Avoid-It List Part 2: Where I reveal Way Too Much about My Father’s Nuts

As I’ve said before, the tragedy of an Avoid-It List is that it’s already happened, and the best you can do is remove yourself from situations in which it can happen again. But even if it doesn’t ever happen again, there are some things which only need to happen once to scar you immortal soul forevah! For serious. This will be me when I die.

God: Why…why is your soul twitching? I don’t think I made souls with that capability.

Me: You probably didn’t.

God: Um, could you possibly stop it? It’s starting to scare the cherubs.

Me: Sorry about that.

So without further hallucinatory hypothetical situations, I present the Avoid-It List Part 2!!!

Watching your Dad lift a pair of walnuts and hold them together to help you better visualize the fact that, apparently, his balls do not hang evenly.

Upon seeing your tends-to-be violently angry grandmother pull in the driveway, you hit the deck and crawl away to hide out of sheer instinct. Bonus points if you look behind you and realize your mother and cousins are following suit. Deduct points if you were too chicken to go back out once everyone realized you’d abandoned one solitary cousin still in the kitchen.

Having to stall a ride at the fair because your hair has become tangled in the bars above the seat.

Tossing a pillow at your husband on your honeymoon, only to accidentally nail him right in the balls.

Having your husband catch you shaving your toes. (Having anyone catch you shaving your toes)

Having to explain to your boyfriend why he just read a text on your phone from your sis which talks about tiny gnomes tap dancing in her vagina.

Openly talking about how only pregnant brides choose a certain style of dress, only to go to a wedding the next day and the bride be wearing that exact style.

Having your sister in law talk about wanting to make out with you. Bonus points if it’s in front of your mother in law.

having a small child ask you what a masochist is. Bonus points if you totally panicked and the best thing you could come up with was that it is a type of duck.


Here’s a Hint: This is not my amused face.

Ok, so even though I JUST posted a post in here, I am going to spam my dear followers with another one because the universe commands me to get this annoyed feeling out of my body and into this keyboard.

I deal with a lot of silly little petty things in my day-to-day life, but today I was affronted by a practice I thought to have died in the medieval preschool years.

I take money and hand out stickers at work on days employees are allowed to wear jeans. To do so, they give me money and I give them a sticker which signifies they paid. My company gives all the money earned from this to various charities (which is awesome).

Today, a fully grown man walked up to me and, despite me typing furiously since I actually have work to do/the program i need to use is glitching, did that STUPID BULLSHIT KINDERGARTEN thing where someone hands you something, but as you reach for it they jerk it away.

Yes. He really did.

Three times in fact, before he silently handed me the money and walked away. My guess is that my face didn’t show the same level of enthusiasm for immature bullshit as he obviously possesses.

When in doubt as to whether your antics amuse me, I am willing to lend you a helping hand.  Hint number 1:

20121026-105524.jpg                                                       This is not my amused face.

Being a secretary/assistant/receptionist (it really depends on what they want that day) I get very little respect from the upper echelons of the work place. I think they assume I just sit here daydreaming of sword fights, unicorns, and chocolate chip cookies ( which I do, on occasion, but as I’m working).

When something like this happens, I always have to fight the urge to look at them and go:

It is obvious you have very little respect for me or my time, and I really don’t care enough about you to alter that perception. BUT seeing as we are not in kindergarten and I am visibly working on something at the moment, perhaps you could piss off until your personality reaches AT LEAST the maturity level of a 10 year old? I think this would be in the best interest of us both since your antics are putting me in a homicidal mood, and I’d wager you would prefer not to die today.

Seriously, there are very few situations in adulthood/not a 5 year old-hood during which this is funny.

1. When you’re married/living with the sig. other and they demand the remote to save themselves from another episode of Sex and the City. The pure expression of pain in their face when they realize they’ll have to listen to Carrie Bradshaw for a few more seconds is worth the drop in Adult Points.

2. When the person you’re doing it to is so high, or drunk that they move at the speed of a snail with the accuracy of ferret, and the item is a tasty taco.

3. When you’re playing with the dog.

So, in conclusion: Thank you, dear readers,  for your patience with my blogger spamming. May your days be filled with unicorns, cookies, and very few immature assholes.

Good day.

My Brain Itches and the Only Relief is Change


I got a haircut!

So here’s the thing. Every once in awhile I will be struck with the undying need to change something. Anything, preferably something to do with my body. It’s like I wake up one day and when I look in the mirror the image staring back doesn’t quite look like me anymore, isn’t quite what I WANT to be looking back.

I used to dress how I wanted no matter what, but after dealing with people constantly giving me odd looks in stores, my father lamenting that I kept wearing all that “dark stuff” and a boyfriend who (somehow managing to fly in under my bullshit radar) gently and manipulatively edged me in the direction of a more conservative style, my closest’s supply of clothes I actually like has shrunk to a paltry few items. I don’t get gothic clothes as gifts much anymore since, after one totally awesome Christmas in which I got TONS of clothes I like from my mother, my father had a cow and she stopped buying them.

