A Blog By Me

A couple days ago, I came home from a long hard day at the beach with every intent on taking a long hot shower. Upon walking into the bathroom, I see that there are several towels just tossed all over the floor, the bathrooms in a bit of disarray, my first thought was “Hrm, someone had sex in shower….” Pick up the towels, toss them in a pile in the hall way, turn on the shower, and open the curtain. And then scream. As it turns out, someone did have sex in the shower, and fortunately for both parties involved, the product was a big fucking hole in the tile wall, not a baby.

As it would happen, the parties in question are RoomMate, and his lovley girlfriend, Lady Kate. RoomMate and Lady Kate don’t get to see each other all that much, they have this little puddle called the Atlantic in between them, Kate lives in England, and RoomMate, obviously, does not. I knew that they were going to going at it like rabbits, but I had NO idea they would be destroying my home.

After I got done laughing my ass off, I walked down stairs to go speak to our landlords. Knock on the door, they usher me in, the jist of the conversation:

Me: “So, uhh, what the hell happened to my bloody bathtub?”

Them: Frightened look. “What do you mean?”

Me: “Um, theres a huge hole in the tile wall.”

The next thing I know I’m in my bathroom with my landlord trying to figure out what to do about the tub. She does tile work, but doesn’t want to do it, and doesn’t know anyone who does. Then I remember that my brother (who just moved here a couple days ago) re tiled our biological mother’s shower when he was a teen, and did a fucking bang up job at that. So, I get me lovey Bro in the phone, explain to him the situation, after he finally believed that no it wasn’t my ass that went though the wall, he gets in the phone with my landlord. Eventually the conversation comes about to how the incident happened again, since I didn’t tell her how the hole got there she turns to me and asks, while on the phone with my lovey Bro,

“Does RoomMate have a girlfriend?”

Hell, I didn’t have to tell her, she figured it out all on her own.

So, after we get all that settled, my bother will be over first thing in the morning to fix it, I go on instant messenger and see RoomMate on there via cell.

Jist of the conversation

Me: You had sex in the shower didnt you.

RoomMate: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA oh shit.

Turns out yes, there were going at it in the shower and one, not sure which, slipped and sent Lady Kate  slamming into the back wall of the shower, laughs aside, someone could have been hurt, chipped teeth and otherwise, lovey Bro found wires behind all the green board when we were gutting the tub.

Lovey Bro comes over the next day (after I had to drive an hour to the other end of the Island to go get his sorry ass) and we begin to gut the tub. He came to a conclusion

a) the tile was so old water leaked into the green board and into the insulation, causing mold

b) the green board needed to be replaced with that cement board stuff, the name escapes me at the moment.

And then I came to a conclusion over the past couple days of demo and tiling.

1. I don’t like being covered in moldy insulation

2. I don’t like grouting

3. I don’t like tiling

4. I don’t like sponging off the grouting

5. Neither does my jewelry which is now tarnished because of the fucking grout.

It took lovey Bro and I a good day to get most of it done, it would have gotten done by last night if he had all the tools and materials he needed but nooooooooo he didn’t. So I had to go pick his sorry ass up again at the crack ass of dawn to finish the job when he came to yet another conclusion.

1. The cement board stuff was a 1/4 inch thicker than the original green board

2. The fixtures won’t fit.

Which means, I have to continue taking showers in a tiny little shower stall in the barn until we get the fixtures. I didnt have time to wash all the shampoo out of my hair esterday before going to work, so I ended up out back in the court yard behind the Store, washing my hair with hand soap underneath the spicket out back.

But, the shower needed to be fixed, it looks great now, lovey Bro got work, and an excellent reference, RoomMate made a memory with Lady Kate, and I, well, I fucked up my finger, tore apart my entire apartment, and learned some pretty cool stuff from my lovey Bro.

And the funny thing? The reason why lovey Bro re tiled our Mums shower is because he did the same thing, was screwing some chick in the shower, and put a huge hole in the tile wall.

Ya’ll were sofaking interested in my depressing posts, my bi polar rantambles and mundane observations on everything from belly button lint to roses. I’ve been balls to the wall busy with work and personal crap, will have a funny post about my bathtub (with pics) within the next day or so. SO SHUT UP MIKE.

Hey, congrats on losing it all and taking a bit back while on your way back to life! Here, have a fucking key chain! It isnt the Nobel Prize, who the fuck’s gonna give that to you? Christ child, don’t expect so much! BUT! You should be oh, so proud of yourself. Don’t worry, those nasty lil thoughts in the back of your had will one day go away, when you fucking die.

Here, have as much control over your life as possible. Totally reconstruct your life to this m’dear, you deserve it all. Here, have a fucking key chain for all your hard work! You deserve it!!!

