Thursday, August 25, 2016

Strawberry Shampoo

*I'll probably erase this tomorrow. I remember talking about a day type rhythm in prose versus a night time rhythm. If I don't exercise during the day, the stress and estrogen pump out is a mess of dribble. 

Just jotting down some evening thoughts after a long hot summer day outside. I have never read the original script to True Romance, but my favorite line from that movie today is, "She tastes just like peaches."
The company one keeps; my God! Its so nice to have confidence that my company is intelligent and observant. I had a brief summer relationship with someone who always noticed when my hair was washed with a strawberry scented shampoo. He only told me once that he loved the smell of my hair, but when he held me before sleep, I always noticed him nestle his head in my freshly washed hair. The scent of a woman is beautiful.
As well as a man of course. My father used cherry scented tobacco in his pipe when he smoked. I remember he kept his aftershave  in the medicine cabinet. Old Spice.
I am free of a five year relationship that ended as it needed to end. No more yelling and pleading and calling people to waste their time talking about the same issues over and over. No more negotiations and unnecessary drama.
Two weeks ago, my partner for 5 years skipped a movie I had waited months to see to hang out with a guy he sees  regularly. If that seems petty, there are so many issues that lead to that being a big deal that I don't want to go into ever again.

I told him okay, have fun, and for a second my voice cracked. I swallowed hard, and as the swallow tightened my throat I felt years of strife, drama and bullshit disappear for good. I had made my decision.
I feel so fucking amazing. I was worried that I was too old to be alone. Or that I had no money. Or that I was co-dependent. While its true that I can't use Marc Jacobs Daisy body wash anymore, who fucking cares when getting that body wash means dealing with a ton of bullshit.
Its nice to be around intelligent people. Observant people. When I respect someone's intelligence, I can relax in a room knowing that they are there to contribute to my day, or chill and hang out; to do whatever.

From now on, these are my two relationship breakers:
Two things:
One- once you say something to someone, no matter what apology follows, some things can never be undone.
Two- Zero tolerance for cruel behavior. I should have followed that rule with most of the people I had in my life. Once they say something fuck-up, fuck them.

I wrote a blog a long time ago about Passive Aggressiveness in the English language. I was on a lot of Adderall while I wrote that blog, so the essence is lost. Instead of saying, "Could you please pass the salt?" Why not say, "Salt" with a gesture. My point, or what was supposed to be the point of that particular blog, was the thesis that if passive aggressiveness is embedded in our language, how much does it insidiously affect our behavior? Our confidence? Our guilt for being confident and does confidence mean arrogance to the masses of English speaking Americans.

The same with confidence. Eliminating a lot of unnecessary ma'am  (I live in Texas) and please and yes sir, blah blah. That does not fit with the topic of a woman's grace, so two different superficial dialogue are going on. I had to call my sister. I will so something with this tomorrow.
I have a long neck that I love. An observant man pointed that out to me once. Confidence is not arrogance.
I love a woman's long fingers. I briefly played the violin (not well) in college. A long tall woman named Carmen (she told me that means, "Song") also played the violin, but her hands were long and slender and elegant.
I love the moment when someone interesting says something that adds an extra dimension. I love when talent unfolds slowly before me.
I'm so fucking glad to be free! I'm not overly body conscious. My time is my own. No serious talks about giving a little more. No.
I'm shouting: Freedom Braveheart style.
I am not looking for the next relationship. But if I do find someone, I hope they notice subtle things that make up the essence of a woman. Put strawberry scented shampoo in the mix.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

A Gesture of Kindness

Any act of compassion given in difficult times feels like a touch from heaven above. I wonder who mapped out the idea of heaven being up and hell being down. The Earth accepts the shell of a body, and the spirit rises up into the blank blue space of imagination.

When I was a child, I was told to fold my hands together and point them up at the sky; as if pointed clasped hands aimed at the sky turned the prostrate body into a human antenna that aroused God to hear my fears and struggles, and erase all worry by purifying me, from my clasped hands to my bent knees in a soft lighting of comfort.

Last Christmas Eve, I was one of the few people who came to an A.A. meeting, and when I shared that I missed my family, I broke down in tears. A man, his name was Anthony, got up to hand me a box of tissues and he looked me directly in the eyes and said, "Its going to be okay." I can't define that gesture of kindness in any other way then God's love. He was a complete stranger to me then, and he had compassion in his voice.

While I am not religious (because my brain does not work that way) I do believe in love, compassion, and a kindness in people that suspends us in light. God is compassion from one stranger to another.




