Witches, Spells, and Bitch Habits

This fall I've been thinking a lot about the power of spell-casting: what it is and can be, whether you believe in magic(k) and witch/craft or not. And how much bitching and bitch energy is the casting of bad spells (and a counter-productive waste of energy).

Today I turned on a layer of "inspirational" sound in the form of Joe Dispenza talking all his (actually really useful) pseudoscientific bullshit and helpful guidance. I was reminded of his advice to break the habit of being yourself, and how much I've thought about that over the years since I first heard it and how it applies to me as a bitch. Do I want to keep being this bitch-ass self? Do I want to keep practicing being an asshole?

Think about it. Break the bitch habits. Cast better spells.

Wind Chimes

I really want to bitch about our cunt-ass neighbor's wind chimes, but the truth is ... they really don't bother me. I mean ... I might even actually kind of like them.

Still. Where do you get the fucking entitlement to fucking hang some noisy-ass clangy-ass shit up and FORCE ALL OF YOUR NEIGHBORS TO LISTEN TO IT DAY AND NIGHT?!?!? Like ... where do you get off?

She's probably using them to ward off evil spirits. Like the evil spirit she moved her self-centered ass in next to.

Me. The evil spirit is me.

I can appreciate the magic in it: using bells to dispel bad energy.

I'm not really an evil spirit. But I can see how other people might perceive me as such. And GOOD. *****GOOOOOOOD****** I'm glad you fucking think so. Stay the fuck away from me.

And maybe try not to be such bitch-ass self-wanking pretentious inconsiderate motherfuckers over there.

Throwback Thursday: Assistant Fantasies of 2020

A post I made then hid a few years ago near the beginning of the pandemic response / pre-vaccines: appropriately revisited today as I currently struggle to prepare and file our late-late 2023 taxes, and feel all-too-near incompetent.

June 17, 2020

I have this fucked up idea in my head that if I were succeeding at life & work, & that was evident to everyone, that I'd never have to feel guilty or try to articulate an explanation for why I can really only interact with people an average of 15 minutes a day (which means ZERO a bunch of days) without my whole being disintegrating into a pile of raveous, barbed MUSH-diarrhea.

Everyone would just be like ... "B’s very successful plate is full, no wonder she has ceased communication & time-spending with everyone except her wife." For an average of 15 minutes a day. Because I would have a personal assistant. The kind who picks out really great gifts, & nobody would think "oh, *B* didn't actually put any effort into that ... it's her poor underappreciated PA doing all of the loving effort". No, they would KNOW my PA couldn't have been so thoughtful on their own & sent just the right thing on time very time, not without me giving them all of the most loving pertinent info, and wads of my very successful cash, and generous wonders to people who didn't even know that I cared or even knew about their stupid fucking birthday.

My social anxiety is such that I really hope more people die of coronavirus AND SOON so I don't have to explain that all of the words in my word basket got dropped & scattered around & I can't put them in & take them out of my mouth in the right order so sorry I can't even *read* your messages because then you'll just be even madder when all I do is hit THUMBS UP & go back into disappear mode.

And since nobody will prescribe me benzos I will just go prescribe myself ice cream & salt & vinegar chips & cured meats & fizzzzzzz & chilibowls & tacos & that over-the-counter lithium that hasn't been properly tested & probably destroys all of the kidneys that eat it.

But I do want an assistant. One whose feelings never get hurt & ALSO prefers the efficiency of no pleases or thank yous, and would never write a passive-aggressive Nanny Diaries Wear Prada book via twitter & would sign that NDA like she really means it, and winkingly dish out gold stars even when I barely deserve them. And respond to texts & messages & VMs on my behalf in such a way that I would never, ever have to decline any invitations myself or wonder how to say the right things. I could just not say anything.

BUT KNOW THIS: you're going to love the extravagant doohickies I have custom-made & sent to you very special delivery with the most elegant hand-tooled keepsake gift boxes. And the next thing you know, in 7 years I emerge on an elevated platform with a protective forcefield of light as a very pink but still bearded more (spiritually & ethically, not raci...omfg) evolved Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh who would never let those e-coli murders get so out of hand. Because if I'm going to feel this drained, I should at least have all the money & spiritual followers of a J(iz)Z Knight.

“It Costs Nothing To Be Kind”

I am so fucking sick of seeing this shit “it costs nothing to be kind.” “It costs nothing to be nice.” “It costs nothing to be a decent human being.”

I wouldn’t trust a dumb fuck with a dollar who says some dumb shit like that. You think being nice is FREE? You think there is an abundance of effortless zero-cost kindness TIME and energy just there for the taking? You wouldn’t know what to do with a calculator and you have no idea how to add and subtract debts. Do not give this person a line of personal credit because they’ll be overlimit in no time. DUMB AS FUCK.

You know the worst thing about these stupid dumb shit sayings making it sound like kindness is effortless and done without any kind of costly energetic expenditure? IT FUCKING DIMINISHES THE GIFTS OF PEOPLE WHO *ARE* KIND. IT MAKES IT SOUND LIKE ANYBODY COULD DO THE KINDNESSES OTHER PEOPLE HAVE DONE WHEN THEY ABSOLUTELY COULD *NOT*.

