Hurts so good

I've spent the last few weeks really getting to know my bike, the sides of different mountains and my physical limits. It has been so much fun climbing up these unbearably long and steep hills with the sun beating down on my head, not allowing myself to give up. Then the exhilaration of going downhill as fast as I can (which is not as fast as humanly possible...yet). There's really not a lot of words I can use to describe how I feel. Freedom comes to mind. Focus. Life. Wreckless Joy also pops up.



There are so many benefits to riding my bike with very few downsides. But there are downsides...



I've fallen off my bike at least 6 times. All 6 times, I've drawn blood. 3 of those 6 times, I was jarred pretty hard and one of those 6 times, I couldn't bounce right back up, I had to lay there because I wasn't sure if I my left leg was still attached. I'm bruised, scabbed, sore and moving around like a grandma when I'm not on the bike. Despite the pain, I love it. I love it because it actually makes me feel alive and my scabby knees reminds me of when I was a kid. The bruises will go away but the experience will remain as an indelible impression on my brain.

Opaquely Lucid

In the wake of Roberta's death, I feel sad, heartbroken and admitedly, lonely. Losing someone you care about, no matter how short of a time you may have know them is one of the most difficult things to go through. It forces a person to stop and reflect on their life; what they've done right, what they've done wrong. Are there regrets? Would they have done things differently if given another chance? The whole ball of wax is under the microscope and usually wet with tears.

Generally speaking, I'm a pretty happy go-lucky type of girl. I am not tormented by ghosts or choices I've made in the past to get me to where I am today. I've had some shitty moments and I've also had some regrets but typically, those moments of opacity have led to some wonderful moments that would have otherwise not happened, so I'm ok with it. I've made some pretty big decisions in my life that most people have never had to face or contemplate and even with those decisions, I'm very confident with my choices.

But at times my confidence falters in the one area of my life where I am not as sure-footed; relationships. I don't really trust myself in this strange arena because I have not been very successful (batting average would be one or 2 pop-flys that looked like they could be homeruns but on average, mostly foul balls). During certain times, usually prompted by certain types of events, I can feel the sharp talons of loneliness piercing through my bones and it always stops me in my tracks. I've made choices that have led me to feel this way. Have I made stupid mistakes? I had no one's shoulder to cry on, late at night, when my neighbor died. I will be alone at her memorial surrounded by other people who will have brought their handy shoulders to cry upon. I could have literally used someone to lean on when my back went out and I could barely stand up. That sucked, but I managed to drive to work, get to a doctor and get my back fixed, all on my own. But it would have been nice for someone to refresh my ice pack for me as I laid on my bed cursing the spine gods.

I have no one to share the triumphs (albeit small triumps) of my day.
"Guess what honey? I rode up to Henniger Flats on my mountain bike without stopping or passing out! yay! Go put on your fancy sneakers because we're gonna to celebrate!" Or delight in my clever, useful, frugal and we-are-going-to beat-the-man discoveries such as you can buy a 64 ounce soda cup at AM/PM and fill it with ice coffee for a buck 69, almost a dollar less at starbux and you get about 44 ounces more! Whoo-hoo! and the best part? Refills for life at a buck 39!! Granted, a person does not NEED that much coffee, ever, but hey, it would've been nice to relish in that discovery with someone who understood why that's so fucking cool to me.

I hear a lot of my married friends talk about how they hate being married. Actually, hate is a strong word, but I do hear them say that if they had to do it again, they would NOT get married. They don't hate being married per se, and though not one of them has actually said this out loud to me, I think they actually hate the person they are married to. It's weird, these couples had dreams and hopes of a future that didn't include bitching about their spouses to anyone who would listen. They took vows to love, cherish and honor each other until the day they died. Fast forward 15 years and now the only part they remember is someone has to die.

In moments like these, when I really wish I had someone waiting for me at home to give me a big hug and kiss and remind me that everything is going to be ok, all of the complaints from my married friends seem to fade into the background as I wonder and contemplate if the decisions I made were mistakes and if I let a couple of good ones get away. But then I start to remember and relive some of the "pop-flys" and I am grateful all over again why I am so happy to be single... and not incarcerated.

