Professional Attributes

There are times in our lives when we meet people we just do not get along with professionallly. The closed-minded boss, the coworker who thinks you should do things just a little (or a lot) differently, constantly ranting about their vast cosmic superiority within the realm of their half-cubicle. These people are something you must learn to get along with, even if you sometimes want to punch them in their fucking face.

I am not a particularly patient person when it comes to disagreements, so--in an effort to counteract that fact--I also try very hard to be a very non-confrontational person. Sometimes this does not work very well. Most of the time, actually.

When I believe in something strongly, I feel that it is very important that I am at least heard out. If I feel that I am not being listened to, or that my ideas are thrown out without so much as an attempt at consideration, I get very frustrated very quickly. I also have a tendency to be petty and speak before I think. I am very good at being a bitch; quite the proficient little cunt, I am.

It is the unfortunate combination of these two that tends to cause rather abrasive circumstances, that then lead to poorly-handled situations. I feel that the only way I can escape my frustration, my anger, my outrage at being ignored and brushed aside, is by spitting out whatever jabs and daggers my quick little tongue can slip out. It's not a silver tongue, no, that would be rather pleasing to the ear, and people wouldn't cringe when I reach this level of irrationality. No, I'd have to say it's more like iron: heavy, crude, strong and piercing.

I kind of wish I didn't have this attribute--it gets me into more trouble than I'd like to admit, and it can tend to torpedo my professional relationships in a way that is rarely--if ever--reparable. But, without it, I am also not the bitch I have come to love so much. So, I guess.....fuck you guys.

Why Worms Are Gross: A Limerick

Worms are disgusting, you know that that's true.
I really hate worms, you should hate them, too.

Worms are fucked up, few things are much worse,
Allow me to show you, or explain in verse:

Tapeworms are foul, they live in your ass,
Eating your shit, which comes out real fast.

Pinworms are nasty, their eggs float on dust specks,
Just think about that, next time you have sex.

Worms can be parasites, they'll make you feel sick,
Some anal worms are removed with a stick.

Some worms have teeth, I mean, like, fuck tons,
Bleeding circles of death, why have just one?

They're creepy fuckers, that is a fact,
Like Satan's dick dipped in sludge, alive in your tract.

I hate worms so much, I hope you see why,
When I hope those cunts drown, perhaps now you'll see why.

But they're still not as gross as frogs.

Proof that I am a genius. Also, I need sleep.

Last week, I discovered a few things. One of these things was that you should definitely NOT go to hot yoga, sweat out a pound and a half of water weight and then go hit the bars. This is a terrible life choice.

The other thing I discovered, happily, was that the Marvel needs an X-men called The Honey Badger. Of course, when I say "discovered," I mean drunkenly decided. Same thing, when you get down to brass tacks.

Anyways, this hero. Or Heroine, I suppose. I mean, really, this thing has to be a femme. I'm just being honest. Let's look at my always-flawless reasoning, shall we?

       1. Honey Badgers, as you all know, are creepy asshole fucks. They take on things that are either twice their size or three times as deadly (occasionally both), and fuck. That. Thing. Up. A Honey Badger would kick Wolverine's ass and then proceed to go fuck the shit out of Benedict Cumberbatch, all the while screaming "TAKE me, thinking woman's crumpet, TAKE ME!" But then she'd take him. Cause that's how The Honey Badger does things.

       2. Being an X-men, she'd also have a mutation. She'd, like, be able to overcome fear. Yeah, yeah that. And what else? Oh! She'd be, like, freaky calm, 'cause the Honey Badger don't give a shit. Just calm, cool and collected. And then--wha-BAM! Death and dishonor! Who else could be cold and calm before devouring your soul with a side of cream? Cyclops? Fuck Cyclops. Only she wouldn't. Because she's The Honey Badger. Also no one should.

3. Marvel really hasn't stepped up their game in the "new character" department lately. Granted, they do already have a slew of fantastic ones to choose from, but I think that this also kinda only further proves my point. Why invent new stuff when you can keep throwing money at the old stuff? A new character would do wonders to refresh the Marvel name.