Most recently seen on a post about the recently departed and absolutely mythological Kris Kristofferson when he stood up for Sinead O’connor: “The time Kris Kristofferson consoled Sinead O'Connor after she was booed mercilessly for telling the truth on SNL in 1992. It costs nothing to be a decent human being. “

LMAO YOU DUMB SHIT MOTHERFUCKER(s).

This ranks right up there with “you got this!” in my book of barfworthy WRONG-ASS inspo bullshit sayings.

Stop devaluing acts of kindness.

Stop making the love and hard-won decision-making-abilities of people in extraordinary and challenging circumstances with extremely checkered and difficult pasts and brain wiring sound easy, because they rarely are or we’d live in a much kinder world.

Love and kindness AREN’T actually free. They are quite often costly, effortful, time-sucking, and/or noteworthy for their exceptionality.

If we had all this sweetness in overstock, your counterproductive inspo posts featuring acts of kindness  (while simultaneously diminishing their worth) wouldn't be so valuable (and people wouldn't be running around STAGING the shit, as social media influencers all-too-often do). It is only because genuine kindness and being nice is the exception and not the rule that it is worth mentioning to your followers.

It's like masking; when folks run around saying "putting on a mass is the least you can do" and "it it's easy", I want to SCREAM because it is NOT easy, and it is NOT the least one can do. It is actually quite difficult, to the point of being a handicap, to many many many of us, or at least takes some practice and adaptation to get to the point where it feels easIER. My point is that you are not going to encourage somebody to do something that is actually a challenge or hard or time-consuming or unpleasant or costly or does not come naturally or that they have a resistance to, for whatever reason, BY SAYING IT IS EASY &/OR COSTS NOTHING. When those of us who are neurodivergent, for example, ABSOLUTELY KNOW THIS IS NOT TRUE AND YOU HAVE JUST UNDERMINED YOURSELF COMPLETELY AND DEMONSTRATED YOU ARE STUPID AND/OR NOT TO BE TRUSTED.

Seriously. I am ALL FOR KINDNESS (and very pro-masking, too), but you're dead fucking wrong about either of them being free and easy. It makes people feel badly, angry, AND/or DISEMPOWERED, INCAPABLE AND INCOMPETENT when you say stupid-ass shit like this.

If you think that the reason people are not kinder is because they can't afford another debit appearing in their checking account, you are being willfully ignorant and insulting.

Neurodivergence & Bitches: Post on Hold

 I just started writing a post about neurodivergence in women being mistaken for being a bitch (and/or maladaptive workaround attempts and burnout etc manifesting as bitchy behavior). 

So I started listing just a few reasons why I know I am a diagnosable weirdo, following a few up with cursory google searches to verify the connections between the behaviors/traits/experiences/symptoms/comorbidities and autism … and I started crying.

Anyhoo … I couldn’t quite wrap up the original post due to being faced with another gentle reminder that maybe it actually *would* be helpful to have a diagnosis.

EAT (comma) SHIT and DIE

Every so often — TOO often — I find my mouth forming this curse: EAT SHIT AND DIE, motherfucker(s).

And just as often I find myself wanting to take it back. To reel it in just a bit, even though nobody heard me say it. In fact, the people I usually aim that curse at are, most of the time, not even aware I exist, let alone listening to me or even within hearing range. So why do I feel guilty about it?

Even in my bitchiest moods and full of most-righteous fury, I’m aware that “eat shit and die” is pretty fucking harsh. Like, you could write off the “EAT SHIT” part as a colorful figure of speech not meant to be taken literally, but “DIE” is so explicit. Succinct. Final. And, almost all of the time, I do not actually wish death upon the people I hurl this curse at in my head.

Most of the time in recent years, I catch myself when I venomously mutter “EAT SHIT AND DIE”. I catch myself in full awareness that even if someone could stand to be, like, reprimanded or issued some kind of citation, the punishment of eating shit and dying is going WAY overboard and pretty much uncalled for.

The thing I’m usually really mad and frustrated about is that there is unlikely to be any reasonable consequence or learning or positive change that will take place. A huge portion of my ire and extreme cursing are at the state of affairs that will allow some person’s shitty behavior to continue unchecked or even acknowledged. It’s that frustration and hopelessness that leads, I think, to just wanting to completely eradicate the source of the behavior after illustrating in the most cruel and obscene way how filthy their actions are. It’s a defense mechanism that goes further than merely blocking an arrow, but driving a whole entire homemade tank over the perceived shooter.

The more I listen to the Daily Stoic, the more I’ve found myself halting before the entire “eat shit and die” curse gets out of my mouth. In fact, I started modifying the curse into a “mememto mori”-inspired reminder to myself. A reminder that I am in charge of one person, and my job in life is to stay right-sized and in control of mySELF. I did this by adding adding a comma to the curse, and turning it back around on myself:

Eat, shit, and die.

These are my priorities. These are what I should be concerned with.

I need to concern myself with eating, shitting, and being aware that I am dying. We all are.

It is not my job to mete out punishment, especially for what are usually extremely petty crimes relative to how many people are struggling to eat (or to restrain ourselves from eating too much / the wrong things). How many people do not have access to food, running water, a place to shower or a place to even shit and wash their hands afterwards. How many of our bodies are so busy with bullshit and/or pampered with not enough physical movement and too much food that’s bad for us that we cannot shit right ourselves, even with our own private bathrooms and access to healthy food, clean water, and opportunities to unbind ourselves.

