Important information regarding the most important things in life.
Source: Quitting Monopoly
Thank you, Turner Watson. I appreciate you
Important information regarding the most important things in life.
Source: Quitting Monopoly
Thank you, Turner Watson. I appreciate you
I Had a Brand New Razor and a Damaged Memory; at that Moment Anything was Possible…..
I’m not sure when or where I would have remembered. I just happened to be digging up some life shit, while getting ready to move, when I did.
I used to write all of the time. I had piles and piles of journals and stories and songs, doodles and blueprints for something delinquent. I sat on my floor and read. I read about my parent’s divorce, my first dances, deaths, births, crushes, breakups, best friends and near tragic misses. It was nice to start organizing my memories and thoughts. Some stuff triggered other stuff and after a few hours, I could tell you all about 1995. But the story here, happened in 1997. And I got to read and learn about it all over again. I was 12, almost 13. The summer before 8th grade…….
I was sexually assaulted by someone I knew casually. It broke me. I never told my mom. It’s the day our relationship changed forever. 2 years later, I was reading the paper and saw that he was in a near fatal car accident. Brain injury, coma, memory loss. When I was 17, he rang my door bell. He knew he knew me from somewhere. He didn’t remember. I told him I knew him from a mutual friend, but we weren’t close. He left, seemingly satisfied with that answer. As I grew into adulthood, I ran across women whom had various relationships between them and this guy. They all said the same thing; he was scum. He took advantage of ladies under the guise of photography, he played creeper to underage girls. The accident hadn’t changed him. He was still rotten.
I had my head injury 9 months ago. I had no memory of the assault. I became obsessed in hysterical laughter over this idea. I thought it was the most perfect joke in the history of my life.
If nobody remembers a sexual assault, did it really happpen? Are people inherently good, or bad? Can we change?
One of the symptoms of head trauma is exaggerated traits of your normal personality. Is he more of a monster, and I, more of a victim? Does this all cancel out and reset universal balance.
But for now, I have a new razor, so I’m going to shave my legs. Anything is possible.
The past few days have been crushing, it kills me to admit that despite all of the medications, I have been visiting a very dark place. I feel like a failure for being so sad and traumatized. I have come so far since April 18th, and this backslide has just about broken me.
Maybe I need a 24 hour hug, maybe it’s me missing my other half, Hammer Fish, but today I met with my lawyer and I had a half tissue box breakdown.
My insurance company has reached a settlement and after the medical bills and lawyer fees have been deducted, I’ll be walking away with an amount of money that will not even allow me to buy a brand new Kia Rio. I will not have the cash to replace the money I had set aside for school tuition. I will not have my lost wages reimbursed, and I will not have my savings account back to where it was prior to the accident. I’m further behind than I was on April 17th.
The frustrating part is that I had hoped to pay a small cash thank you to those that provided rides, medical supply runs, and lost wages for my mother that took time off of work for my multiple hospital stays.
I did not expect a windfall, but I did expect to break even, with a new vehicle that featured side airbags, because for fucks sake, my head injury was god damned awful.
Charges have yet to be filed against the at fault driver, and I feel like I’ve let my friends and family down. They saw me at my worst and many of their own memories of my accident were traumatic in their own right. I have none of those memories, but asking about what happened triggers a wild ride of PTSD for me.
Visiting with the lawyer was painful. He spoke of the good side, having faith, seeing that Christ will help me through this. He mentioned that he was not a fan of medications and suggested that I reassess my need to be on them. To be fair, despite great and constant pain from the broken neck, I am not taking any pain relievers, only mood stabilization and a PTSD cocktail to prevent me from losing myself entirely. Mentally and physically I am bent to weakness and I’m terrified I won’t come out the other side. I don’t have faith. I have strength. I don’t believe in god, I believe in science and a fabulous medical team. He casually mentions he has no idea what I’m going through, but tells me how lucky his life has been for the last 30 years. A comfort? No, a slap in the face.