       4. Stan Lee. I really shouldn't have to go into further detail with this one, but I shall. The guy is probably gonna be taken up in those heavenly flaming (did someone say fabulous?) chariots any day now, and, until then, he's whoring himself out for $500 bucks a pop to whatever hapless comic con nerd is willing to shell out the cash in order to feel somewhat loved by a father figure for once in his life. Take ME to the comic cons, I will talk to the nerds for free. Also, I will tell them anything they want to know about their new favorite character, The Honey Badger. Except for those crucial upcoming plot twists, amirite? Eh? Anybody? No? No.

       As you can see, Marvel, I have generously provided you with an artist's rendition of what I think THB should look like:

I promise you that this is in no way just an MS Paint cover-up of X-23 with a slightly different outfit, and she is most definitely not wearing a mask to cover up the fact that I am a terrible artist and any attempts at drawing a nose or mouth only made her look like the drunken prom date offspring of a circus freak and a poltergeist rolled face-first in a fire full of broken beer bottles and those little cheese grater things you use to remove calluses from your foot.

In conclusion, drunken decisions are the best decisions, I feel that I have proved that here quite well. Also, The Honey Badger would be the best character decision Marvel has made since Deadpool, and oh my God she needs to be with Deadpool. Dead Badger? Honey Pool? That last one kind of sounds like what they'd leave behind after a steamy evening in a hot tub, so maybe not that. Maybe we just stick with THB and Deadpool wreaking havoc on society and having wild passionate bouts of love making in between bouts of kicking ass and breaking the fourth wall.

But don't tell Benedict. He's still waiting for her to call.

How can I measure up?

I really, really, really really wish that I was a better writer. I wish I was able to captivate people the way so many of my idols (pedestal patrons? Literary heroes?) are. J.R.R. Tolkien was able to capture grandiose and detail in unparalleled precision, and created works of literary art that has transcended generations. Peter Beagle is able to take a basic concept for a child's story and layer it, add depth and swirls and tweaks in the characters and plot until it's something that reaches to people on every level. Even smaller-time writers, like Allie Brosh. She has this fantastic blog, is capable of taking the most outlandish, bizarre stories and presenting them in a relatable, hilarious, horrifyingly close-to-home fashion and has millions of fans/readers who adore her and her ability to show us that mirror we unknowingly look in every day.

Like, I know I'M NOT A terrible writer. I can halfway construct a decent sentence, and I occasionally have witty quips and semblances of meaningful thought. But--all these people above me, all these people who are out there, getting published, being loved by everyone and adored for their gifts to the world--I'm not one of those. How can I live up to them? They're all so far out of my league, I can't even see them anymore. There are so many wonderful, talented, amazing people out there doing wonderfully talented, amazing things, and I'm just...kinda bein' me, you know? How is "me" supposed to live up to "them?"

I'm not looking for solace, or an ego boost, or even consolation, I just really am at a loss as to what to do. I can't even decide what this fucking blog is going to be about. That's important, right? Like, blogs need a theme to help them catch on and be big. Humor, drama, cooking recipes--they've all got some cohesive THING that pulls it together and helps it be one of the best. Mine isn't like that. One day it's some random story, another it's weeping over X,Y or Z, and another it's some random shit about fly racing. Who can relate to that?

I guess...I guess I really want to be relatable. I really want to reach people, to speak to them on a level they get very deeply, and to wow them and show the world how beautiful words can be sculpted into being with the right craftsman.

Relatable. Beautiful. Popular.
It sounds pretty petty when I put it that way. I'm just not sure how to accomplish all these things.

For a friend...

So, I've discovered that you can't make people love you.

Shocking, right? I know. Even weirder, you especially can't make them respect you.

No matter how much love or appreciation you give, no matter how much you lift up the other person and show him/her they mean the world to you, they always have a choice. They can always refuse that support, that love, and that contribution to their world.