How many times have I been angry at people for something that doesn’t tangibly interfere with my ability to eat or shit? Too many times. So I’m bringing myself back to these basic human-animal needs. Bringing myself back to check on how well or how poorly I am taking care of myself to insure AND RECOGNIZING THAT THIS PERSON I’M MAD AT IS NOT MY PROBLEM. This person I am mad at hasn’t done a single fucking thing to stop me from eating or shitting, while I myself continue to lack the discipline, clarity and control to be healthy in my body even with all of the advantages and privileges and good fortune I have. And that my intense emotion directed at strangers and people who are not doing measurable or intentional harm to me is totally upside-down relative to the gratitude I should be feeling EVERY FUCKING DAY for my good fortune. My indoor plumbing and privacy. My ability to procure food almost whenever I want it from a mind-boggling array of luxurious tasty choices inconceivable to the vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaast majority of human beings who’ve lived on planet earth at one time or another. HOW CAN A BITCH BE SO FUCKING MAD WITH ALL OF THIS GOOD FORTUNE?!?!?

How can I justify wasting a morsel of energy cursing people to “eat shit and die” — wishing ANY harm to anyone, no matter how fleeting, unintended, or ineffectual — when I have a cornucopia of resources available to make not only my own life so much happier and healthier and GOOD, but other people’s too? How can I pretend I’m making anything better by inflicting MORE SUFFERING (primarily on myself) in the uncomfortable and ignoble moment of making this curse?

Instead I should take each of these opportunities when I habitually wish for someone to “eat shit and die” to look at myself and what I am or am not doing to live life fully, present to alllllllllllllllllllllllllll of the amazing lucky awesomeness I’ve been given, and am cushioned and fed by. Look inward and what I can possibly do with my bounty and aliveness to be fruitful and multiply happiness and peace and sensitivity to all of the amazing sweet things that are going RIGHT all around me, all of the time.

“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” -Marcus Aurelius

I want to remember that I am going to fucking die, and it’s likely to be before I’m ready. Before I’m finished sucking the marrow out of life. Do I want to waste even a breath of life wishing suffering, disease and death on strangers? Do I want to quit the jobs that are actually mine to do in order to serve as 24/7 self-appointed judge and executioner in my own imaginary small claims court of trivial offenses? NO.

So I am practicing reminding myself to just eat, shit, and die. And once I’ve mastered those tasks (if that’s even possible), to make better choices with my time, energy and spirit than cursing my fellows.

Some Noises I *LOVE*

 I complain about noisy people a lot: people’s noisy machines, people’s noisy dogs,  people’s noisy fucking phone calls, and people’s useless fucking alarms. I fucking HATE that shit. It’s distressing, distracting, rude, self-centered and tyrannical.

But I don’t actually hate *people* in general or even all of the noises we people make. Even though I might say I do, that’s usually an exaggeration made in defensive frustration.

FOR INSTANCE:

I love the sound of church bells - any time of day or night.

I love the sound of a clocktower bonging on the hour. 

I love the sound of people fucking.

I love our town’s weekly tsunami “siren” test that sounds like a Close Encounters of the Third Kind alien communique.

And (this may come as a big surprise, but) I actually love the sound of children at play.

FOR INSTANCE:

We live near a daycare. Run by an old-fashioned woman who DOES NOT ALLOW THE KIDS TO SCREAM. They make a lot of jolly noise, but none of those piercing emergent injury or stranger danger types of blood-curdling bullshit contemporary breeders seem to encourage and/or ignore while they’re busy on instagram and texting their polyam prospects.

So the other day as the garbage truck was making its rounds through the neighborhood, I heard it down at the end of the block HONKING … followed by the daycare kids CHEERING and LAUGHING. BEST SOUNDS EVER!

I could picture exactly what was going on: the kids waving maniacally at the garbage man, begging him to honk the horn … and the garbage man waving back and making the merry foghorn blasts they requested, and them being so delighted to be acknowledged and honored by the neat-o garbage truck man.

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE  LOVE 

Small Dog Yapping

Our other new neighbor must have just moved in for real. His lights are on at night for pretty much the first time.

It is Labor Day weekend. The Sunday night before the actual holiday. about 9:30 pm.

The whole neighborhood, for once, is actually very peaceful. Except for one thing:

HIS FUCKING LITTLE YIPPING LAP DOG. It just. Won't. Stop.

I don't know if it's a situation where the dog is not used to the new neighborhood or if the people are just not home and left the dog outside with the lights on inside. Or if it's a situation where people just don't fucking care about anybody around them OR their dog.

It's the end of the summer and quite warm, so we need to have windows open to keep air circulating, not get overheated, and be able to sleep. HOW LONG IS THIS PIERCING YIPPING GOING TO CONTINUE? It's fucking INSANE.

I hate people.

Fuck The SUN

:: the beginning of August, 2024 - western Washington state ::

Fuck this fucking SUN. Give it a fucking rest, already! Can we have some fucking clouds??? Some motherfucking clouds that release RAIN?

Oh yeah ... we *have* had some nice foggy, overcast mornings. Today, for instance. So much like yesterday. Where you wake up and think, "finally some PEACE ... some light diffusion ... some softness." But by the time you spend the best of your energy doing chores and dealing with fucking BULLSHIT, that beautiful grey layer of safety is YANKED AWAY and that cuntface fire fuck is blasting daggers of sizzling bright cook-your-eyeballs energy right at your poor aching migraine head, and making it too hot to lay down and take a nap.

