Is telling your boss, “If you try ‘n’ make me work for that bitch, you might as well go get an empty box and help me pack my shit,” wrong?
It is, isn’t it?
Posts Tagged ‘Reasons People Hate Me’
Aug 10
23
We all do things we SWEAR we’ll never do again. We all do things that we really, really don’t want to. We don’t want to do it.
Yet we find ourselves doing it.
Every person on this planet can be called guilty of that sin at one point or another in their lives.
So what!
Who are you or you or even me to judge how someone deals with their rationing of suffering?
We all get our share. We all go through the stages of grief.
Off all the stages, anger is my favorite.
Aug 10
18
I envy talents.
I look at Michael and his numbers thing and I WANT THAT. When we first started this journey I would try to do math and, lemme tell you right now kids, me and numbers are sworn enemies.
If I’m tipping at a restaurant, you either getting a 7% or 34% tip.
Michael? He does math fast. Quick. You give that bastard ten line, four column multiplication and his eyes glaze over, he looks into … somewhere … I can’t explain it … and BAM, there ya go.
He told me one time, “I just see it.”
I WANT THAT!
While we’re talking about Michael, the mother fucker aint right.
Did you know that if he holds a compass it stops? It just freezes and won’t move. Give me the compass? Works fine. Michael? Nothing.
I WANT THAT!
Did you know that if Michael gets furiously angry his computer will blue screen? Brand new, out the box, perfect in every way PC becomes worthless if he’s angry. You can actually feel it in the room. It’s like a pulse, a low vibration.
I WANT THAT!
Did you know that children love Michael? Not just he’s good with kids, but more like babies reach for him when we go to stores like Wal-Mart/Target/Every.Damned.Where. They literally reach for him, arms extended, twisting until they can no longer see him around the isle.
I DON’T WANT THAT!!!!
Not sure where I’m going with all this, I just wish I had some talent, some defining thing, I want sonsabitches to feel my vibrations in the room or control electromagnetic stuff and junk.
All except for the latter. Don’t need no kid attention thank you kindly.
I envy.
*Dante
Aug 10
17
My mother is paranoid schizophrenic.
As a child I can remember my unending frustration in her inability to turn the voices off.
“Can’t you just NOT listen?”
“There is no one in the bushes with a semi-automatic Mom, I promise.”
“Granddaddy’s head is not in freezer, I checked – twice.”
“No one kidnapped Melody, she is in her room playing dress up with the damned cat.”
“There are no demons in the washing machine, they left.”
“No one came through the television and, no, no they did not ask for a cold drink.”
I used to get so angry.
JUST BE NORMAL! PLEASE JUST BE NORMAL LIKE EVERYONE ELSE’S MOM!!
Like anyone else’s mom was fucking normal. Hmpft, as if.
Fast forward 30 years …
Why can I now not take my own advice when the voices tell me I am:
- obese
- ugly
- ignorant
- wrinkled
- abusive
- a monster
- A MONSTER!!!!!!!
Why do I allow myself to NOW listen to the poison? ‘Coz, I mean, the poison has always been there.
The poison was inserted by a drug addicted father. The poison was reinforced by violent stepfathers. The poison was solidified by girlfriends and boyfriends lost to the undertow.
Why can I not take the advice I so easily spouted to my defenseless mother all those many years ago and ignore the voices?
Why can I not relax into the freedom of knowing what is to be was what was meant to be?
How can I convince the voices, or anyone, that I’m not a monster if I can’t convince myself?
Should I be medicated on a regimen of pharmaceutical cocktails? Should I pay someone $200 an hour to listen to my problems?
I could but I’m not. Because I don’t want to medicate it away. I want to feel it.
How do I apologize to my mother for attempting to force away her thoughts, her feelings, her psychosis when I refuse to relinquish mine?
I have always wondered if crazy people knew they were crazy.
Yes. Yes we do.
_________________________________________________________________________
Update: I penned this post more than a year ago during a surprisingly long pity party. But no worries, I got betta.
Aug 10
16
The office renovations are complete. Mostly anyways. Data? Done. Voice? Done. Demo? Done. Expansion? Done. Office moves? Done.
Saturday was the big move and I gotta say I almost had fun. They sent me a crew of 6 20-somethings all covered with tats and these kids were fucking hilarious. I almost went tinkle on more than one occassion I was laughing so hard.
When everything was done, when everyone had gone, I bent down gently to pick up an empty trash can and it happened.