It doesn't mean that this person is bad, or that you didn't give them enough love, and it certainly doesn't mean that you aren't deserving of the same in return. It means that--for whatever reason--they are either unwilling or incapable of change. At least, in that area of their lives.

Maybe something happened to them when they were a kid, and they just never told you. Maybe they think they're better than you and that you're not worth their time or love. Never think that. No one is ever above accepting (or at least acknowledging) another's love. Maybe...just maybe...they're just as damaged as you thought yourself to be. Maybe they can't move past those things in their life that froze them into this damaged, echoing cavern, and all they can do is reject you and who you are, or who you try to be for them.

It's not a reflection on you. That's very important to remember.

Maybe I'm saying this to myself, maybe it's my own way of coping with the rejection of the love that I've given people very close to me. But I prefer to think of it as a final way of giving back. Of reaching out to that damaged, insecure, broken person, and letting them know that I do love them. That I can honestly say--with no ego--that I understand and forgive what they did. That we've all been in that position, all hurt those who we know love us, in spite (and because) of our flaws. None of us are perfect, none of us are ever going to be. It's not about that. It's not about managing to come across as funny, or charming, or witty, or curvy or sexy or thin.

It's about finidng those who love us back. And you've found that person. I just hope you'll see it. I love you.

The Infected...

   Duela panicked as she slammed the heavy door behind her and bolted it shut, gasping for breath and grasping desperately for something resembling coordinated thought. "Okay," she talked herself down, "just through the window and up the fire escape. The roof will last for a while. They hate the sun. That I've seen." She glanced down at her bloodied, pale hands. How many had she clawed her way through to get here? How many once-helpless innocents had she mown down for the sake of her own safety, for the priceless, rare gem of an opportunity to be alone, to sort out her thoughts, and to arrange some sort of plan in this madness? It's always fight or flight, I suppose they say, but this time...this time it was different. These were people she knew, people she loved once.  

It could be that way no longer.  

Taking a deep breath, she focused, calmed, steadied her hands in front of her. The feeble, persistent scratching from the other side of the office door started them shaking again. Who knows how long that door would hold.  

 It was an old house, built when real wood and metal were used liberally throughout the construction of such things—that had been what saved her. They were weak, but they never stopped coming, and their numbers were ever-growing. Her mother. Her brother. Her own fiance—all had succumbed to the sickness. Narcoleptic Introvert with Radical Domains, was what the news called them. N.I.R.D.s, for short.

   It had started small enough, she supposed: a few stories on the news, singular, alarming only in their irregularity. Then a few more. Then people on the street started showing signs—people she knew, people she talked to every day! Ugg boots replaced with Converse, Abecrombie gave way to the Avengers. Even Starbucks—for years, a safe haven when all else had failed her—had become infected! “Free double-shot for every Whovian!” their blackboard up front had boasted in bold, brightly-colored letters, a miniature TARDIS carefully sketched out next to it in cerulean blue chalk. “No, stop that!” Duela panicked--”don't give it a name. That's how it enters. That's how it starts...” But, try as she may, she couldn't block out the image of this morning. That horrible, nightmarish image as she turned the corner of her own hallway to pour some cereal or drink some coffee or whatever her regular ritual had become since the turn.

   Her brother. Her own dear brother, the one she had tried so hard to protect. Gone was the faux-hawk—shaved down now to a close-cropped crew cut. The eighty dollar jeans—pre-torn so carefully by the slave workers in India or Vietnam or wherever the hell they were from this year—replaced by denim just a little too short, revealing his custom Joker-fied sneakers. His collar was no longer popped—indeed, there wasn't even a collar to be popped any more—if there was, it was covered up by some ghastly abomination of a hoodie: black, with “1 + 1 = 10” on the front. He said it was binary. BINARY! But the worst of all—the thing that had set her screaming and running into the street for relief—was what he held in his hands. In those small, scabbed-up little boy hands—those hands she had held so lovingly when he was a baby as she sang him to sleep with Kanye West's latest hit—was a Nintendo DS. Some ungodly yellow mouse-looking thing scarred the front with it's abominable visage, and the boy was mumbling something under his breath about “Missing No.”