Friday, August 19, 2016

Scooby-Doo Movie Wrap Up Ending

My definition of a Scooby-Doo Movie ending as concise as possible
A' Scooby-Doo Ending' is when the problems that the movie present are solved within a half an hour of the movie's end, and solved mostly through spontaneous confession on the part of the villain. A Hallmark trait of a 'Scooby-Doo Ending' is that the villain explains why they did what they did and what motivated them for their evil actions (or actions in general that relate). 

I think I said the same thing twice in my definition.

Examples of movies the end like that (that are not necessarily bad movies at all) include:
-Primal Fear. -Fracture. -Friday the 13th (the very first one only.)
Those are three examples of movies that have spontaneous confessions by the villain at the end that explain their actions in the movie. They tell instead of show.

Here are three examples of movies that do not do that:
-Pulp Fiction. -The Thing. -Green Room.

I can only list three movies a piece because I'm out of any type of caffeine in my home.









Sunday, August 14, 2016

The Bearded Lady Strikes Back

Our family's great hope was not my half brother, who went to Harvard and got his degree in music. My older brother was supposed to go the farthest. But he burned out, sews his own clothes now with a sewing kit he carries on him when he travels. He snapped just when I was beginning to become a happily adjusted person with good grades at San Francisco State. I will never understand why my older brother does not understand that his self destructive behavior affects us.

Its been raining. Texas has the best thunderstorms. You can see the lightning for miles. How did I get to live in Texas? I've heard of people who buried their guns because Obama became president. They have deep accents and love football. There is an unusually large section of meat in the grocery stores here. I collect pennies dropped on the ground for good luck. Also, I count the wedgies that the overweight Texans have in grocery stores.

Fuck yeah! The word: Wedgies clears my spell check. And even better: an uncomfortable tightening of the underpants between the buttocks, typically produced when someone pulls the underpants up from the back as a prank.

These people can keep their obsession with personal rights, the Constitution, and gun owners rights. Vermont was the same way from the brief time I lived there. We had an eccentric resident who walked around with a football helmet. I'm pretty sure you can carry a gun in public there now.

Write a paragraph, erase a paragraph. Political Correctness. Captain Jean-Luc Picard was a scary Nazi. But aren't they all. Something about Boston transplants and hippies. My cat is severely injured. He was attacked last night. I want to believe that there is an order, place, purpose for emotions. I did more acid then Susan Atkins and I can't hurt anyone. Original sin are the flaws in our genetic make up. Bubble gum. Mister Lucian on the kickdrum.

When I was in San Diego for this family reunion we went to the tea gardens and I passed a booth outside with the words, "There is no heaven. There is no hell. This is it so enjoy your life." I stopped to pick up some cards from them and when the atheist behind the booth asked if I was an atheist myself, I answered honestly with, "Everyone in my life seems to be." He said that would be a great world to live in. Not really.




Friday, August 12, 2016

Who Invented The Back-Scratcher?

The Back-Scratcher is not a household name enough to pass my spell check. I did not realize I owned one until yesterday, when I realized I was walking around with Ambien in my bedside tin. That is how it works. I don't remember how I came to own a back-scratcher, but here...backscratcher...I'll start the trend of making it a compound word. Someone probably hates me enough to have replaced the fruitcake for a Christmas gift. Or realized that I was a fruitcake and needed a backscratcher to complete the set. What else would be fitting for that Dollarstore (compound word, I summit) shopping cart? Wall-Dry (its generic for Benadryl.)

Side Note: I know someone who checked into rehab for that particular addiction. I laughed until I was buying my Wall-Dry in bulk at the Dollarstore.

I'll cut to the chase. I was up with God knows how much Ambien in my system last night, stuck on a 20/20 called 'Rehab Mogul'. My goodness. My will to wrap that around my head was very weak because that is the world I live in. That easily Youtubed episode (Rehab Mogul),

Which I had to laugh had the most watched hits on it after I did the research that this meth-addled felon rehab Mogul (he likes the term enough to make t-shirts with the name, which is just as scary as the fast sales of these t-shirts, probably by the addict residents.)
Where was I? This guy is being sued by a man named Cliff Brodsky, who had the most hits on his 20/20 uploaded episode that he put on-line. I got a laugh that the guy who was a forerunner in suing him for the most money led the initial campaign against him publicly.
I know he is suing him but I did not read his reasoning behind his lawsuit. One thing I can assume...it was not for his long hind legs (also the name of a good band.) But this bad guy that this episode is about deserves to be taken down (and replaced with the same personality.)

