No, I'm Not Your Stalker (Part Deux)

Voyeurism: Scopophilia; the tendencies or behavior of a voyeur (an obsessive observer of sordid or sensational subjects).

For those of you who have been around since the beginning, you will remember my earlier entry on Shaun of the Dead... Who is, undoubtedly, unaware of that little post.

And he's not the only subject worthy of obsessive scrutiny... Oh, no.


I think I'm in love.


Meet Jodi of Zanesville, OH. Biggest Def Leppard fan in the universe, kick-ass mother and wife: stalk-worthy.

I bet this woman could drink me under the table while spanking Joe Elliott into submission. Her playlist makes me want to present my wrists, manacle-ring side up.

And she loves

Eddie Izzard as much as I do; seems we like our lovelies as we like our coffee: covered in bees...

Jodi, please come to CA to visit Kevin... I'm sure he would love the chance to make out with you, too.

[UPDATE: THERE'S A BEE IN MY KITCHEN RIGHT NOW - 11:05 PM! It's fate, I tell you!]


Meet Chuck, of Denver, CO. I have no freaking clue who he is, but I knew he was gold when I read his profile on OKCrazy (FYI: 'wooing' = low-grade OKC spam e-mail equivalent of "whuzzup, send me a pic of yo' naked torso"):

"About me:
If you even DARE consider wooing me, I swear to GOD I will find out where you live, break into your home, crap in your kitchen sink, use all your bras and panties in your undies drawer to wipe my butt, and help your cat pile the corpses of every mouse, bird, and squirrel in the neighborhood in the middle of your livingroom floor...and then maybe your cat and I will rent a movie or something. Who knows?

"You should message me if:
Hmmmm. I guess, for one thing, you can write me if you want to engage in some good, creative lunacy for starters. Or brain trading. Or hair sniffing. It'll be fun.

I find I'm instinctively treating this thing more as a message board rather than a vehicle for getting somebody in the sack. (None of you are actually having sex, are you? Admit it.) So please be at liberty to freely spew your vomit into my inbox without the fear that I'll put it into jars and make an altar to you or something. (Unless you want to specifically request something like. I'll fax you the paperwork.)"

Tell me YOU don't want to build him an alter. (you know you do)

Turns out there's more to be enjoyed on Live Journal:

Anyone read about that couple who got in a fight over which gang should initiate their toddler? Chuck did.

I follow his LiveJournal postings, many of which leave me laughing and, sometimes, feeling like an illiterate teenager who plays too much Guitar Hero and can't spell "endometriosis". (How the hell do all you people find the time to do a literary genealogy of Aleister Crowley? I can barely check my seven e-mail accounts and reply to my employer!)

Dying is easy; comedy is hard... And dry wit is priceless.

"Dear Jodi and Chuck,
If you ever need someone to clean your catbox, spit-polish your Docs, wax your sister, or comb the shag in the livingroom: I'm already there. But I don't do toilets.... Or laundry with skidmarks.
Clatto Verata Nicto, baby.
Deep prostration at your feet,
RD"


Okay, maybe I am your stalker...
But at least the high level of American Airlines flight cancellations ensures I'm not in your bushes right now.

(stupid black-out dates)

15 Years From Menopause and My Parents Still Want to Powder My Butt

Dear Birth-Givers,

You need to cut the F-ing cord.

Seriously.

I owe you everything: my life (more than once), my health, my somewhat secure financial state, half the meager possessions in my rat-hole apartment.

However, this does not give you the right to pretend that I am still an accessory in your ecru-drenched, white bread, whites' only, swallow-your-emotions, yuppie universe.


Logging into my AOL account and reading all the subject lines (perhaps more)?

NOT cool.


Calling my banker and asking him to transfer money between my accounts?

NOT cool.


To help you understand exactly how far you've stepped over the line, I've made some signs in big black magic marker, so they'll be easy to spot:





Just so you know: all of the behaviors and life-goals you worked so hard to instill in me have not been a waste.

On my next visit home, I'm bringing a serious, very special someone.

It's a man.
(*whew*)

He's white.
(*gasp! what other choice was there!*)

His family are upper middle class Catholics.
(*well, not Protestant, but at least she got a non-crazy Christian.*)

He's employed as a computer systems analyst with a six-figure salary.
(*Thank god, she came to her senses.*)

He drives a black BMW.
(*Hmmm... What series/model?*)

And he has a great sense of humor.
(*No cursing, we hope.*)


I took this when we were shopping for matching black leather belts with silver spikes:



I know you will give Razor and I your blessing.

If not, that's cool.

