your tongue shall speak volumes
I eagerly await your recitations
syllables, meter, the morphology of it all
has me spewing jargon and expletives
the pitch and intonation of varying resonance
as you
articulate
pronunciate
narrate
syntax
the fuck out of me
with your literacy
you sir, are a cunning linguist
your particular sort of speech
music to the very core of my being
there shall never be an oral moratorium between us
and sometimes I can sum my feelings up for you
quickly and neatly
in a tiny space
with few words
and other times long addition isn’t enough
and I need an abacus
because no matter how I try
there are never enough words that will factor in
what I feel for you
and the silly school girl in me
that doesn’t even like math
believes
you + me = all I’ll ever need
The rain cascades down the window
flooding me with want
of you
of a quilt
of the feeling of safety and peace so easily found in the crook of your arm
You can look but you can’t touch!
I had to admit it to My Man.
Like Charlie standing outside the sweet shop without money to buy a Wonka Bar, I was envious.
My Man had gotten The Golden Ticket of blogging. He had been Freshly Pressed.
I think this is what it was like for My Man to get Freshly Pressed.
My Man was excited, and rightly so. This was something he had been striving for since beginning blogging.
I admire him, because unlike me, he actually has blogging goals. I just kind of post an eclectic mess, in an extremely random fashion, thinking that maybe one day I’ll hit some sort of blogging payola.
My Man on the other hand, strives for a certain number of subscribers and views, and usually posts a certain number of days a week. He’s dedicated to his craft.
I’m just hanging around like Veruca, screaming every once in awhile like a spoiled brat, and licking the damn wallpaper.
That means immediately!!
And not only did I have to admit to My Man that the little green monster of envy had bitten my fat bottom when he was FP’d, I also had to admit to being visited by that damn thing called jealousy.
You know why? My Man has groupies.
I mean with a blog like his it’s to be expected. Every naughty little Catholic school girl for miles flocks to worship at his altar, led there by the search term, “What would Jesus Christ do?”. Wait. Maybe it was the search term, “What would Johnny Cash do?”. I always get that mixed up.
But Man In Black groupies, or “Sisters” with bad habits, either way, they adore him. They want to prostrate themselves and profess their undying devotion to his particular brand of religion. They’re willing to flagellate themselves in order to wash his feet, and kiss his ring, and open their mouths for him to place his “communion wafers” so delicately on their salivating tongues.
Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene’s in training, standing around my man.
Bless him, I think, as I make the sign of the cross while kicking bitches out of the way to get to him, My Man is understanding of my envy of his Freshly Pressed status. As writers we all want to be acknowledged in that Golden Ticket way, and he doesn’t think I’m a slimy Slugworth to admit my envy of that status.
The jealousy he gets, but tells me it is quite unnecessary, as I am the only fat bottom girl who will lick his lolly.
And I’ve learned, that regardless of the female masses who adore him, at the end of the day, and the beginning, and in the middle, he’s My Man. He’s my Everlasting Gobstopper. He’s the one who every day, makes me feel like I’ve stolen a sip of a Fizzy Lifting Drink and that I can achieve new heights just because he’s there holding my hand.
***This is written all in good fun, as My Man is quite aware I am extremely proud of him, and adore his wicked sense of humor, his sexy brain, and also the python in his pants. He’s very talented, and I only hope I will have the pleasure of riding his coattails, and maybe a part of his anatomy, into a life filled with fame and fortune! And he is always there, supporting my writing, and as my muse. Some day, hopefully we will collaborate on a writing project, because we’re a dynamic duo and will kick some literary ass!
I think I was 8. The age doesn’t matter.
I ran downstairs, excited at the prospect of my birthday present.
My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smoking a Marlboro Light. She looked up and saw my grin and excitedly told me Happy Birthday!!
My gift was laying on the table and she told me to open it. I knew it was clothes just by the feel.
I ripped the paper off and unfolded a dream!
They were perfect!! Light blue, brushed denim bell bottoms with embroidered butterflies. They took my breath away. Every last stitch made with love by my mother.
It’s one of my best birthday present memories ever.
And now I have another best birthday present memory to add to it.
It also took my breath away.
My Man wrote me a poem. It’s not his normal style of writing, but he ventured there for me.
It was beautiful, constructed of his feelings in meter, and it made me cry. My Man said it wasn’t supposed to make me cry.
But they were happy tears. They were tears that said My Man knows my heart, and he speaks to my soul.
I think I was almost 45. The age doesn’t matter.
It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.
I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.
Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.
What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.
The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.
The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.
The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.
The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.
The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.
The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?
Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.
I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.
So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.
And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!
