A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

When my brothers and I were growing up my mother had certain sayings for various occasions … “I’m not you’re personal slave,” when we left a mess for her to clean up; “Would it have killed you to pick up a phone?” when we came home late without calling; “I guess I just can’t have nice things,” when once of us broke something that she considered good rather than everyday.

But while our breakage of one of her complete collection of NFL glasses acquired after a year of fill-ups at the neighborhood ARCO station was an accident, there are those people who for reasons I am unable to fathom take perverse pleasure in deliberately disallowing others to have nice things.

This is the situation in which I find myself.

It seems I’ve picked up a parasite.  Not a tapeworm or a bot fly or some other such wee beastie that Trojan Horses its way into your body, coursing through your blood stream like it’s on a flume ride until reaching your brain which it uses as its own personal hatchery, releasing millions of its demon spawn to short circuit your neurons and drive you slowly insane, but an insidious creature none the less.

Mine is of the human variety, and rather than invading my organs, blood or brain she is determined to infiltrate my life.  The whole story isn’t important (and frankly it’s too long to tell), but just to be clear this isn’t a “someone I’m just not interested in dating” situation, this is a bonafide stalker situation.  In fact, after learning her real name (and she uses many) I found another woman’s blog post from 2008 who’d also been victimized by my “obsessed fan.”

To the best of my knowledge she no longer knows where I live, so I believe I’ve blocked any physical access she has to me.  Unfortunately, before I became aware of her true nature we had a brief friendship on Facebook and I gave her the URL for my blog.  She still sometimes finds ways to access my Facebook page, contacts my friends and family and pulls various stunts to try to gain my attention.  She also checks my blog a couple of times a day to see if I’ve posted anything new; which is why I haven’t lately.  She lurks.  I know she’s out there, waiting to pounce on any little tidbit, some little crumb of information about me.  And all I want is to disappear, become unable for her to find.

Aside from not wanting her to have access to my life, she more than anyone else least deserves to enjoy my stellar writing, sharp wit, charming personality and deep insights.  So it’s with resentment, disappointment, a heavy heart and a measure of satisfaction at cutting off yet another avenue of access that I’ve decided to abandon my blog.  So to those of you who read me (except, y’know …) and especially those who offered their support during my brief comeback tour, I just wanted to say thank you and let you know that all is still on the right track.  I’ll miss this and miss all of you.  It’s been a pleasure and I wish you all the best!

Oh yeah! The picture, almost forgot …

I’m Ba-aaack!

I imagine if you’re like most people I imagine, you’ve been sitting around since November gnawing on your fingernails until they bleed, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes and wondering just where the hell I could possibly be.  And I imagine if you’re like other people, those who have a life where I am not the center around which it revolves, you may not have noticed that I went missing late last year.  While I shudder to think of the emptiness of a life without me as the nucleus of its existence, I do take some comfort in knowing that at least those people didn’t have to suffer the pain of being forced to survive over half a year without being able to read me.

To those whose lives have been affected by my absence, I offer my most sincere apologies.  While it was never my intention to be gone for so long, I know that doesn’t make what you’ve been through any easier.  I can only ask for your understanding and hopefully your forgiveness.

In order to warm up to the tale of my whereabouts and wanderings, I refer you to an earlier post called “How To Lose Friends And Alienate People” where I disclosed that I was prone to doing some fucked up shit when I was fucked up on some shit.  The post wasn’t a laundry list of intoxicant induced embarrassing events, regrettable rendezvouses and sordid situations. Rather it was an attempt to understand and reveal myself, why I am the way I am, and where it had gotten me at that point; and, looking back, I think it was fairly accurate and spot-on … all except the part where I wrote, “I don’t have a disease or an addictive-personality.”  As it turns out, my pseudonym is Urethra and I’m an alcoholic.

Or maybe it doesn’t “turn out” because that would make it something previously unknown.  It could be that some of you or one of you read that earlier post and thought, “Who the hell does she think she’s kidding?”  I know it’s no surprise to me and it hasn’t been since I first went to rehab back when I was 22.  But when I wrote that post, as awful as I felt about losing my friends, I still wasn’t ready to say I was the a-word yet.  I didn’t want to be sober and go to meetings, I wanted to drink and go to bars.  I’d been an alcoholic and it was boring, I wanted to keep being a drunk and having fun.

You know what’s really boring though?  What’s really boring are people who have stopped smoking, started exercising, lost weight, gotten sober, had a baby or found religion and instantly lose their sense of humor and their ability to talk about anything other than how AWESOME their life is now that they’ve stopped/started/had/found ‘X’ in a way that subtly (or not so subtly) suggests that you and your life are crap and will continue to be crap until you stop/start/have/find ‘X’ just like they did.

I am not one of those people.

Did I stop drinking?  I did.  Have I given up eating handfuls of Vicodin like they they were Pez?  I have.  Do I still sit at home alone with a pile of cocaine because two 8-balls just doesn’t seem like enough to share?  I do not.  Is it true that I quit crushing and snorting a two-month supply of Ritalin in under a week?  Indeed it is.  Am I popping half-a-dozen Lunesta just to relax?  I am not.  Is my brain now free from all mind and mood-altering agents?  With the exception of the medically-approved pharmaceutical cocktail that keeps my bi-polarocity from teeter-tottering out of control; and nicotine and caffeine, which you can have when you pry them from my cold, dead, well-manicured lesbian fingers, it is.