There will be no satisfaction for my family, that watched in horror as I almost didn’t make it in the accident. I’m here because I chose life. I chose determination, I chose to be a fighter. Faith? No, Sir. This is pure human spirit. This is me going one day at a time. Have no illusions, I am not brave, I am not a hero, nor an inspiration. Faith is a whim you throw into the universe when you’ve exhausted all avenues of action.
I still have mobility, even though it’s all pain and frustration. Maybe that’s what will keep me going.
I realized that I was missing the entire summer around August 1st. It was passing and so were birthdays, births and deaths. I missed concerts, charity events, two semesters of school and driving on summer nights, listening to Op Ivy, as I have always done to kick off the summer.
Friends would pop in and we’d listen to me repeat stories and watch me stare at walls and get lost mid sentence. On the off chance I’d feel well enough to pop out for an hour or so, I’d hear about the details later. I’d forget the day before and days became weeks and into months. I caught up on several series and movies. ….but I couldn’t describe them to you, today. I asked about events that had passed and regrets about missing things that happened before the accident. Things I had been to and watched.
There are no bad days when you can’t remember the day before. I remind myself of this daily. 160 days have passed. Today I drove and went on a walk, alone. I was only instructed to sit in the car by my psychologist. She urged me to get more cardio, as well. I made a friend make me sit in his car today. I cried. I was waiting for an impact. I shook. I started the car. I held on to the wheel for five minutes. I put it into reverse. I reversed. I pulled forward. I backed out and drove around the complex. Then I drove two miles for smokes. I did not drive back as I was nauseous and my arms hurt from gripping so hard. 160 days, and I drove.
I push myself. I have to. I am my own drill sergeant and I don’t forgive my failures. I learn from them. Today I went for a walk. As soon as I had reached the sidewalk, I immediately felt sick and started hyperventilating. I used a relaxation technique and refocused. I keep going and got to the playground. I thought about turning back, but my legs were still moving. I remembered a time they did not. Then I remembered the last 30 days of probation. The last day of school. The last 500 words in an essay. There were other times when I was almost at the finish line and I had to dig down deep. The last five minutes of work on Friday, learning to walk again. The first four days after surgery. The reception line at my grandmother’s funeral, the last day before you leave an abusive relationship. I’ve fucking done this before. These are the things that have shaped me.
My legs were burning and I passed the tennis court. I thought about quitting. My knee was failing me. I saw my apartment a minute later. I looked back at how far I had walked and I couldn’t even see all of the sidewalk. I couldn’t believe how far I have come. I’m down to the last mile and I’m still pushing for those last few steps.
Hey, I’ve put some adult bodily function stuff in here, so maybe don’t read it if you’re grossed out by biology.
I remember turning on to State, by North Side. Nothing, then screaming. Me? A foreign language I couldn’t understand? I remember the lights of the ER above my head. Door. Lights. Door. Lots of hands. I was in an accident. There had been an accident. They kept telling me, there’s been an accident. Hands all over. Accessing damage. Cutting. Beeps. Beeps. More cutting. What is going on? WHAT IS GOING ON?!!!!
And as I drifted into unconsciousness, I knew. I knew the shame of a woman. The shame of all of our tricks and secrets and the things we do behind the scenes. I was leaving a burlesque show. We had a show. Where’s my hat? I watched as they cut off my jacket. I watched as they cut my pants and suspenders. Where’s my hat.? I glanced towards my feet. Dude shoes. Thank god I had my shoes! Wait? Am I wearing a mustache? Wait? Am I wearing pasties? I feel my face and the nurse brushes my hand away. No mustache. *sigh*
They are cutting through my BRAND NEW FANCY FUCKING LINGERIE! FUCK!!!!!!! Oh my God. Not my underwear. Not my underwear. The scissors gleamed my hip bone. *snip!* Oh my god. OH MY GOD!
I’m on my period. I look at the nurse. She looks at me. “Do you want me to take it out?”, she asks, as I bawl.
The most freedom I had ever lost was taken in that emergency room. I had went from being behind the scenes to the main ER attraction. Three days later, as I was being discharged, the nurse hands a bag of shredded clothes to my family. Topped with a sparkling set of pasties.
