One of my new favorite things to do is go to a barcade. It’s a place for grownups, where distinguished ladies and gentlemen meet up to…whoop each others’ asses at arcade games, while getting nice and toasty on beer (ahem: cider for me, please) and sharing some sloppy-ass nachos (not to be confused with sloppy ass-nachos).
Louisiana girl here had never heard of barcades before. (Do y’all call ’em barcades? Cuz that’s just me doing my portmanteau thing. But I bet I’m not the first on this one.) One of my date people person dudes took me to one, and I’ve been hooked ever since. You wanna see The Stephanie in full form – giggling, talking smack, cursing and laughing and choking on cider, raising fists into the air – in either victory or defeat (people are SUCH cheaters, I swear) – take her to a barcade.
I’ve only been twice now, but I will be going back. With sacks of quarters (hehe she said sacks), a 15-year-old mentality and a winning streak itching to be released. Hashtag suckmytopscorebitches.
The second time I went was just a couple of weeks back, and it kickstarted a wave of drama that I semi-anticipated but am still supremely disappointed by. People are such brainless dickwhistles. It would be fun to watch them running around, scratching their heads (you know, the ones between their legs) and launching all sorts of wild accusations…if I weren’t one half of the target.
A former coworker (from Louisiana – formerly known as P. Whipped right here on Stephellaneland) and semi-friend was passing through Portland. He was on an epic Road Trip slash Personal Quest slash Work Assignment, and he messaged me on his last night in Portland – letting me know he was in town, asking if I’d be interested in meeting up for drinks. I’m like, dude. Dude, Yeah! Where’s the fire! I told him about the barcade, and he was down. Because DUH BARCADE.
We met there, and I commenced to smashing him on pinball and old-school arcade games. He cheated a few times and “won.” We had drinks and laughs and traded stories about the shitty stuff that lead us each to begin our Personal Quests. He took a selfie of us – aka The Selfie Heard Round the World. And then? You guessed it. He posted in on Facebook. Made it a public post so the whole world can see it.
So. Fucking. What.
Because apparently, nowadays, first comes pinball, then comes marriage the fuckening. Back in Douchetown, Louisiana, I’m becoming known as the girl who banged Anklebiter’s fiance relationship detritus that she threw away for the dude she was (allegedly) cheating with. What. On Earth. Gave them that idea?
Why, the smiling selfie taken in a barcade on “Henry’s” last night in Portland, of course! Nevermind the fact that we were at the same shindig maybe three times when I still lived in Douchetown. Nevermind the fact that I didn’t think the dude even knew my name before that night. NEVERFUCKINGMIND the fact that PINBALL shouldn’t imply that I was interested in playing with HISBALLS.
For fucks sake, what is wrong with people? I had two ciders. He had about five crown & cokes. We played arcade games for about 2 hours, then chatted for about an hour. He gave me a hug just before I walked back to my car and drove back to my apartment, and he took an über back to his hotel. He left the entire state the next morning. And guess what? I don’t owe that explanation to anyone.
But nooooo. I’m a homewrecker (in a situation where there is no home to wreck). A PINBALL PLAYING WHOREMOUTH. I need a Scarlet P. I’ll sew it onto my homewrecker cape, right above my high score. And a new selfie of me flipping off Senorita Anklebiter and her minions.
The Pinball Prostitute
*Thanks to Tikeethafor reminding me of this gem. I used to go around singing it, but I’d forgotten about it somewhere along the way. Highly appropriate for today!
I took myself to a movie last night. Masturdation, yay!? Yeah, no. You’d think this would be cause for celebration. Alas, no, for I watched a “film” that I never intended to see. One of those where you see a teensy snippet of a preview, and you go…”That looks stupid as fuck.” You scornfully scoff at the screen, because your cinematic tastes are far too refined for such drivel. So why, pray-tell, did I take myself out to see Passengers?
Why. The Fuck. Would I do this to myself? I’ll tell you why. One of my besties (yes, I said “besties,” because I’m pretty sure it will annoy the shit out of him) is a bully. That’s right. The author of stupidityhole bullied me into going to see this “film.” You see, he wanted me to be enlightened by the…no. I just snorted. No. I can’t even finish that sentence. He wanted me to share in his misery about this film, because that’s how bullies behave!
I wasn’t gonna do it. No. Fucking. Way. I’ve been wanting to take myself to a movie, but not this…this thing.
I refused. I outright refused.
And then he said the three magic words. You guessed it. “Cryognically-frozen chicken.” Motherfuck. I was undone, and he knew it. He refused to tell me what that meant. I’d simply have to see the film now in order to understand that. So. Over the course of, I dunno…a couple days. (He says it was more like an hour. Pfft.) He tormented me by randomly blurting out, “cryogenically-frozen chicken”…or…”ice-cold bock-bock if you prefer.”
And I caved. WHO WOULDN’T?! I had to know what the fuck he was on about. Look, I’m weak, okay? I mean. What the fuck is he talking about?! ARE THERE CHICKENS IN CRYO-CHAMBERS?! WILL THEY FROLIC AROUND IN SPACE?! IS THIS A MOVIE ABOUT SPACE-CHICKENS?! OHMYFUCK I’VE SEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT’S CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN! Fucking hell. This is what happened to my brain after being bullied for days. Weeks. Months. (Maybe two hours.)
So I acquiesced: I’d see the “film.” I’d resist the urge(s) to walk out before it was over. And I’d sit through at least forty-five seconds of the end-credits. I already knew, going in, that this was probably all some big trick. One of the many schemes I’m subjected to on the regular.
In Dreams become…
Two or three days ago. Maybe last week. Look, we already know I’m shit with time, okay? At some point in the not-so-distant past, I even dreamed about this shit.