Death Becomes Her

I thought I would feel relieved once my neighbor Roberta died. Not because I didn't want her to suffer through the chemo and radiation and all of the other painful side effects of cancer, because I didn't want her to feel any kind of pain at all, I really didn't. As long as I've known her, she has had some form of pain. But her pain and suffering is not the reason why I wanted her to die a swift and painfree death...and it pains me to write this out loud and I am experiencing a lot of guilt because of this, but I started to seriously dislike Roberta during the later stages of her deterioration.

She used to come over every weekend and we would share a cup of coffee and she would eat some toast and hard boiled eggs. She claimed she only liked to eat the eggs at my house because she liked how I made them. I think she was lonely and scared, which was fine. I enjoyed spending my weekend mornings with her. She would eat and then take off after a few hours once we discussed the events of the previous week and of course, she wanted to be updated on what was going on for the following week. Some times she would stay all day and clean out my garage or rearrange my closets. There was always a surprise when I came home from work. I may come home to a weeded garden or she would put mulch along my garden paths. One time I came home and she had Masa install a new garage door for me because she hated the old one. She was always engaged, full of fire and energy and I heard earfuls of her colorful past. She liked to call me her California daughter, as her real daughter lived in New York and she never saw her.

She was a passionate and independent woman, if not a bit calculating and self-serving, but as a single divorced mother who was married to an alcoholic who beat the fuck out of her and then stalked her and beat her until the day he died, I can understand why she would not allow another man get close to her emotionally ever again. I didn't blame her for the choices she made in her life, even if I rarely agreed with her. But that was part of the beauty of my neighbor, we rarely agreed with each other, but we still liked to talk and hang out together.

However, as the cancer progressed and the treatments got more and more aggressive, Roberta turned into a person I didn't recognize. She started criticizing my every move, as a mother and a housekeeper. She didn't like my choices in friends, the foods I cooked, the way I arranged my garage, how I did my hair, the clothes I wore, etc. the list was endless but my patience was not, however, I put up with it because I knew she was sick and this was the illness talking.

When her critical eye was not focused on me, she would denigrate her other friends. I would get exasperated and ask her why she hung out with these people if she disliked them so much. She never actually answered my question but I knew that she was just full of bluster and that she really loved these people, some of whom she has known for over 50 years. Again it was just the cancer and the medication talking.

But when she started her racial rants (and not her usual ones like asian drivers are bad and mexican women just want to pop out as many babies as they can because they are uneducated), but the really, really bad ones about every single race, but if that wasn't bad enough, she started in on how she hated single mothers, poor people, people who are poor but spend over their means, people who have accents, the list goes on and on and on. The icing on the cake was as soon as she finished her first rant of the day, I already knew what the second rant of the day would be, it would be the EXACT SAME RANT AS THE FIRST ONE. It was as though her mouth was on a loop and she repeated the same story over and over again, until I couldn't stand it anymore and I almost would have to physically force her out the door. It was very difficult for me to spend more than a few minutes with her anymore. Our visits got shorter and shorter and fewer and further in between. And each time I saw her, she looked thinner and sicker and was meaner.

The last real conversation Roberta and I had was about 2 weeks ago. I spoke to her about getting hospice care instead of the palliative care she was currently signed up for. I won't go into the details but hospice care is a more comprehensive program for people who are very sick and can't take care of themselves anymore. She needed hospice care because the palliative care program was calling me at work telling me to go to Roberta because she was too sick to be alone. I also spoke to her about getting her daughter signed on as her power of attornery. She was getting close to that time where she wouldn't be able to make decisions for herself...She refused to take my calls or return my calls after that. I was angry with her because she was doing this to be spiteful to her daughter with whom she has had a poor relationship with for years. I've learned throughout the course of our friendship that she is the main reason she and her daughter do not get along. I was so angry that she would rather have strangers make medical decisions for her instead of her own flesh and blood (who by the way, wanted to be there for her mother and was doing everything she could to be supportive and caring, Roberta pushed her away too) I decided at that time to wash my hands of the whole thing and let Roberta do what she wanted to do. I wanted no part of it.