Will my writing now be limited to the joy and wonder of being clean and sober?  Nope.  Am I going to tell you what step I’m working on or what words of wisdom my sponsor spoke?  I am not.  Are you going to start seeing inspiring quotes or cliched slogans from the anonymous program popping up in my posts?  You aren’t.

The bottom line is I stopped writing because my life face-planted so hard that keeping up on my blog was the furthest thing from my drug-addled, alcohol-soaked brain; and I stopped drinking and using because things got bad … really bad.  Not “danced on a table and threw up on my date” bad, but cops, emergency rooms and psych-wards bad.  And now things are getting better.  Not “I’m back at home and all is right with the world” better, but “selling my house will pay off some of my massive debt and it looks like I’ll get to do house-arrest instead of jail” better.  But now that the pickling and addling are in the past and the brainium in my cranium is getting back up to speed, I’m feeling ready to pick up where I left off.

So prepare yourselves to be awed and amazed by tales of recklessness, rehab and redemption … minus all the happy, sappy crappy stuff.  Look for “Welcome To My Nightmare 2 – Electric Bugaloo” where my parents run across a steamer-trunk full of porn at my house (why does your lesbian daughter have gay male porn? I don’t know Ma, ask Julianne Moore and Annette Benning … ); be sure to read “Who Tied Me To This Gurney?” as I wrestle with the question of whether to send a ‘thank you’ or an ‘I’m sorry’ card to the friend who had me carted off by the EMTs; you won’t want to miss “You’re Such A Good Listener,” the heartwarming story of the telephone pole that cared and supported me as I tearfully told it my troubles until the nice officers came and took me away; and in “The Rehab Reality Show” I’ll tell you what it’s really like to live in a house with six total strangers for thirty days … minus the cameras, paycheck and appearances on TMZ (also, stealth masturbation strategies when you realize you’re going to have a roommate and little or no privacy for a month).

It’s been a long, strange journey my friends … one that I’ll share with you in the weeks and months ahead. And while I know in all seriousness that my disappearance was hardly a blip on the radar, I do think it’s rude to drop off the map without so much as a “see you later” or “tootle-loo,” and for that I do apologize.  I’m looking forward to catching up on my favorite blogs, keeping up on mine and seeing what’s new out there. I’ve missed this and all of you … it’s good to be back.

How To Lose Friends And Alienate People

I am one of the nicest people you’d ever hope to meet. Seriously. In my entire life only two people have ever found the need to call me a bitch (I exclude from my list, of course, fellow drivers who become irate when I putter along at 85mph and men from the dating site … and I use that term loosely … I belong to who have irrational rage issues and assume I’m a lesbian because they suffer from micro-penis). The first time I was called a bitch (or ‘you bitch’ or ‘dumb bitch’ or ‘fill-in-the-blank bitch’) was by an ex-girlfriend from many moons ago who showered me with all manner of colorful monikers when she didn’t get her way or I was right about something, which was most of the time. In that case, I don’t feel that I was being a bitch in the general sense of the word as much as she was just a big, pouty baby in almost every sense. The second time was by a friend and much more recently. Although, since she generally favors calling me ‘you fucking cunt’ I actually consider it more a term of endearment when she simply goes with ‘bitch.’

I’m kind, decent, honest, generous, trustworthy and loyal. I’m also smart, funny and a hell of a lot of fun to be around. On the other hand, I’m a complete asshole. Not a douchetard-asshole, more of a dumbfuck-asshole. I’m manipulative, sneaky, full of shit, selfish, irresponsible and neglect people who love me in favor of those whose approval I seek. I’m also dense, annoying and a pain in the ass. It’s as though every good characteristic that I can identify in myself has an evil twin who’s just as easily recognized (I’m generally confident and usually insecure … see??!). It’s frustrating to me and maddening to those around me.

Half a lifetime ago, I was the good kid who was always up to some kind of shenanigans. I was Goofus and Gallant, cheeky but goodhearted, the likeable little scallywag no one could stay mad at. I was adept at getting away with things or talking my way out of trouble. It was part of my charm. But as I push toward the half-century mark, being the fuck-up with great potential is no longer cute and endearing, but sad and pathetic. And frankly, people are getting fed up with me.

It’s no secret to those who know me that I enjoy the mood-altering effects of various substances, whether they be wet, dry, grown in the sunshine or concocted by chemists. My interests developed early and never fully departed, even after a stint in rehab back in the 80s where I got me some o’ that old time Anonymous Religion and stayed squeaky clean for quite some time. I don’t have a disease or an addictive-personality. I’m simply spoiled rotten and have never faced any real consequences for my actions. I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I’m all about instant gratification and become an emotional two-year old when I hear “no” or “wait” or “not now.” My indulgences, be they chemical, sexual, financial, etc., are all choices and usually based on what feels good at the moment.

