Clouds. (click that link)
This made my grandmother very fucking angry. (Not sure what to think, but cool none the less. Why is “citric acid” written in English????)

I’m sure PETA would have a fucking field day with this

I love this shit. Holy kidney! Get me one of those! STAT!

Their ugly! Their Danish! And their allllllll mine………..

Someone needs to take a look at my back and tell me if I have a fucking bullseye pinned to the back of my fucking shirt. It seems that the world has decided to play target practice, and use me as a human target. First, it started with (of course) work. Boss Man’s stress level has hit the roof and it’s rubbing off on me (Operation Termination has been suspended indefinitely since the words “I need you more then you need me” came out of his mouth earlier this week. As immature as I am, kicking a man who has done so much for me while he’s down, just isn’t my style.) Hell, his stress went past the roof, blasted a fucking hole in it, and reached fucking Mars. Saying “Biz is terrible” is like saying gas prices are a “little high” You can only tell someone their going to give themselves a heart attack so much before it’s actually going to happen. I’m kinda worried about him. He’s got other shit in his life taking it toll too, but thats not for me to write about.

Second, is Slick’s room mate who is about to catch one in the fucking jaw. And maybe even Slick himself. Shortly after I moved in, the two of them came up with how rent would be paid. As opposed to, you know, simply splitting the rent three ways on one check, after their share of rent is paid, I pay them both the difference. As far utilities, they would continue to split the bill, while I do the grocery shopping. Now, it seems all fine and dandy, with one problem. It would be one thing if someone came up to me and asked if this little arrangement is/was ok with me, rather than simply telling me how it is going to work. After thinking that it made no sense whatsofuckingever to do this, (and not saying anything, which is a classic “me” thing to do) I resigned myself to the fact that I (for all intents and purposes) trust Slick, and he had thought this though, and came to the conclusion that this was the best way to do things. Only there are a few problems with that equation.

1. Mostly due to my shitty health I will only put organic food in my body. So, if you open up our fucking icebox right now, it’s pretty full of organic produce.

2. With food prices continuing to rise, and the fact I would have to do the shopping at both my markets and Stop & Shop, or Shaws, I would be paying considerably more than I would if the utilities were simply split three ways.

3. After I agreed to this, I told both Slick and his Room Mate to give me a fucking list of shit they wanted. I know most dudes don’t like the food I eat. Hell, half the time I don’t like the fucking food I eat. Do you REALLY think I want to eat fucking TOFU when I can have a goddamn burger? No, I didn’t fucking think so. Neither of them did this. I’m not going to bitch about my boyfriend is this regards, I’ve been on his ass about the ways he eats for a while, if he wants to eat healthier then that’s his deal, not mine. So, his Room Mate didn’t give me a list. I’m not his fucking mother, I’m not going to chase him around for this. So I didn’t buy him any groceries. Sorry, but it’s not my fucking problem, nor will it ever be.

Slick wants to have a “house meeting” about this shit. I can not think of a more patronizing and complete waste of fucking time than sitting down and discussing this. I’m 23 fucking years old, I’ve been living on my own since I was 17. I’m not fucking 12 living with Mommy and Daddy, and having a sit down about fucking chores and shit. Heres some fucking advice kid. (Room Mate)

1. You’re in the fucking military. You’re used to people telling you what to do. When I fucking tell you/ask you to do something thats for your own fucking benefit. DO IT. If you don’t, then I’m not going to spend my fucking money on your food.

2. Want a smaller utility bill? Don’t leave the t.v on in the living room, the lights on in the kitchen, and dining room, and then go into your room and fuck around on your computer WHILE WATCHING T.V.

On this subject I’m more mad at myself for not saying anything to Slick when he came to me with this “proposition”, but, then I think about it, and my blood pressure gets even higher.

Moving on in this little rant. (Oh, have I mentioned I’ve gotten about 10 hours of sleep total all fucking week?!)

This morning was one of those mornings when Slick gets up at an ungodly hour, and leaves at an ungodly hour to go to work. After he left, I fell back to sleep.

Then my phone rings at 0600.

It’s my brother.

Calling me.

At six a.m

I don’t answer. Then he calls me back about five minutes later. So I pick up.

Dude, seriously. Just because I have a little card that says I’m certified as an EMT does not mean shit.

Evidently, my drunk of a father fell off the wagon sometime earlier this week, and went MIA until this morning. Which as of about an hour and a half ago when I dropped his ass off at the Emergency Room, was still drunk. So, back tracking. I haul ass up to Falmouth where my father resides, and the place is fucking Baghdad. My dad was on meds to help him stop drinking, and he’s, suffice to say, slightly ill from the booze and the residual pill combo.

