirty pic with the Prada bag and send it to all those that voted! Wink Wink. Um. Unless that's deterrent!

I think the next pet I'm going to get is a deer. Because I'm pretty sure you can abandon a deer at will, with little to no repercussions.

No one ever drives around, sees a deer running in the middle of the street and says, "Oh my God!!! Someone abandoned that deer!"

So I’m looking at my pill pack and it occurs to me that I MIGHT just be premenstrual. But you know what else occurs to me? That everyone is so fucking retarded that there aren’t enough yellow buses, velcro shoes, or helmets to go round. Seriously, how in the fuck do most people remember to BREATHE? GAH! I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE.

I hate, hate, HATE those idiots you occasionally have to interact with who can’t understand shit. Really, you could draw them a little fucking diagram with a stick figure holding a sign with their name on it, and they still wouldn't realize that the stick figure, falling out an open window, on flames, with little x’s for eyes, while another stick figure holding a sign with my name on it laughing maniacally, means I’M GOING TO KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER.

Listen shit for brains, why in the fuck do you ask me to do something, talk about the weather, go back to asking me to do something, get distracted by a shiny object, mention a lot of jargon that not even you yourself fully understand, and then walk away without ever giving me the specifics of the project?

Answer, because you're stupid.

Yeah, I get it. I’m supposed to chase after you and ask a bunch of questions which you will answer while over-enunciating every word so that it is made clear that I’M the idiot, you’ll then write me a follow up email re-explaining everything and CC my boss, just so we know, I’M retarded, but guess what? I’m losing the ability to care. When you don’t give me proper instructions I’m filled with a rage that makes it a great time to go to lunch. L-U-N-C-H.

I pronounce things slowly because I can’t process big words, like 'lunch', or 'I quit'.

If I could perhaps I wouldn’t have had to draw so many fucking diagrams for you.

Oh look, I’m venting.

Also, why in the fuck do I have cheese on my burger? I said no cheese. NO. I thought 'no' meant the same thing in about a brazillion other languages but perhaps it doesn’t? Perhaps I was supposed to yell, 'NO FUCKING CHEESE PLEASE'? Because everyone knows when speaking to stupid people you should speak loudly and use curse words.

And why in the fuck is everyone always getting on my case, “You know Terra, I think you really hate people and have some deepseated issues.” ?

Fuck off before I smack you in your fat smug face. So apparently I have ‘deep seated’ issues because I can make accurate observations of what fucking pieces of shit most people are?

OH EXCUSE ME FOR BEING OBSERVANT.

And you know what? When I smack you I’m not going to give you any warning, because people like you piss me the fuck off. Oh look at you acting as if your shit doesn’t stink, cuz it does! Your shit stinks! Your shit stinks worse than mine ever will, because I don’t go through life acting like I’m hopped up on uppers and give money to church every fucking Sunday right before I go visit my grandmother, who I hate, but that's besides the point. The point is, at least I’m honest. I’m honest about my hatred and frustration and I fully admit that I’m not perfect so go fuck yourself.

And that comment I made eight years ago that if someone works at taco bell, has a fucking attitude, and STILL can’t get my order right they should be marched straight into a gas chamber so that I don’t have to pay for their foodstamps and their five illegitimate children from five different (and possibly unidentified) men or women? Yeah. I stand by that still. Because FUCK! IT’S TACO FUCKING BELL! If you can’t get this shit right how in the fuck do you deserve to live?

FUCK YOU!

I take my motherfucking birth control, I go to fucking work, I learned how to read AND tie my shoes but I’m supposed to pick up the slack for people who are unable to work, not because they’re mentally or physically handicapped, but because they have a personality so lazy and repugnant that they refuse to go to a place of work where they can’t scratch themselves and say fuck to the customers?

Someone should stab you. Repeatedly. Not that you’re reading this. You’re probably holding your white baby named Shan-te, wearing green contacts, and waiting for the bus with your home girl, Mo Mo, while you talk about the latest shiat your man pulled.

I hope someone drives their truck into you.

Oh wait, I’m sorry. That wasn’t politically, or even economically, correct. Without you who would work at burger king? Without your man who would I pick up on the street corner to dig a ditch in front of my house?

Oh. I know. Honest hard working people. Listen, I go to Taco Bell and drive past the corner all the time. There are a lot of hardworking people out there struggling to support their family. Cheers to them.

