Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “August, 2013”

Do The Lessons Outnumber the Goodbyes?

How many goodbyes must there be?
Love always walking away from me
Leaving me standing

Alone
Broken

My heart shattered

Yearning for a man to speak kindnesses
Not lies
How many lessons must there be?

 

 

This was this week’s submission over at WordCloud Wednesdays.  I was unable to come up with anything for the last couple of weeks, but this one seemed to flow easily.  I guess you just never know when it’s going to come, or how.  A couple of days ago, it felt like drudgery to write, but my bad poetry has seem to come easy the last couple of days.

I Lost It

It was another one of those mornings.  I guess I am just in a certain mood, feeling emotionally bankrupt I guess,  and I heard a certain song, and I lost it.  That hiccup of air and the tears start.  I wanted to stop them, didn’t want to ruin my makeup, but I couldn’t stop.  Can I pinpoint the reason for the tears?  No, it’s most likely a number of things–thinking about my post at Deliberate Donkey going live this morning, the fact my son was sick yesterday and it was the first time I wasn’t there to take care of him, or how lately there has been a looming question in the back of my mind that I may never have an answer to.  I keep wondering when the last time was that a man loved me—I mean really loved me, like a person should be loved, or if a man has ever loved me like that.  Just thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes again, because I know it’s possible no man has ever truly loved me, or ever will.  That scares the shit out of me.  So here’s the song that caused all this shit this morning, listen at your own risk:

blow the fucking house down

brick by brick
with every harsh word
or raised hand
that’s how I built it up
concrete and reinforcing steel
with unkind comments and condescending names
that’s how I built it up

your compliments, your attentiveness
it chisels away at the mortar and brick
the way your eyes look at me, the way your hand seeks mine to hold
it jackhammers the foundation
you saying I am beautiful, that you don’t understand how someone hasn’t snatched me up before
makes the foundation crumble

careful, so careful
don’t let the foundation crumble
don’t let the walls collapse
run, gather supplies
shore up the walls, fortify your defenses
no one can be allowed in
once they are inside the walls can come down too quickly
leaving you exposed to the elements of love

little pig, little pig
let me in
fuck you, I said to the big, bad wolf

Photo Credit:  tumbler.com

Photo Credit: tumbler.com

Rock Bottom

I don’t know that I am there, but I sure as fuck can see it from here.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m really not stuck in some sort of deep depression, or anything.  I have been in a fairly positive mood lately.  But at times, when I least expect it, the tears hit me, like they did on my drive home today.  I am just tapped out.  I am fucking exhausted.  I feel like I can’t write.  Like it’s such a struggle to write.  I am now to a point where I don’t even seem to have the energy to read blogs.  I keep trying, but I feel like I can’t keep up, and when I can’t keep up and do it perfectly, like read every one I subscribe to, then the guilt sets in.  I have perfectionistic tendencies, and they totally fuck my world up.  I am especially tapped tonight because I just finished a post for Deliberate Donkey.  I needed to write it, it was cathartic, but it was fucking exhausting too.  It will post on Thursday.  I hope you read it.  I apologize, if I can’t get around to reading everything.  I try to be supportive, but I have to be honest and tell you I just can’t do it right now.  Hopefully soon I can find some of the ADD crazy energy that seems to appear every now and then.

Real Things

If only I weren't so transparent and blatantly honest. . . .

If only I weren’t so transparent and blatantly honest. . . .

“Stinkbomb”

I know I am not popular.  I know I might never be popular.  I am not fat, but I am not thin.  I am of a normal size, but I guess everyone thinks normal means skinny, so they call me fat.  One of the boys, who I think is cute, also calls me “Stinkbomb”.  I guess because my first name begins with “St”, he thinks that putting “Stinkbomb” in front of my name sounds funny.  It seems to be funny to the other kids, because they laugh.  To me the words sting; they hurt enough to bring tears to my eyes.  I can’t get away from him on the monkey bars, because he follows me there and calls me names.  I tell the teacher what he calls me.  She smiles and says he just calls me that because he likes me and he is flirting with me.  I try to wrap my mind around this.  He likes me so he calls me names?  I don’t understand really, because I am only 8, but I am smarter enough to know that thinking he likes me because he calls me mean names, is better than the alternative.

 

 

(I think that was the beginning of men calling me mean names and me being okay with it.)

 

 

Written for Tipsy Lit Prompt:  Through a Child’s Eyes

 

 

Just so you know, the stuff I write is mine.  Even though it might be crap to some, it’s my crap, and you can’t have it.

F*&k You and Your Stick Figure Family!

sticks

Can I just say how much I hate this shit?  It started out with these stupid little stick figure things, but like an unsuspecting pimple, it has grown into a huge boil on the ass of fucking mini-vans and SUVs all over the nation!  People couldn’t be happy with the happy-ass little stick figure family—they had to come up with different types of families, just so no one would feel left out in the pervasive cultural wave of “political correctness”.

skulls

Now we have the skull and cross-bones family.  What are you trying to tell people with this?  That you’re a whole family of bad-asses?  That you’re poison?  That you’re all fans of one particular album by the group Cypress Hill, or that it’s the fucking pirate life for you?  If it’s the latter, maybe you should upgrade and go with one of these:

pirates

I guess we could refer to that as the swashbuckling stick figure family.  Fuck you all, I hope you get scurvy.  Jack Sparrow is the only pirate I would want to know, and that’s just because he’s hot.  But wait a minute, let’s not leave all you Harry Potter fans out!  Here’s one for you too:

harryp

If you even think about putting that shit on your car, I hope the Dementors get you!!  Let’s not forget about all our single lady friends out there!!  You know the ones I’m talking about.