I want to fucking puke. I want to tell everybody to stop saying it's a nice day. It's not a nice day. It's a shit day of too much motherfucking sunshine. Stick the sun up your fucking stupid summer-vacation asses, buttcunts.

This light is KILLING ME.

Royal Pain in the Match

Why I won’t ever play the popular free game “Royal Match”.

WARNING: this gets a bit dark and deeply unpleasant, and may be triggering.

Save the king in Royal Match puzzle game before he DROWNS!

I hate that sniveling grotesque quaking king in the game ads. The sound of his quivering warbling fear disgusts me.

Other people apparently have fun saving him, but I just want the fucker to hurry up and die. Drown, get eaten by the snake, burn yourself up … I fucking hate him. I hate seeing him, I hate hearing him, and nothing about him makes me want to play that game.

I don't think I realized how much the Royal Match King in the ads upsets me until I was making temporary friends with someone on a cross-country train ride. We were talking about apps and games we enjoy, and she brought up Royal Match. I could see the look of horror on her face as I suddenly morphed into a raging spitting bitch, declaring how much I hate The King. I know my entire visage melted into monstrous ugliness as I expressed my vehement disgust with this cartoon character guy that apparently other people think is cute?

This guy is not worth saving, let alone hurrying to help him.

I say this as someone who loves a lot of match3 games (obviously, if I’ve seen so many Royal Match ads that I’m this annoyed by the king in peril - I’ve got to be seeing these ads for the game somewhere).

Writing this post made me google a bit about the Royal Match game. I quickly found out via this post at OldCynic.com that the king-in-peril isn’t actually featured all that much in the game at all! He says,

… the Royal Match app is just like the ads; in that you can rescue the King! But, it’s rare. It’s only on Special levels called the King’s Nightmare.

The old cynic goes on to say that you can even SKIP the save-the-king levels. Phew!

So having read that, do I now want to install and play Royal Match to fuel my match 3 game addiction knowing I do not actually have to see or hear the inept King moron?

NOPE.

Because I don’t just hate the king. In fact, I think the whole entire game is UGLY.

Yup ... even a droopy-brained dog is better at chess than the nose-picking king.

The colors are ugly. The shapes are ugly. The whole look of the Royal Match game is gross and depressing. Compared to other popular match3 puzzle games like Candy Crush, Bejeweled Blitz, and Empires and Puzzles, the design and the sounds are just fucking ugly. Nothing about it is cute or dazzlingly-illuminated or joyful.

I think one of the main problems I have with the game that is not about aesthetics is the message to “HURRY UP”. Hurry up and save this incompetent man with a lazy face who clearly doesn’t even possess a sense of urgency to suck up his own drool in time before it falls and drips down his royal vestments. Have empathy for this king who doesn’t deserve his throne and is going to get the whole kingdom in trouble. I don’t want to be told in ugly bubble letter words to hurry when I’m relaxing, and I don’t want to think about a story where I’m supposed to empathize with anyone, let alone this swollen-lipped stooge. That is not a fun escape (for me, anyway).

Telling me to HURRY UP to save this dumb shit motherfucker doesn't sound relaxing.
Just drown already and let me play a game that is actually pleasurable.

It’s possible that the ads are the problem, not the game itself, and they’re just pitching it to people who are not at all like I am. But of course I wouldn’t know, because the ads are so extremely off-putting to me I will never ever try this game even though it’s possible I might actually enjoy it. I am a person who cannot even bear to have photos of people I love on my desk or hanging on my walls because it’s so stressful and distracting and confrontational, seeing faces and smiles and eye contact. Even when it’s just a flat static image and not an actual human. Like what do you want from me now?!? Oh my god you’ve got feelings on your faces and I’ve got to do something about your feelings and respond to them and I am sure to fail can I not just concentrate on my work for a while? Please leave me the fuck alone with my naturally-flat facial affect!! Who the fuck let you in here?!?

Seriously, the king is almost like my fucked-up stepdad and I’m being told how bad I make him feel by not being more loving towards him. “Help me! Help me!” It’s gross and terrible. I don’t want to save him or be more loving, I just want him to fucking disappear and never open the bathroom door on me again when I’m on the toilet or naked on the precipice of showering.

Royal Match doesn’t look or sound like a charming addictive pleasurable escape into a rainbow bright grid of sweet electric magic with music and sound effects carrying you along on a rewarding easy magic carpet ride. Instead it looks like a second-hand dungeon of seventies furniture. It’s so ugly you can almost smell the mustard and brown plaid couches with the king leaking stale fried chicken and gravy out of his royal ass in a nightmare that takes place at the sadly-run-down Excalibur hotel and casino in Las Vegas.

Royal Match seems like a free buffet in a dingy basement with diarrhea dripping down the walls mixed with the smell of watery overheated green beans all mushing around out of a can, where every metal tub of food reeks of e coli and salmonella and is served by greasy-haired minions wearing unruly sticky comb-overs and filthy aprons with shit under their fingernails.

In the nightmare that is Royal Match’s buffet of kingly peril, you’re invited to load up your plates trying not to slip and crack your head open on cheap steaming moist tiles grouted together with black mold and feces before you try to choke down this absolutely diseased blended-squash-and-rotten-liquified-meat-and-green-peas mush, on the verge of vomiting but being forced to try to swallow it as fast as you can in an act of fealty to this worthless thumb-sucking motherfucker the king.

