I hate when life decides to be so busy that there’s no brain power or time left to post a single thing…. ugh…. someone save me from this madness lol…
I’m usually very good at burying my angst, at keeping it deeply hidden within the depths of my daily life, so it doesn’t rear its ugly head into my life unless I allow it to. I’ve been keeping it safely under control for 50+ years, so I’ve become very adept at it. But, lately, I’ve been having a helluva time keeping it under wraps. It seems to have attained a type of independence from my choice, a form of sentience that I can’t quite define or control, which has lead to random moments of emotional venting that I’m not quite sure what the fuck to do with.
I’m not sure if it’s like a bottle of volitility contained too long that’s creating this overwhelming need to spew my anger at the world, or if age has simply taught me that bottling my anger serves no purpose. Either way, I grow very tired of keeping my tongue, afraid of offending those close to me by being open about my issues. The last of the active players in the ugly tableau of my childhood has passed recently, so who the hell is left to offend? My siblings? Who all vacilate between denial of anything outside the norm, or trying 1-up each other in some undocumented contest of victimhood? The concern for their feelings that once held me back no longer holds the sway of once did, so even that restraint no longer seems to restrict me as it once did.
So here I sit, with a lifetime of bullshit, bottled like compressed air, waiting for an appropriate moment to finally speak my mind, but shaking in my boots, unsure where to begin.
Sigh. I’ll work up the nerve to begin eventually. Just hang in there.
It’s been eons since posted to this blog, thanks to life being its usual rude self and monopolizing most of my mental energy. It’s a really shitty excuse, i know, but it’s all I have, so it’ll have to do.
I’m trying to be more consistent with my projects, but I make no promises about anything, as I know the road to ruin that is for me. Regardless, I will do my best to keep up with this virtual journal; if for no other reason than to prove to myself I can do it.
Powerful. Beautiful. Perfectly said.
Rape culture is when I was six, and my brother punched my two front teeth out. Instead of reprimanding him, my mother said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?” When my only defense was my mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him. Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.” As if it was my sole purpose, the reason six-year-old me existed, was to not rile up my brother. It’s starts when we’re six, and ends when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to not “rile him up.” Right, mom?
Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation, my father says that women who get raped are asking for it. He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City, with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”…
View original post 1,043 more words
I adore this! Truer advice I have not read in ages, for sure.
Shall we talk about your body?
Your body, which used to be thinner. Which you took for granted, because it fitted into cheap, tight dresses. Your body, which took you up and down Brixton Hill, every day, twice a day, never unheralded by catcalls, the stream of men and their “Oh baby hey baby nice tits nice ass hey WHERE YOU GOING?”
Your body was a girl’s body, made from dancing and late nights and skipped dinners, of hopefulness and sleeplessness and sadness. It took care of itself, or rather, you didn’t care that it couldn’t. It wasn’t for you, and so you didn’t mind that you couldn’t always afford to feed and nurture it. The admiration of others was nourishment enough. You often went to bed feeling empty. You thought it was heartbreak. It was probably hunger.
Then your body became plump with love.
Late dinners and later breakfasts…
View original post 402 more words
A poetry editor’s woes…. I’m going to toss all my recent poems now (hehehe) 🙂
As a poetry editor, the sheer amount of poems you read can be very daunting. When you read hundreds of poems, you begin to notice that there are a few topics everyone seems to want to write about. It only takes a couple of these poems for you to sigh whenever you see certain themes emerging from the words in front of you. Not this again, you think, and push the thought back and give the poem a chance. But by choosing a topic that has been done so much and by so many, and by the greats before us, the poet has created an uphill job for themselves in trying to give a fresh face to these old themes.
I’ve seen too many poems about death. These poems are usually about the death of someone close to the author. Death and love have to be the two most…
View original post 454 more words
So this past few weeks have been crazy. Between people leaving and others going on vacation, it’s felt like running a marathon at work. Thankfully, the schedule is finally back to normal, and I’m sleeping like someone shot me with a tranquilizer dart. That’s a good thing, but it has literally consumed all my free time. I mean, I’m quite literally sleeping during 99% of my time off. I’m not sure how healthy that is, but considering my usual sleep deprived state, I think I’ll resist the urge to worry until cobwebs form 🙂
The unfortunate byproduct, though, has been radio silence on here and anywhere else I might be usually active. I haven’t really had any time to read anything online, so I’m woefully lacking in topics of conversation related to current happenings, but now that I’ve got time, I do have a couple of bees in my bonnet as a result of things seen or heard at the bar.
Just to clarify, for those unfamiliar, I’m a bartender by trade, at a small local hangout. It’s populated with regulars, for the most part, and they are an overall nice group of people. As with any large group, there’s a few persnickity people in the mix, and some that are less fun to deal with than others at times, but they’re a generally pleasant pack and make my job enjoyable.
Lately, for whatever reason, I’ve been more consciously aware of the group dynamics among them than I usually am, and, as such, Read the rest of this entry
Very funny story that’s sure to elicit a giggle or two. Enjoy 🙂
” He and his girlfriend had made a trip to the local Asian market and they purchased some authentic kimchi. To say he was proud of it is an understatement. The first thing we saw when we arrived was basically a shrine highlighting his find. “
We were in our twenties and our pallets were moving beyond Hot Pockets. The gang would get together every few weeks and have a food fest. We’d strap on the feed bag until we were basically immobile. One of my friends in particular has always been a great chef. His name is Craig. Well, he says his name is “Craig”, I suppose it could be George. How does a person truly know? Hmmmm. Anyway, George…I mean Craig, was hosting a Vietnamese fondue party. It was about the third time he had gone with this theme and he was tuning the ethnicity factor to try and be as accurate as he could. He and his girlfriend had made a trip to the local Asian market and they purchased some authentic kimchi. To say he was proud of it is an understatement. The first thing we saw when we arrived was…
View original post 344 more words
Very funny blog post. Well written and entertaining.
A snippet from this post :
“This is just one of the several challenges I encounter as an American walking down the street in London. Half the time I can’t find the street sign at all–why is it plastered up on the building? In America, we paint our street signs green and stick them in middle of the sidewalk so we can watch people who are texting-while-walking walk face-first into a street sign!”
“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“Um, I’m sorry, what?”
“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“I’m–um–sorry, one more time?”
“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“I… no. No, thanks.”
I am in London, in a cafe on Charlotte Street, where I learn in short order that drip coffee is an American thing, and there is something else that I could have on my avocado toast, but I don’t know what it is and I’m not going to say yes on the off-chance it’s Marmite. That seems like the kind of stunt they might pull in a country where coffee is served in cups that look like doll furniture. Nobody’s awake enough to know better.
It’s the first time I’ve left America in nearly a decade. I live in a world where this is rare: as an employee of a multinational corporation, and also a white person who went to liberal arts college, my unmarked passport is a curiosity…
View original post 1,420 more words