So I Skipped Another Day (AKA 5-Day Song Challenge: Day 4)

Yesterday was insanity at work. Mostly good insanity. I love when I get to not do my job and do something completely different. (Not even sarcasm.) I interviewed several people for a management program we’re kicking off in about two weeks, and then the dreaded meetings (which I actually like when the people are normal, productive and cool).

So yeah, no posty. And now today, some fucked-up I hope it’s not a medical emergency shit going on with me. But I’m posting anyway, because damnit I’m trying to be here.

And since I’m in a fuck society punk rock place at the moment, I’ll share some with you.

The Song:

Smallpox Champion – Fugazi

A nice, solid, damn-the-man punk rock song.

The Lyrics:

Smallpox Champion of the U S of A
Give natives some blankets warm like the grave
This is the pattern cut from the cloth
This is the pattern designed to take you right out

This is the frontier with winter’s so cold
Greed informs action where action makes bold
To take all the cotton that’s cut from the stalk
Weave in the the disease that’s gonna wipe you right out

What is good for the future
What is good for the past – won’t last

Bury your heart U S of A
History rears up to spit in your face
You saw what you wanted, you took what you saw
We know how you got it- your method equals wipe out
The end of the future and all that you own
Under the blankets of all that you’ve done
Memory serves us to serve you yet
Memory serves us to never let you wipe out

Cha-cha-cha-champion you’ll get yours
Wipe out

~

So this is a heavy one and more than a bit “political.” I wrapped that word in quotation marks, because I think it’s a cop-out to dub genocide a political issue as a justification of sidestepping uncomfortable topics.

If you’re into punk rock, you’ll dig it. Love me some Fugazi.

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I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole. Or just Shank a Bitch. Or both. Good Idea. (AKA I’m gonna rant my ass off.)

You know what I hate?

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.

Cunt.

Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.

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You know what else I hate?

FedEx
I’ll tell you why not. Because they’re ass sucking penis wrinkles. That’s why.

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.

Fuckyeah.

Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.

beaker

Humanity I Love You

Humanity i love you
a poem by e e cummings

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than inquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death
Humanity

i hate you

~

I love e e cummings, and I love the pure irony and sarcasm of this one. One could say it’s quite timely as well, but when hasn’t it been? Truly, has there ever been a time in which the ideas presented here haven’t been true? I am quite the cynic and am myself disgusted by the state of humanity.

However.

I also struggle to force myself to trust. To stick my neck out and believe that perhaps it isn’t quite so terrible as it seems. Or rather, that one perhaps shouldn’t disregard the exceptions to the rule simply because there is a rule.

It’s a lonely way to go about life. I know this to be true, firsthand. Still, we should at least be cautious and informed.

Look at me blathering on. I meant to drop the poem and go, allowing it to stand alone. And here I am. Alas, I’ve run out of things to say.

Perhaps more later. Perhaps even about a party to which I’ve been invited. Ah. But humanity.

Graffiti

Graffiti is a kind word for artistic vandalism. And I love it. I don’t exactly know why, but I’ve always loved graffiti (well-done graffiti, that is). Hmm. Now I’m curious.

I’m attracted to rebellion.
I’m attracted to people and ideas that buck convention (so long as there’s logic behind it).
I’m attracted to art, especially avant-garde, industrial and/or urban art. Something about people making urban spaces their own, adding art and flavor and sometimes critical social commentary…I’m drawn to it. Statement pieces are my favorite.

Tom Eversley Urban Art.jpg

I have a love/hate relationship with cities. There’s a strange, unnatural beauty to modern cities: the way so many people are gathered and crammed into tight living spaces.  Shoulder to shoulder they walk the sidewalks and street crossings. And yet, they’re anonymous. You can walk through a throng of people, and no one even notices you. You’re just another unit of humanity in a faceless, nameless sea. There’s so much cultural variety, it’s thrilling and enriching. But it’s so fucking impersonal. Hence the love/hate. It’s unnatural.