I’m just not being very me anymore.

I’m not sure why I let this happen.

And when I let things like that happen, is when the itch starts. Something in my brain starts to twitch around, searching for an expression outlet, trying to find the quickest change possible so that I can feel more at home in my body.

This isn’t as easy as you’d think.

I work in a suit and tie kind of office and am not a suit and tie kind of girl. Monday through Friday I have to wear something out of character. I can’t add a shocking color or two to my hair. I can’t have visible piercings (Not that my body heals too well from those anyways). And my makeup has to be toned down. My jewelry has to be simple and work appropriate and they even take issue with black nail polish.

I want a tattoo, but I want a SPECIFIC and intricate tattoo. Not exactly the kind of thing you just waltz into the neighborhood tat shop to get, and I’m not about to put something random on my body forevah just because I’m antsy.

I have very little money to go out and fix my closet’s preppy issues.

So…I cut my hair. I like it, and it has calmed the itch for the time being. Meanwhile I will go through my closet and donate things I never wear, and I will slowly create a wardrobe that I actually feel comfortable in. I will stop buying frilly dresses, when what I really want is that plaid tripp skirt.

And I will be me.

I’m not sure what other changes I may make. When my mood is like this I have to be careful not to let mania override my logic. I can’t quit my decent paying job just to work at hot topic so I can blend. I have responsibilities to contend with. But when I figure out exactly which change my brain is itching about, I’ll be sure to let you know.


If you really call them Honey Pear Boo Boo Babycakes, then your insanity has reached levels beyond my comprehension.

I would like to just get this out there. You know how when people find a boyfriend/girlfriend/beautimous unicorn, and suddenly they can’t go anywhere unless he/she/beautimous unicorn can go?


Cut that shit out.

You have two separate sets of legs (assuming you aren’t in some weird incestuous relationship with your Siamese twin. If you are, how does the sex work, exactly?). Use them every once in awhile. Branch out. Reach for the motherfuckin stars, I don’t care. Just don’t sit at home like a damn hermit because your Honey Pear Boo Boo Babycakes has to work that night. It’s annoying to your friends and indicates a rather serious codependent mind-set that, as someone who only wants the best for you, I think  maybe needs to get electroshocked out of you.

I am just as guilty as the next human-shaped blob of cells of wanting my significant other around, but if he has the flu on my sister’s birthday, sorry dude. Here’s some Advil and I’ll be home around midnight.

Just saying.

Depression Lies. And it would seem he has a bitchin relationship with bipolar disorder.

My sister had the mania today, and while she was basically trippin balls off her own brain chemicals she started talking about her boyfriend and this plan she has for trying to lose weight.

As many of you know, medications for bipolar disorder and depression often pack on the pounds despite your calorie counting for every last carrot stick to enter your body. It’s beyond annoying for anyone on them, especially those like my sister who are actively trying to lose weight.

I felt like writing about this here for a few reasons. First, her idea was actually kind of cool. It seems like something that could actually be done at some New York art gallery. One of those vaguely weird art installments that no one really “gets” but everyone can’t stop going to check out anyways.

Secondly because it just made me think about a couple things.

Her idea was that her boyfriend would paint her nude portrait every three months as she struggles against her medication to lose weight. At the end, whenever she reaches her goal she would simply stand, naked, in the gallery.

As she says, she wants to “shake her anorexic body flab in the gallery and have lesbians love me, and buy my body (the paintings) and feed me.”

Her boyfriend refuses. Though I think this is mostly because he probably can’t paint, and is shy about nudity.  Also he’s more of a literal thinker versus a symbolic one.

To me, anything that shows a human being’s ability to transform is something worth trying. The idea, while unusual, is actually quite artistic and defiant.

Reading her messages made me laugh, and actually think about painting again.

Unfortunately the same chemicals that can make a normally introverted woman want to “shake her anorexic body flab” at lesbians in an art gallery, can also tear a strong woman down.

Not even an hour after receiving these messages, my sister was crashing. She felt insecure and unlovable. Paranoid that her manic ranting was pushing people away.

It’s hard not to feel that way because often times something does push people away from you when you’re bipolar. The mania can be fun at first, but can reach a level of intensity that makes people uncomfortable, and the lows just flat out scare people who don’t know what it’s like to experience something like that. The quick shifts from one to the other can be confusing and make the lows seem like over reactions.

“You were fine just a second ago.”

And what kills is that, yes, just a second ago we really were fine. That feeling can disappear so quickly for us. We lack even the most basic control over our emotions.

I think this is why many bipolar people also have “self harm” on their long list of crazy-person hobbies. It’s about control. Definitely is for me.

Humans start out life with so little control already. You can’t control the kind of family you have, your environment. You can’t control the rude cashier at Kroger, or the boss that makes you feel worthless. You can’t control the fact that you’re bad at math or that you have a weird freckle on the palm of your hand.