Roberta died today at 12:08 pm. I am not relieved. I am sad, tearful and heartbroken. I wish it could have been different in the end. I can't even begin to imagine what her daughter is going through. I just hope she knows that though Roberta was brusque, uncaring and at some moments, down right cruel, deep down inside, she was a loving and caring person who just had a hard time trusting the people closest to her because the people closest to her hurt her the most.

Roberta had a hard journey from the get-go. There is very little relief for her survivors, but I know that Roberta finally has relief from her broken past and her tormented memories. I now fully understand why we say RIP when a person dies.

Rest in Peace, Roberta, the pain is gone.

The Beast

The Beast is currently the main moniker I use when I refer to my rad new mountain bike, the Yeti 575. The reference is easy, low-hanging-fruit easy, but since I was in the mood for low hanging fruit when I decided to name my beloved, it seemed fitting.



But that's on the surface and there is something deeper than just calling my bike the Beast because it's a Yeti. I am also referring to the beast in my belly that bellows when I can't ride for whatever reason, or the animalistic, voracious happiness I feel when I'm on the side of a mountain on my new shiny toy. I realize it's a toy, in fact, I think it's my mid-life crisis toy.



If it's perfectly acceptable for middle-aged men to purchase new sports cars and bone girls half their age when they feel the fingers of mortality wrap around their turkey wattles, I see no reason why I can't do the exact same thing, except with a bike. and not really bone girls half my age, but rather, hang out with cool ladies of all ages who feel the same way about their bikes as I do about mine.

High! I'm back!

Sorry for the MIA.

There is a shitload to write about but my brain is incapable of organizing my thoughts into a legible, coherent stream as of late. Why? I wondered that too, but my brain is not capable of organizing my thoughts into a legible, coherent stream as of late.

But here is something interesting (at least to me, probably not to you). I did something(s)particularly creepy (to me) and I'm still not sure why I did it.

I painted my finger nails. Yes, its true, you heard me right. But want to hear something worse? I also dyed my hair, plucked my eyebrows and mustache (yes, I know but I got sick and tired of being mistaken for Picasso's portrait of Frida Kahlo), whitened my teeth, exfoliated my skin and a couple of other things that I can't remember anymore. The stupid thing is, aside from concealing the silver hairs on my head, which I was cited by the sheriff's department to cover up because apparently, the reflective nature of my metallic hair was blinding people on the 134 freeway, causing a few major accidents) none of the work and time I put into my physical specimen made a damn difference. We are all suckers for the promise of eternal youth in a bottle. I hate the promises and the youth. I have decided to grow old gracefully. Well, as gracefully as I am capable of, which doesn't say much except that I'm growing old and now thinking about it more.

With all that said, being 40, so far, has been really quite awesome. I started the first day of my new decade on the right foot. I got out of a dead end relationship on June 29, one day before all coupons used to expire. Yay me! Something I've noticed is whenever I get out of a relationship, I am always relieved, upbeat and happy. After some jubilant reflection, I do believe I have become addicted to the feeling of breaking up and that I only engage in relationships just so I can feel happy once it's over. Is that odd? Probably. Do I care? I probably should but I don't, I'm still riding the Summer of 2010 breakup high.

Multi-tasking

Anthropologically speaking, man doesn't have the ability to focus on more than 2 things at a time.

This is why women don't have 3 boobs.

Thanks S.!

Breaking up is hard to do

I am in the process of ending a relationship. It's true what they say, breaking up is hard to do. It's even harder to break up with someone when in your mind, it's already over and has been for a while but there is this tiny little problem; they don't know you've broken up. I've gotten, you might say, lazy about the whole damn thing. Afterall, in my mind, it's a done deal. I'm certain he know something is up, as I haven't spoken to him or called him all weekend and his messages are getting a wee bit frantic. In someways, I think I'm actually waiting to see if he'll chew me out which is what he should do. I'm wondering how long it will take him to get fed up before he gets good and mad.