Unfortunately there are also a bunch of attitude-giving-drain-on-society lazy fucks that deserve to die more than they deserve a free bus pass. Girl, you don’t need that bus pass, what you need is to find out why Shan-te be so white when his daddyz name is Gomez. Shiat.

And San Franciscans? Don’t even get me started on that shit. Bunch of uppity motherfuckers so in love with themselves that they’re all gay because they’re all fucking themselves. What the fuck is up with them? Every time they go to another city they always have to point out, 'Oh, well in MY town…'

Listen. I don’t give a fuck what kind of poodles you carry around in your purse in the Castro. I really really don’t. I also don’t give a fuck that you’re too good for fast food joints, major chains, and homes that have more than six inches between them.

Listen carefully, let me enunciate this correctly so you can understand

I

DON’T

GIVE

A

FUCK

How can a city be so fucking self involved that a majority of it’s citizens don’t realize that there are a gang of men roaming the streets with so much gel in their hair they get stuck to passing walls, are over 40, dressed like they’re 20, and still talking about BIG LOVE.

Listen you fucking little boys, no one cares that you can’t find the perfect woman, the perfect woman found a man that didn’t have maturity issues 10 years ago and she’s currently at home feeding their 2.5 children.

Fine you’re never going to grow the fuck up, fine you live in a fucking studio and work at Hollywood Video, could you at least have the dignity to admit you’re a fucking loser?

L-O-S-E-R

And no, I don’t care that your shoes cost more than my entire outfit because I rent my own apartment, have a car, and A REAL JOB, where people don’t constantly end every statement with, “Oh dude, I’m so fucking high”.

You know what the Irishman did for me for our six month anniversary? He went to the ballgame… with his friend. While they were in the stands he turned to his friend and said, “I think my girlfriend is pissed at me…” and you know what his friend said? “Girls are so fucking stupid.”

All this was relayed to me so that I might fully understand my own stupidity at actually thinking I would spend my six month anniversary WITH SOMEONE. You know. Other than my cats. Never mind the fact that his friend has a go nowhere do nothing job, smokes pot constantly, and makes so many midnight trips to AM/PM that he literally worships it. Not kidding. He loves AM/PM food. No way he goes there for gas because, wait for it, HE DOESN’T OWN A CAR.

Geez, I wonder why he’s single? Perhaps it’s because he lives in San Francisco and is constantly surrounded by so many retarded people that it doesn’t occur to him he’s drooling?

Not that I’m bitter. Really, far from it. I’m calm, I’m serene, I’m better than great, I’m well adjusted.

I miss your stupid little frog, and catchy commercials.

(Insert here the picture of the WB frog that stupid blogger won't allow me to upload.)

I miss your laugh, hell, I miss your scent. Listen, when this is all over, you and I are going to get an apartment together!* (blogger takes a moment to stop talking)

Seriously? What in the fuck is happening to the WB?

First they signed off Angel, then Charmed, okay, okay, so they were on the air for over eight years, but still! I liked those shows! Then Reba did some weird send off memory rehash of all of it's years, although officially it's going nowhere, they taunted me that they were finally killing of Seventh Heaven, but then took it back (fuckers), they took off Twins without any notice, and then, THEN, they sold the fucking station!

Okay.

In retrospect perhaps we should have all seen this coming. You want to know what I didn't see coming?

Sunday always had a kick ass line up (if you're a wb whore like I am), they ran What I Like About You, Reba, Charmed, Twins, etc.

Wait, before I go any further I'm going to have to explain something. I'm never home. Never. So I didn't even get to watch this shit. But still, it comforted me to know that if I WERE at home, with nothing else to do on a Sunday night, WB would be there for me. Once I knocked down a small child to get to the Tivo. God help me, I've gone mad without Tivo.

So here's my point. Now that the new stations taken over they've got NOTHING for a sunday night, and guess what new show they're promoting their asses off about?

Can you guess?

It's on Wednesday nights, most likely up against some insanely stupid reality show...

PERRY MASON!!!

That's right folks, Perry Mason is finally back. According to the commercials I've been insanely missing him and am going to be glued to the tv now that he's back.

Oh dear God.

I fear for you Supernatural, I really do. Because you feature some of the hottest guys on TV, and now that you're on a network showcasing Perry Mason? Well. I'll send flowers to your funeral. I'm sure you'll be buried right next to the Smallville cast.