In the dream, I saw the damn cryobock movie and never understood the cryochicken reference. I panicked. In the dream. Because I knew what this would mean. That shit would make me watch it again!
Also in the dream, Laurence Fishburne looked just like his Morpheus character from The Matrix and simply wandered around, shaking his head and muttering “damn” at random, unexpected intervals. (We can also blame this one on stupidityhole, who told me “Morpheus is in the movie. And he says, “damn.” Now you have to see it.”) (What is wrong with me?)
At another point in the dream, Laurence Fishburne was actually more like HAL in 2001. And all throughout the ship, anytime something pseudo-dramatic happened, his voice would echo throughout the ship…”Daaaamn.”
I woke in a cold sweat. Holy fuck. Okay. The Fishburne/Morpheus/HAL shit was funny. But missing out on cryobock and being heckled eternally until I watched it again? Fuck. This can’t happen.
…Reality (Spoilers ahead and blah blah)
It was all I could do to stay awake during this…this thing. But I knew falling asleep would be signing my death warrant (aka: having to see this fucker again). And oh did I get restless. I even messaged stupidityhole shit like this randomly during the movie:
MAY I PLEASE WALK OUT
-Something about punching his face off.
And, SHOCKER, he didn’t reply to any of those. He was reveling in my misery. Fucker.
Space Ghost Notes
I entertained myself by jotting little notes on my phone. Would you like a sampling? Sure you would!
Jock wakes after asteroid collision
Wonder how long it will be before they show his ass
Ship is to travel 120 years (total) and can’t get through a MFing asteroid belt?
CALLED IT. Jock boy nudie shower shot.
Oooo Bob Dylan music playing…while Jocky McGee models clothes?!
What the fuck am I watching
HOW COULD BOB DYLAN AGREE TO LEND HIS MUSIC TO THIS
Thank you for a moment of peace Bobby
He passenger not crew
I do like the scene where he wanders out in space, thinking, feeling, lost…adrift, afraid, alone, desperate, hopeless
Nearly suicides afterward w/o spacesuit
I would too if I was in this fucking movie
He woke blondie on purpose!
Also WHERE’S THE FUCKING CRYOBOCK! I WANT CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN RIGHT NOW I NEED TO LEAVE
“It’s the ultimate geographical suicide.” This is her line, and she’s a writer?! i’m gonna piss myself
Hm. I wonder when spacehumping begins
I’M SORRY HE WENT WOMAN SHOPPING FOR FUCKS SAKE AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE
space flying yay
CUE SPACE HUMPING
ugh lots of space humping
OH YAY! MORPHEUS!
“How long were you alone?”
~ A year
OKAY. I GOT MY DAAAAAMN. WHERE’S THE FUCKING CHICKEN?!
how many times do i have to watch blondie swim?!?!?!
crazy half-naked gravity field failure in pool
yay i get to watch blondie suspended in a spacebubble…dangling in her swimsuit
on the bigscreen
WHY AM I HERE
Ship falling apart
that wasn’t predictable at all
morpheus bites the dust
holes in the ship
“How’s that even happen? I thought this ship was supposed to be meteor-proof.”
“I guess one got through.”
who the hell wrote these lines
There was one other dude in the theater. He either fell asleep or slid down in his seat to whack it to spacehumping. Ew. He’s nasty. Nasty dude. Bad.
Three chicks came in at some point. Looked like mom and two daughters. They laughed at the “serious” moments. That was entertaining.
In conclusion… NO. JUST. NO.
So remember that dream I told you about?’
Sometimes dreams do come true.
No. Fucking. Idea. What the hell he meant by “cryogenically-frozen chicken.”
Credits start, and I’m thinking…it better be in the forty-five seconds of this he told me to sit through.
I’m the last one in the theater. The others hauled ass.
I sit through half the credits.
I get up. Walk down the aisle and am about to leave. But then, I think…what if this is part of the trick? I’ve sat through all this, no way am I leaving yet.
Prop myself against the wall (ewww, why is it sticky?) and watch – EVEN READ – the credits until it’s completely over. Screen goes black. Lights come on.
There’s a simple solution to all this.
I’m gonna kill him.
Best part?! My car is stranded there at the theater. The snowstorm that was supposed to start at 10 PM started several hours early.
Yeah. I called an uber, and he got me almost “home.” Then I walked the rest of the way. Only about half a mile. Was kind of fun, actually.
Car is still there, because there’s been over a foot of snow where I am, and I can’t get out.
But I got to be out and about in the snowstorm! Driving around Portland, chatting with a cool driver. Then walked the rest of the way in the snow!
AND I STILL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK STUPIDITYHOLE MEANT BY CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN.
You know what he said, right? Guess you’ll have to see it again, hey? Dreams do come true! Or something.
Question for Peopleaneous
Did anyone see this movie and actually LIKE it? I’d love to know what the hell I missed that has like twelve people on earth raving about it.
I like fireworks as much the next guy, okay. They’re pretty and all that shit.
But you know what fucks me right off? Setting my fucking tax money on fire.
Fireworks are pretty, sometimes. But every time I hear them going off, the sound of my tax dollars going up in smoke drowns out even the loudest of the explosions.
I’m all for privately funded explosions. I am American, after all. But I don’t want my motherfucking city tax dollars going toward them, when they can’t even fix the sewage lines and the fucking potholes and the ridiculous areas that need new stoplights, but they let the fancypants rich pricks dictate what happens in this shithole town.
So go on, motherfuckers, set my money on fire and send it flying into the sky in colorful explosions while I struggle to pay the fucking flood insurance for a house that has never flooded.
Happy Day of Murdering Your Own Family – We were British, remember? At least the ones who came over to do the mass slaughtering and land-stealing.