All the while the king is stuffing his face at the head table making the most pathetic obscene noises as his gastrointestinal distress increases and threatens to explode in a b-movie’s special effects version of a burst colon. What, is he about to cry now? Snot dripping down into his smelly-ass thick facial hair where it will congeal and broadcast an aroma of rotten teeth and stale man-breath?

It’s deeply unpleasant how writing this made me realize how much the king in this stupid game’s ads triggers a morass of extremely yucky feelings about my stepdad. I never made the connection before, but I can see now that it stirs up so many conflicted distressing messages and feelings I received as a child and teen, and memories of actually empathizing WAY TOO MUCH with people like my stepdad who were big gross self-serving unhinged babies and not to be trusted or forced to live with.

I just want to put this nasty bug-eyed fucker out of his misery. The king is beyond saving. I’ll play almost any match 3 game but not this one. I don’t care if it doesn’t have ads. You’d have to pay ME to put up with grotesque nightmare of unfun.

These Goddamned HAIRS

I fucking can't stand HAIRS. Especially my own long strands of bullshit: on the counter, in the sink ... getting wrapped around my fingers.

It drives me crazy: the sensations, their menacing wispy omnipresence. Their motherfucking DEFIANCE.

There is something so fucking gross about them all curled up in slimy wet kitchen moisture when im trying to wipe up the counters.

They are like inanimate ninjas. Tiny tickling ghost zombie legions borne of my own stupid fucking head and its relentless SPINNING SPINNING SPINNING and shedding. Trailing long thin poltergeists of death everywhere I go.

Pedestal STINKS: II

As I try to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube and onto my toothbrush, I am reminded again how fucking much PEDESTAL SINKS SUCK!

It's painful enough trying with all the might of my tiny fingers to squeeze any lingering remnants of toothpaste out of a spent tube, but INFURIATING not being able to keep the wee bit of toothpaste extended far enough AND STAY THERE long enough to apply it to the bristles.

It's comical, really. Squeeze with both hands and EMERGE! Let go with one hand to grab toothbrush and ... IT DISAPPEARS!! SQUEEZE! EMERGE! GRAB! DISAPPEAR!

If I had a reliable flat surface to set my fucking toothbrush on and didn't have to HOLD it, THIS WOULDN'T BE A FUCKING PROBLEM. But oh ... PEDESTAL SINK. How fucking ELEGANT and shit this is, half-useless as fuck. There is not enough room to set the toothbrush down without it falling off the edge onto the dirty fucking floor, or just tipping over right at the critical moment because of those soap-holder bumps.

this shit is precarious as fuck, no?

With the house we live in now I'm less likely to totally blame the dude who built it. It's a unique and beautiful creation and we've been lucky to inhabit its spaces for years  He made it with a lot of second-hand and discarded materials, so it's likely the pedestal sink I'm complaining about was salvaged at low or no cost. Aesthetically, it's nice in the super-tiny bathroom space, too.

But from a practical standpoint? Dude ... it would have been fucking helpful to maximize the extremely limited space in this tiny bathroom with a sink with some built-in storage, or just one where if you set your toothbrush on the edge of the sink it wouldn't fucking fall straight into the fucking toilet, which is right next to the stupid sink.

Maybe he even intended to replace it with something better, because it's not even properly attached to the floor. Like, we can just rock it from side to side. It could be lifted clean off the floor, if someone were to be in the mood to pick up a pedestal sink. And I am often in the mood to pick up a pedestal sink, if only to THROW IT OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW, but there is only a skylight in this tiny bathroom, and I"m not quite strong enough to lift the sink above my head AND break the glass. Besides, it would lack dramatic catharsis and would probably not even fly off the roof, but would just land on its side and stay there ... a sink on a roof.

There are a lot of unfinished details in this house ... loose ends of wiring and switches and shit that didn't quite get connected up to actually function. But again, the house is uniquely beautiful, even if a lot of practical things are not fully-functional.

It's a small house, and compromises had to be made for him to fulfill his vision, I guess. Like this one tiny bathroom? It's the ONLY bathroom in the house, and it's UPSTAIRS. Up a beautiful, space-efficient, terrifyingly-steep and dangerous little winding set of stairs. There is no bathroom on the ground floor. It is the furthest thing from accessible for guests with balance issues or limited mobility, let alone anything more challenging. But I guess that's a nice excuse to not be able to host my elderly mom at our place? She's been known to sleepwalk, so even if she can get upstairs to sleep in our bed, I'm petrified she will plummet down the stairs and crack her damn head open if she toddles down the hallway to go pee (in this one bathroom located at the top of the stairs, where one who is unfamiliar with the house in the middle of the night could, even if not somnambulating, mistake the open bathroom door on the left for a closed bathroom door on the right, leading in actuality, when swung, TO THE DEEP DARK DEATH FUNNEL STAIRCASE OF DOOM).

But I digress.

The point I'm trying to make is about PEDESTAL SINKS, and how they are the most pretentious aesthetic dysfunctional insults to the civilized contemporary human with sanitation and storage needs.