Now you can stand up with your pretty lil key tag and announce to the big bad ass world “I HAVE A PROBLEM!” While you are at it, slap on one of those NA bumper stickers on your car, and let the cops know that you are partial to the finer things in life, give ‘em a nice heads up!

Quit cryin over that spilt milk way back when you use to destroy your little world, and everyone else’s, get the fuck over it! Ladies, a word from the wise, nothing covers up those unsightly bags under your eyes like Almay clear complexion foundation, remember, DON’T put this on the track marks, the chemicals in the make up could cause a nasty infection, then you gotta deal with the nasty abscesses and the antibiotics, it’s just not fun. When you look in the mirror, try not to focus on what you use to look like, just remember you’re high motherfucker, it’s all good. Fuck what everyone else thinks, beauty is only skin deep. But so is that needle that ya just stuck into the skin. Just remember kiddies! You won’t get high as good as your first, but feel free to die trying.

I’ve really gotta stop going to meetings, it’s starting to warp my perception on reality. On a side note, I have discovered that peanut butter gives me heartburn.

Heroin addict?

Coke head?

Cutter?

Possible eating disorder? (actually if the reports are true, she doesnt need one)

I can’t help but read about the Amy Winehouse train wreck.  It’s a bummer, I really enjoy listening to her, I’m keeping in mind that you can’t really belive what you read, but when you go out in public after you and your husband just pounded the shit out of eachother, ya gotta wonder how long this shits gonna last before one or both of them ends up dead, in jail or missing more teeth.

I feel bad for the chick, I really do, I normally don’t give a rats ass about the celeb life, but the girls so fucked up.  And there are girls looking up to her, going though similar shit,cutting themselves, abusing drugs and the like, I hope Winehouse pulls it together before she sends out one of those ‘trashy glam’ messages. Such a shame, such a waste of talent. But I still hate her hair, freaks me out.

Bummer.

My angel died that day
No one came
No one cared……

First and foremost, my idiot Boss and I don’t exactly have the most ‘healthiest’ working relationship as I have stated before. A lot of people think that he’s me Dad and I’m his kid, we act like that, we joke that I’m the daughter he never wanted and never had. He knows more about my past than any employer should, so, in light of the following, let me just say, he should have known better than to say any of these things to me. Period.

Yesterday, when I came into work I was sitting down to eat a quick lunch when he came to join me, making small talk he said:

“Did you know in the state of Massachusetts, any mother can walk into a police station, or where ever, drop off and leave her kid and not have any legal ramifications?

To which my reply was

“Yes, I did just so happen to know that.”

To which he went on to go on some tangent about how the state now have to take care of these children and the mothers lack of responsibility etc.

And then I lost my temper. I asked if he would be happy if these mothers, who know enough that they are unfit, should be leaving their kids in oh, say, a fucking dumpster, or a freaking public bathroom?

Would he be happy if the mothers finally got to the point where they fucked up enough so they got taken away like my mom did? Like overdosing while your daughter was in the next room? Or what happened to myself and my sister, of thats just fucking fun…Here’s a happy story for my Boss man My mom was drunk in a public setting with my sister, aged 2 years, and myself aged 1 year, accidentally burning my sister with her cigarette, and totally inebriated. She got the cops called on her, they came, took us from her physically, and put us into foster care. How bout them apples Boss Man? Fucking prick.

And then the argument turned to abortion. Here are the rules boys

1. If you have a penis, you are to have absolutely NO fucking opinion about abortion. If you do, keep it to yourself. I don’t care if your fucking Pro Choice, Pro Life or Pro Golf, it’s not you making that decision, so shut the fuck up already.

2. Do not express your disdain for abortion to someone who has had one. Do not express your disdain for abortion to a woman, regardless of weather or not she has had one.

Period.

The thing that boggles my mind about the whole abortion debate is that the majority of the ones who have the power to do any thing about, both in favor and against it are men.

HEY ASSHOLES CHECK THIS SHIT OUT.

You don’t carry the kids, we do.

You don’t go though the labor, we do.

You don’t have to make that gut wrenching choice, we do.

You don’t have to go though the procedure, we do.

You don’t have to live with that for the rest of your lives, we do.

Nine times outta ten, the parents who bail is the man, not us.

So you know what, how about instead of having an opinion about something you, as a male, with a fucking dick, have no control over, you try and do something about unprotected sex, like, oh say, NOT FUCKING HAVING IT.
Ok, I’m done now.

And yes, I still have a job.