I have a certain appreciation for beautifully done architecture, though I (mostly) disdain purely functional forms. Give me some flavor. Allow me to see the artistry of the architect’s vision. And if you give me bland, industrial, utilitarian space?

Graffiti the shit out of it. Somehow, someway, I want to see the art of humanity shining through the bleak, gray spaces. If we’re going to “pave paradise,” shouldn’t we make it our own?

My favorite graffiti that I’ve seen has been that found on trains, on the side of horribly mundane industrial, horribly inhuman (yet all too human) facilities, bridges, canals, etc. I love the resistance it shows, people fighting back against the bleak, faceless commodification of humanity.

~

That said, you know what I hate? I fucking hate this shit:

image

See what it says? I found this at the park today. Someone carved “Homecoming?” into a tree. Someone later came behind and carved a response, “NO.” I was so fucking angry when I saw this. This is nature. Look at the word “nature.” NATURAL. Industry is unnatural – and I’m okay with bringing humanity into it. And it can be painted over. Urban art can be painted over. This? This tree is damaged for good. There’s no undoing this.

Heh. And it only got worse from there.

image

This entire tree was covered from the ground to about seven feet. I was livid. And then, I was so so sad. The people who damage trees in this way are the ones who have so little respect that they’re threatening future generations’ access to our national parks. They’re the people who break through the travertine crust in Yellowstone or approach bison to take selfies. Entitled fucking morons who have zero respect for this beautiful earth we get to call home.

Grab your cans of spray paint and beautify and personalize a train or the underside of a bridge. But we must be better stewards of our planet.

Maybe I’ll go back tomorrow morning and flip that tree off. Yeah. That’ll show ’em.

Fuck it. I’m too mad to focus on anything but Orlando, etc.

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.

Stuff I Think Is Bullshit (Because It Is)

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.

melbourne-reaches-peak-hipster-with-deconstructed-coffee-805x426
This is not coffee.

There. I feel better. Do you have anything to add? Pile on the bullshit, Peopleaneous. I’ve got extra shovels.

An Alice in Chains Kind of Day

Do you ever feel alone?

So. Fucking. Alone.
So. Fucking. Hopeless.

I shouldn’t be listening to Alice in Chains. I shouldn’t have Layne Staley’s beautifully haunting voice in my head this morning, mirroring my mood. Feeding it. Fueling it. Strengthening it. But it’s an Alice in Chains kind of morning.

I was up too late last night. I took my meds too late. So, though I was quite exhausted, I had a hell of a time getting to sleep. Then one of my cats, the Orange One, decided to go dumpster diving at various times throughout the night. You see, I thoughtlessly left the giant sack of cat food accessible to the cats. I had no idea that the Orange One would bypass his food bowl in favor of climbing up onto the bag and eating out of it instead. That loud crackling, crinkling racket coupled with his munching woke me up no fewer than three times in the night. (Yes, I moved that bag first thing this morning.)

All of this led me to oversleep this morning. Of course. Which fucking sucked, because I had to skip my shower. I like to take one every morning. Helps me feel clean (First World water consumer right here) and is equally important to help me feel awake.

So. I’m “hoping” that those factors combined are why I feel so…subdued…today.

The alternative is far more upsetting.

The alternative is that in spite of the meds and positive changes in my life.
I’m beginning the downward spiral back into a depressive state.

It’s been a while since the slow creeping venomous vine of depression bound me in its grip. Where it cuts and burns and squeezes and binds. Until it enters every orifice and spreads within you like a slow, painful death.

It has hold of you now. You hack and hack and hack away at the vines, but they’re stronger than you are right now. Because the venom of the vine seeps into your body, into your bloodstream, into your very consciousness, into your soul. And the venom?

Lies. Cruelty. Darkness. Hopelessness. Suicide. Worthlessness. Fatigue. Loss. Pain. Malaise. Apathy. Despair. Anger. Hatred. Loathing.

The venom is insidious. But you’re in no state to fight it.

Depression is what we call it.