I’m not saying I don’t have a problem, I just don’t want to justify, excuse or rationalize my behavior by pretending it’s something I can’t control. I’m impulsive and compulsive, sometimes unbearably, overwhelmingly so. But if I convince myself I can’t help the things I do or that they’re not my fault, all I’m really doing is giving myself permission to shrug, say “Don’t blame me, I’m sick,” and continue making the same bad choices.

Being forgiven and getting away with it (whatever ‘it’ might be) so often and for so long is a bit like gambling and hitting a lucky streak: you feel like you can never lose. And even though it cools you keep feeding the machines all night, believing you’ll get hot again, willing your luck to come back, no longer enjoying the game but desperate and panicked at what you’re losing, have lost, until eventually you stumble out of the casino into the glaring morning sun without enough money for a cab ride back to your hotel or a goddamn cup of coffee.

I’m not going to go into great detail about my assholery over the past couple of years. Suffice to say that much of the shit-pile I’m buried under I brought down upon myself, either directly or indirectly. I am an unpredictable drinker (aside from never getting sick or having hangovers … again, no consequences!) and I’ve hurt, angered and frightened people with my behavior. I’ve been fortunate to have been forgiven or excused more times than I deserve. Sometimes I would wonder just how many times I could inflict my drama and bullshit on people who love and care for me before they said, “Enough!” As it turns out, the answer is one time less than I recently attempted.

I pushed it too far, pushed them, scared them, took them for granted, hurt, angered and disappointed them. This isn’t being defriended on Facebook or acquaintances who no longer wave when you see them on the street. Three people who mean a great deal to me (one who I credit with keeping me sane, and maybe even alive), good people, people who made a difference for me, have had enough and are done. I don’t know if the friendships are permanently over, but I’ve done damage that can’t be repaired and I don’t think things can ever be the same. And I did it, it’s all my fault. I’m responsible.

I knew my actions would cost me eventually, but I never imagined the price would be so dear. Or so devastating.

You Won’t Miss Me. You Are Stupid.

ouch

My dear friend broke up with me last night via Yahoo’s Instant Messenger. She is brilliant, a talented writer with a tender heart and a sharp tongue who is easily hurt by inadvertent slights or snubs, and her reaction to such can be swift and merciless.

One feature of YIM is that it stores conversation histories. This allowed me to go back and relive the destruction of our friendship a number of times today. As I wallowed, I noticed something interesting. If I stripped away my side of the conversation and a few overly-identifying bits, leaving just the raw and relevant things she said in their original order, I couldn’t help but notice a certain structure and flow. Although she’d likely disagree (and being more knowledgeable than I in such areas, would no doubt be right), I find there’s even something poetic in the way she ripped my heart out.

   I’m completely finished with you.
   I am so fucking sick and tired of you
   You are an asshole ultimately.
   You won’t miss me.
   You are a fucking opportunistic ridiculous bitch.
   You attach yourself to people because you are uninteresting.
   Because you are a denying cunt.
   Because you are a fucking crow. “Ooh! Shiny!”
   Fuck you.
   You are stupid.
   So fuck you.
   I’m so over you it’s ridiculous.
   I just think you are a jackass.
   Dumbass.
   Everyone knows you are a stupid jerk.
   You are the cause.
   You are vindictive.
   You are an ass kisser.
   You are so cavalier.
   Fuck you.
   Spare me your drama.
   Fuck off.
   Goodbye.

Fuck Off

To the uninitiated the words sound harsh, and I supposed they are. But as one of those who enjoyed riding the Tilt-A-Whirl of being her friend, I can’t help but grin and think how classic her it is. I will miss her and think of her often, and while it’s not a sentimental declaration of everything we ever meant to each other, at least she left me this poem to remember her by.

And that makes me smile.

VooDoo Fuck-A-Roo

I remember seeing a movie once About a man who was slow, I think his name was Charlie       Or maybe Algernon. I can’t recall all the details But I think he was happy, When his life was simple       And he was simple. Then Charlie met some doctors Who’d made a mouse smarter, With an operation or a pill       Some voodoo magic. But even the smartest mouse Is still just a mouse, And the doctors needed a man       They chose Charlie. So they waved their wands And they cast their spells, And performed a medical miracle       Charlie got smarter. Smart Charlie made new friends And he impressed a lot of people, He got to see what life is like       With different eyes. A whole new world opened up And miracle Charlie walked through it, Learning and getting smarter every day       Smarter than the doctors.

And new and improved Charlie learned That better doesn’t mean forever, And even medical miracle voodoo       Can’t change who you are. And when Charlie stopped learning And went back to forgetting, The bright, shining light slowly faded       From his new eyes. Good things don’t last forever And some things never change, Being smart had been a good thing       But Charlie was slow. The world that he went back to Was the same one that he’d left, Charlie was a simple man again       But not simple enough. Because I think still remembered How it felt when he’d been smart, And what it meant to be accepted       And having friends. Life was sweet for giving him a taste A little peek at something else, Life was a cruel and heartless cunt       For letting him remember. I think of Charlie and hold my breath Waiting for things to be the same, I just hope my life is more merciful       And lets me forget.