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
I’m flying!!!!
About once a week I get to leave Stalag 13, also known as my office trailer, and venture up the hill to the post office. This morning Kansas is beautiful; around 80 F (26.6 C for the rest of the world), with a nice breeze. By this afternoon it will be a totally different story, with a temp of 95 F, and wind gusting to around 40, and about 60% humidity. I hop in my car, roll down the windows, and prepare to take advantage of the perfection of this particular Tuesday morning.
On my drive up the hill, I notice the dogs in the car ahead of me are taking advantage of it too. I see a white pup, with a black nose and floppy ears first. His head is bobbing all around, trying hungrily to grab a scent of something, jowls blowing in the breeze, ears flipping all around and even making a circular motion one time, because this pup can’t keep his head still just to enjoy the breeze in his face. I have no idea what the dog’s age is, but it’s pretty obvious he’s a pup, with his head darting all around like he’s going to miss something on the ride, and might never get the chance to see it again. Unable to stand it any longer, he makes his way to the other window, hoping to catch a glimpse out of it.
That’s when I notice the all black face of another dog that was obscured by all the pup’s bobbing and weaving. We stop at the light and I can see the gray on the old man’s nose. He is calm. He lifts his face to the sun, inhaling slowly, savoring the bouquet of the morning. He appears tranquil and comfortable with where he is at, in this particular space and time. The pup doesn’t even annoy him as he makes his way back and forth along the seat, as he remembers he was young once and he too felt the need to run at life like there wouldn’t be enough time to smell everything along the way.
I have to turn to get to my destination and they continue on. When I stop, I sit for a second, thinking about how I can relate to both those dogs. I too want to be tranquil and comfortable with where I am at, and some days I can. Some days I can stop along my way and savor life. Other days I am still the pup, running from one thing to another hoping to find an exciting adventure.
I decide being a little bit of both is just fine with me. I step from the car and lift my face to the sun, feel the breeze on my face, and inhale life.
I learned a valuable lesson today. I will never step foot in another gun range.
I was raised in Kansas. I grew up around guns. I have enjoyed shooting guns.
I don’t enjoy it anymore.
I’ve been “on edge” since my first go-round with abuse. I don’t like people sneaking up on me and touching me. I don’t like people jumping out from places and trying to scare me.
And after being beat up this last time, I really don’t like loud noises. They make me jump. They make my heart race.
I tried to go to the gun range with some co-workers today. I put the ear plugs in. I picked up the weapon.
Someone fired next to me. I jumped.
I fired. I jumped. T
The person next to me fired again. I jumped again.
I laid the weapon down and walked quickly out the door, escaping to the street.
I’m still shaking inside. I want to go home and lay down in my bed, where I still keep a baseball bat at arm’s reach, and sleep and forget how the sound made me feel.
I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want for stupid shit like this to mind-fuck me.
But one thing I’ve learned since going into therapy is that broken can’t be fixed.
Broken can only be mended.
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!
And I want the perfect bite ratio of sausage to cheese omelette
Just as I want you to think about me as much as I think about you
Phtoto Credit: oldhousetruelove.net
she grabs her book
and an old quilt
and heads for the porch swing
lost in words
her only connection to reality
the smell of the rain
and the cat curled by her side
**As a child I would head for the porch swing when it rained in the summertime. I would swing, and get lost in whatever book I was consuming at the time. I love porch swings and wish I had one. My house lacks a proper porch, and only has a stoop. You can’t do proper porch sitting on a stoop, said the Kansas girl.
I know I shouldn’t draw attention to the stupidity of people in my own state, but I just couldn’t let this one fly by. I had to say something.
And I’m saying this guy is a dumbass.
Who gets “murder” tattooed on their neck? This dumbass. And I will step out on a limb and say that the guy who home inked the shit is a dumbass too.
Now, after being charged with murder–go figure–he, and his lawyer, think Barton County should transport him to a tattoo facility so he can have a cover-up tattoo done. They’re worried the jury might find the word prejudicial. No shit.
How about what appears to be a teardrop near his left eye? I had always thought that signified you’d killed someone? I looked it up though, and according to Urban Dictionary, it signifies that you’ve been someone’s “bitch” in prison.
Interesting. . . .maybe his home skillet tattoo artist could also see into the future and that’s why he wound up with both of those tattoos in the first place??
I say put a fucking turtleneck on and go face that jury of your peers. You know what they say, if you can’t do the time, you shouldn’t do the crime.
Makes me want to move so my tax dollars don’t have to feed and house and provide medical care for this dumbass for the rest of his life.
I’m a dumbass, and so is the guy who inked this on my neck.
GREAT BEND, Kan. (AP) — A Kansas man charged with first-degree murder is afraid the tattooed mirror-image letters spelling out the word “murder” across his neck might prejudice a jury, so he is asking for a professional tattoo artist to remove or cover it up.
Prosecutors say they aren’t opposed to Jeffrey Chapman covering his tattoo, but Barton County’s sheriff says he’s against transporting Chapman to a licensed tattoo facility — the only places tattoo artists are allowed to practice under Kansas law.
The Great Bend Tribune reports Chapman’s trial is scheduled to start Monday in the November 2011 killing of Damon Galliart, whose body was found by hunters in a roadside ditch southwest of Great Bend.
Chapman’s attorney says in a motion the tattoo would be extremely prejudicial if seen by a jury.
Who needs more cowbell when you’ve got bagpipes?
Who, except AC/DC would think to use bagpipes in a rock song? Well, a few other groups, like Paul McCartney and Wings, Nazareth, and U2, have done it, but none so successfully as AC/DC in their tune “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n Roll)” from the 1975 T.N.T. album. Bon Scott actually learned the bagpipes specifically for this song, and it’s one of my favorites.
This band has sang me through elation, and anger, and heartbreak, and horniness. I wore out more cassettes of Back in Black in my Pioneer tape deck, with the Kraco speakers, than I care to count.
AC/DC is hands-down, one of the all-time best rock bands in the history of EVER, and if you don’t agree with me, well then you can just kiss my fat bottom girl ass.
Speedy healing to you Malcolm Young, and I hope you’re back blowing some shit up with the band real soon.
Now crank it!
Photo Credit: 24.media.tumblr.com
You baked me a fucking cake?? Do I look like I NEED a fucking cake?? Fuck the cake and bring me another Jack and Coke. And run out and get me another pack of smokes while you’re at it!
**On a side note, I feel miserable and bloated, as a medication has really thrown me for a loop. I feel like this gal looks. Happy Fucking Tuesday Fat Bottom Peeps!!
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