My friend Hammer Fish sent me a care package in the mail. It had a horn for my walker inside. I attached it and had a good time using it to discipline the cats. Three weeks after the accident, a couple, that I’m friends with stopped by. I explained to them at one point that I had gotten so angry that I had thrown my walker, having to do the “hop of shame” to retrieve it.
As they were leaving, the male companion and I were at a stalemate at whom should go first. I asked him to proceed. He asked me to proceed. Several uncomfortable seconds later I proclaimed, “this is the most awkward thing that has ever happened to me.” (Picturing a 4-way stop in my head, for walkers.) Just then, I hopped forward, my knee striking the horn to let out an exasperated *****SSSSSSSQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL*****
Step up your clean underwear game, kids. Don’t wear something you wouldn’t mind getting caught wearing in the ER.
I’m feeling re-energized this Friday. It was a vacation for the ages. Sure, It was a lay-off. Let’s call a spade a spade. My employer gave us a week’s vacation pay and wished us luck. I had no immediate future planned for myself, but I knew income was required, so I set to work quickly to secure employment.
Monday: Created resume. Paid $10.99 for a resume because I had just made one on freeresumenow.com <——- Not a real site. And realized that I had just spent a good 2 hours of my time on this stupid thing, and yes I will pay the goddamed fee because this is wasting my time. Sent out 12 resumes on Craig’s List. Pro Tip: If you are not using Craig’s List to search for jobs, you are fucking up.
Tuesday: Filed for Unemployment on-line. This is a horribly designed interface. The webmasters know this so they have included a 45 min tutorial to explain each line you must enter. I watched 10 minutes of it. Pro Tip: Do NOT watch the whole thing. It will force you to set yourself on fire. I replied to some information sent to me by companies I had applied to earlier and I spent the evening watching Dance Moms, because it was Tuesday and that’s what you do on Tuesday. By maintaining somewhat of a work schedule vs downtime daily plan, my life did not allow for periods of binge eating or crying.
Wednesday: Today is usually pay day. Applied at The FWMoA because it was a vacation day, and I felt like dreaming. I had a meeting at 1 pm. I usually don’t get to have daytime meetings, so this was a real treat for me. I drove to the bank so I could change out $150 into $5 bills. Had to make sure the girls got their money soon from the show on Saturday. I was on track to arrive 50 minutes early to this meeting at Turning Heads regarding The SPCA CatWalk. I drove past a fancy daytime spot near my destination and stopped in for a drink, because…. It’s a bar and c’mon. So I post up with my fancy hand cut mango margarita and take a call from my friend, Ray. After Ray’s pep talk and chats of weekend plans, I hang up to find myself sitting next to the heir of the Ft. Wayne Rolf-Griffin empire. He bends my ear for a moment about buy-outs and severance packages. He is in the same boat as I am. Well, not really a boat. I’m in a row boat and he’s steering a yacht. But he gave me a pep talk, too. 50 years old and having to start over. Then I got his number. I was a bit offended, but a girl needs a backup plan.
Thursday: Applied to my next round of jobs. Internet went down, fixed internet myself. Took too long to fix internet. Felt like a failure, took a shot. Felt guilty about drinking during work hours, yelled at the cat. I received a message via FB from my Temporary Employment Guru, Rob asking me if Jezabel Gingersnap had been in today.
Go hard on any project, smear blood on your face. Scream at the moon, but don’t stop for a moment, swimming in a mud pile of self-piety. Have a bloody face vacation.
Coming off a weekend like Cinco de Mayo, one must always be prepared for the crushing blow of alcohol depression. Alcohol depression is that fun part of the hangover that doesn’t produce physical symptoms, but makes you feel like laying in bed all day, crying. I didn’t have the depression from drinking though. The crying didn’t come until Sunday night after a weekend of directing a burlesque show, partying at 7 am, planning events and not sleeping for 40 hours. Oh, and my best dude’s birthday…… I cried for exactly 10 mins.