I hate bitches who don’t know their place. Bitch gon’ try to throw me under the bus. What she has yet to figure out is I’m now driving that fucking bus. And she’s Target Numero Only. I was asked to advise my supervisor on a situation that has arisen. You see, apparently the company is hemorrhaging money (which is nothing new – but the source is new). And Queen Bitch is the primary suspect, only she’s doing what she always does: pointing fingers. She pointed fingers in both my direction and that of my former department. I was called into the meeting, and I stated clearly that this is the first I’ve heard of any issue (dudes, this issue is massive and jeopardizes our largest account…which would shut this subsidiary down, period). I explained exactly what the problem is and what needs to happen to fix it. Queen Bitched huffed and puffed, and guess what. Nobody’s fucking house blew down. But the air around us got suspiciously smelly. Next I’m called into my supervisor’s office privately, where he asks for my full analysis of the situation and what we should do to move forward. I didn’t even have time to be flattered, because I launched right into it. I don’t care anymore. I’m not here to placate Queen Bitch, and I’m certainly not interested in scratching anyone’s back or licking anyone’s ass. I carefully explained exactly why it is not in fact my former department’s fault, as it is QB’s responsibility to provide them with the information they need for the projects in question. When it looked like I was losing it, I brought out my secret weapon: an overstuffed folder full of the exact information QB used to provide to my former department. I had that shit because those jobs used to be my responsibility in that department. And because I strongly believe in good ole CYA (Cover Your Ass) in Corporate America, I still had all of it. So he’s shocked. “Queen….Queen Bitch did this? When you were in x department?” Yup. How else was I to know what the project consisted of? “B-b-b-but she says she’s never done anything of the sort.” *points to QB’s initials* She shoots. She scores.
Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.
You know what else I hate?
Motherfucking FedEx. Motherfucking FedEx put a heavyass box down against the porch today. Against it. Not on it. No no. It wasn’t on the porch. You know what it was on? My motherfucking twenty dollar azalea bush. You know, one of the ones I just fucking planted. Speaking of bitches that need burning down. Those motherfuckers are about to feel my wrath. Not that they’ll give a fuck. Still. I’m done being a doormat. I’m gonna practice telling motherfuckers off when they act like motherfuckers. Well guess what, I bet my mother has the herp. How do ya like me now, MOTHERfuckers?
You know what else I hate?
Motherfucking Comcast. I ditched AT&T for the same fucking reason I’m about to ditch your useless, lying ass. When your twatnose rep promises me something and you do the exact fucking opposite? Don’t act shocked when I ask for the number to your Retention Department. Heh. Didn’t think I knew about Retention Departments, did you? Think again, shit snorter. Where’s Ted Kaczynski when you need him? (Too soon for that kinda joke? Fuck you, I’m American. Apparently all I’m good for is getting thrown under buses and shooting people or blowing them up. Speaking of things I hate. Fucking douchecanoes.)
You know what else I hate?
That I forgot the rest of my list. There’s a lot to be said about making handwritten notes. Ahem, Ezekiel. Make fun of my handwritten lists. You little shit. So now I have something else to hate: my lack of post notes. Fucksticks.
Anyway. Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m in a pretty damn good mood. Now.
However. I Really Fucking Hope that rotted cuntwhore has the audacity to get in my face tomorrow. She will regret forgetting the last time we spoke, when I said, and I quote, “If you ever speak to me again, it should only be to apologize for what you’ve done. Otherwise, you keep my name out of your filthy mouth.” Oh yeah. That was a huge feat for Ms. Pushover. I finally allowed myself to stand up for myself, and that’s what came out.
Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.
You vanished from the state. I didn’t know where you were.
But I never thought you’d delete me.
S: I thought this was Jane Doe’s number. I apologize.
M: It is but i dont recognize your number!
You fucking deleted me.
July __, 2015
M: Happy birthday
I wonder who identified my number for you.
It only took you two months to figure it out.
August 31, 2015
M: Would loue to see you sometime and hopefully restore our relationship i loue and miss you very much
S: We can get together sometime if you want. I don’t know where you are these days, so just let me know when you’re around. Maybe we can do lunch.
September 2, 1015
M: I Am free wed ? thur next week the 9th ? 10th pick where to meet ? time
S: How about Wednesday?
M: Wednesday is fine how about ____ right by me so i dont have to drive far
S: I’ll meet you there at 11:30.
September 9, 2015
M: R we still on for 11:30 tomorrow?
S: Yes. Still want to go to ___?
M: Unless u want to somewhere else doesnt matter
S: No, that sounds good to me.
I knew you had a motive. I knew it in my gut.
Sweet lady at work convinced me to do this lunch with you. You didn’t know that did you?
I didn’t want to come. I knew it was too good to be true.
I was right.
You thought I could get you a fucking job.
You wanted a favor. That’s why you reappeared.
I told you we were under a hiring freeze.
You cried crocodile tears, and spoke of a desire to reconnect.
I remained stoic, because I didn’t believe anything you were saying.
You said you wanted to renew our relationship.
I said I’d like that. I stuck my neck out and said I need you to call me.
You said you’d call me every week.
I wonder how long it will be this time, before I hear from you again.
October __, 2015
M: FWD: (baby picture) ____ (your brother’s) baby girl! I never knew they were expecting.
S: Thank you.
June 15, 2016
M: I loue and miss you so very much please call me sometime
I can’t fucking do this again.
June 16, 2016
M: Did something change since we met for lunch a while back?
S: No, that was nearly a year ago. I’ve come to terms with the way things are.
M: What’s that supposed to mean? I have tried everything i can possibly think of to restore a relationship with you not laying blame at all just doesnt seem u are interested i truly dont have a clue what i have said or done that you cant or wont forgive me for
S: I’m not sure why you brought blame into it, when I responded in a calm and non-accusatory manner. That’s interesting. What I meant was that you said you were going to start calling me once a week, because you said you wanted a relationship with me. That was almost a year ago now.