After I’m done screaming at my brother, sister in law, and step gran for waking me up, making me drive an hour at six am AS OPPOSE TO CALLING RESCUE I sit down with my father and find out that he thankfully hasn’t taken any of the meds in over a week, count the pills in the pill bottle, and ask him if he wants to go to the emergency room for the lac on his arm. He says yes. Mumbles something about another scar, and lurches off to the bathroom to vomit. My brother gets him loaded into the car, and get him to the E.R. All the while he’s sobbing about how fucking sorry he is. Blah Blah Blah. And that is exactly where I left both their trashy, uneducated, retarded asses.

At 17:00 (5:00) I am going home, packing a very large bag, and leaving this place and it’s people and not coming back until my hands stop shaking.

Oh, yea, HAPPY 4TH!

Ever been so fucking angry at someone your eyesight goes all fuckky?

All I’m gonna say is that little girl in the lower right hand corner is fucking adorable ( that is a girl, right?)

I hate it when he leaves. Its not as if he gets up at a normal time as I do, and we both part ways at the beginning of the day, him to the end of Island, myself down the road. If I could come home to him at the end of my work day, or him to me, I doubt sometimes the relationship would work out as well as it does if it were of the conventional sort. I never wanted the white picket fence, so in some obscure way, this is what makes me love him more, that sense of loneliness.

He gets up before the sun even hits the horizon, around 4:40 leaves around 5 am, and doesn’t come home for days. Leaving me to wake up when he leaves at 5, watch and listen to his morning routine. Sometimes he showers before packing up, other times he slips in and out of the rooms, collecting clothes, odds and ends, finally sitting down to put on his shoes. Thats the part I hate the most. The shoe part. Theres always a pause while hes sitting in the chair, right before he gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, touches me lightly, moves the hair off my face, kisses me, and then leaves. The burn on my face when he tells me he loves me. It feels like hes trying to stop time as long as he can. As long as he stays in that chair, the longer hes still home. I used to listen to him leaving, closing the door, and walking down the hairs, trying to take some sort of comfort in him leaving, not coming back for something he forgot. Or me. Now I’ve been crushing the pillow over my ears so hard I can hear my heartbeat, try to make the blood rush louder and louder. Grind my teeth and hum so I can’t hear him leave. I eventually fall back asleep, just to wake up at 8, rolling over to a bare wall, listening to my own breathing, just mine.

My morning is blocked out with time and a routine. I need it to maintain some form of structure, keeps me from falling apart all over again.

0830-Shower

0845- Coffee, cig, check e-mails, make a run down of the days notes for the store

0900- Tidy up

0915- Walk to work

Last week I found myself talking to an empty kitchen, asking him if he wanted coffee. Walking into the bedroom, I repeated myself- only to find a dark room with quiet shadows. Blanket and sheet stretched and cornered over the bed, a flat plane of brown and blue.

The first day either tics away on seconds, or rips though on blades, always bringing me back to the apartment at the end of the day. It’s quiet until someone upstairs begins to move. Thuds bouncing off the walls-my only company for the next few days. Unless you consider the Edgar, the plant on the window sill to be company. Which I don’t, since he’s a poor conversationalist.

By the second day, I get back to my old self, quite happy with the quiet around the apartment, it’s a sound I loved and knew inside and out during those long years when I threw men out of my house so I could sleep alone. So different from now. I sit on the couch half naked, leave the screen door open, blast music from my mac that I would never let him know I listened to. Over the next day, I stay up until an ungodly hour reading, or just laying on the floor in the living room staring at the ceiling, the stiff carpet fibers digging into my bare back and thighs. I’ve gotten into the habit of only taking my sleeping pills when he’s home, no use in sleeping if he’s not going to be next to me. In the beginning, I would double up my dose, weave though the daze legally stoned and half asleep. Like listening to him leave for work, it made it so much worse. Everything was just throbbing and swollen. A nasty self inflicted hangover.

One day I got caught passed out on my desk in my office. Boss Man poking me in the ribs with a hat stick until I nearly fell out of my chair, calling me love sick. I stopped coming into work fucked up after that. Its one thing to spend your days in a perpetually fucked up state of oblivion, it’s another to have your boss catch you drooling all over your arm at one o’clock in the afternoon.

Sometimes the hardest part is the constant amount of contact we have. Flurries of e-mails while he’s on watch and myself either at work or home, and the ending phone call at 9 pm. Another routine I can count on, his communicational dependability. I have to remind myself that I can’t be glued to a computer to remain in contact with him, I can’t hold up my life for him. But I do. I have to remind myself he needs it as much as I do. I’m not the only one reaching for a body at night, pulling on sheets, hugging pillows.