We want to fight it. We want to break through. We want to break free. But it’s not always so simple, is it? Sometimes it’s simply time. To be depressed.

I hate being a Depressive Person.
I hate having Major Depressive Disorder, Clinical Depression, Bipolar II, PTSD, GAD.
What. The. Fuck. Ever.
Whatever it is. Whatever the labels.
I hate it. I don’t wish to feel this way. I do not choose to feel this way. I do not enjoy it.

But in a strange way, I can at least be thankful.

Thankful?
Thankful.

Because it’s only for the darkness that I’m able to see the light.
If all of my life is spent in sunshine,
Do I recognize it as sunshine?
Can I appreciate it if I don’t know that darkness exists? What it looks like? What it feels like?

If all of my life is spent in darkness,
Can I appreciate the sunshine?
If I don’t know that the sunshine exists,
What gives me hope? What reason have I to persevere? To keep hacking away at those vines?

Perhaps I need the depression.
Perhaps it tempers me.
Perhaps it reminds me what is real.
Even as it tells me lies about myself.

~

Sometimes it’s the very things I hope for. The very things I cling to. That shift my sunshine into the darkest of nights. Perhaps I want too much. Need to much. Ask too much. Expect too much. Perhaps I am my own undoing.

~

I want to live a life apart.
I want to escape civilization.
I want to damn expectations.

I don’t give a fuck about elections.
I don’t give a fuck about money.
I don’t give a fuck about fearmongering.

I have zero fucks for celebrity.
I have no interest in things.
I am sick to death of working for the man.

I don’t wish to spend my life rotting in front of television.
I have no desire to tour the den of lies that is Washington, D.C.
I have a big, fat fuck you to societal rules and norms.

Fuck your McMansions.
Fuck your things.
Fuck your self-righteousness.

Fuck your racism.
Fuck your xenophobia.
Fuck your nationalism.

Fuck your ownership.
Fuck your entitlement.
Fuck your judgment.

~

John Muir is My Hero

I want a companion.
I want to explore the wild.
I want to take the road less traveled by.

I want to learn.
I want to question.
I want to observe and absorb.

I want to immerse myself in different cultures.
I want to meet and embrace the other.
I want to see life through your eyes.

I want to hear your perspective.
I want to feel your soul.
I want to reach into you and bathe in your essence.

I want to get lost on purpose.
I want to relish the adventure of finding my way again.
I want to discover the untamed beauties off the beaten path.

I want to make love on a blanket of grass under a sea of stars.
I want to run naked through a meadow of wildflowers.
I want to cleanse myself in unpolluted waters.

I want to giggle for no reason.
I want to belly laugh until it hurts to breathe.
I want to spend hours simply making faces at each other.

I want to have deep, tangential conversations until three A.M.
I want to make a pillow fort and sit in our underwear and tell ghost stories.
I want you to see me and let me see you.

I want to smoke a joint and tell stories in the middle of a rainforest.
I want to wash my face in snow melt and move on.
I want to walk the cobblestones of an ancient city, then get fucked in a dirty old stairwell.

I want to be loved unconditionally.
I want to be allowed to love unconditionally.
I want my quirks to be appreciated.

I want you to see my tears as beautiful.
I want you to let me kiss yours.
I want to live inside your soul.

I want to live.
I want to love.
I want to be free.

~

The problem is: I don’t think this is too much to ask.
I think: This is the reality that people have been brainwashed to not see.
I want: That which is truly real and meaningful.

And when I don’t have it.
When I can’t have it.
When I am denied it.

I sink.
Down.
Down.
Down.

Into the depths…
Of my mind.
Of my desires.
Of my aching lack.

Want me.
Need me.
Love me.

Adventure with me.
Learn with me.
Challenge me.

Show me something I’ve never seen before.
Let me show you things you’ve never seen.
Let us carve our own reality.

I’m waiting.
I’m wanting.
I’m ready.

~

Is this too much to ask?
I think not.

And you know something?
I feel better already.