I realize with this last one that I am a chronic breaker-upper. I break up with people, that's my thing. And the sucky thing? I have yet to do it well. I suck at breaking up as much as I don't suck at saying no to begin with. (For those of you keeping tabs, it means I'm like a lame, second tiered character from an over-exposed, most likely performed by a high school and a musical, to boot. Call me Annie, Miss Ado if your nasty, that freak who was just a girl who couldn't say no in a state that I still don't know anything about, OOOOOOKlahoma.)

I have several options, but none of them make sense except doing it over the phone. Email is even more impersonal than the Dear John letter of yesteryear. I refuse to do it in person because that requires traveling great distances and I don't want to go and I don't want him to come here. I even considered sending a message in a bottle but figured that would take even longer than the USPS (but not by much), smoke signals, Morse Code? I only know "SOS", not "I don't want to be your girlfriend anymore".

I'll do it tomorrow...maybe. My goal is to do it before I turn 40.

Mountain Biking

I think I have replaced sex in my life with something else.

Mountain Biking!

And just like sex, I've only done it twice. Just joking, I've only done it once. I've actually mountain biked twice (at least recently).

For those of you who think that mountain biking is lame(that would be me prior to riding Just Outstanding in Kernsville), let me just point out some of the similarities, I may convince you yet to try it, that is unless of course you are not into sex, at which point I give you a few words of wisdom. a) find a partner who will rock your world because the one you are with is not getting the job done. b) see number a.

Here are a few similarities between mountain biking and sex:

1) Endorphines, you have to do it vigorously enough to release endorphines. If you just sit there and do nothing, nothing will happen.

2) Sometimes it's painful and makes you want to throw-up, but at the end of the ride, you're glad you did it. (especially the first time)

3) Good equipment and experienced riding partners makes all the difference in the world.

4) After a good ride, you're usually ravenous and want to eat a lot.

I am in the process of looking for my new mountain bike. As I mentioned to W. I'm pretty certain my ever elusive soulmate may very well be in the form of a mountain bike and he's now emitting his beacon of love to me, begging me to find him before someone else takes him off the market. I'm almost 40 dammit. I have maybe 3-5 good years left in me and then after that, it's all downhill from there, which will be fine, especially if I'm on my bike.

Retard, retard, retard

Filing a restraining order should not be hard! In fact, it should be so fucking easy that Sarah Palin's new addition should be able to file one without breaking out into a diaper rash. I'd certainly file if that insane broad was my mom. I'd rather be a hungry retard in a soiled diaper, playing with New York City sewer rats as my cribmates than have Sarah Palin as my mother and if by the unlucky draw of the cards, I opened my newborn eyes fresh from the womb, only to find her vacantly staring down at me, I would fling my tiny baby body out of her arms and kamakazi my ass out the window. Hopefully, the labor room would at least 3 stories high.

But I digress! This post wasn't supposed to be a political platform regarding my feelings on the Repubes, abortion, the mentally challenged and rodent daycare! And to be fair, I must fully disclose that I'm not even sure what that crazy, delusional, facts-are-only-relevant when it backs my inane arguments broad is up to nowadays. My informed Palin-hatin' days stopped after she attacked Rahm Emanuel for using the word Retard. I decided it was in the best interest of the world to tune her out (and I hope the world follows my lead, especially before 2012, but if you decide to tune her out during or after 2012, I'll be ok with that as well, just so long as you do it!). Any Palin bashing I do from this point forth will be blessedly uninformed (you might even say retarded). Plus as a direct result of her Rahm bashing campaign, I have made it my personal mission to use the word Retard as often and as inappropriately as I can.

So to tie this retard ranting post together, as I started to say in the first sentence, filing a restraining order should not be as difficult as it currently is and, in case you didn't know this, our court system and government workers are Retarded.

I wish there was a button we could push (similiar to a time machine but we wouldn't have to build it and get in and actually travel back in time because with a button, all you have to do is press it and presto, you're there ! No traveling, no baggage fees, no snotty stewardesses! It would be awesome, the button/time travel technology needs to be researched further...) and we could get a "redo" on things our society has royally fucked up such as Government, genetically modified seeds, Tori Spelling's tits and deviled eggs (a food that looks like regurgitated penguin fodder.)

