spinsterella

This is an apology.
I did not mean to leap upon your head clawing and tweaking and shouting 'Dammit, why can't you be more of a slut? You have readers out here who live vicariously through you, you know!'
Unfortunately, thats' exactly what one of my most recent comments came off as.
Fine, was.
Fine.
I think you're outstanding. You are intelligent, funny and well spoken. Thats' why I read you. I like what I read, and vice versa.
I'll tell you what, I wish I'd been as discriminating when it came to men. Yes, I'd have had less to blog about but also could have saved myself a lot of unpleasantness. Oh Christ yes.

You are the Emma Peel of Blogdom.
Yes you are.

another passenger on an already tippy 'blogging identity' rowboat

What blogging identity? This is me.
It's been the case for most of my life that other things came first. Now I am an empty nester. Now it is my turn.
This is The Me Show.

For me, blogging serves multiple purposes...scratch paper, soapbox, creative outlet, forum, entertainment, social contact, and therapy.

Most of all, for me, blogging is journalling. I believe that most people who journal do so with the secret hope that someone will read it. (Admiringly and with great interest.) I admit it, anyway. But when I've tried journaling in the past all it did was focus my negativity and reinforce my introversion. I mean, I already occupy this space so whats the point, right? I already know what I think. Thats what makes this venue invaluable...people read and comment, people who do not know me, who have no meatspace social agenda attached to our acquaintance, and who do not interrupt. You can read, or not. You can comment or not. And you can agree, or not. In turns.

Blogging isn't conversation. Sometimes conversations take place in the comments lounge, but this part - this isn't conversation...it's more like an old-fashioned social night at a boarding house, where everyone presented an entertainment or a contribution of some kind, in turns. And that's where the value of this medium lies. Anonymity, commentary, taking turns.

I'll tell you what, I would never have even thought about getting published had it not been for this place, and my daughter turning me on to blogging. And one year after starting this, I'm published! I'm writing every day. Those flabby little neurons are getting a workout.

Another benefit of blogging has been that it has kept me interacting with other people. For an ordinary person, living in a rural area and getting cut off for a couple of weeks every winter, that would be valuable, but for a person with clinical depression it's been golden.

That is why it tends to be sarcastic, bitchy, silly and downright juvenile around here. Also pretty blue. Laughing and having fun is better than bleeding to death in a bathtub.
Ever said 'Get over yourself and cheer up' to someone you were just TIRED of listening to bitch and piss and moan all the time? I said that to myself. Now I'm making something to cheer myself up. And sometimes, lemme tell you, it's all I can do.

It's working.

This has been one hell of a year at times, kids, but it's also the first year since I was diagnosed that I haven't had to have my medication adjusted.

So yeah. Blogging:
It's better than a peck in the head with a sharp rock.

well, enough of THAT.

Guess what my Yummy Biker just put on layaway for me? Because he loves me? Because I am his very own little red hot rockin' Native American love princess?


A BRAND NEW LIVING ROOM SET.
This will be the first time in my life that I have had a matching suite of living room furniture
THAT I LIKE.
That is BRAND NEW.
That I PICKED OUT.
From a REAL, UPMARKET FURNITURE STORE.
Not a discount house, a resale store, a garage sale, a storage unit or off the back of a truck.
It has take me 26 years to have grown-up furniture that I can stand looking at.

BEHOLD THE GLORY THAT IS MY NEW LIVING ROOM SET!

...except without the chrome, and without the coffee table but WITH a matching ottoman.

OH HELL YES.






Remember my old furniture?


..I won't even show you a picture of the whole monstrous thing. It's too awful.

What can I say? We needed a set and this was quality stuff, Ethan Allen in fact. We we got it for 200$ the set, too. Knowing full well that it is so very, very horrible. I mean, the HORROR. It got to the point this last two years that I would look at it, and it would look back at me, and be country french, and white brocade with floral trophies, and we would hate each other with a vile and dire loathing.

Then it started to tear. All of it, all in the same week. Rip, rip, rip. So much for Ethan Allen lifetime quality upholstery! Patooie! I spit upon their so called quality which has the brain of a duck you know!

Then the Goonybird started picking the batting out of the cushions and feeding it to the dog pictured above, who is just tard enough to eat it. The evidence is still in my back yard, too. Little tufts of fibrefil here and there. You see the birds carrying it around.

Nature is disgusting.

Over the last year, between the spilled coffee and the peanut butter sandwiches the Biker and I just gave up all semblance of giving a rat's ass. It was open season on the furniture of horror. The furniture lost. Bigtime.

And now I get to enjoy the sight of it waiting sadly by the curb for someone to come by in the dead of the night and think they're really getting away with something and stealing it! Yee Haw! Fokkin' Ted Nooooogent, yo! Raaaawk! Bye bye ugly couch! Farewell loveseat of evil! And away it goes to grace the shag carpeted meth lab in the trailer park it always belonged in!