I havent been around much, working twelve hour days leaves less than enough time for me to have a life, which I did on Monday, the RoomMate and a couple of his friends and myself went to Ozzfest, here are a few of the pics, I’ll have more when I get the film developed. Oh word from the wise, when your digital doesnt work, don’t chuck it across the room thinking it may help the matter, cause then you’re gonna be stuck w shitty old film and I wasnt about to bring my 35 mm w me to a drunk fest like this. Anyone got any suggestions for digitals lemme know. The one I use to have was a Sony Cyber shit. (And no I did not misspell that)

Drunken Ballerina

Ok, so there was this dude, guilted me into givin him a smooch cause he was in a wheel chair, said he couldnt walk, bout five minutes later, I watched him play football. Yes, I got had.

Don’t ask. I had like five jack ‘n cokes. I was what ya’ll would call ’shitfaced’

I made a new friend!!!

Earlier this summer, I met with a plastic surgeon to discuss turning my 34 B’s into a low C. While everything is proportional like wise and to my build, I have always been uneasy about how my chest size fluctuates greatly with my weight. I tend to drop weight at the drop of a hat, sometimes 10 to 20 pounds with in a month. I know, eventually, based on my weight issues, everything is going to go south, and what ever modeling career I may have, will go with it.

While I’m use to the criticism, ‘too petite’ or ‘too European’ meaning, ‘chest is too small, ass is too small’, it’s hard to hear it over and over again. Even though I’ve been hearing it for years, my insecurities about my chest and my body became a major part of my life. My wardrobe changed, from my jeans and tee shirt lifestyle to a more chic (and expensive) wardrobe. I became pretty self conscious about how my clothes made me look and feel, as clothes should compliment your body, like make up to your face.

My friends and family saw the difference, my mother made a comment about how I went from the girl next door, to the ‘librarian’ look. I somehow don’t think she was talking about the 70 year old lady who works down at JFK Library. People change, I went through a goth phase, a raver phase, and ended up just coming into my own where I wore clothes that were comfortable rather than fashionable. I don’t think they realized that my attire switched was solely based on an irrelevant insecurity.

This past winter I decided that this fall I was finally going to go for it. I got in touch with an excellent plastic surgeon, and started to save my pennies. Upon my first consultation, Dr. Ashley Brown (not the real name but similar) walked into the room. I was expecting a woman. Dr. Brown was one of those dudes who was unfortunate to be christened with a chicks name. Go figure. I was more than a little upset. After years of being told that I wasn’t good enough by men, how the fuck was I suppose to explain my reasons for this surgery to one and not feel judged?

Right.

After talking for about a half an hour with Dr. Brown, it became pretty clear to me that he wasn’t out to make me feel worse about myself, only better, as any plastic surgeons job is. I ended up pretty much spilling the whole tale, why I dressed like I did, how it was affecting me, the weight loss and gain, all of it.

After an exam, we went over size, saline vs. silicone, complications, etc. He sent me home with lit and a date for the surgery, October 16th (my moms b-day). I hadn’t told many friends of family, not even my mother or sister of my little plan, with good reason, they would flip their shit if they found out. My mother once told me if I got a boob job she would pop em with a nail while I was sleeping. Not wanting to have my mother driving finishing nails into my pecs, I opted not to tell her.

Instead I called my girlfriend Di, who flat out told me not to do it. She told me however I felt about my boobs wouldn’t be jack shit compared to having water balloons attached to my chest, it’s really not safe. Blah blah blah. Only just a little bit upset by my friends lack of support, I hung up the phone, opened up my mac, and did some much needed research. And promptly decided I needed to think long and very fucking hard about my little nip tuck. What I found out:

1. Rupture.

I think every stripper has heard of, or known another dancer who ruptured her implants while taking a nasty spill. I had heard about them rupturing, but wasn’t aware that the implant aging was the primary cause if ruptures. Depending on weather or not the implants are saline, which will just flush out into the body, or silicone, which will ooze and make you ill, it’s not exactly something I would really want to go though… I found out that according to the FDA, about 10 percent of implants rupture within five years.

2. Theres this nasty thing call capsular contracture. It’s when the scar tissue that forms around every implant pulls tightly against the implant, making them painful, hard, and misshapen (al la Victoria Beckem, but she’s just got shitty implants period.) The problem varies based on implant type and other factors but can occur with 8 to 41 percent of saline implants and 36 to 81 percent of silicone ones. I don’t like those odds. At all.

3. Permanent loss of sensation. Key word. Permanent. Loss. Of. Sensation. Some 10 to 18 percent of women still have no nipple sensation five years after surgery. Lets say that again.

Permanent. Loss. Of. Sensation.

Necrosis, when tissue around the implants dies, can cause permanent scarring or deformity. DIES? Right, no thanks, with my luck, that’s what would happen to me.