M: The last time i texted u about going to see (your brother’s) baby n i never got a reply back i just dont understand is all
S: I don’t see any texts like that in our entire conversation history.
M: Well i sent one after she was born about her baby shower
M: I wanted a relationship with you for a long time and i have tried repeatedly to make the effort but i cant do it alone
S: You never sent the texts you’re saying you did. I have the entire conversation history. You said you would stay in touch with me regularly, after I hadn’t even known what state you were living in for a very long time. But then I didn’t hear from you again until last October when you sent me a picture of a baby I knew nothing about. There was no invitation, and there has been zero communication after that. I don’t understand where this is coming from.
S: Why did you ignore me in the grocery store?
Fuck it. Let’s see you lie about this one.
M: Wow ok well i did send you the texts dont know why u didnt get them and i tried calling u all the time but u want to lie about it sorry i bothered you i give up goodbye
Ah, complete evasion, I see.
I’m glad you couldn’t see me.
I’m glad you couldn’t see me sobbing during this entire exchange.
I’m glad you didn’t see the ass-kissing texts I originally wrote and then deleted before sending.
I spent most of my life letting you guilt me and make shit up and put it all on me.
I always let you do it.
Now I see why.
I stood up for myself this time. I asked you to answer for some things you’ve done.
And now you’ve told me you’re giving up.
Every fucking time I try to heal, you do this.
Every fucking time. Just when I think I can move on without crying about you anymore…
You show back up and guilt me.
But this time I didn’t let you.
I won’t let you do this to me anymore.
I may not have had the nerve to type it out in text.
But I’ll say it here.
I never held you accountable for anything. The closest I could ever come to addressing these things with you was to cry and beg or else just harden myself a bit more, distance myself a bit more.
Would you like to know what I’d hold you accountable for, if I thought I could have a conversation with you – without it turning into evasion, denial and volleying blame back and forth?
No. Your answer is no. So I’ll tell you here.
Do you remember when I told you my marriage was ending? It took me months to tell you. Do you remember what you said? “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me and your mamaw.” Thanks for the support, mom.
Do you remember when I asked for your help? I hate asking for help. I never ask for help. I’m starting to realize why I became that way. I was having surgery. I stuck my neck out, asked for your help. Could you please take me in for surgery? Could you please help me get home after? Would you stay? Do you remember your response? “I can’t afford the gas.” I cried. I didn’t let you hear it in my voice, but I cried. I told you I’d pay for your gas, even though I was out of work at the time. You said, “Why don’t you drive over here after your anesthesia wears off, and I’ll make a pallet for you on the floor.” You lived three hours away at the time. You got offended when I turned the most generous offer down.
Do you remember telling me that I need to get over being molested by my father and his friends? I needed to get over what happened with my brother? He was a kid, too. I know damn well where he learned that from. Do you remember telling me, as I cried and shook, that I was too old to let “something like that keep you from a relationship with your father”? The same man who beat the shit out of you, burst your eardrum and brazenly bragged about his many conquests? The same man who had stood trial for attempted murder when he raped and beat the shit out of his “girlfriend”? The same man who was with his best friend the night his best friend murdered his parents and his little boy? I know they were together, because I was there. They got wasted together before disappearing. The next day, there was a manhunt for the best friend.
Do you remember?
I do. I remember that and a lot more.
For many years, I longed to have the kind of mother I thought I had in childhood. I longed for her to come back. I realize now I will never have her, if I ever did.
I’m sorry I can’t grovel and take the blame and subject myself to your untreated issues anymore. I’m sorry I can’t shoulder responsibility for everything you want me to. I’m sorry I can’t hang with your rollercoaster mood swings anymore.
I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough for you to stick around.
I’m sorry I was worthy of your goodbye.
So it’s my turn now. It’s my turn to say,
Sorry I bothered you.
I give up.
I don’t usually write about topics like what happened last night. Massacres, terrorism, bullshit politicians and elections, the shitty state of education, etc. I avoid inflammatory or just deeply troubling events here on the blog. There’s plenty of the rest of the shit all over the media.
I briefly entertained the idea of starting writing a travelogue today, but I can’t. I’m too angry to focus on anything but what happened last night and everything else that it calls to mind.
Last night/early this morning, yet again a lone gunman perpetrated an act of terrorism, this time in a nightclub in Orlando, Florida.
Right-wing media and individuals are focusing on gun control. HA! Yeah fucking right. They’re focused on the fact that this time, the shooter was a Muslim man. My thoughts on Islam (or any other organized religion, for that matter) are not the topic I want to discuss just now. However, it’s a fucking outrage that so many are focused on the man’s religious beliefs.
How dare we allow Muslims to live in America! This is what happens when we let brown people in! Build the wall! Ban non-whities! And while we’re at it, let’s send some camouflaged crusaders to shoot up and take the belongings of the rest of ’em all over the world! Look at what has happened to our Christian nation! Those sand-niggers and faggots all deserve to die, but they’re gonna use this as an excuse to take my guns from me! They’ll pry them from my cold, dead hands!
Ha. Bunch of fucking hypocrites. Yes, by all means let’s not add any more amendments to the constitution. It was a perfect document, wasn’t it? PERFECT. You know, all except for that pesky First Amendment. Freedom of and from religion? Pffft. This is a Christian nation! By which we mean that we can slander, murder, imprison, drag behind our cars, shoot, rape anyone…so long as the perpetrator is a good ole white Christian and the victims some marginalized minority class or ethnicity.
How dare we allow a Muslim into this country! But it’s perfectly acceptable to give him the right to purchase and wield assault rifles! Wait. Oops. Shit. I mean. Keep Muslims out, and let the rest of us wield assault rifles! Wait. Fuck. I mean, except them blacks. The rest of us have the right to bear arms! Motherfuck. Except anyone who is even remotely brown! Yeah! The rest of us get to shoot all you no-account, non-Christian, homos! Yeah! Except women. They should be in the kitchen. Sos the rest of us have full bellies to go out and do some justice!