We'll just move to Portland with his polyamorous girlfriend and buy a house big enough for his weekend metal band, my wiener dog farm, and Trixzy's pole-dancing workshop.


(Special thanks to L. for passing along the pics. Perfect timing, Puppy.)

Live Long and Hotter

Molly,
I know it's not The Doctor and Captain Jack, but it's still pretty damn

Yaoi

Big thanks to Bunny for this submission...

Hmmmmm, submission....

Excuse me while I hit 'Play' again.

Screaming Out Loud

[This was inspired by and written for a particular individual, but I dedicate it to all of my slightly worn beloveds, who are perfect with their chipped edges, scratches, and stains.]

T.,

I do not know you.
I don’t know what has fueled your joys and sorrows.
I don’t know what made you curl up instead of flying free.
I don’t know why you’re feeling broken inside.

My life may be nothing like yours… but I’ve lain there in that hospital bed, feeling worse for being there because I stumbled at the moment of my intended exit, feeling like it was further proof of personal failure and ineptitude.

Years later, I cannot believe I was willing to throw away every minute I’ve had since. No, it hasn't been all pleasant. Yet, the glory of new discoveries in a world I never previously perceived has been dazzling.

What I winnowed from those years was an understanding of the seemingly impenetrable darkness of a haunted mind. Some of us are beaten, some of us are screamed at, some are distorted by apathy. It comes from strangers, casual acquaintances, or, worst of all, from friends and family. Regardless of the ignition age or source of distress, the mind can incubate and nurture stygian obsession with adroit skill.

Consumed by such bile, many display complex coded cries for help. Family believes it sees us. Family swears it knows us. Those who believe they understand us are often the last to know, and rarely comprehend the entire situation. And Family has its constrictions.

A dear childhood friend had a mother more heartless than any I’ve met. My friend’s mother never missed the chance to tell her little angel “you look fat in that”, “that looks horrible on you: go upstairs and change”. For her sixteenth birthday, this woman gave her daughter a scale. My friend swallowed pills for years. Never truly wanting death, but quietly hoping for an accident… Just to make it stop... Just to make the voice down the hall stop.

Then there is another who seemed to shine so bright. I watched her grow up, screamed my guts out at her sports games, and never saw the undeniable truth: she was fading. I was right there, fading alongside her and I never said a word. Her eating disorder reduced her from fierce feminine beauty to potential collegiate expulsion.

...

Those of us in the dark know complete recovery is impossible; we’ll always have cerebral muscle-memory of the pain, but we can turn on a light.
Or even open a window.

Five years ago, as I had another of my then-typical agoraphobic anxiety attacks, someone bitch-slapped me out of it:

“I don’t have any respect for people like you.”

In that black pre-dawn hour, I saw clearly.
I would not accept scorn from the apathetic or pity from the loving. I refused to allow suicidal self-hatred to define or mar the life I could lead. I would be damned if I gave up without a fight.

I was no longer despairing… I was furiously determined.

...

And then there are the people we love…

Living solely to protect others from the pain of your passing is not enough. Tolerating your existence to martyr yourself to their needs is not enough. You can thrive on loving them, but you cannot survive living only for their peace of mind.

In the end, happiness requires we stand tall in our own shoes – heels or flats, sneakers or boots – voices calling out for the freedom, life, and love we deserve.

Don’t whisper - shout. Jump up and down, wave your arms, thrash around.
We will see you.

Never forget: you are not alone.

There are many like us, and I have lived to meet them.
We cannot eat; we cannot eat without purging; we cannot eat for fear of nerves.
We cut our flesh to redirect the pain, to distract our minds, to punish ourselves.
We drink to be numb; we drink to forget; we drink because it is something else to do besides obsess.
We question the source of happiness and beat our heads against the wall in frustration as it all appears ever so slightly beyond our grasp.
We love our families… Why don’t they understand us…
We hate our families… Why couldn’t they see the damage they’ve done….

If you leave us now, we lose another sister, another soldier, who could have stood with us and helped lead the next generation home.

Believe me when I say, you do not want to miss this. The world may be vast and terrifying, and the internal world even more so, but you do not want to miss this.

We are here, waiting. We have each other. We’re a lot fun and laughter… We’d like to meet you.

If you open the window, perhaps you will discover you want to meet us, too.

Idle Hands.....

I usually post items discovered courtesy of a friend...
But these are mine.

I hope your browser renders them a legible size. Increasing the posting size distorts the original image.

Years ago, I completed a full deck of cards on a computer without Photoshop or any other Adobe CS program. And I loved every minute of it.






Oh, I've got more... Idle hands do the devil's work, and mine are too bored for their own good.