New York Will Be Populated By Zombies in the Future

Do you know why?
Because she VVV

lived there.
Emily.
She grew up there. She ate dinner there, went to school there, started menstruating there, learned to read there, ate a bunch of pussy there, has family there, met my cousin VVV

there, got married there and had a kid there.
The entire city of New York is irrevocably doomed. Flakes of her dna have met and merged with the lung tissue of thousands of unfortunate New Yorkers over the years where it is even now mutating into an evil mind controlling carcinoid.
Eventually this carcinoid will assimilate its' host and thousand of whining, pself-important bullies with glistening assholes in the middle of their foreheads and superflous body hair will march forth, four abreast, past the Port Authority building for ever and ever, declaiming to the skies 'our babysitter was a man! and black! and gay!"

Why did fate see fit to give this horrible, horrible woman an expensive education? Why did it see fit to endow her with money in her latter years? Money she used to further her self-serving projects in the name of local liberalism and thus render riduculous the reputation of liberals locally merely by association?

Why did fate see fit to make her just social and just plausible enough to garner the ill-informed respect of other persons with money and educations? Persons who live in the same town as me?

Why has this vile, vile woman attached herself to me like a lamprey?

I will tell you why!
She is a birth order victim! She is a typical Oldest Sister Displaced by a Younger Sibling in a Dysfunctional Family Environment who never outgrew it! She is Jafar! The scheming and conniving, jealous, plotting grand vizier of an imaginary realm where she is supposed to be the rightful ruler because shes' better than YOU are! She is the nasty little girl at her sisters' birthday party throwing a tantrum because none of the presents are for her, and if she can't have them then SHE'S GOING TO SPOIL EVERYONES PARTY SO HA HA HA!

The single event that will crown this womans' existance will be to to meet up with me by chance with her husband at her side and grandly inform me that MY FATHER DIED here, in town, and I NEVER ONCE CAME TO SEE HIM and that THEY GOT EVERYTHING and I GOT NOTHING and MY FATHER DIED CALLING OUT MY NAME (Johnny Walker, apparently) and HE NEVER GOT TO SEE HIS GRANDDAUGHTER OR HIS GREAT-GRANDSON BECAUSE OF ME and that THERE NEVER WAS ANY PROBLEMS IN MY FAMILY AT ALL IT WAS ALL ONE BIG MISTUNDERSTANDING...

MINE, OF COURSE

And that HE WAS SORRY and that MY FAMILY NEVER WANTED ANYTHING MORE THAN TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT AND JUST APOLOGIZE AND BE HAPPY EVEN THOUGH NOTHING HAPPENED BUT I COULDN'T BE A BIG ENOUGH PERSON AND COME FORWARD AND FORGIVE THEM EVEN THOUGH NOTHING HAPPENED and anyway everything that happened is ALL MY FAULT and ALL IN MY IMAGINATION and NEVER HAPPENED and THEY NEVER HEARD ANYTHING, ANYTHING AT ALL EXCEPT HOW MUCH MY POOR MOTHER AND FATHER LOVED AND MISSED ME!

BOY DID I FUCK UP! BOY AM I A LOSER! I AM THE MOST TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE WOMAN IN EXISTANCE!

The thing is, she doesn't believe that.
None of it.
Neither of them do.

They both know that they were lied to consistantly and with poor or more often no reason -or even continuity of plot, for Gods' sake. They weren't exempt from the games, the lies or the sickness. Oh HELL no.

But it seems like knowing that I am out here with this wound is drawing them to me like flies to sugar. Emily in particular. She has to play the hyenas' role and if it's the last thing she does, it will happen. She needs to be the playground bully. She needs to make me be a victim.
This freaks me out.
I cannot begin to tell you now much this freaks me out.
Someone has me targeted for a very specific and most likely public form of humiliation and pain.

Based on no facts. Only because the opportunity is there to push the knife in.

She will. She'll use a very intimate and painful and private thing from my life to skewer me with. It's all planned out and only the opportunity needs to arise.
I know this sounds paranoid. It is not. It genuinely describes two people from a family of similar people. A group of folks from whom I completely severed all contact more than twenty years ago.
Except apparently that won't do. I was absolutely nothing whatsover to them back in the day, except an object of contempt, but now that I'm removed from their circle I seem to have some kind of newfound, icky allure they find irresistable.

Does anyone know what I mean? How do you put something like this to rest? How do you end it? In my case, divorcing myself, cutting off all forms of contact, that wasn't enough. They followed my daughter around and harrassed her. They even coached their own son to follow her around and demand our phone number and address. Really!
What makes this really creepy and sick is that my phone number is listed. My address is too. It always has been.
It was harrassment. Subtle, sneaky, harrassment aimed at me, using my daughter as a dupe, who thinks I am an absolute paranoid loon for even thinking such a thing. You see how this works?
My daughter has no goddamn clue how this shit plays.
I was used in the exact same way when I was a kid. I know these moves. Oh, yes indeed. Children are nothing to these people. There are many, many good reasons I have no contact with them. They belong to what I can only describe as a tiny little family subculture of child abuse, alcoholism, battery and sexual crimes.

Oh, but they look so good.
So good.
So plausible.
So smooth.
You bet I'm still very wary.
You bet I'm still scared.
The price of freedom really is perpetual vigilance. And being thought of as a total paranoid loon.

It's like trying to leave the fricken' Mob.
______________

So in other words, yes: I was published last week, a month early, in the Betty Pages.
Under my real meatspace name.
And I am trippin my tits off.
All for you!