   She had found this place in her panic—thrown aside countless tweens with “Keep Calm and Chive On” tee shirts, clawed her way past deceptively loving couples with matching Deathpool shirts “Deathpool? Deadpond? No! Stop thinking about it!” and finally to this sanctuary. They had followed her, of course, cruel mimicries of concern echoing through the halls. “Such concern! Wow! Many anger , very confuse!...You have yoga pants, we have a Hulk!...Do you want a banana? I like bananas, bananas are good for you!”God would they ever STOP?! Wasn't it enough that they had to take her brother—now they had to come for her, too?!

   "I'm almost there," she thought, determined. "I just have to get to the roof, I can hold out there for a while, at least." Another deep breath, and Duela crossed the room, reaching for the window latch. She stopped. Fingerless gloves. Shaking in horror, she looked down. A red leather underbust cinched her waist, coupled with a white shirt and some leather pants—one leg red, one black. Three black diamonds on the red leg. Thigh-high, heavily buckled boots completed the ensemble—again in the mismatched red and black. Her breath came in quick, short bursts—slowly, she walked closer to the window, studying her reflection in the glass through tear-clouded eyes. No, please God not this--white makeup—anything but this, please—black lipstick—ANYTHING else—pig tails—just please...don't let me be...

Duela had dropped her guard while she regrouped her thoughts. She had focused too much on the sickness, too much on the symptoms and that look in her brother's eye—the brother now forever lost, like her. While she had mourned, It had set in, becoming embedded in her system deeper than the purest, most predisposing genes.  

She had become a N.I.R.D.  

She was....in cosplay.

Tears streaming down her face, streaming her heavy black eyeliner, Duela crossed back to the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes for a moment, she slowly opened the door. Suddenly laughing manically, she stepped through the door, screaming out in a high-pitched, tear-strained voice, “Hi, Puddin! Harley's home!”

Stink Bug Sadist

So like, Kentucky has these Stink Bugs, right? Little shield-shaped fuckers designed to just not really do anything and be annoying due to their sheer volume. Oregon has them, but nowhere near the fuck tons that Kentucky does. It's fucking annoying. At any given point and time there's at least one on my blinds, hovering over my head, waiting to drop down on my face and scare the literal shit out of me.

Anyways, I saw one of these little shit bags just, like, chillin' on my blinds, same as always, and I decided to get rid of him. I didn't want to kill him, partly because I'm a kind soul, mostly because I didn't want him to stink bug all over me. My bedroom has storm windows, so I basically have two sets of glass separated by about a 2" gap between them. Only one one window though, 'cause apparently fuck storms for the other one. But whatever, I decide to push him out the window that doesn't have two pane of glass so he can fly away and do whatever these little shits do. Whatever. Anyways, I slowly raise part of the blinds (being very careful not to dislodge the little guy) and open my window. Phase 1 accomplished. 

Phase 2 didn't go as well as planned. I gently shook the blinds while holding a piece of paper below him, hoping to push him out the now open window. However, these guys didn't scramble to the top of the food chain by being the smartest little buggers (hehe), in fact, they're nowhere near the top of the foodchain at all. He loses his grip on the blinds, falls, bounces off the piece of paper and falls on his back just outside the window. Whatever, job done, he can figure out how to get up on his own. As I begin to slide the window shut, (his six little legs flailing frantically in what can only be waves stark bug terror and panic,) I realize that not only have I shooed him out the window that he CAN'T escape from (read: he is now between two panes of glass with no hope of escape), but as the window snaps shut a gigantic spider pounces down on him with venomous passion. Thankfully, I didn't see what happened next. 

Instead of mourning for his untimely death, I laughed. Chortled, even.


Little fucker shouldn't have been in my room.

UPDATE: I just raised my blinds to watch the rain. I can see his little web-spun carcass hanging by the spider--some kind of horrific dead bug trophy. I slowly lowered my blinds and tried not to think about what I've become.