I don’t hear anyone talking about stripping the nation of all firearms. Would increased gun control laws lead to that? Who fucking knows. Maybe so. But right now, the primary focus is on shit like fucking assault rifles. Seriously? You think the price we pay to be allowed to have shit like that is worth it? Men, women, children of all faiths, all ethnicities, all beliefs and ideologies, all classes…are losing their lives at ever-increasing rates. Right here from good ole home-grown terrorism. And we’re protecting the rights of the murderers! Would you be singing a different tune if it was your son or daughter who was slaughtered? If it was your spouse or cousin or favorite coworker? I bet you would. You sit there in your cushy armchairs, proclaiming your ignorance and vowing that you would feel the same no matter what. But you wouldn’t. You’re too blind to see it, too drenched in your hatred.
People are dying. People are suffering. But you don’t give a fuck. You high-and-mighty, self-righteous pricks.
And the rest of us, what are we gonna do about it? Lemme guess, you’re working on a rainbow flag filter for your Facebook profile photos. Yes, because that’s so fucking effective. Good for you; you’re such a mindful citizen. That’s going to do so much to help replace the lost blood and organs and sense of safety and self-worth of the survivors. It’s going to do such wonders for the mental illness epidemic sweeping the nation.
Go ahead and go to work on Monday and talk about how you could have seen this coming, that those people wouldn’t have died if they hadn’t been in a gay bar in the first place. Really? Have you seriously fucking forgotten the movie theater? The schools I’ve lost count of? The military bases? Really? Are you that fucking delusional? Or were all of them gay or brown, too? No, you fucking fucktards.
I can’t wait to go in to work tomorrow and hear about how Obama invited another “Islam” terrorist into our country. Nevermind the terrorists every fucking president ships out of here every fucking day to give some good ole fashion democracy to people whose countries we’re invading. Yeah. Our fucking guns are named democracy. That’s what we introduce them to. Lemme give some democracy in exchange for oil and puppet governments. But at least we ain’t gay, ain’t that right, Archie?
I’m angry. I’m rambling. And I’ve completely forgotten the mostly structured set of points I wanted to address. I’m too incensed to think straight about it. Anyway. Yeah. That’s enough. I can feel my blood pressure climbing to the ceiling, so I need to provide myself with a good diversion. Stick my head back in the sand for some mind numbing.
I love lots of things, really I do. Flowers and bumblebees and the color of carrots and precocious kids and witty adults and mountains and cheese puffs. But this post isn’t about things I like.
This post is about bullshit. “But Stephanie,” your innocent minds inquire, “why do you think it’s bullshit?” Because it is, children. Because it is. So grab your blankies and your juiceboxes and gather round for Ms. Stephanie’s Lullabies of Bullshit.
People who scratch their nuts in public. They really get down, don’t they? I mean, they really get in there. And look, I don’t discriminate. People who scratch their nuts in public are bullshit; I don’t care if they’re man or woman. The people, not the nuts. Henuts, Shenuts, I don’t care. If you’re scratching your nuts in public, you’re bullshit. Seriously. You look me in the eyes, scratch your nuts, reach out to shake my hand with that shiteating grin, and you really expect me not to call stranger danger on that one? I don’t know where the fuck your henuts or shenuts have been – I don’t want the slimy residue of those sweaty fuckers on my hand (or anywhere else for that matter). It’s bullshit. Keep your nut shenanigans to yourselves, please.
People who attempt to master the art of conversation…while you’re taking a piss. Seriously, Potty Paula, you’ve never spoken to me a day in your life. Why the fuck do you think I want to have a conversation with you about this year’s crop of turnip greens…while urine trickles out of my body? It’s bullshit. Shut the fuck up.
Mammograms. People, people, people. Listen. We can print entire legs. Print them. On printers. But we can’t identify breast cancer without pancaking our boobs in Satan’s fist? You know what that is? Say it with me, boys and girls: It’s bullshit!
Parents with fat kids. You’ll notice I’m not talking about fat kids. I’m talking about the parents of fat kids. The ones that are fat from eating. Yeah. Those. I don’t give a fuck about fat adults. I rank among them. But I do give a fuck about fat kids. I was a fat kid. I know what that shit felt like. I know what it’s like to be bullied or invisible. And you know what? Most of you parents with fat kids are also fat, so you know what it’s like, too. I don’t give the asses of all the rats how many ho-hos and dingdongs you smoosh down your gullet. Stop setting your kids up for a lifetime of struggles, you abusive pieces of shit. Yeah, that’s right. I’m looking at you, little sister. I’ve seen the pictures of my nephew. And you know what I think? You’re bullshit.
People who say chemicals are dangerous. Dude, your fucking FACE is a chemical. (Fine, a mass of chemicals. Semantics.) You’re bullshit. That is all.
Microaggressions. Fucking seriously? Are you fucking shitting me right now? I’m so sick of hearing and reading about microaggressions. You’re either the victim of aggression (active or passive), or you’re not. The only thing I wanna read about being micro- is a microwave or microbiology. Microaggressions are bullshit.
Meta. Oh my god, Becky. Her analysis. Of her own ass. Is like. So. Meta. Please fuck off with this meta shit. It’s bullshit.
People who say shit like, “I’m not racist, but…” We all know what you’re really saying is, “I’m not racist, but I’m about to say something so fucking racist you’ll think I invented racism.” Yeah. So next time you say, “I’m not racist, but I think all niggers should be in prison”? I swear to fuck I heard the second part, and you’re not even bullshit, Archie. You’re the festering maggot sputum drizzling down the top of the pile of bullshit. Yeah.
