What the Fuck?

I was NOT surprised (much) to find that my blog merited a NC-17 rating. I was however surprised by WHAT merited such a rating!

This is what displayed directly below my rating after I submitted my site:

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
shit (9x)
ass (8x)
fucking (3x)
steal (2x)
masochist (1x)

Ok, I admit, I'm a bit of a potty mouth when left to my own devices. But can anyone tell me why MASOCHIST is on that list? I don't even think I used it in a sexual context, though truth be told a little spanking is always appreciated. And STEAL? What the hell people?!

Now for a story...
When I was a young girl I lived on a farm. On this farm we had a dozen cows, a few chickens, and an ass. It was my chore to muck out the barn every day after school. It was very hard work. The cows weren't too bad, as they usually stayed outside, but the ass slept in the barn every night. One day after shoveling ass shit from a barn stall, I wandered over to the hen house to steal their eggs off their nests for breakfast the next morning. On my way I passed two of the cows fucking. It looked uncomfortable. I figured the heifer had to be a masochist to enjoy that. Right then some ass fucking moral majority piece of shit decided to steal my right to free speech and he actually thought I would roll over and take it like some masochist bitch. I killed him and wrote this story using his petrified dick and a pint of his own blood.

Parts of this story are fictional, but not all of it. You decide which is which.
And Always Remember Kiddies - Words Don't Mean Shit!

Generation Gap

I was forced by my Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World to buy new shoes recently. I absolutely fell in love with them. They spoke to the outcast in me. The girl who would refuse to speak for days at a time and thought drowning herself a suitable escape plan from the hell of school in Podunk, USA. The poet who killed and perished between lines. The punk who wore combat boots to work in the kitchen of her own restaurant where she would sleep in the booths at night rather than drive home. The elegantly melancholy ghost who dabbled in l'amour with blonde haired hippies whose fingers could play anything, pool playing Jeep driving good ol' boys, wicked wiccans, and punk rock drummers who rolled their cigarette packs up in their shirt sleeves. The woman who still takes her coffee how she leaves her men; dark & bitter.

I manage to forget my own age until something I take for granted is challenged. And so it happened. When I showed off my kick ass - ass kickers the first reaction I got was "Those are great Pirate shoes!" Pirate shoes?, I asked in astonishment. What? I have long lusted after Pirate shoes, those beautiful soft leather boots that loosely encircle your thighs like a lover. These shoes were NOT Pirate shoes! They were Punk shoes! They were kick your ass sexy irrelevant PUNK skull and crossbones shoes! Dammit all to Hell the thought NEVER crossed my mind... Pirate shoes, pfffft. As if. Though I lust after Johnny Depp with every other woman who felt those first vague stirrings while watching 21 Jump Street, I would never look at these shoes - my PUNK, Cyndie Lauperish, pointy toed, pieces of footwear perfection, that I would have gladly worn to see Henry Rollins perform back in the 90's - and think "Cool sparkly fingernail polish, LOL, Avril is soooo much cooler than Ashlee, teenage angst shoes!" When did it happen that my anti-establishmentarian hieroglyph become some banal Walt Disney trademarked rub-on tatoo!? When did the irreverant become the endorsed? I'm done. I need a couple of swigs straight from the old SoCo bottle to restore my faith in the world. Shit. Henry Rollins now does stand up. The whole thing is beyond me some days.

Genius!

I had one of those lightning strike moments of pure genius last night at 3 o'clock in the morning! (Which, by the way, is what time the Geek stumbled in after going bowling after work with all the other little Geeks) We were talking and I was confused because I couldn't remember what day of the week it was (Which, now that I think about it, was probably brought on by the fact that it was IN FACT technically Friday when I was trying to talk to my Geek about what had gone on during my day and what my plans were for tomorrow while in point of fact my "today" had become "yesterday" and my "tomorrow" had become "today," and I had consumed endless amounts of coffee for nigh on a week now...) Anyway, I was struck instantly by the idea that my life would be soooo much easier to keep track of if the work week only consisted of 4 Tuesdays and a Friday. Then, whenever I said anything to anyone what required a "day" reference I would have a much much higher probability of getting it right. If for some reason I got it wrong and some smart ass corrected me it would sound something like this: "What the hell are you talking about, it's Friday not Tuesday!" Then instead of thinking what a know-it-all little smart ass the person is I just think "Shit, it's Friday already, yahhh!" So that's what I want 4 Tuesdays, 1 Friday, and 2 Saturdays (so I never suddenly realize that it's Sunday when I thought it was Saturday and still had half a weekend to get shit done around the house) I think Franklin Covey should make day planner pages like that. I'd use them in a heartbeat! Well, that's it, my brilliant idea...

Destruction

I've been meaning to write an entry, even if it's just some stupid little piddly piece of fluffy kitten vomit, but I've said I'm too busy, too tired, too far gone in my own deep dark spring time induced little grey funk to be able to muster something so pointless as a blog entry.