UGH: I just tried to call one of the hotline numbers given to me by our very competent court system and the numbers are wrong and they are listed under a service they actually do not provide. RETARDED. Initially, I threw the paper away mumbling under my breath (if you can imagine) about the incompetency that is our legal system and a thought occurred to me; I wonder how many other telephone numbers on this near useless piece of paper is wrong? When I get a little free time, I'm going to call every single one of those numbers and try and get some kind of helpful advice (how sad that I have to qualify the word advice with helpful, it should be implied but when talking about our court system, it needs to be qualified. Pathetic.).

I can't wait to hear what they are going to advise me to do.

mancode for us female folk

I like to think I know a thing or three about the mens. I'd go so far as to say that if it wasn't for the one tiny little detail of me not owning my very own penis, me and mens could be twins. I knows the mens. (Before you read further, just know that I'm on drugs.)

Here is what I knows about mens:


1) Men always like to feel like they are the man, but most especially in their home. If they can't feel like the man at work or in public, they at least take solace in knowing they can go to their house and do what ever it is they do that makes them feel important in their palace. God help the person who takes that away from them.



2) A way to a man's heart really is through their stomachs. Don't get me wrong, the stomach is only one way to a man's heart. There are other ways too, but this one happens to be a biggie, especially if you can tap into their comfort foods. You would have had to do something really horrible for a man to leave you if you have him by his guts such as knocking over his beer on the coffee table and kicking him in the nuts on purpose as you're fucking his younger, more handsome and successful sister on his couch . That would sting and could totally ruin the relationship unless a) he's a pussy and you should dump him anyways (anyone who would put up with someone abusing their beer is just a rug and wants to get stepped on) and/or b) you make a mean manicotti.



3) Don't ever, ever, ever say to a man, " I told you so, motherfucker!" You may as well take away his man card and swap it out for a blue checkered gingham apron with eyelet ruffles and ask him to bake you a gingerbread house with all the fixin's.


...and that's it.

If you need more info on men, go ask a man, but make sure you ply him with alcohol and be ready and willing to show bush. But get your answer before you let him know you're willing to some show bush, otherwise, he'll lie so he can see it as soon as possible. Huh. I guess I knew more than I thought.

Stalk Much?

I shoot from the hip (whatever that means). So basically, when I write shit down, it's usually because something has left an indelible impression on my brain through unbearable duress or the opposite. I mention this because I was hesitant to share the stupid fucked-up crap that has surfaced over the past few months. It has deeply affected me on an emotional level, not only as a girl, woman, female, whatever, but also, because in the past few months, I have felt uncharacteristically vulnerable and I'm not sure if it's a wise thing to share. But fuck it why not. At the very least, if I disappear and they can't find my body, you'll know where to point the cops. Due east.

When I worked at Larta, I had a few girlfriends both of whom I loved like sisters. Uh, but not MY sisters, I hate my sisters. They are religious freaks, both of whom couldn't form an opinion without clutching on to the bible with their sharply manicured verses or the other sister, who is by all definitions, a prostitute because she barters sex for furniture and tennis braceletes, but rather, the normal definition of what a sister is and how a normal person feels about their normal sister. By the way, these sisters that I speak of are not related to me by blood, but rather by circumstance, which I find an enormous relief and take solace in the fact that I may not be normal but I can think for myself and don't fuck for my supper...table. (and now that I think about it, I actually wonder who is smarter...damn it!)

Anyway, my girlfriends/normal sisters and I would joke about stalkers. S. definitely had one, this retarded dude that followed her from event to event, asking her stupid questions with that ridiculous lovelorn look plastered all over his face that only a virgin can muster. We would tease her about it unmercilessly until we got bored, then it would die down until the next event where we would reprise the teasing making sure to use the exact same jokes, phrases and jocular intonations. We were original and fun!