* I may be watching too many Will Ferrell movies.

But not Alcohol. I love it when Alcohol poisons me. Good times are had by all and I get to 'accidentally' feel up hot EMT's. Although, it's anyone's guess if I'll remember the incident later. And, like I always say, if you blacked it out then it never happened.

Anyway, onwards and upwards.

I've been sick since Wednesday when someone had the audacity to poison me. I know this because I am perfect, my white blood cells are fearless, and I have a ton of enemies. No mere virus has the strength or fortitude to harm me! I'm making a list of all possible suspects... the list is quite long... and includes my parents, so. You know. Probably they'll have to make a movie out of this later since it will go down as one of histories great unsolved mysteries.

More proclamations of being god like later.

... one day.

Over the weekend my cousins kid* came over, and after suckering me into buying shit from his school catalogue, he climbed into my dogs crate and pretended to go to sleep. My dog actually looked kind of pissed, and then he looked sad... because it was bedtime. And he wanted to go to sleep. And this kid was in his bed, I thought he was going to fucking cry. Stupid dog.

Anyway, so heres what occurred to me while watching this little kid curl up in the crate... these things are a lot smaller then bedrooms. In fact, my sister is almost as tall as me and she can fit in there too. So... why in the fuck does she have a room of her own?

This is waste people. WASTE!

*It's actually his girlfriend's kid. But I'm too lazy to make the distinction... and also. Who cares? He's teaching the kid to bmx race, blah blah blah, my aunt watches him all the time. That's it. He's ours.

I'm not exactly sure what laundro-mat etiquette is, but I'm starting to gather that it means, bring all your kids under 5, all your neighbors children, your husband, his drunk friend, your blind grandma, and then all of the clothes you can possibly find. If you don't have enough pick some up from the bum across the street before you head on over because if you can't fill up the whole fucking van so that when you open the doors everyone comes spilling out? You ain't going!

Stupid fucking laundromat.

Stupid fucking people standing around in my fucking way, HOW MANY GOD DAMN PEOPLE DOES IT TAKE TO DO LAUNDRY???

Here's an idea!

Leave your husband that keeps staring at my ass AT HOME! WITH YOUR FIVE UGLY BUCK TOOTHED KIDS THAT KEEP ASKING ME FOR CHANGE!

And your grandma? Just kill the old bitch. If I had to live with you I'd be pretending to be blind too.

My mother has informed me that after losing her job of fifteen years due to changes in management and a cunt for a new boss, it is, perhaps, too soon to joke about it.

Joke?

I really do need my house cleaned, and if I'm not mistaken, her schedule did just clear up.

So, here's the thing. No hormonal posts right? Sure, lot's of 'My life's kinda shitty' posts. But nothing hormonal.

So what gives?

I think, that birth control is possibly magic. Or fairy dust. Or something or other that is just fan fuckintabulous... minus seeing trails. BECAUSE I'M ADDICTED!!

Since I've started taking these fucking pills I'm actually able to organize shit!!! OH MY FUCKING GOD! And the weird fucking haze that's always in my brain making me want to kill shit?

GONE BABY GONE

It's so awesome.

So! Since I added some man made hormones to my system, I don't work overtime any longer, I finally cleared up my court shit, ordered an ID for travel purposes, actually went to the DMV, finished writing Tonie's resume, wrote her coverletter, helped my mom find out info for the labor board shit (DRAMA), got rid of all that SHIT in my house I wanted to donate, signed Izzy up for obedience class, got his rabies shot, had him neutured, signed him up for doggy day care, cleaned my carpet, replaced all my mismatched dishes (HORRAY!), called up about my school loan, made an appointment with the bank, AND, AND, well other stuff you don't give a fuck about.

Here's the MOTHERFUCKING POINT!

I'm in a good mood. I'm productive. I've got more accomplished in the last month than I have in six months, and it feels fucking fantastic.

O's response to my good news, "Was there ever a time when you weren't hormonally imbalanced? Hello?"

Great big do or die hunches. And I guess there is no real easy way to explain this except to say, I am a body of opposites, constantly battling for control, time at the wheel, to steer clear of dangerous waters or charge right through.