After I read these, and many other risks, not to mention looking at ‘good boobs gone bad’ type of pictures, I called the Dr. and told them I may end up canceling the appointment, due to second thoughts. The receptionist said that was more than fine, totally normal, and asked if I would like to schedule an appointment to speak to the doctor about my concerns. Which I said I would have to think about it. Hung up, and made what was quite possibly one of the most neurotic phone calls of my life. I called Ex in the hospital.

Me: “Ok, I want your honest opinion about something”

Ex “No, your not fat.”

Me “Noooo, what do you think about breast implants?”

Ex “For you? Why? Angry, it’s such a waste of money, don’t do it, you have a great body.”

Me “Oh yea, then how come I keep getting shot down?”

Ex “For what? The modeling crap?”

Me “Yea.”

Ex “Ok, think of it this way. Ok? You are going to get a boob job so you can be what everyone wants you to look like, don’t you think that’s kinda stupid? You’re changing your body so you can conform to the very people who rejected you in the first place.”

Me “Well, that and the weight thing.”

Ex “Girl, you can’t do jack shit about that, eat right, and exercises, you can’t do anything about the weight shit. Just don’t let it take you over.”

Not bad advice coming from him.

So, for the time being, I’ve decided that I’m not going though with the surgery. Weather my reasons for wanting the augmentation were out of fear of premature again, or a deeper insecurity is moot, either way, it’s going to cost me in the long run. And if I wanted them that bad, I would have said ‘fuck it’ to the complications and gone though with it anyhow. I can’t say that I won’t ever get the augmentation, but for the time being, everything looks pretty damn great if I do say so myself, and I’m okay with how I look

Ok, that last post was a lil depressing even for my taste, so I went on to Knuttz.net and to my delight, (its early, mmm kay?) I found a bunch of pictures that reminded me of some of you dear people.

This one is for Fade, tiny girly car, with a complex.

For that FREAK Michael Bains

For the Monkey Man.

Tits, who else?

Nancy, cause shes so frikken adorable.

Nick.

.

Dear Dr. Zaius.

BaxTux, I don’t know why, but when I saw this all I could think of was “I would looove to see that guy get worked over by BadTux and his cats”

For Grumble Man. Cause some things in life are just too beautiful to pass on.

My biggest fear is dying alone. I think this is every-ones biggest fear. Shortly after that are midgets, and birds. Their a very close second. My third biggest fear is just wasting away in the closed room of my mind with no windows or doors. I read about a man who kissed his ailing wife one last time, forever, and then threw her off a balcony to her death.

Part of my heart breaks for this man, the other part breaks because of what he did, and another breaks for her. I am not sympathetic to such a brutal action. I am sympathetic to the fact that this was, as he felt, his only and last resort. I can’t help but wonder if this was truly an act of undying love, or a selfish act carried out to avoid paying the hospital bills.

There were times when sitting with my mother in chemo, watching that poison flow from baggie to body, that I wished I could end it for her. At that point, we were just delaying the inevitable, the chemo wasn’t working anymore, but she felt, somehow, if there was enough of the poison in her body, it could somehow obliterate the cancer that was eating away at her. I wanted her to die for thinking this way, for holding on to some thin silver shred of hope that she could live when we knew it was only a matter of time. More than I wanted to die for thinking the way I did.

It’s funny how people won’t bat an eyelash as to saying they would gladly give their lives for someone else, but when it comes to ending a loved ones life to end suffering, they shift their eyes, and avoid your question. People are selfish. They want to hold on as long as possible, and are terrible creatures when it comes to letting go. It’s ok, it’s normal, they tell you. You have to let go at one point or another. You have to. The art of letting go, or something like that…If life was simple, there wouldnt be any cancer, there wouldnt be any AIDS, we would live life the way it was meant to be, and heart breaking choices such at the one that man made, wouldnt be a cold hard reality. We woulnt swing from a day on the calander to the next, putting our lives on hold for a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. But that’s life. A couple days after my mothers passing I was at the Bird, talking with this man Penn, who I have known for several years. In an act of comfort, he told me ‘Death is beautiful’. Not only did I cringe from his quote of Charles Manson, but I cringed because it’s not. People glamorize it. There is nothing beautiful about agonal gasps, or the eyes rolling back into the head, or the sigh that follows. For these reasons, I would have gladly killed my mother. C’è semplicemente nessuna bellezza nella morte, né nella vita brevemente dopo di ciò.

While I wouldn’t toss my mother off a fourth story balcony, if it was legal, or ‘ethical’ I would do it. My mothers boyfriend said he would do it. As did my sister. Would we have felt this way when she was healthy? Wouldn’t anyone? Is it even normal to think that about someone when their not already dead but breathing? I fucking hope so.

This is what no sex does to me.

A hundred bucks, I told a friend I was going w out sex, and he bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t go the month I stated. So far, so good. Got two more weeks to go.