Having to upload a resume and filling out an application with the exact same fucking information. Guess what that is? Complete and utter bullshit. Do you want me to show you how good I am at copying down shit from my resume? Verfuckingbatim? Kudos to you, then. Look how good of a copier I am. Do I get a gold fucking star? You douchecanoes.
Parents who let their spawn play on xbox live chat. Listen up, thundercunt. When your precious angel calls me a fat whore when I whoop his ass, don’t get your granny panties in a wad when I call little Billy a nob swallowing penis wrinkle. It’s bullshit. Demote that little fucker back down to Candyland until he can learn how to respect his fucking gamer elders. The little prick.
Deconstructed coffee. Are you shitting me right now? I don’t even drink coffee, and I’m offended at this insult to coffee. If I want a cup of coffee, I don’t want three fucking glasses. One with hot water, one with milk or cream, and one with liquefied coffee beans. “It’s so you can make it how you want it!” Oh please. That’s why people go to Starbucks and order their Venti Grande Shorto Hot Iced Decaf Skinny Caramel Macchiatos with Extra Whip and two shots of Espresso. Fuck your deconstructed coffee and do your jobs, you bullshit hipster twatnozzles.
There. I feel better. Do you have anything to add? Pile on the bullshit, Peopleaneous. I’ve got extra shovels.
I don’t often issue warnings, but this time I will: if you continue reading, you are going to run into flagrant ignorance – including, but not limited to, overt racism and use of racial epithets. This post will also be the closest I’ve come to making any sort of political commentary on this blog.
Stephellaneous House Roles in effect: As always, anyone is welcome to disagree with me at any time. I appreciate and welcome varying perspectives and challenges of opinions and ideas. But anything even approaching blatant racism or hatespeak will be blocked outright. None of the regular traffic here needs that kind of rule…but you never know who may stop by.
The Scene: One dimly lit makeshift office, roughly the shape and size of a small, narrow walk-in closet. One long built-in desk along the length of one wall, just enough room for two people, three computers, six monitors and a bigass printer. I’m on the end, far side from the door. Office supplies, plants, and gnomes to my left, bitchass old lady to my right near the door.
The Players: One Stephanie, One Bitchass Old Lady, One Slightly Less Bitchass Middle-aged Lady, Several Garden Gnomes of varying size, a tiny plastic alligator and a tiny white goat named Garry bearing witness. Let’s call Bitchass Old Lady “Archie Bunker.” You know, the bigoted and racist prick from that old TV show. Let’s call Middle-aged Lady “Edith,” who – while softer and sweeter – was like-minded enough with Archie to have married him.
Archie may be the first old lady I’ve ever fantasized about punching in the face. But Edith…I love Edith to pieces, but she’s still…Edith.
I’m angry and stalling. Here goes. Take no prisoners.
It’s mid-afternoon, and I’m sitting at my desk. I’m bored out of my skull, head pounding, and I’m alternating between staring at my bank of four monitors, replying to you awesome people here on WordPress and getting lost in Facebook hell (you know, looking up family and shit from your past, an exercise you know good and fucking well will only end in pain and tears).
Archie is to my right, snoring off and on and listening to Fox News broadcasts at full volume. She’s semi-deaf. Because ancient.
Edith comes in at the Witching Hour. That is to say, at 3:00 all the coffee hounds have a fresh batch. So she came in with her steaming mug of burnt office coffee and leans against the wall, ready for chitchat and scintillating conversation about how slowly time is moving, but TGIF.
First the Bunkers share the ubiquitous gossip about our resident pill-popper (the most notorious of them, anyway). (White guy. Everyone in the fucking building is white. It wouldn’t make me mad if I didn’t know for a fact that it’s intentional.)
They then moved on to another drug topic. Bear in mind, please, that none of this was said with any hint of irony.
Listen in as Archie tells Edith about one of her Fox News reports. When I heard the topic, I turned the music down (I had my earbuds in – my only armor against Bill O’Reilly and cohort).
Archie whispers conspiratorially, “Did you hear about that…that guy the troopers pulled over?
Edith laughs, “Which guy? Guys are pulled over all the time.”
Archie snorts, “Don’t make me hit you, sassy mouth. I mean that…hoodlum they pulled over with all that….that marijuana!“
Stephanie stops the music but keeps the earbuds in, still facing her monitors.
Edith shakes her head, “No, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore.”
Archie: “Well, as you can imagine…it was a Mexican.“
Stephanie pops her earbuds out, still facing her monitors.
Edith: “Still doesn’t surprise me.” (Note: One of Edith’s sons-in-law is Mexican.)
Archie: “47 pounds! He had 47 pounds of marijuana! He swears it was all his own personal marijuana, but I don’t believe him.”
Stephanie chimes in, still facing her monitors, “He’s trying to shake a distribution charge.”
Both sets of eyes look over, and Stephanie gives a sidelong glance back.
Archie: “Well of COURSE he intended to distribute it.”
Stephanie: “Was it broken down? Or was it in bricks?”
Archie: “Bricks? I’m talking about MARIJUANA, Stephanie!”
Edith looks at Archie’s computer monitor, “Looks like bricks to me.”
Stephanie: “Mhm. Then they can’t prove it’s for distribution. Smart guy; he’s angling for a lighter charge.”
Archie: “SMART GUY?? He’s a MEXICAN with MARIJUANA. I hope they lock him away for good.”
Stephanie: “I don’t see what his ethnicity has to do with it.”
Edith skirts, “After a day like this, I may want to find that guy and go smoke one with him!”
Archie: “Stop making jokes. This is serious! All these…these…WEEDHEADS and and PEDOPHELIA TYPE PEOPLE are RUINING America! These Mexicans and that Islam Nigger President!”