I hate emotional turmoil and yet believe nothing truly beautiful is achieved without it. Trust me, life would be easier if I could simply resign myself to mediocrity and post my address as the corner bar. Or the Patron factory…

At any rate, I have often blamed my skewed beliefs on my Native American heritage. So am I Catholic? Hell yes! Right down to my filthy guilt ridden bones! But I also believe that the universe is a mysterious thing, not for us to judge, define, or even partially imagine we can see the fuzzy outlines. I have dreams of the future.

Sometimes they come true within the week, sometimes going through an old journal I’ll realize that I dreamed of something two years in advance, a car accident, chance encounter, a new job opportunity. Every now and then you’ll find me keeping an eye out… five years later, sure none-the-less, that dreams do come true.

I dreamt of my cousins’ death for fifteen years straight before it happened, the morning the call came I was dreaming it again. It was the last time I had that dream. Those are the ones you hope are just dreams… as fictitious as the ones where you can fly, fight with Hollywood starlets, win the lottery.

But while I’m awake I often get hunches, something that tells me, screams at me, ‘DO IT!’

And I do, I don’t research, I don’t look around, I jump. Knowing that even if I fail, this is where I’m supposed to be. Where life intended me to head. So that even when I am broke, over committed, and frustrated as all fuck, I know that I am doing the right thing.

I once listened to my head over my heart. Boy was that a complete fuck up. It took me one short year to lose sight of who I was. How can I explain this? When I make a wrong decision, I feel like I’m walking on air… as if the ground beneath my feet isn’t there. And when something bad is going to happen? But I need to experience it? I feel like my stomach is stapled to the ground on a train heading north. I don’t even bother looking at the scenery in these instances, because what’s the point? And when things are going right? When they are a sure thing? I’m all momentum, sliding down a greased tube with success up ahead.

But lately? Twice my instincts have been held up for ransom. It’s a weird feeling, all that momentum hitting a brick wall. And my dreams don’t help.

I dreamt I was under water, terrified, only to find I could breathe.

I dreamt that a tidal wave hit and I only had time to save my sister. Afterwards I found my mother and held on tight crying, I could only save one, and I chose her. I’m so sorry.

I dreamt of a man on a beach, that looked suspiciously like him, and I was happy. Hap hap happy.

I got an email this morning regarding one of my hunches gone wrong, and I was right. I am back on track, derailed, waylaid, but still bound for the original destination. Something in my soul let out a tightly held breath and I found myself relaxed, confident in the future once more.

But the last? I am uneasy, on edge, I have the feeling that my stomach is stapled to the floor one moment, full of momentum the next. This is never, ever, a recipe for success. And so, I think, for the moment, I will ignore the scenery. Prepare instead.

I hate it when my mom is worried, because it makes me worried. I hate it when my aunt calls to tell me that she is worried about my mom, and have I heard from her? Because my aunt's been leaving messages all day with no reply. I hate it when I call my dad and my dad's all, "Der, I'm a man. I haven't heard from your mom all day, does this signify the possibility of a problem? Der... I'm a man."

So of course I say, "No, no problem dad. It's just, you know, a big day, and we thought we'd hear from her."

And then I quickly hang up and call back the aunt who let's out a sigh and says, "Well, that's even worse."

No der. My mom's irritated with me and my never ending, how are we going to fix this problem solving attitude that she helped create by continuously berating me for any sort of whining without problem solving activities that I might have been stupid enough to participate in as a youth.

Now she hates that I won't take a lot of shit, even though she will, and even though she wants me to shut the fuck up about everyone respecting everyone's rights while standing up for my own.

Translation: Everyone in the free world can call my mother and ask her how she's doing... but not me. I have to wait for an fyi call from family members that never really bother to keep me in the loop.

And now here I am.

Waiting.

I'm sure she'll call sometime after eight. In the meantime I'm going to take some tylenol. Pfft.

Jen talks a lot, and while she talks she smiles, showing flashes of white teeth, pink tongue, blue gum. “Oh my god, you will never guess what Liz said to me…” Occasionally she throws her head back laughing, and when she does this strands of blonde hair whip Keith in the face. It annoys him but he places his hand on the small of her back and walks her across the street anyway. Once they step up on the curb he scans the street for an appropriate place to eat and tries to figure out what she’s talking about. Probably cats, maybe bunnies, perhaps some story containing a poorly dressed bunny sporting a knock off handbag and backstabbing cat with an addiction to cubic zirconium. Jen talks a lot.