N. would always say, "You're so lucky, I wish I had a stalker!" At which point S. and I would always look at each other and do the "she's koo-koo" eye dance. My unpredicable response was, " You're crazy if you want a stalker, stalkers can kill you!" To which, N., in typical fashion, would respond with, " I just wish someone would like me enough to WANT to stalk me." To which I would always respond with," Don't look out your bathroom window tonight..." wakka, wakka, wakka (insert bushy eye brows vigorously moving up and down)!

Throwing in the best friends/lesbian joke was always funny/scandalous! and we loved it until my ex-husband accused me of sleeping with my best friend during our divorce. (Then it became gross and not so funny and more "I'm gonna punch out your lights if you ever talk that way about my best friend" (or wait, that could be me now (in the present) as I am typing this story from memory and the violence is rearing it's ugly head due to the 'roid rage which I expanded upon in the previous post)

So I keep digressing (and I don't even know if it's helpful these digressions, but in MY ego-centric opinion, it's the only thing that makes me interesting thus helpful) and circumventing the main point of this post/rant/therapy session, which is about this stalker dude (I don't even want to claim him as mine, so we shall call him, just like any other TOM, Dick or Harry aka Mr. CRAYS-zzzzz pants)(and for those of you snoozing, I just revealed my murderer's name, sorry it's not in haiku) and why I had to leave everything I know and love behind (except Cole, Kittyclaw, my home, my job and I still take the usual routes to work and I still also shop at the usual stores and visit the usual haunts and no matter who is stalking me) to avoid this lunatic once and for all. I guess now that I think about it, TOMdickharry is more of a virtual stalker as he has disrupted my exciting virtual life more than my physical "real" life. He has been systematically chasing me around the information super highway, gobbling up every letter of every word I post on various sites such as Yelp, my blogs, Facebook, etc. I have had to since close most of my accounts so he can't monitor my every word and interpret my musings (or as I like to refer to them, my brain gas) as secret personal messages intended only for him.

To you, my friends and biotches, I understand this does not make for very exciting or dangerous fodder. I think we all have had at some point someone who follows us online or we have followed someone online without the intentions of ever taking it to level creepy. I know I've certainly done it (i.e. Masa the hot fireman(rrroooaarrr) , Michael and his new heart, Ericka and all seven of her vices). I thought very little of it because his stalking was slightly flattering at the very least and mildly irritating at the most.

That was until he decided to raise the stakes a few thousand notches and buy an airplane ticket, rent a car and hotel room 2 miles from my house and hang out in my backyard, stew in his lust, anger, impatience and beer and wait for my eventual arrival home. Fortunately, I was gone for the weekend, and my dear old neighbor (might I add cancer riddled so justifiable very ANGRY yet still hasn't lost her edge neighbor) had the good sense to call the popo and he was handcuffed in my driveway.

This crazy fucker was just insane enough to call me later after he was released from his me(n)tal bracelets to tell me that he still loved me and that he would see me later.

FUCKER!!!!!

Stupid me was just startin' to feel what it must be like to feel...bothered but still not that scared. Afterall, he went back under the rock from whence he crawled out of, which was 2000 miles from my stupid arse. But then came more emails, flowers, letters to my neighbor, phone calls and voicemails and of course, who can forget in this day and age, the text messages.

Desperate and Clueless was unswerving in his focus and dedication and it was starting to unnerve me. I decided to take action and started the proceedings on filing a restraining order on this fucker. If all goes according to the master plan, the next time he decides to come to LA, unannounced and unwelcomed, he will find himself in a brokeback way in our lovely prison system. Hopefully, being served the restraining order will get the message across that his attentions are unwanted and he is now trodding in the garden of Crayz.

The purpose of this post is twofold...no wait, make that 3fold. First and most selfishly, I needed to write this down and get this off of my chest. I've been feeling like it's my fault, that somehow I brought this on myself and I realized that if I am feeling this way, there are other girls out there who are in more precarious situations who probably feel the same way, which(btw) is what causes inaction towards protecting themselves.