Stephanie: “You cannot compare pot use with rape and molestation of children. Nor do I see how ethnicity has anything to do with any of this….Oh. And pot should be legal.”
Archie clutches her chest and goes pale, “STEPHANIE! You CANNOT be serious. Race has everything to do with it. And that drug has ruined lives and killed people!”
Stephanie (who rarely says anything): “That’s what you’re supposed to believe. Your fear of a literal weed that was supposedly brought here by Mexicans and Natives allows for the existence a multi-billion dollar industry run by our government.”
Edith: “She’s joking, Archie. She’s just trying to get you going.”
Stephanie: “No I’m not.”
Edith glares, Archie looks on the verge of a heart attack and Stephanie pops her earbuds back in but leaves the music off.
Archie: “Anyway. Them..them weedheads and pedophilias [sic] are everywhere. I bet you couldn’t even find a place to live on the moon without having one for a neighbor. It’s not safe anywhere anymore.” If she had pearls on, she’d be clutching them.
Edith: “Sooo…have y’all heard about that movie about assisted suicide?”
If blatant, inexcusable ignorance is this rampant in the PNW, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve had it with sitting quietly while the people I’m surrounded by speak in this manner and think they can get away with it because my skin is the same color as theirs. I will no longer lend tacit agreement with my silence. I’ve been the quiet one all my life, especially when it comes to my elders. And I’m fucking ashamed of it.
The whole “respect your elders, Southern Charm” bullshit has overstayed its welcome with me. Just because Archie is 74 doesn’t mean she’s earned the right to spew ignorance and hate as gospel. That “good little Christian woman” is anything but. I’m Fucking Over It.
I was going to tell you all about the awesome four day weekend I had this weekend just past.
I was going to tell you about bookstores and masturdating and parks and recreation and old fucks and Buddha by the rhododendron and fishing and fiction.
I can’t do that right now.
Because fuck me, that’s why.
I let the doc put me on geodon. It’s an antipsychotic. Hear me out. I had it on good authority that it could, in fact, help with the mixed episodes I’ve been experiencing a lot lately.
Problem is…turns out I’m allergic to the shit. Severely.
I’ve been throwing up for 2-3 days straight, no chaser. Seriously. I chased it with anti-vomityourgutsup juice, and I vomited the anti-vomityourgutsup juice out.
Big ass rash spreading across the back of my neck.
Bubbles on my arm (blister).
Dizziness and worsening headache.
Confusion. Randomly stopping myself mid-thought or even mid-sentence.
Fucking. (Yeah right. No such luck.)
Torn up guts.
Itching. Did I mention this COOKIEMONSTERFORSAKEN ITCHING?! MOTHERFUCK, I ITCH.I’d pay somebody to scratch my itch, but I think that’s called solicitation.
Anyway. The one thing it geodon DIDN’T fuck with, clearly, is my ragingly filthy mind. So there’s that. And also my cookiediction. Me want cookies. Now. (Also. May I borrow someone’s kids so I can “not” teach them this lesson by what is obviously The Real Cookie Monster, please stand up?)
The one thing I DIDN’T get as a side effect was the heart-racing arrhythmia. It’s a damn good thing, because if that box had gotten ticked, he was going to have to admit me. My heart was not only NOT racing, it was lower than he’s ever recorded it. 42. I think? OH MY GOD, MY HEART IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?! I KNEW IT!
Anyturtles. My GP said I met every single other criterion for the Rare and Severe reactions. Yay me!
A man once told me I was rare. Now I know what he meant. RARE AND SEVERE AND FUCKED UP.
Except I don’t kid. You kid. Keep the kids over there. Because I’m MANGRY.
On top of forvomigen, the nausea med he gave me that doesn’t work, he also gave steroids. Lots and lots of steroids that I have to take for six fucking days.
He asked if I had any issue taking short-term steroids to stop my allergic responses and wipe out the rash. I said no, except Hulk. He was mildly puzzled, then laughed when I said YOU know….then I made rage face and said Hulk Angry! Only some of that actually happened. I’ll let you work it out.
So I’m on steroids for a week. And I’m sweating and angry and itching and sore. AND NOT FOR ANY OF THE FUN REASONS.
And I can’t make my brainhole focus on the things I WANTED to write about.
Fucking fuckstick douchecanoe handledick. Oooo handledick. New one. That works a myriad of ways, that one.
Anyway. I’m gonna fuck off outta here.
Just wanted to say Hi.
Just wanted to say I’m Pissed Off.
Just wanted to say I Miss You.
Just wanted to say Bye Fuckers, Because ME MANGRY.
Oh. And for what it’s worth? Either I was on one of my upswings already, or geodon was actually helping me. Because starting the drug coincided with the start of a major uptick in my moods and mindset. So. Let’s hope it wasn’t the geodon. Because now I’m pissed that I can’t take it anymore. WAAAAAAH. Look at me. Crying like a bitch. MANGRY.
P.S. If that mangry music isn’t your thing, mute it and watch. Because Sully Erna is in Fine Fucking Form here. Shirtless. Shoeless. Perfect jeans. Yum. You know what? I’ll take my steroids with a side of Sully. (Unfortunately, that’s the only good part of the video. The rest of it is wrestling or boxing or nascar or some other lame shit where grownass boys beat each other up for money.) (Hey, don’t start in on me! I told you I’m mangry! It’s in the title! FUCKING STEROIDS. GRAWR.) (But now I’m sleepy and itchy and mangry and hungry and sweaty and ARRGGGHHHHHHH I SAID GOOD DAY!)
P.S. Numberonius Twovicus. How about a preview of last weekend, hm?