crazycatlady

Nothing like letting everyone know you’re how EXTREMELY single you are, and most likely you will stay.  (Maybe I better file this one away for future reference.  Might need to put something like this on my car in the future.  ;)) For you Star Wars fans in the house:

star wars

And the Zombie freaks:

zombies

When it comes to Zombies, it would be my preference to see this:

zombiesate

In keeping up with current trends of sharing every little personal detail of our social lives on Facebook, we might as well do it on our car too, and let the general public know, because we can’t be BFFs with everyone on the FB. . . . .

babydaddy

Yep, count ’em.  That be 5 babies.  Hmmm. . . .are we sure there’s only one baby daddy been up in there??  Or are you telling everyone that after a couple of kids with this loser, you hadn’t figured out he was an alcoholic bum that was dippin’ his wick elsewhere??  Don’t they make stick figure condoms??  Are you getting the stick figure food stamps??

Praise all that is fucking holy in the name of Joseph Smith and religious freedom, and don’t leave out the Mormons!!

utah

Is that the “Sister Wives” suburban???

Secretly, I am quite fond of the “illustrations” of how to go about “making” a stick figure family, but the previous family doesn’t need any lessons in making babies!

makingfamily

I wish a fucking T-Rex would come along and eat all these dumb asses!!  And I get my wish:

trex

If you couldn’t tell, the following represent my general feeling about this stupid shit on your vehicle:

flyingfnobodycares

run

Why couldn’t we just stick to some clever bumper stickers??

Key To Her Heart

You have climbed inside of me. . . .this is how I feel. . .hoping, but not knowing if I can allow myself to be fully present if a really good man were to come along. I hope you don’t mind that I reblogged. 🙂

Writings From Dr. Oolie's Pond

Examining her heart,
it reminded her of a condemned building.
Taking a good look,
she saw boards on all of the windows
and yellow police tape across the padlocked doors.

Sitting with her abandoned heart,
she wondered what it would take to fill it again.
If someone approached her with the right key,
would she allow him access
or just change the locks?

Taking a step back,
she noticed that her poor, empty heart
had affected the rest of her self as well.
What had once been a warm and vibrant body
was now cold and desolate.

Even if she allowed another to tear down the tape,
unlock the doors,
and take down the boards over the windows of her heart,
would it be enough?

Would his touch be gentle enough to coax heat back into her cold limbs?
Would his love be enough to fill the emptiness that was…

View original post 150 more words

Getting Laid

Something’s getting laid at my house tonight!!  Nope, not me dammit.  It’s the linoleum in my upstairs bathroom.  Almost as excited about that, as I would be about getting laid myself, though.  This project has been dragging on since around the end of January, and I’m ready for it to be done.  With any luck, the rest of the shower, the toilet, and vanity will all be in before the week is out.  At this point in my life, getting my upstairs shitter put back in seems to be the highlight of my existence.  I know, you want my life.  Stand in line bitches!!

stoptheworldIwanttogetoff

Photo Credit:  thedailybeast.com

Photo Credit: thedailybeast.com

 

I take a drag off my cigarette.God, it tastes so fucking good.Why would I think that in my head?Why would I preface that statement with God, when I am not a believer?I look up and he is still looking at me.Still waiting for my answer.What was the question again?I can’t remember the question.I stare back at him, hoping he will say something and offer me some sort of clue as to what the question was.  He doesn’t.He just keeps looking.Why do they always look at me like that?Like there’s some sort of question they’ve asked me that I can’t answer.Everyone always looks at me that way!It makes me anxious.It makes me want to run.My heart pounds, I can feel it pumping the blood through my valves, I hear the swooshing of it in my head; when they look at me that way.I want to scream at him, “STOP LOOKING AT ME!! I DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER TO YOUR FUCKING QUESTION!!”But I don’t scream, I drop my head and take another drag off the cigarette.I try to formulate an answer in my head.How do I give an answer if I don’t know the question? I will have to ask, I have no other choice.Speak!I tell my mouth.Tell him you didn’t hear him, or that you didn’t understand.Which would be better?  To tell him I didn’t hear him?How could I not hear him?We’re the only two in the room, and there’s no other sounds, except for the whirring of the blades of ceiling fan.The whirring, moving the air around the room, and it sounds like the swooshing of the blood in my head.Move the air, move the blood.So maybe I just tell him that I don’t understand, I don’t understand what he has asked me.Yes, yes, better.Better to tell him I don’t understand.I, um, I don’t really understand what you’re asking me.I tell him, without lifting my head.  I watch the smoke rise from the end of the cigarette.I know it will float, flowing towards the ceiling fan, towards the spinning, the constant spinning, never stopping around and around like a merry-go-round.No, you must stop it, you must let me off, I can’t stand the constant spinning, it makes me sick to my stomach.I stick my foot out, trying to drag it in the sand to stop the spinning, the whirring, the swooshing of the blood, dear God just make it all stop. . . .

 

 

*I wrote this for this week’s prompt over on Tipsy Lit , “A Little Bit of Crazy”.    The prompt was to write about insanity.  I chose to just delve right in, and imagine myself inside insanity.  Clinically, I don’t think I am insane, but there are certainly times in my life when I think I walk a very fine line; when I hang at the edge of that cliff, fearful I will lose my grip.  Some days, I wonder if insanity is easier than living in this crazy, fucked up world trying to act “normal”.  Anyway, this is just what I imagine it might be like—I have had this sort of tornado in my head before, swirling around, trying to think and pull my thoughts out of all the crap blowing around in my head.  I took all the spaces out between the sentences for effect—I wish I could have taken all the spaces out between the words too, but it would’ve been near impossible to read then.

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