10 minutes is all you need to cry. With only 24 hours in a day, deciding to spend it crying is exactly Short Bus. ( read retarded) Even writing this post is wasting precious time. My bet though, my thoughts regarding human nature have shown me that, and all of the research on loss state: When people lose their jobs, they tend to freak the fuck out.
Friday, I was laid off. I had my weekend. I woke up today without a plan or direction for the first time in almost 9 years. I left my friend’s house and sent out The Bat Signal via Twitter. My best friend HammerFish sent me a text and I called her. We laughed about not telling anyone because people always ask you 5 million questions about what your next move is, how will you pay for stuff, “what are you going to do?”
I Googled E How to Kill Yourself Quickly, which sent me to How to Lose Weight Quickly. Suicide is and will always be my go-to response for everything. If I can’t figure it out, my response is, “Kill Yourself”. If people around me can’t figure it out, I tell them to kill themselves. We live in a world of public transportation, internet, grants, programs, hookers, drugs, strippers, McDonald’s, welfare. If you can’t negotiate your first step, Kill Yourself.
I’m terrified, but I know Googling Suicide is NOT going to help me find a job. So I’ll do as I always do and figure it out. Sure I just bought a plane ticket and enrolled in college and left my husband and am completely alone in my world, but who the fuck isn’t?! Shut the fuck up. Take a shower. Smoke a cancerstick. Put on pants and jump out the door. It’s a big world and I’m going to tell it to go kill its self. I have bills to pay.
The Grinner never kills you.
The Grinner makes you watch him kill everyone else. You always wake up, but the nightmare is never over.
A man will appear to you and you will know it will begin soon. When you finally realize what is happening, you will try to kill the man. You will grab his face and push your thumbs into his eye sockets until you can feel his milky orbs burst inside his head. You will use that as leverage to smash his skull into the ground. The back of his head will become soggy and then crunchy from the bone fragments. You will stomp his face in.
He will always be grinning. He will make you scream.
It will not matter. They are all dead. The grinning man is not The Grinner. The Grinner is a tiny, darkly dressed man that simply sits near by, only grinning. He will let you live. He will turn his head slowly towards you. He will show you his recessed, burgundy gums and his bright ivory teeth. And grin.
Then you wake up. Then everyone is dead.
Sitting in her room, staring at the walls
At enough space like a movie screen
As cats come by and lick her toes. She makes jokes
About crazy sex moves that Mayans predicted
In weird stone faces, slabs of granite grimacing.
We’re like these disembodied thoughts that infect cellphone transmissions
To communicate Ouija to one another, spell out ghost stories
Of Victorian lace and rum
I get a few messages from her, sometimes they’re about Jupiter
Sometimes Mars. She mends the sick and sells toys and clothes
That people can dream in. I don’t think she hears it often enough,
In times of strength and times when either of us feels our lowest,
But she is special and means the world to me
For who she is, flaws and all, and every time she writes me back
With something even more preposterous,
I get cheered because my own drab corner of the earth
Is a little funnier for it.
Hey Grandma! I was in a musical!
Growing up in the mid-west, I was subjected to my Mother and Grandmother’s love for musicals. I never caught the fever, aside from when Grandma took me to go see Sweeney Todd at The Civic Center when I was 12. They used red scarves for bloody vein blowouts and lots of stage blood. It was so far away from the mood of The Music Man, for which I had grown to hate.
In the 7th grade, I played Fruma Sarah, Tevya’s dead wife, in Fiddler on the Roof. I got to choke a guy on stage. It was meant for me.
Jeff Stumpp approached me a few weeks ago to work on a project with him. He had the whole project, The Nefarious Deeds of Dr Beak finished and recorded. The rest of the band was assembled and we listened to the CD over and over again. The songs were stuck in our head and the vision was being created.
We took the stage at Battle of the Worst Bands and threw caution and good taste to the wind….. and yes, I do have SATAN’S WHORE scrawled on my stomach.
Here, I present: Jeff Stumpp’s The Nefarious Deeds of Dr. Beak.