These Panic Attacks are increasing in regularity. I thought…I thought they were Anxiety Attacks. And I think that’s all they used to be. But something is wrong, because I know the difference well. And I’m having full-on panic attacks now. Is it a med? I’ve reduced how many I’m on. It is circumstantial? That’s no doubt a contributing factor. Is it something age-triggered? Perhaps. I rule nothing out at this point. Nothing except the fucking anti-psychotics the bitch keeps trying to push.
They’re getting worse. Picture me lying dead still in bed until it explodes. And then I experience everything I described before plus a lot of hair pulling, gnashing of teeth, rage screaming. Lately these “episodes” have landed me in the closet. It’s like a safe, cozy spot of dark. It’s a small closet, and the walls are close. I drag my pretty paisley lap blanket in, along with a pillow and my phone (just in case).
I curl up into the corner, zip my hoodie all the way up, pull the hood down as low as it will go, cover myself in the soft, indulgent blanket. Then I close my eyes, lean my head into the corner, and pet the blanket.
I’ve been asked by more than one person why I do this.
What’s wrong with you?
Why didn’t you reach out to me?
Why didn’t you think to ask for help before you vomited the contents of your broken soul into the wastebasket?
What did I do to deserve you feeling suicidal?
Am I not enough for you?
Why are you doing this to me?
Are you doing this for attention?
Why don’t you just fucking stop it?
Just be happy, for fucks sake.
You were fine five fucking minutes ago!
You must just not trust me. That’s what this is about. Admit it. So how can I trust you?
Let’s just get this said for the record: This isn’t about you, you raging fucking narcissist.
If you could get your head out of your ass for five fucking seconds, you’d understand that something this severe isn’t simply snapped out of. And it’s been part of my life for years. So fuck off trying to make this about you. Not everything is about you. Do you get that? No. Because you’re blinded by the dark interior of your ASSHOLE.
If you think I wouldn’t snap out of it if I could, you’re a fucking idiot to boot. No, you’re right. You know what? You’re right. I LOVE feeling a panic attack coming on, trying to brace myself and ride it out AT WORK, only to have to make a calm but anxious dash to the bathroom so I can shake and sweat and silently rage until I vomit. Yes. Yes. I love it so much. I want to fuck it six ways to Sunday.
If you think I use this as some twisted form of manipulation, then you know absolutely nothing about me at all. And seriously, manipulating you into piling on the guilt? Oh yes, yes, please sir. I’ll have another HEAPING FUCKING HELPING OF GUILT, YOU PRICKWHISTLE.
If you think I’m doing this for attention, you should know…attention is the last thing I want right in the middle of a panic attack. I’d love to have someone around. To just be present. Maybe even sit in the closet with me. Quietly. Maybe be there to hold my hand when I finally calm down enough to make eye contact. Maybe someone to tell me to stop apologizing for all the tears and snot.
Yeah, that would be nice.
That would be bliss.
Your guilt trips? You know what they do? They make them worse. So take them and shove them back up your crusty pisshole.
Second point I’d like to make is that I’m trying. I’m fighting. I am intellectually well aware that my psychological responses are off.
I’m well and truly aware that it is an understatement to say it’s abnormal to get home from work, check the mail, find a notice that I’m receiving my last issue of “Backpacker,” so you’d better renew your subscription now so you don’t miss out!, get inside, put my things down, and have a complete and utter meltdown.
Do I even need Backpacker anymore?
They’re gonna put rods and pins in my feet. Can I hike like that?
I can’t afford the 20 fucking dollars a year for a stupid fucking magazine.
You have bills to pay that are more important than articles on shit you can’t even do without breaking your bones, fatass.
Look at all this waste you accumulate.
Final notice for Backpacker! Final notice for The Sun! Final notice for Mother Jones!
Final fucking notice for you, motherfucker! FINAL FUCKING NOTICE FOR ME!
Why do I bother?
I wouldn’t even need to live vicariously through Backpacker, if I could at least start getting some fucking interviews in PNW. But noooooo. I have a piece of shit, cracked out recruiter who can barely remember my name and not enough endorsements on my LinkedIn.
LinkedIn. Facebook. Ladders. Glassdoor. Indeed.
OVERFUCKINGWHELMED DOT COM
And I still write shit cover letters.
JUST. FUCKING. DIE. ALREADY.
Where. Where. WHERE’S MY BLANKET!
It happens. Sometimes I can later identify a trigger; sometimes there’s no logical one to be found. Does that help, huh? Does that help you see? No, it doesn’t, because you still think I’m exaggerating. And if only I got a fucking hobby, I could quit all the meds cold turkey and be right as rain. Lemme just take one of the Oracle’s cookies while I’m at it. Bend some fucking spoons.
I don’t even give a shit if it does help you. I give a shit if it helps someone see. If it helps someone identify and better communicate with his or her suffering partner, family member or friend. I hope it helps shed light for those like me on just how intense this shit is. Look at it. Right there in black and white. And see how much it hurts not only ourselves, but our loved ones if we’re lucky enough to have any. Don’t push them away, not the ones who are genuine. There are way too many pricks out there to fill in the gaps. Cling to the keepers.
I am always open with my emotional and psychological struggles. If I begin a relationship, I make it plain that I am highly emotional, an empath and struggle with psychological abnormalities. I find people incredibly dismissive of it until they see it “in action,” so to speak. And then they flip and inevitably make it about themselves. Can we please, please stop this vicious cycle?
There’s more I wanted to say.
But I’m sleepy now.
And I have to pee.
For those of you suffering with me – fist bump. “Hang in there” and all that trite shit. Seriously. You aren’t alone. Even when you feel more alone than anyone else in the whole godforsaken world.
For those of you struggling to understand us – fist bump. Please don’t give up on those you love. And if you don’t really love them? Let them down easily. Gently. We break easily.
P.S. As a full disclaimer: This rant wasn’t directed at any one person. If you see yourself in it, I suggest taking a good hard look at yourself and working on some of your own struggles.