What you do have some control over, to some degree, is the image you present to the world and the way you feel about things. If something upsetting happens, sure you’ll be sad, but as long as nothing bad happens you’re free to be happy.

People living with bipolar disorder don’t have that. The last feelings of control get stripped away so easily. Two days before my wedding I was inconsolably depressed. The day before I had been excited, adrenaline pumping, thrilled that I FINALLY found a pair of shoes I liked. Absolutely nothing happened, but when I woke up the next day I felt like my skin was made of concrete, suffocating me and anchoring me in the dirt.

All I could do was pray it would lift before the actual day. Pray that this disorder wouldn’t steal my ability to really smile when I reached the altar.

And all it takes is one ill-timed panic attack to ruin the “normal” image you work so hard to cultivate. One bad depression for your coworkers to look at you differently, for family to always ask “How are you today?” in that condescending, sympathetic way that makes your want to pluck out your eardrums, even though you know they don’t mean anything bad by it.

One bad freak out for people you thought were friends to start avoiding you.

It sucks.

So to my sister, whenever you are conscious enough to read this. You are far from unlovable. You are funny, and brave, and more compassionate than 98.329% of the people I’ve ever met.

Someday we will shake our bodies-flab, stretch marks, cut marks and all, together. Even if it’s only in our heads.

To anyone else whose struggling right now. You have more control than you think. Normal people could never handle the things you handle every single day, and go on surviving. You do. Even if it makes you feel weak, or makes people see you as weak, in reality you’re made of steel. You have an understanding of emotion that can only come from having SO DAMN MUCH of it that they just spill out of the dam and rush everyone around you.

If you think about it, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Depression Lies, and it would seem he has a bitchin relationship with Bipolar Disorder.

Guess it’s a good thing she’s two-timing him with Mania and Artistic Frenzy.

Hey I know I met you like 7 years ago and we never talked, but you should totally drive like 10 hours to come see me this weekend.

Ex’s of friends never really go away.

At least they don’t when they’re from Bardstown. You see, something like 7 years ago I had two friends H and A, who started dating some guys from the area. They made….interesting first impressions, to say the least. One of them allowed us to straighten his hair before putting it into about a hundred tiny little ponytails (We were freshman, what else were we gonna do?) . The other was convinced A’s floor wasn’t real wood and for some reason thought slamming his head against it would be the best way to test his theory. Not to mention one had a corn yellow afro…

I only saw them maybe once or twice while they were actually dating my friends, but IM screen names were exchanged and cell numbers tossed about. A few months later neither friend was dating the same people. Months passed.

And then I’d get a text. From H’s  or A’s exboyfriend, whom I shall call Puppy and Corn ‘Fro. One or the other would randomly pop back into my daily life for no apparent reason except, I suspect, extreme levels of boredom.

These two oddballs ended up being regular fixtures in my life, coming to plays, parties, randomly appearing at the mall. Sometimes we wouldn’t talk for a full year and one of them would randomly call and see what’s up.

All this leads up to the day when Puppy, along with like five other people drove into Louisville and camped out behind my school waiting for me to get out of class.

Now, in order to give you a decent idea of the ragtag group forming on the precipice of this uptight institution’s property, I shall include the fact that the school’s administration assumed these boys were from a correctional facility right down the road.

It’s true. When I attempted to exit the building my shoulders were grasped by the assistant principal herself who, I’m fairly certai, was near frothing at the mouth over the possibility that someone besides Private School boys were within eyesight.

I don’t really remember who all was there that day. I know it was Puppy, Corn Afro, possibly this strange person they call Beaner, and John.

As in the one I married.

I met John like seven years ago, but due to the fact that he looked more likely to stab at me with a pointy object than shake my hand, we didn’t exactly talk much.

We didn’t exactly talk when Puppy brought him to my play a year later either.

Or when I went to his birthday party three-ish years ago.

You see he has this bad habit of looking super pissed off for no apparent reason. It doesn’t make the best first impression. It took us six years to actually spit out a few sentences around each other, and I’m fairly certain if I hadn’t been in a cleaning panic we probably would have continued without speaking. 6 years of random run-ins and introductions, and not one word.

Now I can’t make him shut up.

By the time we actually started talking he was living upteen hours away in Arkansas. But what’s a little 10 hour drive right?

Just Keep On Beating

It breaks, it beats, it’s broken again

I feel it in my chest

Pumping blood through my veins like frozen fire.

It’s angry. It wants revenge.

It wants to just stop

But it keeps on beating, keeps on breaking

Pounding inside my body

Beating against my ribs

Bruising them.

I place my hand on the spot that burns

The spot that screams.

Please, I tell it

Just keep on beating

Through the pain

Through the rage.

Beat against the will to quit.

Beat against the will to die.

Pound for the right to be angry.

Pound for the right to move on.

Do not give out.

Just keep on beating.

Maybe one day it won’t break any more.©

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