The Lex Luthor of this episode has a name: Chris Bathum. He owns 70% of a popular rehab chain in Southern California (I wonder how many Benadryl addicts are there.) This guy is a villain. A meth-addled womanizer who targeted the most beautiful vulnerable women trying to get out of the drug world in one piece. He molested beautiful women, putting meth in orifices that are unorthodox for getting high. He sucks. But..

I'll be the villain by stringing in my lawsuit for getting knocked onto the Mopac (Austin's popular highway) by a woman who refused to apologize to me. There is a connection to my lawsuit for the license plate tattooed on my thigh with these rehab-molestation lawsuits. These women are rightfully suing this drug rehab owning drug addict. They are, and I hope they bleed this leach dry. But women who have high cheekbones ten years after they claim that the drugs left them with nothing but a overpass for their rooftops, believe me, these women know all the rules people break to exploit them. Its a sad fact that apparently does not apply to me. Somewhere in my three day Ambien binge I tried to get a job by applying at the local 7-11 (never turned in that application but I'm surprised I used a pen to fill it out!) and also an escort service. Yes, in a semi-conscious state I applied for a job as an escort via phone. I vaguely remember doing that. I am not quite sure what a real escort does, but I am good company while watching a movie in public view. Anyway, the guy on the phone of the escort service I called seemed like a pimp. He probably was a pimp. When I added a decade to what he thought I said my age was, his interest dropped as he saw my confidence rise. So the stories that I know of escorts (involve crime shows like, "The Craigslist Killer") will never be fleshed out. Damn. My high school reunion is next year too.

My lawyer was awesome for my lawsuit. He loved my father, who did most of the talking. When my father listed a string of reasons why this woman (an Asian driver...like my stepmother) should pay me lots of money, I would only inject, "Its not that bad now." The lawyer's answer was always, "No! You are hurt. Remember you are hurt. Say that you are hurt. She did permanent damage..."

Well the same with these beautiful women. When you have a decade under your belt of hard drug addiction, you have been through every sick exploitative manipulative man, and you have the power to beat most of them. This is not their first rodeo. But after telling their stories, which I am certain are true, they add, "I still have nightmares that I hear his voice..." Okay, okay. That's implied.

And this guy is so smug and arrogant that he really believes his intelligence will be enough to outwit all of these women and their lawyers. He is going down swinging, but he is definitely going down. Oh, and my point! I do have a point. He's a felon, like me. To me in my rookie first year as a felon, there are two types of felons. So far. Kind of.

1.) The kind that are working at 7-11. Or have an application filled out in their bedrooms while they tell their hairdresser, manicurist, inept Sephora make-over artists that they are indignant for being labeled as such. And...

2.) The one's that adjust and make something of themselves. They make backscratchers and drug rehabilitation facilities. They are kind of like pimps. I'd like to think that the creator of the Backscratcher has thumbed his (or her) nose at the system and is, at this very moment, wearing a lime green leisure suit and five pound gold chain necklaces.

I fit into the first of course. Chris Bathum fits into the second. I think his felony came from pretending to sell expensive exercise gear on Ebay. He is a pimp selling a clarity he seeks as well, but in the thighs of six foot blondes. He would have been better off inventing the backscratcher.


Thursday, August 11, 2016

Mongoloid w/ Bruce Conner.



Even though he is dead, a friend of mine swears if you say the name, "Bruce Conner" you'll get a free Master's Degree.

Monday, August 8, 2016

I Just Want To Ride My Motorcycle


The reason I have been doing these blogs with consistency is to shift my focus from tomorrow, which is my one month a year detox. Oh man alive it sucks. This smile (taken at 11:30 this morning) is my last for roughly 26 days. Since it is summer, I have the ocean behind me artificially. Here is my Humboldt County Dreaming...
This was my last summer in Arcata. The beaches there can be dangerous. Someone was bold or foolish enough to attempt to drug me with my tolerance once on a beach alone. What he achieved was me politely locking him out of my apartment and sleeping for 13 hours. He only helped to cure a day of insomnia.

This comes out of nowhere, but I started thinking of that movie 'Tape' that came out a long time ago. With Uma Thurman. That is an excellent movie. It breaks my heart. That will be my entertainment if Youtube is selling that tonight.

In death there is a stage of bargaining to have more time. I've been in the bargaining stage about this detox all day today. I've also been writing paragraphs at a time then deleting them in their entirety. I can't bargain to push back the clock anymore. Tomorrow is showtime. Merrily I go to have my head cut off...
Lucian gets a photo in my journal too. We have been through four of these do-not-try-this-at-home detoxes. A time machine would be a helpful invention.