If you have space in a bathroom for a fully-functional sink and surrounding surface, but instead choose to install a piece of shit pedestal, AT LEAST install a flat surface and storage adjacent to it. These could come in the form of a period-specific chest of low drawers with a tray placed atop it to be able to set a wet toothbrush whilst protecting the antique wood. I mean, that's just one idea. You fuckers are the ones with the money to "custom build" so you *should* have a superior intellect and problem-solving capabilities but OMG nevermind we all know that is not even remotely true how did you get so rich assholes not talking about our home-builder but like the people selling their homes for the bazillions of dollars with these POS sinks in them.

Stupid, Lazy or Inconsiderate: Just What IS it?

Our quiet residential corner was invaded YET AGAIN by shitty new neighbors running an unlicensed pop-up shop.

Unbeknownst to us, they've been advertising it online for a month with no warning or care given to the people most impacted by a rush of strangers told by them to park NOT ON THEIR STREET or property, but specifically on *our* street. Without any signage or cones or anything to discourage people blocking our driveway or the fire hydrant or our neighbor's parking spots or the trailhead.

So idiots being idiots, all of these fuckers ignore the whole entire street that is empty, and ALL DANGEROUSLY CLUSTER INTO THE CORNER. Blocking our driveway, blocking the fire hydrant, blocking the neighbors, and pulling directly onto the trail to park ON the trail.

I just want to know: WHAT IS IT, EXACTLY, WITH THESE ASSHOLES? Is it stupidity, laziness, inconsideration or a combination of all three?

Is it just ignorance and stupidity (not knowing laws about not parking in front of fire hydrants or within so many feet of an intersection or RECOGNIZING they've blocked somebody else's car in)? A total obliviousness to the heightened risk of crashing into other people?

Is it laziness? Like ah here we are I've arrived at the end of the street where the place is and I don't want to back up or go around the block to park in a safe spot, so I'll just park in the clearly WORST SPOT POSSIBLE and/or I don't want to park five or seven or ten car lengths away down the street and have to WALK all that way, so fuck it I'm going to park my lazy ass as close as possible!

Or is it just inconsideration? I believe this is it. A "me first" attitude in all things. Sure, the stupidity and laziness factor into it in most cases, but when confronting these people what you get is just total self-centered bullshit.

Like the one guy who parked DIRECTLY BLOCKING OUR DIRVEWAY. Before he got out I stormed out and was like, "REALLY?? ARE YOU *REALLY*? GOING TO PARK THERE BLOCKING IN OUR CAR?" And he played like a decrepit little boy with polio or something even though dude's like 67 years old. "I'm not going to be here long!" I'm like NO motherfucker.

And then the cunt (driving a Jetta because of course - see a volkswagon jetta and 9 times out of ten you're seeing a complete jerk) who parked in the blind corner directly in front of the fire hydrant. So I'm taking a picture of her stupid fucking car after she's almost across the street, and she notices and comes back and starts in with that bullshit that cunts who know better but don't care about anyone but themselves do, of "tell me what you need me to do", like she might do me a favor if I play along like I'm the one causing the problem.

I WAS NOT NICE. I am not getting paid to direct traffic. I'm like, that's a fire hydrant. You're parked in front of it. And I'm getting heated -- she's a fit, able-bodied semi-granola gal (no makeup, long wavy hair, but you know she shaves her areas ... like, natural but not TOO natural and does yoga for the hot bod more than the mindfulness) so there's no excuse to not park a little farther away instead of adding to the clusterfuck. It's just that she doesn't care.

So when I refuse to beg her to move her car and instead ask her the question (like seriously I'm just curious if it's laziness, stupidty or  pure inconsideration) she starts in about maybe if I asked NICELY like I don't have to BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. You're the stupid cunt, and I wouldn't be out here if you didn't do the dumb shit you just did. I'm not like some random angry troll who crawled out of the woodwork for NO REASON; I'm a human who lives here, being disturbed, suffering an assault on the senses, and being trespassed upon by a steady stream of shit-for-brain motherfuckers with so much time and money on their hands they just go around on a fucking Friday morning looking for random fucking crap to buy. I'm not getting paid to provide customer service; I'M NOT GETTING PAID OR COMPENSATED AT ALL TO PUT UP WITH THIS SHIT. So if you don't want people to come out of their homes and yell at you, don't drive into their neighborhoods and do stupid ass inconsiderate lazy fucking SHIT.

The May Day Drone of Lawnmowers

May Day might be my favorite holiday. In a perfect world, that is, where people recognize, respect and honor nature, the seasons and revel in the outdoors: specifically this time between spring equinox and summer solstice (Beltane) when the natural world around us is beginning to flower, the birds are singing, baby animals are exploring their new-to-them worlds on their own young feet, and the sunshine is almost in full bloom.

Or the old-fashioned anonymous flower-gifting tradition. Quietly creeping onto your neighbor's porch and leaving a bouquet of flowers. I LOVE THAT - it is my FAVORITE!

It's not a perfect world, though.

Instead, May Day was filled with the buzzing not of bees, but of people's gas-powered lawnmowers. Violently cutting back the green. The dandelions THAT SHOULD BE HONORED AS FOOD. Imposing this conformity of pollution and death on one another, violating even our eardrums. Making sure we drown out the small sounds of of life all around us that we should be celebrating.

PInk Grapefruit

When I have the tremendous privilege and pleasure of enjoying breakfast in a diner I like to order multiple beverages: both coffee AND juice. If it's an extra-special steak and eggs treat, I'll get a third beverage: ROOT BEER or some other sweet fizzy soda pop.

