It's Just Not Fair

I have solved the secret to the world; and I did it all with the help of a bunch of self-centered bastards. These particular bastards like to bitch and moan about every little thing that's wrong with them.

They think everything should be fair. Fair does not exist. It's simple. Everyone wants what's fair. But, hey, there is no fair. What's right for me isn't the same for you; and for me to bitch and complain about it won't solve the problem.

What if I want a twinkie and you want a twinkie, and I don't like to share - then it's just not fair for you but I don't care so much because I think twinkies are yummy. You need to deal with the fact that I have a twinkie and you don't, and Im not giving you any because I don't care that you are twinkieless. Everyone wants a twinkie, but only a few have them. Is it fair? Nope. Is it supposed to be fair? Nope. Is it a good thing that not everyone has access to the twinkies? Most definitely. If everyone had a twinkie, then people wouldn't even be interested in twinkies anymore, they'd be all "I want a Little Debbie."

And here comes the not fair cry when it's discovered that Little Debbies are in short supply and only a few people were able to procur the sweet little cakes. I think people need to get over it. Most don't share. Most don't care. Most are selfish heartless bastards who like to hoard their twinkies or Little Debbies.

Find your own snack cake that works for you and savor it. Don't be snack cake mackin' on others. It's not fair. And, thusly, I'm hoarding my twinkies in the fire proof box I keep the important documents in.

It's a full moon tonight. People are strange.

Trust me

Yes, I've messed up my life. I made a horribly bad choice of a husband who in turn left me sprawled in a big ol' mud pit. My bad. I've learned my lesson about trust - don't do it. I'm coming back from that. I've scraped most of the mud off me now. I'm getting clean.

But, yikeys. My 'rents don't see it that way. One big horrible decision and they think they need to make all my decisions for me. I am quite capable of making my own decisions. In fact, Im quite capable of failing epically again and again. It's good to fail, because now I know what to not do again. I need to fail. I need to not have a safety net sometimes.

I need to make even more poor uninformed choices in life. I need to not be guilt tripped into everything I do. That's not a life. That's a zombie living out another life for one's 'rents. My 'rents have fucked up their lives. I'm rescuing mine. Back off 'rents. I wish I could say that to them. But, it will never happen.

Im 34 - i shouldn't have to rebel. Im tired of rebeling. If I mess up - I'll fix it. Im fixing the disaster my ex created for me. I'm saving money. Im not buying any and everything I see. I'm not wasting my finances. There isn't anything in this world that can't be fixed or changed or handled into a new situation.

Believe in me. That's all. I can handle it now. All I need is someone to believe that Im not a total basketcase or a loophead or ragemonger. I do know what Im doing - it may not seem like it at times, but that's ok too, I need to fail so I don't do it again.

News of the day

So, Im not going to be so stupid as a colleague and slap my name to a barrage of hate against the profession that keeps the roof over my head and food in my cats' feed bowls. How stupid can one be to unleash his unfounded and quite frankly, gay-ass, thoughts of his profession online and then go on to put his real name on the crap that emits from his worthless fat little fingers. Parents aren't gonna want a self-proclaimed anarchist and atheist teaching their kids.

And my favorite piece of news for the day: my ex is boring.
This was confirmed by a professional broadcaster when he was interviewed for a taped weekly radio show a local radio station is beginning. Apparently, he has reverted to his previous inability to think or have an orginal thought. "I don't know how well our sports teams will do."
Also, the ex, according to the totally unbiased guy is an ass for not coming prepared to answer questions, but is also so big (fat) that his open mouth heavy breathing made for unclean sound.

Second favorite news of the day: the ex and the whore are already fighting.
she ran to the only person at school who will listen to her and cried about how mean he was to her this morning. Let the games begin.

Maybe it will be all good in the end. It'll be my turn soon.

Worn Out

I never knew this was so hard. For the first time, I'm just worn down. I need help; I need support.

There's a reason there are no single coaches for long. They either burn out, and wear down because dealing with kids in such a competitive environment is just plain out emotionally and physically taxing. Married coaches are all the rage.

I didn't get it before, but damn that support at home is a needed and desperate thing. Someone to help with the household chores. Someone to cook. Someone to just listen. Someone whom you know will be there when you've had the roughest day ever and had to deal with irate parents. Someone to unleash your frustrations on and knew that they will still be there for you.

Help isn't something I like to ask for, nor do I seek out. Im way too stubborn for that. But, jeez, I need it now. I want to come home to someone who's excited to see me. Someone who will make me smile and forget my day. Hell, a big warm hug would be heaven at the moment.

On Borrowed Time

You were never really mine to begin with. I don't know where you came from, but you were there one day. My finger hovered over the accept button.

