Life is too short to be doing what I don't want to be doing. My life is too good to be complaining about anything - I am self-employed, I am getting by, I have my health and my family and a beautimous one. And a furry cat-rabbit. When I lose sight of this, when I feel anything less than grateful, I sometimes have to take a step back and reflect upon what it is that shuts me down.
So, F you, people.
F you all who are negative and try to bring me down because of your own insecurities. F my insecurities. F the fact that you get to me so much. F this town and all the Fing hipsters and yuppies and know-it-alls. F you. I can be a hipster if I want. I threw out all my effing skinny jeans and now I am going to wear all black. I am not alive today and I am not where I am because I am a "realist", so F you for trying to make me see the world for what it really is. I effing tried that and it was too damn depressing. F you for being so depressing.
F you, to all y'all who complain about your wonderful lives. Worse yet, you complain and you do nothing to change it. So F that. F you to the people who drive up on my ass and tailgate me and pass me and glare. F you facebook and F the status updates and the people who use it as a way to re-create themselves. F showing the world only what I want them to see and F the g-d "like" button. F the pictures where you pucker your lips and look all emo. I know how you look in real life.
F those of you who think success is being better than someone else. And F you for thinking you are better; here is news for you: you aren't. I hope that I can be the pile of dog poop that you fail to notice and step in. I hope that I fail in front of you, fall on my face and make mistakes and Fing laugh about it, because that is how people improve themselves. F!
F you for thinking that the south side of madison is a bad part of town. F you for turning your nose up at the g-d bus and better yet, F you for turning your nose up at me because I will drive my car .5 miles to get where I need to go. I am going to burn oil and I am not going to eat chicken unless I know where the F it comes from.
F you Anthem for charging me more because I fail to meet the optimum weight and F you weight for being higher than I want.
F you if I want to drink PBR. F you if I listen to stadium rock or F-ing folk music. F you if I care as much about one girl with a guitar as much as I care about dead white guys. F you, particularly, if you think classical musicians are dorks. I would learn the effing guitar if I wanted to, trust me. F Republicans and F democrats. F you irritating athiests, F you irritating Christians oh and F all the other religions.
F you, every major holiday. Including the bank holidays.
F you anxiety, insecurity, fear, hatred, anger, but even moreso...F you subconscious. F off trying to be all uppity about psychology when you have never even been to a g-d therapist. and while I am on the subject, F to you for telling me I need therapy. I have therapy in the fridge.
F anyone who tells me that I can't drink before 3pm. And F you if you think I can't eat dessert for breakfast or drink coffee after 3pm.
F YOU!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I still avoid stepping on cracks.
not because I am worried about breaking my mother's back,
but because it is comforting to know exactly where my feet land.
These little obsessions and repetitions disguise themselves this way,
though they are born of an increasing anxiety whose origin I haven't yet pinpointed.
While I avoid the task of investigating,
I will eradicate every stray hair from my thoughts and my face.
And if I am melancholy it is because I am sorry that your mom died.
What is missing?
The aching radiating out through my fingertips.
There is something else, but what?
You don't fit in anywhere. Not at that hospital, alone.
Square pegs being forced into round holes.
Blood pulsing through the veins at a steady tempo of 72-85
makes me nauseous, makes me hot.
Feeling her pulse against mine must be a great thing,
but I like to think that I don't have one.
It is easier than having to admit that I am alive.
I need a stiff drink.
not because I am worried about breaking my mother's back,
but because it is comforting to know exactly where my feet land.
These little obsessions and repetitions disguise themselves this way,
though they are born of an increasing anxiety whose origin I haven't yet pinpointed.
While I avoid the task of investigating,
I will eradicate every stray hair from my thoughts and my face.
And if I am melancholy it is because I am sorry that your mom died.
What is missing?
The aching radiating out through my fingertips.
There is something else, but what?
You don't fit in anywhere. Not at that hospital, alone.
Square pegs being forced into round holes.
Blood pulsing through the veins at a steady tempo of 72-85
makes me nauseous, makes me hot.
Feeling her pulse against mine must be a great thing,
but I like to think that I don't have one.
It is easier than having to admit that I am alive.
I need a stiff drink.
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