RIP.
Note to self: Not 20 anymore, can’t pack/move/unpack boxes and equipment for two weeks and not get some kind of life stomp. So I got my life stomp. Back’s all fucked up making me limpin’bout like I’m closer to 70 than to 40. I could use one of them walkers with the tennis balls on the front and a hook for my purse.
So I go get a massage and since my boy Brennan moved a couple weeks ago, I was recommended to Frank. Now I’ve had problems with motherfuckers giving butterfly kisses instead of deep tissue massages. I try to tell them, I can handle it, you aint gonna hurt me.
Frank? Frank hurt me. I whimpered and tears flowed from my eyes. My nose ran and drool licked to the outside of my mouth and joined my tears on the floor.
I should have given him a safety word, although it would have been of no benefit. I was unable to speak, to scream, to breathe.
I am wondering if he was sent from the bowels of hell, from the devil himself, to kill me. How much was the contract on my mobility worth?
I don’t whimper. I got tattoos covering me the size of Arkansas and I didn’t whimper.
Well, I guess I didn’t used to whimper, ‘coz I do now.
I whimper when I get up to pee. I whimper when I I roll on my side. I whimper when I stretch the heating pad.
So, needless to say, someone can unpack their own goddamned boxes today, I stayed home.
Aug 10
14
While I usually leave the reviewing up to the lovely BookAddictPatti, I just gotta say something real quick. Then we can resume our regular programming full of tales to tell about my period and traffic.
I was at the library the other day and a certain book caught my eye as I was jetting for the door. The covers were bent, the plastic coated corners peeling and thought, “Damn, that book has been read a few times.” So I grabbed it without too much of a glance. I mean, if it is that well traveled, there must be a reason.
So I get home and read the back cover. Romance. Fine, most of us cougars appreciate a nice, flirty romance from time to time.
The premise is such of a young girl who is in love a older man (13 and 18, respectfully). He is a good guy so he waits until she is of age to attempt to take her. He seduces her, takes her home but before she knows what’s what, his brother is there and things get awkward. So she hightails it, not to be seen again for seven years.
Fast forward and she’s still a virgin, even well into her 20s. The lovers run into each other and again, he seduces her. Again, his brother finds his way into the mix. And, as her first penetration as a virgin, she takes it in the ass.
Really? Honey, I’m not sure where you living at, but where I be staying aint no virgin gonna take it up the ass as her first experience.
Seriously? ‘Coz if that is how the cookie crumbles where you live, I think Imma gonna need your address.
“MICHAEL, get the bags honey, we taking a road trip.”
Aug 10
07
The year is 1995. The month is July. The festival is Essence.
Now, most locals stay as far away from the Quarter as possible during large festivals. 1995 being the first year of Essence, no one knew what to expect.
Well lemme tell ya, the Quarter was PACKED! So packed that the really good places to eat had lines around the corner, tourists all melting in the sun, waiting impatiently for the treasured poboy or catfish platter.
We eventually ended up at the Hard Rock Cafe. It was late afternoon and everyone there was dressed to impress. Better than Sunday best.
Whatevs, we don’t pay much mind to other people. Why? Well, fuck ‘em, dat’s why.
We order the basic burger and fries. Halfway through our second drink the waitress brings out two steaming plates and we get ready to do the damned thing.
I grabbed the ketchup, gave it a good swing, you know, to mix up that weird water that forms on the top, and didn’t realize until a hush fell over the room that the cap wasn’t on quite tight enough.
I sprayed half the fucking restaurant with ketchup.
It is one of the few moments in life when I absolutely lost my hellfire composure in public. I hung my head until I could see nothing but the sesame seeds on my bun and the tears as they dripped from my nose.
Now, most times when I make a complete and absolutely ass outta myself, I’m too drunk to remember it, so no loss on my end.
This time I was sober enough that even Alzheimer’s won’t erase the memory.
The waitress was so gangsta about it, she is still on my holiday card list.
Bold as hell and LOUD, “Don’t you worry about it daw’lin, accidents happen all the time. And if anyone says anything, you let me know.”
Michael sat quiet until the tears stopped, made me laugh as only he knows how, and we commenced with eating our cold burgers, bread all soft with tears, and, if I remember correctly, no one made a comment, no one lost their shit on me or tried to kill me for jacking up their fit.
I guess what I’m saying here is to check the cap of your condiments carefully before and after use. You could really, really, REALLY … well … do exactly that.