Did I want you as a friend? Sure, why not, I thought. What could it hurt. Silly me. It could hurt me, but I didn't know it then. I've had you on loan for all this time, all the while knowing I'd have to give you back at some point.

And this point would not be of my choosing. Someone else gets to pick the point in time when you are gone from me. I still don't have control. You mean well, you don't understand what I already know. I am the least important thing in your life at this moment; as I should be. But, to me, you mean way too much. I really messed up and let you in, and now Im doing the best I can to hurry up and close the floodgates before the deluge sweeps me away in this delightful daydream of happiness.

I know it's not real, I do. It's just hard to keep that in mind when you sound so sincere, and you think it's something real. Your life is what's real. Im not. I'm here, so far away with no means of keeping you. I have absolutely nothing to offer you. I want you to be happy; I am not the vehicle for this.

Case in point - you are the most gorgeous male I have ever seen; and I am just a wet paper bag of a female. Nothing.

I know what's coming. I'm getting off the train tracks as fast as I can. I don't want to be obliterated by the train I can see and hear in the distance. You are the family I want forever. You are the forever I can never have.

Realization

Where I live or whom I live with is of no concern to you - ex spouse and asshole.

With those words something moved in me, and with it came a deep realization. The ex has no sense of humor, and is ashamed of his new life. So much so that he can't even be bothered to tell me where he now lives - though it is within a mile of my current house. Wouldn't a person in love and all excited about their life be telling the world about this new found perfection? I guess I made the mistake, sometime during the 18 years that I knew my ex, of thinking he and I were actually friends at some point.

If you were moving, would you not at least tell people, hey, I moved. He hasn't even told the people he considers his "friends" that he's moving in with his whore. Who does that? I thought I knew him, apparently I never did. I like to be happy, even though I haven't been in a really long time. I think I've forgotten how to maintain a happy state of being for more than a moment. But, now, Im thinking back and I don't think he's ever been happy with what he had or where he was going in life.

With that realization, and the fact that he is least fun person I know, good riddance. I will stop thinking that he and I were ever friends because I know what friends do for each other; and he's never done anything a true friend would do. I owe him nothing. His is the asshole who cheated on me with the whore who had pretended to be my friend - and nothing more.

Oh, and my response to his heartless email regarding my concerns - "no longer at this address" on those important documents he continues to have sent to my address because he still considers it his "permanent address."

'Bout time

So the sun dipped behind the mountains with a slight sizzle, and I was still outside. Strength is an old thing. Passion can be transferred with an idea; it can be reworked and retooled and relit with just a few words.

It's nice not to be insane this year. The sun finally came out from behind the clouds and reminded why I am.

The Earth Moved

Ever have that moment when you’re standing still and you can feel the earth move under your feet. It shifts whether you want it to or not, and the way it shifts can be startling and enlightening or maddening and life altering. Sometimes it moves and your feet were way too far above the surface to feel the shudder of change, and when you land you can’t get your bearing because nothing is where it is supposed to be and you can never get your balance until it moves again.

The best time when it moves is when you can feel it, and it puts you right again. Things are suddenly aligned the way they should have been all along, and it just took the earth its own sweet time to right itself under your feet. When it moves you to where you belong, the air is clearer, your heart beats with a certainty, your soul feels warm and you can feel yourself living again – not just existing.

Be the Pooh.

simple question

what's in a house?

Is it the wood and paneling and cement that keeps it together? When does a house really become a home? And, when does a home become nothing but a house again? Does the furniture, the comfortable reclining chair, the ratty old couch with the spring that bites your ass, make the home? Is it the scar of a glowing ember from the wood stove that jumped from it's fiery home to the dangerously flammable?

Or, could it be the random cat-fur tumbleweeds that float aimlessly along the floorboards trying to blend into the background and survive another week from the vacuum cleaner? Or the semi-permanent home of the iron and it's too-long 8 -foot cord that clogs up the visual line of the wood stove? Or is the home made because of the copious number of tennis shoes that lay scattered on the floor like lost boats on a stormy sea seeking their port?

How about the winter coats that cover the couch like a plastic sleeve, protecting the soft surface of the couch from the sharp claws of the cats? The books that line the floor next to the chair and threaten a hostile take over of the cat's climby toy - do they make the house what it is?

Sometimes, maybe, could it be the sound screaming fire alarm that serves as the buzzer for when the food is "done" in the oven or in the stove? Or is it the sound of the slamming door as the flaming food is tossed from the house? Is it the blaring sounds of an eccentric taste in music that ranges from Count Basie to Linkin Park to Hawthorne Heights, then back to Lil' Wayne and Jay Sean?

So, what is it that makes a house a home - when all there is in the home is just things and no feelings or emotions - is just a house again?