Another Tweet
Note to self: Just because the last three guys were dirty cake fuckers, doesn’t mean this one is. This guy could just like cake, and not actually have to fuck it.
Fat Bottom Girl Said What
When my ass talks, people listen.
Archive for the category “Uncategorized”
If I Had Twitter. . . .
I would post the following:
“Ate crawdads for the first time this weekend. Reminded me of my ex—a lot of work for a little meat.”
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. . . .
“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.
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. 🙂
stoptheworldIwanttogetoff
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.
Practicing Acceptance
After 12 years I feel as if I have failed you. I’m not claiming I was always the best mother, but I am the mother who will always love you the best, and love you the most. But I feel like I have failed you. I always thought I would be able to create another family for you. I had hoped to do that–to meet a really great guy who was really good for both of us, one that would love you like you were his own. One that would love you simply because you are a part of me, because that would be how much he loves me, and because he would know how much I love you. But I didn’t do that, so I failed you. After the third time, your dad finally got it right, and now you have a really great step-mom. She doesn’t try to be your mom and replace me, but she is just a natural nurturer, and she’s good to you. You like that family atmosphere that your dad’s marriage gives you, and I don’t blame you. That’s all I ever wanted after my parents divorced. I just wanted that family again; to be a part of something. I wanted to get married, and have kids, at least a couple, and have that family. But that didn’t happen. The dream was nothing like the reality, and it was over before it started. I feel like I can’t give you what you feel like you need right now, and that breaks my heart. Up until now I haven’t ever felt that way. I felt like the way things were was good enough. I still felt like I was doing a good enough job, and that I was giving you everything you needed. I don’t feel that way now. Someday, you will understand why that breaks my heart. Why every time I let the reality of you not being here slip into my waking brain, that it is physically painful for me. Do you know what the worst part is? I know that I have to learn to be okay with it. I have to learn to accept it, or it will kill me. And it won’t kill me quickly. Doing what is right, and doing what is best, are usually some of the hardest things you will ever have to do in life, and in time you will come to realize this. I just want you to know this is one of the hardest thing I have ever had to do, and it’s because I love you so much.
Two Minutes
While reading this post by Tric, over at My Thoughts on a Page, I was reminded. The envelope. I had sent for it, and then in the business of every day life, had sat it aside to be dealt with later. But cancer doesn’t wait, and those waiting for bone marrow have already been through enough, that they shouldn’t have to wait. So last night I got out the envelope that had been tucked back in the cupboard, behind the vitamins, and the ibuprofen. I swabbed the inside of my cheeks, and sealed the samples up in the envelope. Today I dropped it in the mail. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could do something so amazing as to give someone my bone marrow in the hopes that it would help them go on living?
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 