My juice of choice? GRAPEFRUIT. But first I have to ask, "is your grapefruit juice pink or ???"

All too often these days, they proudly and confidently reply, "PINK!" Like, of course that's the only reason a person would ask. Because they cannot stomach REAL grapefruit juice and need that pansy-ass barbie-pussy pink sweet watered-down tasting bullshit. And almost everyone these days defaults to this blasphemous half-assed fake fruit concoction.

But when *I* hear them say "PINK!" I'm like, JUST FORGET IT. I guess I'll just have orange juice. And even then, you're going to get some pulpless, no-meat, thin, watery shit, but at least it still tastes of some acid.

It really pisses me off, how difficult it is to even find REAL YELLOW-Y STRONG-ASS GRAPEFRUIT JUICE in stores. Instead it's all this flaccid pink-in-plastic sissy-ass shit.

I WANT MY MOUTH TO PUCKER, FUCKERS! GET IT RIGHT!

WHY EVEN PUT THAT PINK SHIT ON A MENU?!?

DON'T ORDER GRAPEFRUIT JUICE IF YOU DON'T LIKE GRAPEFRUIT JUICE!

Give these fuckers who want pink grapefruit juice fucking HI-C or kool-aid or some other watered-down pastel-colored crap.

*****

There should be diners for people who like real food. Hard-boiled egg types of fuckers who want actual blood pudding, dill pickles, and pulpy sour-ass JUICE.

I'm so sick of people mocking folks who don't want to eat stuff with wheat fillers or who are lactose intolerant and don't want milk or butter added to EVERY MOTHERFUCKING THING AUTOMATICALLY, but these same bullies making fun of people who understand most adults don't produce enzymes to digest milk BECAUSE WE'RE NO LONGER FUCKING BABIES are the same immature crybabies who want their food SO FUCKING BLAND as to be nutritionally void user-friendly ultra-familiar CRAP. Oh, you want your steak WELL-DONE and your grapefruit juice PINK; I get it. You have no palate and you can't be trusted with resources - you will just ruin all of the best things, like actual FRUIT JUICE and BLOODY ANIMAL FLESH. Do you want mommy to cut your crust off for you too, you fucking picky brats?

That also brings me to the subject of "home fries". Why would I go to a diner to get potato wedges? NO. I want SHREDDED HASH-BROWNS. FRIED.

If you can't make hash browns, don't even bother offering breakfast in your restaurant. You can't be trusted to fry an egg or fry a burger or fry ANYTHING. I don't want your shit if you don't have SHREDDED GOLDEN HASHBROWNS. And not like an oblong McDonald's potato puck (though AT MCDONALD'S, I am okay with those). Shred the fucking potatoes and fry the fucking potatoes in SHORTNING (not butter) and you should be able to get them crispy WITHOUT DREDGING THEM IN WHEAT FLOUR, you cheating lazy-ass dumb fucks.

Here's the deal: when I order steak and eggs I want the whole experience. The yolks running all over my crispy-on-the-outside shredded hashbrowns, dragging bits of medium-rare or actually-rare meat through all of it. Washing it down with coffee, grapefruit juice and root beer: all kinds of potent contrasting flavors and textures. YUM YUM YUM YUM.

If you can't appreciate that, stick with cans of spaghetti-o's or whatever soft "food" you're into AT HOME.

One Asshole A Day vs YOU

 

“If you run into an asshole in the morning, you ran into an asshole. If you run into assholes all day, you're the asshole.”
    -Raylan Givens - created by Elmore Leonard

Good point.

Something to think about.

I haven't read the books or watched the shows, so my take away is based purely on this quote, knowing nothing about the context.

Here's what I get out of it:

It's not that the world isn't overpopulated with assholes.

It's not that it's unlikely you'll encounter more than one asshole throughout the day.

It's that if you're going through your day and it's just one asshole after another, and that's your entire perception of everyone you encounter, then the problem you're having is with yourself. You're the one making your entire day miserable, and it's likely that someone who does that to themselves is exuding major asshole vibes themselves.

A little bit law of attraction-ish. Not that I believe in that exactly, but maybe you get what you give.

 

Sick In Public

After all the bitching about people exposing others to their contagions, now I am one of them. And I don't even feel that bad about it.

Maybe I'm too sick to invest energy in shame.

Sleeping With the Enemy

This week I've been sleeping with the enemy: NOISE.

But it's not making me feel bitchy, mad, or resentful. Sleep-deprived? Yeah. But fine with it.

I guess because I'm on an adventure? Or because none of the noise I've been hearing comes from neighbors at home.  Instead it adds color to my journey.

Tonight is particular loud. Loud music, cars, and movies on the street below. But I'm going to sleep pretty great tonight. With the sounds pr9viding an extra layer of adventurous comfort and companionship, reminding me where I am.

Can They Hear Me Swearing?

There's been some neighborhood quiet lately. And beautiful spring rain.

I'm starting to worry that *I'm* the noisy one.

Like when I get frustrated and explode out loud, "ARE YOU FUCKING *KIDDING* ME?!?!" when something doesn't go my way.

I'm not actually asking anyone. I'm home/at work alone. I'm just inquiring of "the universe", I guess you could call it.

Should I even care? Like ... maybe it's good if everyone in the neighborhood knows there's an asshole with an explosive temper  in residence.