Photo Credit: deviantart.com
Photo Credit: nutracenter.com
like a broken thermometer
so many tiny balls of poison(my insecurities)
scattering
rolling
hither and yon
hurry
gather them before anyone sees
the malignancy
dividing
growing
it seems impossible to contain them
just when I think I’ve got them all gathered
the pieces shatter
into more pieces
the number seems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . infinite. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
hurry
run and fetch the eyedropper
to suck up the toxic little balls
before they infiltrate
what’s good
sprinkle the sulfur and contain
every minute trace of the
contamination
seal them all up in a bag
dispose of them
properly
like the hazardous waste
that they are
Last year I did a New Year’s Eve post in which I made a list of all the things I wanted in 2013: more sex, vacation, more readers, a built-in asshole indicator, just to name a few. As the year draws to a close, in preparation of writing another New Year’s Eve post, and starting a Fat Bottom Girl tradition, I read over it.
I am happy to report that I have gotten 3 out of 8 things I wanted in 2013:
1. Vacation– a couple of days in San Antonio. I learned a lot of lessons on that trip, one being that if you’re dating an asshole, don’t expect him to keep his dick in his pants while you’re out of town on vacation. Also, I figured out I don’t really like to travel alone, because it’s got to be a lot more fun when you have someone there to point and laugh at people with. I am definitely taking more vacation in 2014!
2. More laughter. I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten more of this, and a lot of it’s due to some of you bloggers. You guys can be some funny motherfuckers! Yeah, you know who you are. Seriously, sometimes I have to actually cover my mouth while I’m pissing away time at work reading blogs, so my co-workers won’t hear me chortling and guffawing over some of the hilarious shit you write! (God, chortling and guffawing, aren’t those fucking cool words??)
3. I have more readers. As of this posting, I am now up to 198! I have absolutely no idea how this happened, because I still feel like some third-rate word hack when I compare myself to a lot of you, but I want to thank you for reading! (Which reminds me, I apologize if the checks I promised to send for your follow haven’t reached you yet. I swear I sent them! That damn post office needs to get their shit together!)
So as 2013 draws to a close, I didn’t get all the sex I wanted, there’s still never enough time to do everything I need to do, I’m still not satisfied with everything, and I am still trying to perfect the built-in asshole indicator, but my year is ending on a high note! First of all, because my son is coming back to live with me again! Things didn’t quite work out like everyone thought they would, and after more soul-searching, all involved decided it was best for him to be back with me. This makes me a very happy Mom!! All of it probably a hard, but necessary, learning experience for my son, and for me too.
Secondly, I have met someone. He makes me laugh, he’s a great communicator, he’s talented, intelligent, considerate, and he seems to get me and my sometimes nerdy ways. Plus, bonus! He’s a smokin’ hottie. I have no idea where it’s going, and right now I’m trying really hard not to care, and to just enjoy the ride. Everything with him is different than it’s ever been with any other guy, and in my book, that’s a good thing. That’s a damn good thing.
Raise your glasses Fat Bottom Girl followers!! Here’s hoping you get what you need in 2014, because in the immortal words of the Rolling Stones, you can’t always get what you want.
He’s the narcissistic fox, and I am the trusting gingerbread man.
run, run, as fast as you can,
don’t let him catch you,
he’s the narcissistic man
If you’ve been hanging around here for a couple of years reading the drivel I write, you’re probably aware I was in a relationship with a narcissist a couple of years ago. If you’re interested in going back, I talk about it here, and here. That was when I first started my blog, and I had about 2 followers at the time. I might possibly have a few more than that now. Anyway, fast forward to 2013, and here I am face to face with a narcissist again. What to do, what to do?
Fiction, and other made-up stories
Still histrionic, still a bookwhore; just faking competence because of my kid.
One Therapist's Thoughts-Before and After
It's not the length of life, but the depth.
This is my mind, it’s not supposed to make sense.
Where Sarcasm Gets Drunk and Lets Its Hair Down
Shining the light of truth on delusion
Researching, investigating, and writing about the paranormal.
You either get it... or you don't.
Inky blackness, a yawning void ~
A weekly series edited by Jena Schwartz
Read. Ingest the words. Like little blue pills, they will affect you.
the stories behind the pictures, and vice versa
Just my thoughts for all to behold
FOR DISCERNING READERS
🍃 Fully Living The Unfinished Things Of Life Through Writings. 🍃
Spiced with stories, served from the heart
Writer, Tarot Reader, Designer
a little bit of this and a little bit of that
Seeking Beauty Beyond the Scars
The home of Emma O'Brien
The musings of a scorpion who would have been an eagle
I blog now. I know, I can't believe it either.
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 