When he finally comes home its painfully awkward for me. I never know what to say, how to act, or what to laugh at. Keeping everything at a distance is always an involuntary reflex. Especially after sex. I get pissed off that his turning me into just the opposite of what I ever wanted to be. Vulnerable, emotional, in short, a fucking woman. Those are the days I just fuck him, ride him hard enough where its just me fucking some guy I don’t give a shit about, a passive aggressive way to get him back for being gone all week, making me beg him to come home. Other times I shift my hips while he’s inside just so he’ll come faster, so I don’t have to feel him against my body. The sex is so frequent it seems just another fucked up reminder in 48 hours or so, he’s going to be gone again. Then the guilt comes. It’s all about repetitive emotions when I’m with him. More structure.

My weeks stretch out into a routine. Carefully labeled with the days hes home, the days he’s gone. Home home. Gone gone gone. Over and fucking over. Swinging from one calender day to the next all with slow tones of repetition- a deliberate and painful pattern.

So, Slick found this huge ass stuffed dog by the dumpsters near where we live. I had him bring it over last night, and we stuffed it up on one of the shelves.

Boss Man didn’t notice.

So, I decided to make it a little bit more personal in hopes that over the next couple days, he will find my little gift. (Russian #2 is officially in on my termination plans)

Documentation

As we left Sven last night (Thats what I named him)

Adding some charisma to him

My new partner in crime, Russian #2

Getting Sven into his little nook. Or trying to.

Sven, God of Clogs.

It’s funny to think that the vast majority of people reading this blog, and actively commenting on this, are old enough to be my parents.

Its also funny to think that since I started driving, fuck that, since I was born) I haven’t really known a world where a body count wasn’t constantly talked about on the news (which is why I refuse to watch is) and some part of the world is about to trip into the lines to dire straights. (Which is why I refuse to read the papers)

It dawned on me a short while ago that:

9 people I graduated with are either currently serving overseas, or have done at least one tour.

23 people I know (including myself and Slick, but I don’t really count) have served in the U.S military.

11 people I have known in my immediate life have died while serving. Not counting “friends of friends” or shit. Add up both totals and it’s more like 20 something.

Yea, I know, I’m a little slow on the up take…..

I’m sorry, but this shit is just unacceptable for lack of a better word. We’ve got a man in office who flat out fucking lied to do and get what he wanted, and the prior prez was fucking crucified for getting a fucking blow job and lying about it. These are my fucking friends who are getting shot at and killed. Not some nameless “son” or “daughter”. People dear Angry fucking Ballerina has grown up with. I spent almost 5 years with a man who was WIA. He’ll never walk again. Whatever. No one cares.

But thats ok. Because it was worth it. It was fucking worth it.

Because someone who stands at a fucking podium and reads a little speech says its all fucking worth it. Like, did someone take fucking Darwinism into their own hands and not care to let anyone else know what they were doing?

Ya’ll are fucking up my generation. Not to mention my kids. Cut the shit, really. What the hell did I ever, or anyone else in the world, do to deserve this shit? It’s fucking money. Thats all it is.

And then we have another idiot is has a bid in for being the next prez, has the same ideas.

And you know what else sucks? The only fucking swears and insults that come to my mind are considerably homophobic and generally unacceptable.

Simply calling someone a cum guzzling gutter whore, eh, really doesn’t cut it anymore in my book. Thank God Slick is in the Coast Guard.

I have no problem whatsoever with communicating with other bloggers. I find it rather entertaining. Mostly because almost all of you are as batshit as I am, if not more.

I will not tolerate inappropriate, creepy or otherwise unacceptable e-mails from other writers. If someone writes to me and I find it inappropriate, I delete the e-mail, and do not respond. In other words, if you write to me, and I don’t write back within a reasonable amount of time. I probably won’t because I don’t like you.

It’s really quite simple. In my life, if you continue to annoy me, I make you look like an asshole, and generally make an example out of your assholeness.

I bring you.

Exhibit A.

Dear A**,

Why do you malign your breast size? I actually like a woman with smaller breasts. Not that I ever turned one down, though, regardless of size.

Is it vanity on your part, or are you somehow afraid that dudes are repelled by women with small(er) breasts? Let me assure you, they’re not. And the ones who are you wouldn’t want to date anyway.

Just my two cents.

K****

And for the record, I love my tits. So does my boyfriend.