Bull shit.

I'm officially getting the fuck over it.

Here goes:

Last Friday I awoke late way too early, did my entire bathroom routine in the dark (the fluorescent bulbs my Geek has replaced all my nice 25 watt bulbs with is WAY too bright some mornings so I just get dressed in the dark... which explains alot, I know) feed all the whiny needy defective pets I have, couldn't find the mate to one of my favorite shoes, had to wear my crappy black flats instead, and was heading out the door late way too early, when I spotted a note. Written in black Sharpie on a blank piece of what I still refer to as "Typing Paper" was the following:

Hey Sweetie,
I hope these make your day a little "sweeter!"

Kisses -- *My Geek*

The note was weighted down by a Dark Chocolate Orange (you know the big round orange liqueur flavored chocolates you whack on the table and break apart the little segments to eat) and a can of Mango Juice. Let's just say that at 3pm while drinking that heavenly nectar and lingering over my dark chocolate fix I cried because I was so lucky.

Today as I write this, I am safe and sound at my job, and my best friend is safe and sound at her job, and my Geek is safe and sound at his job, and my parents are safe and sound at their home and jobs, and that is enough to make me cry just a little bit.

When the world is as stupid and pointlessly violent and ignorant as it is today and everyday for all it's history sometimes you have to be a little self indulgent just to feel anything at all...

You can't change Time, you can only change your Mind

This whole "Spring Forward" time change shit is ridiculous. I realize that I hate change and I do claim anarchist tendencies, but I can't be the only one who thinks this is some sort of conspiracy or perhaps a social experiment. I mean, I try to get my boss to think it's 4:30pm when it's really just 3:30 so...

Seriously! Why, if it REALLY matters, can't we just change what time we go to work, school, and church. I wouldn't mind going into work an hour earlier if I could leave an hour earlier.

I think that my solution is just as valid and arbitrary as theirs (whoever "they" are). I say lets start a petition. Leave the fucking clocks alone! Just get your ass out of bed earlier. It's what you're being forced to do against your will anyway. STRIP AWAY THE ILLUSION! You aren't going to work at 9am, you're being FORCED to show up an hour early. I say tell the world the ugly truth! We're all just stumbling along like some sort of jet lagged zombie. Sleeeeep. Sleeeeep. Must have sleeeep...

LEAVE THE FUCKING CLOCKS ALONE, THEY'RE RIGHT ALREADY! THERE'S NOTHING "WRONG" WITH THEM!
STRIP AWAY THE ILLUSION!
FREE YOURSELF FROM THE TIME FASCISTS!

work when you want, sleep when you want, play when you want, and fuck the fascist pigs who try to control society in the most piddly ass ways imaginable

Being a grown up sucks

I've had no time to do ANYTHING! Except work, read, take long baths, walk the dog, clean the house, burn a brush pile, celebrate the time change with sex, plant flowers, belly dance, and pack for a business trip. As you can tell, blogging ranks down towards the bottom of my "To Do" list. I have been reading alot lately, and as soon as I can make myself put a book down for any length of time I will post some of the fabulous little tidbits that I've discovered. I have done a tiny bit of writing and maybe, perhaps, I might consider posting some of my drafts of poems... maybe.




Today's Trivia:



a group of cats is called a clutter.










You can call my dog an idiot whether he's in a group or not.

That is my dog, J, ready to go out in the rain. I have to love him because my father and my geek tell me I have to. He's high strung, high maintanence, allergic to everything, and refuses to piss in the rain. Some women attract loser boyfriends, I attract damaged pets. I guess it could be worse.

Good books and good friends...

I just realized something for the first time today. I always knew it as fact, but I never truly appreciated it the way I should... It was one of those things you just take for granted.

I have friends that buy me books!

Not those kind of "friends" who hear you go on and on about a book that you've been dying to read and then go out and buy it for you, nor am I talking about the type of "acquaintance" who simply buys you a book because it was on Oprah's book club or the New York Times Best Seller List. I am talking about the type of friend who reads a book and goes "Wow, that was great, I bet So-and-So would get a kick out of that one..." I am talking about the type of friend who wants to share their favorite author with you. I am talking about the type of friend who looks at some book they would never read in a million years, unless it was the ONLY book on a desert island and the natives said "Read book 'bout kittens, rainbows, and ponies or we fricassee your ass for dinner," and says I would never read a book about kittens, rainbows, and ponies in a million years unless it was the last book on earth and I had a choice between reading it and being fricasseed, BUT I bet So-and-So would LOVE it, so they buy it for you against their own better judgement and taste. THOSE types of friends are one of the best things you could ever have happen to you!

Even if you don't really enjoy the book, or if you've read it before, or if you set it on the floor and your dog eats it, a book given with thought from a friend is probably one of the best presents I could ever hope to receive.

There are many joys in life. Books, friends, kittens, ponies, rainbows, and any combination there of, are among the best!