Aug 10
01
In the last 90 days I have been more stressed, more intense, less forgiving and downright bitchy than I’ve been in many years.
In the last 90 days we purchased our first home, spent a week in Seattle with friends/family, spent a week in Del Rio/Mexico with friends and family, not to mention the expansion project at the office.
So yes, I have been a complete and total C WORD but at least I know why.
I’M FUCKING TIRED!!
Some of the best days of my life has left me with no taste for much of anything else.
I know it is just the comedown. I recognize it for what it is.
I’m just tired lovelies.
But not as tired as Patti and Jerrod who celebrate their wedding anniversary. Three kids and damn near two decades later? Now that’s tired.
BURN!!
*cowers in corner* Just joking J, don’t hit me.
Jul 10
29
WHY do people wanna tell me all their fucking problems? I had to tell someone today to seek medical attention. OTHER THAN ME.
Okay, if you family or dear friend, you get a pass. You earn the right to vent and go crazy with x-mas presents and bearing witness to many beer droppings.
If you do not fit into that ghost town of a group, please, for the love of all that is good in the world, please go fuck right off.
Work? Oh, don’t get me started. Except I need to get started just a wee bit. Walls coming down, ceilings displaced, the smell of paint, the whir of sanders, the constant pissing and moaning about where they moving to, what they doing while they there, who gets to do this and who aint doing that. Shit people, I aint got the answers to all life’s problems, I just work here. I do what I’m told do ‘coz I’m old and domesticated with a freaking mortgage and dreams of retirement when I’m 82.
And we’re just getting started. It’s gonna get worse before better. I just hope that I can keep my big fat mouth shut long enough to weather the storm. See above, hittin’ on that mortgage thing again.
*breathe in … breathe out … inhale … exhale*
Over here counting to 10
Jul 10
13
I would have made a much better dude.
I like 4-wheelers. I like to shoot pool. I like to kick back 10 or 20 or 42 beers. I absolutely LOVE to pick fights.
I hate dresses. I hate all things “cute” or things that make people go “awwhhh”. I hate shopping. I hate pantyhose. I hate purses (now, I will admit that I happen to love purses, but I fucking HATE that I have a need to carry one).
But no … oh no, I gotta get the big tits and flat ass. Thanks gawds, thanks a lot.
I gotta send a huge shout out, uber props, mega snaps for the breeding ability and all that THAT brings. See, I know we didn’t talk earlier there Mother Nature but just so we are clear, I do not desire the pitter patter of little feet so how about you and Aunt Flo hit the road with your sagging stick and red bandana filled with … wait, what were those packs filled with? Meat pies and cheap liquor?
Whatevs.
Once a month I gotta go through … a disgusting state … only to go through it again and again and again. It is total bullshit and completely unnecessary. The fatigue, the bloating, the aches, the pains, the cramps, the hot/cold flashes, the irritability, THE FUCKING IRRITABILITY, the smell, the cravings, the paranoia, the, well, the crazy.
Now, I’m not sure, maybe it’s just me but there are many times in the PMS days where I find myself standing kinda outside of reality screaming “GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF” but it’s muffled, drowning out to a fog. I can’t stop the crazy, can’t wrangle it, can’t control it. The crazy pours in building layers until, finally, thankfully, a wave of crying slams down at every AARP commercial, every Lifetime movie, the loss of my friend from the 3rd grade, homeless peoples under the underpass, all of it, being everything and nothing at all.
My uterus turns into a 2am, red-velvet bouncer. *hand clap, light flicker* Okay, okay. Everyone out. You aint gotta go home but you can’t stay here. Then, usually in the middle of the night, Aunt Flo decides to make her arrival known and freak you out, totally freak your man out and now on top of everything else, you gotta do laundry after, typically, a 10 hour workday.
If I gotta be honest, which I don’t, the breast tenderness is probably my favorite part. So horridly sensitive that the weight of a sheet feels like a concrete slab. A concrete slab constructed solely from oyster shells, kitten marrow and fire.
Then, next on my list of favorites …
Wanna have sex, like rightnowrightnowrightnow but don’t touch me, I hate you and I hate everyone and I want to die but, oh, you know what, we could totally have sex right now but my uterus feels like the remnants of a monster truck rally and my girls are pools of LAVA but wow, hey, love you baby, you maybe wanna, you know …
It is a terrible cross to bear and I can’t wait for menopause.
*sigh* I would have made a much better dude.