-Angry Ballerina

Liberality wrote a post a little while ago…. Which made me think. I’m not a great thinker, mostly because I’m pretty fucking stupid and self centered. Which is why I have a blog. Ad the more you people comment on the stupid shit I write about, the more egotistical I get. Blogging is an acceptable form of voyeurism. Which is why YOU have a blog. And people like to peep though windows, outside looking in. Which is why you read a blog.

Which is why I am going to blog about my time when I was a stripper. (that made sense, really, inside my head)

I’ve always in a sick sad way, been proud of the fact that I was a stripper. I’m small, like a B cup, with absolutely nothing amazing about my body, nor my face. I am 100% average in every way. But I was able to make a decent living at it. I was never a hot item, never did a main show. Simply… average. I was pretty enough with pounds of makeup and extensions where I could pass at hot, but put me next to some other chick slightly more attractive, and I would easily blend away into the background, the thumping beats and shitty lighting off stage.

Average.

It’s always raised some questions in my own mind why I would ever allow myself to straddle a strange man, while practically naked, and accept money for it. For a while, I tried not to think of my self as partially prostituting myself, more along the lines of doing something girls always secretly dream of doing, but never had the guts. (or too much of it) It really didn’t surprise a lot of people when they found out what I was doing, an obviously troubled childhood and adolescents, and yet, no one really told me to stop doing it. Acceptance on a negative scale is a push point for those spiraling out of control. For the record, I’m not placing the blame on anyone, not in a second, I made my own choices, I was a big girl, this is just observing my choices from way back when, and in part, trying to figure out why I did do them.

So, moving on.

I’ve had to ask myself, did I “exploit” myself, or did I (willingly) let someone else do it for me? The customers, the owners, the managers, the bartenders who let me drink, *the other dancers who got fucked up along side me It would be easy for me to say that because I was so young, and quite frankly stupid, that I allowed myself to be exploited by someone else. I had a drug problem, I was immature, and thought that because I was so young and living on my own, it made me a grownup, so therefore, whatever decision I made, was mature, and rational.

Uh huh. Not really no. No one dragged me into the club, and held me at gunpoint to get up on stage, or to give a lap dance. I did that all on my own, often with a considerable amount of enthusiasm.

I honestly don’t know why I was so fucked up about my sexuality when I was that age, as most teenagers are, I was hopelessly confused, angry and rebellious. I don’t know what exactly happened in my early childhood that caused so much baggage that I carry around with me now, simply because I blocked it out, as many people with PTSD and trauma do. I know there were some instances in my life where I can draw an explanation from, but I’ve learned that its not the best focus of my energy these days.

I had an unhappy childhood. So did 98% of everyone in the world. And like everyone else, I used that as a proper excuse for my behavior. Doesn’t make it right, doesn’t make it wrong. It makes it so shrinks and such have a prosperous practice catering to the likes of everyone like me.

I obviously put myself in a place where I was often exploited (if you can really even call it that, and the more I think about it in my case, no you can’t) because of my gender, and how I looked. I did it to myself, and I let others do it for me. It was an unfortunate cycle. Simple as that. I can’t honestly say how or why I did it, just like I can’t say how or why I ever let myself completely self destruct. It’s in the past, I did it, I learned from it. I don’t hold anyone but myself accountable for my actions, but I can’t say that there were not some people who didn’t.

After a while, I got a lot of that ugly nasty shit out of my system. I cleaned up my act the best I could, came home, and found another place to dance (and quickly left) and another. I didn’t drink while working, and became pretty disillusioned by it all. I don’t like men hitting on me, why would I rub my bare tits over one? Long stupid story short. I did it until I didn’t want to anymore and focused my energy on Boss Man. Happy ending.

I hated it some days, other days, I loved it. I’m not going to say that I’m ashamed, because, well, I’m really not. Sometimes, however I do look back on everything and just kinda groan and feel like punching myself in the face…. I love the fact that even now, I can look at a chick who is twice at hot at me, and know that there is a 90% chance that the closest shes ever come to actually stripping, was a drunken night where she took off her clothes, gave some random dude a sloppy ass blowjob in the bathroom, kissed her boyfriend with cum breath, and then woke up the next morning with a hangover to boot.

*Stripping is a job. You don’t (unless you work for Boss Man) show up to work hungover, or fucked up. Your body is your paycheck. Most strippers I know (and after a while I did follow in their footsteps) will never drink while working and not partake in any illicit activity. The risk is too great. For one, being dosed is a concern, and two, it’s called coordination. Eat right, work out, and live your life.

When I wrote about my “2 year anniversary” I meant clean time.

I didn’t start blogging until July of 06. Sorry for the confusion, but thanks all the same

-Angry