Which is the second reason why I am posting about this; Don't be afraid to do something!!!! Filing a restraining order initially, can seem over-reactive and not worth the trouble, but believe me, it's worth it. It's free for people who are being stalked. Plus you have a line of defense already in place with the police(popo) and the law (in all of is bureaucratic glory) on your side should your fucking asshole stalker decide to take it to the next level.

And lastly, a message to all you stalkers and potential stalkers out there: It's not flattering or complimentary for you to ignore us when we tell you enough is enough. Really.

When a girl says, " You're a great guy, but I'm not interested in a relationship right now..." She's letting you down nicely because she doesn't want to hurt your feelings and thinks you're truly a nice guy, but the context of the message hasn't changed, she still means No.

When a girl gives you a simple "No." She is being more direct and forthright with her feelings, probably still not wanting to hurt your feelings, but she really wants you to know that she really means, "Not a chance in hell."

When a girl says, "Stay the FUCK away from my family, my property, my car, my place of employment, my friends and me or else I will have you arrested and repeatedly anally dry molested by Tank." Take that as a definite sign that she is not interested in you or what you have to offer and would rather self-eviscerate her bowels with a dirty, bent spork. And if that wasn't clear enough, she would more likely be amenable to chewing on raw sewage, fresh from a construction site port-a-potty than ever see, hear or think about you again.

Poison Oak Is Nothing To Fuck With

I know, I know, I'm ending my sentence with a preposition. But I figured since it's actually a title of a post (notice caps on first letter of words) and I didn't use any punctuation, it just goes without say (though I'm saying it), following grammatical rules is a self-imposed idiosyncratic rule that SHOULD be broken because if you're like me, you believe that most rules should be broken, except for grammatical rules, which brings us back to that idiosyncratic thing...which is the reason why it was brought up in the first place instead of jumping right into the flaming case of Poison Oak I have endured for the past month.



I've spent almost the entire month of June 2010 with an itchy rash covering 30% of my body. Which means approx 17.4987% of the year 2010 has been rashy. Not too bad when you put numbers on it and as the year continues, the percentage will go down dramatically, which means the Adam's apple and the chest hairs should be more manageable by the end of the year, if not back down to normal.

What? Yes. Poison Oak lowered my vocal register and my knuckles started dragging. Yep. That's because I'm fortunate to be one of those people who are highly allergic to urushiol, the oil in all of the poison family. I've been blighted for a month. As if itching, scratching and scarring for an entire month wasn't punishment enough, I've been taking 'roids as the cure.

You might be thinking to yourself, "Perhaps the steroid therapy is not working if you've been on it for this long." Don't think I haven't been there as I've gazed at my 5 o'clock shadow during my potty break at work at 2:00 in the afternoon. But like my predecessors before me, I can adapt. All I need is a razor, 2 arm slings and a turtle neck and I'm good. I can work with it, almost evolve right before your very eyes, if need be.

But what I find a little bit more intolerable is the 'roid rage that accompanies almost every interaction and activity I have engaged in for the past month. I had no idea that underneath the surface of peaceful men such as Obama, the Dali Lama and even Ghandhi, there is the almost uncontrolable urge to punch someone's lights out for merely looking at you funny.

I have new respect for any man that can keep it together during highly charged situations. I had no idea the amount of restraint and sheer will power it takes to not get in a physical altercation with anyone or anything. Because if it were up to me in my testosterined state of being, I'd push the button.

A page out of Unlearned History

I'M BACK BITCHES!!!!

...and no, I haven't learned anything from the past 6 months that I've been down except for the following:

1) Don't ever, and I mean EVER, no matter how tempting...give your blog address to someone you

a) want to bone
b) are currently boning
c) have boned in the past

I realized after a couple of months of self reflection and not having a way to write and share about what was going on in my brain, it was time to get back on the saddle and git 'er done. I had to get over this idea that I didn't need to write my thoughts down (I hate journaling for some reason but think that blogging is ok, I know wtf?) and express my thoughts, ideas, feelings, etc. I need my creative outlet and you poor bitches get to share all of my creative glory in a full tank o' juice.

Yay YOU!