When the Thingy Just Comes Off In Your Hand

So tired. So so so fucking tired. Just trying to get through one. More. Thing and eventually get to bed and get to sleep for a minute before being woken up again by involuntary vomit filling your mouth and waking you up to the burning lava before you drown.

You reach to close the slats of the blinds against the night and the neighbors' eyes. And the stupid twisty pole-stick thingy just comes right out into your hands. Just quietly detaches to add to the futility and you just let it drop. Just let that useless-ass stick that gave up functionality just drop the same way you drop your tired puffy aching stupid fat head and slap your whole face down into your too-small hands that just can't even begin to carry all of the weight you've accumulated and saddled yourself with.

One bill at a time. One fork at a time. Another fucking night at a time.

Is it true that some people really wake up ready and well-rested for their day? How does one get that to occur?

All I know is this fucking stick-wand-thingy is still going to be here tomorrow, on the fucking floor on a bed of soft decaying piles of my shed head hair, right under the window where everyone can see in and knows I am an old bitch-ass sloppy-as-fuck sack of shit.

Annoying Ways to Refer to Interstates in Washington: I-5 vs "The" 5

Laughed wryly at this video of a man's furious extra-dramatic rant depicting "Washington natives when a transplant says 'The 5' instead of I-5" (via @rjromain who says "t’s like dragging your nails across a chalkboard for the born and raised lol #seattle #seattlewa #seattlewashington #pnw #tacoma #washingtonstate #pyuallup"):

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As a 4th+ generation Washingtonian who grew up near the crotch  of I-90 and I-5, this doesn't annoy me as much as people calling Puget Sound "the ocean", but ... yeah. I do mentally assign demerits to people who say "the" instead of "eye".

Modest proposal: you must pay five-times pricier tabs if you give directions like this or refer to interstates in Washington this way, or say "THE 520" or "THE 405" instead of just fucking 520 or 405. 

You just TAKE 405, not take "take THE 405". Like ... we don't need that extra pretentious California verbage cluttering up our shit for NO GOOD REASON. And I don't need to insert a fancy i as in verbiage for you to know exactly what I'm talking about.

GARBAGE IN, GARBAGE OUT.

And if you don't like "Seattle" or the way people have been doing shit here for decades or more, WHY DID YOU FUCKING MOVE HERE? You didn't fucking know we lived here and had ways of doing things before you fucking tailgating, California-stopping, road-raging assholes inserted yourselves and brought all that smog with you? And don't even get me started on crazy cult-mindset motherfuckers from Idaho, Utah, Arizona, etc. infiltrating like that stupid selfish shithole cunt who moved to Redmond and things he's going to be the new and improved Tim Fucking Eyman.

A Peaceful Rantless Moment

How happy it made me, sitting on a plastic stool on our front stoop on a fully-formed spring day during a moment of neighborhood quiet, seeing someone walking a dog. Quietly ambling together. No phone in her hand. Just her and the dog. Walking. Together.

Back When We Only Had Scanners

I miss the days before facebook when you had to get a scanner if you wanted to eavesdrop on local tragedy porn and gossip.

Now every motherfucker is on facebook and "nextdoor" and whatever the fuck putting on grotesque shows pretending their interest in the most macabre accidents and crimes is prompted by genuine concern for their fellow men and neighbors.

That shit belongs in your grandpa's garage, not publicly displayed on the internet.

OH GOSH I HOPE EVERYONE'S ALRIGHT THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS DO YOU KNOW WHO IT WAS WHAT WAS THE VEHICLE CAN YOU DESCRIBE EXACTLY WHERE IT HAPPENED OH THAT POOR BABY DOES ANYONE KNOW IF ITS MOTHER WAS AN ADDICT IS IT POSSIBLE I CAN  VERBALLY TONGUEFUCK A FIREMAN'S SMOKEY FURBALL ANUS FOR HIS HEROIC BRAVERY AND RESCUE ATTEMPTS PLEASE NOTICE ME HOW MUCH I CARE I AM NOT MERELY CURIOUS BUT ENTITLED TO THE MOST INTIMATE HORRIFIC DETAILS BECAUSE I CARE SO EXTREMELY MUCH I'M CRYING CAN YOU SEE MY EMOJIREACTS WITH THE TEARS CASCADING DOWN MY FACE WHILE I MASTURBATE MY EMOTIONAL VISCERA OVER TOTAL STRANGERS WHOSE LIVES I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING BUSINESS KNOWING THIS MUCH ABOUT

I get the macabre curiosity. I get the desire to gossip. I really do. What I don't get it is the entitlement and the barfy-weird-ass advertisement and hours invested in checking and posting and desperately waiting for NOTIFICATIONS of some potential new gory tidbit of calamity.

What a fucking shitshow of grody shameless "social" parading and poking, and on top of it squatting on it when they can to piggyback their stupid fucking irrelevant selfish-ass political agendas and willfully ignorant opinions.

The Most Abhorrent Thing About Being Miserable

One of the most abhorrent things about feeling horrible is not wanting to feel better -- actively RESISTING feeling better -- because you think everything will get worse if you feel okay (or, God forbid, GOOD), and you believe feeling horrible is the only way to solve problems and avert disaster.

On top of that you think you're doing damage control by letting people see how shitty you feel about yourself, hoping they will have mercy upon you and not make things worse or try to point out your sisns that you already openly cop to.

Is it some kind of an Irish Catholic DNA problem? Or just a general miserable-bitch malaise?