Letters Unsent… But maybe they should be

I often struggle between my inner dialog and the one that goes through my lengthy filtering process. When friends ask for my opinion or advice, which happens way more often than I care to say, I often ask myself repeatedly ‘should I really give it??’ ‘do they really want it, or are they just asking so I will reassure them that their decision is perfect and I am their minion?’ ‘Don’t they know by now I’m gonna be honest??’ ‘Why the fuck are they asking me??’ Then I give a kindly worded, much pondered, answer that may not be what they wanted to hear. But oh well, you asked. However, there have been a few things since my last post that I haven’t addressed. Frankly, this shit is tiring. Buddha (or whoever writes cool quotes and says they are from Buddha- either way, I like it) said that carrying around anger (or resentment or frustration or unaddressed hurt- those mine) is like holding a burning coal in your hands and expecting the other person to get burned. Smart guy this Buddha. So I’m gonna drop some hot rocks. Prepare yourselves bitches…

*****************

Dearest Friend,

Please stop apologizing for the things that happened almost ten years ago. We both made mistakes and we both did stupid things. We let pride and ego and self come between us and now… We don’t. We’ve grown, we’ve changed, we’ve suffer losses without each other to wipe tears. We’ve had wins without each other to celebrate. We’ve seen the people that we drifted toward drift from us and we’ve made our way back to each other. Yes it’s different. No, we are not the inseparable pair we were then… But we wouldn’t have the amazing men in each of our lives. Now we are friends. Not just friends, but true friends. Friends with history and shared heartache and shared love and shared laughs and shared jokes that no one else understands. We can be three but cycle and the other one will always get it. So move forward, because we can’t finish the movie if we keep rewatching in the last scene.

I love you princess. More than my shoes… Even the ones I don’t wear anymore.  

Less than three.

*****************

Dear Friend (are we still?),

Thank you for finally articulating your feelings after simply dropping off my radar for three weeks. I really thought we had the kind of friendship where you could drop by and say ‘hey friend, we need to hash something out’, but I guess we don’t. To be honest, it wasn’t so much the content of what you said texted that hurt most, but that you couldn’t talk to me… That you still can’t talk to me. Don’t get me wrong, what you said affected me too… In a what the actual fuck? Am I really reading this right now? Noooo, really?? Kind of way. I have been the same person since well, always. I think what’s really changed is the message. You don’t like what you are hearing now. A few years ago the message was supportive, because that was my truth to you then. Now the message isn’t as supportive, it’s more questioning, more of a devils advocate. It’s still given with kindness and in my voice, but I am not towing your party line. I’m not sorry. I think you are making some horrible decisions. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the decisions you are making are good and I’m wrong. Or maybe I’m the enabler. Maybe these couple months without hangin out with me have been good. No one is helping you spend time self destructing. If it took my “hurting your feelings” to get you to pull your shit together then I’m not sorry, not that I was anyway. I don’t hold on to those coals. It doesn’t help anyone, least of all me.

I hope the last couple months have been really good for you. I hope the kids are well and if they ever want to come over for Mac n cheese and minions, I always have time for them. And when you are ready to have a conversation, with words… Through your mouth, I’ll be here. Same as always. Because unconditional is the only way I know how.

****************

Units,

Fucking figure it out because we didn’t choose, you did. So fucking act like it. Act like you give a shit, because frankly, I don’t. Others do, but I don’t. And do you have any idea how much it takes for someone like me to stop caring??? Ask around, ask my friends, ask other people that know me, ask people on the street. It is known. But I am done and over it. The fucks are gone, the shits have done been given. The love that remains falls under the obligation category but the like… There is no requirement for like that in the handbook. I checked. For fuck sake. This isn’t even about me, it’s about them, the ones that still have something left to give.

I can’t even. Words are failing me and words are what I do. I just can’t.

****************

Yang,

You have put the knees on my bees. You are the grammar nazi to my writers journal. I have had best friends that are forever friends (you have met the princess) but you are somehow a part of me I didn’t know I needed. You give voice to things I can’t and help me rein in the compassion that seems to flow unimpeded when you aren’t around. At the same time, I think I lend a chisel to your edge and a filter to your outer voice that you may have been looking for… The chisel and filter that have been sitting there in their pretty boxes just waiting for their home. Plus, you get the parts of my favorites that I don’t, and you eat the centers of my cinnamon rolls and you smoke when you aren’t on fire giving me a chance to take a break when I need it. 

I love you too, more than my shoes… enough to let you borrow them and give them to you if you want them. Or find a better pair made by ALDO and send them to you as a gift.

***************

Dear Country,

I knew some of you were not that bright. I knew some of you would believe anything the channel you watch most told you. I even knew some of you were such fucking sheep that you would listen to the loudest one in the room even if he was telling you that you were on fire, while you were wading in a swimming pool. I did not think enough of you were were so blind and ignorant that you would allow such an obvious piece of shit to leave his mark on your door. I did not think you would lay back and open your legs to what is obviously the smallest dick of them all, while he tells you how huge it is… And then tell him how huge his centimeter feels. Haven’t you had enough of this nonsense? Haven’t you felt sufficiently reemed? Must you allow this to continue so the rest of us have to endure your shame? Once again I find myself struggling to find words to properly describe the disgust I feel at the people I have to share citizenship with.

Wake the fuck up! You think we have issues with “terrorists” now? What the fuck do you think will happen if you right wing nut jobs succeed at putting this idiot in office? You know, the guy that has insulted every race, creed and culture I can think of. Do you think we’ll be fine? Do you think it will be okay, that his GIANT centimeter cock will protect you?? Think again motherfuckers… All the “terrorists” that hate each other may stop for a minute and get together to decide- hey, wait… We need to go show the giant, entitled, overinflated, American wack-job that he fucked with too many of us. You can fuck with the people that guy hates, or the guy over there, but not everyone, that’s just greed. Terrorists hate American greed. And who is a bigger poster boy for American greed than our Republi-cock candidate? NO ONE.

So sort yourselves out. This has gone way past funny to, again ridiculous.For fuck sake people.

For. Fuck. Sake.

I can’t even. Again the words are failing me and words are what I do. I just can’t.

So I will let someone else… (It’s not new… But it will work)

TriFecta of Gus

Everyone has something they say all the time. A drop-line as it were (I just leaned that term, not gonna lie). Me, I just tend to swear… a lot. No really. A. Lot. Most of my friends would say my drop-line is (well, was) ‘Jesus H.’, ever since I read Christopher Moore’s Lamb. That man is a genius. Sometimes I’d go with the full name for umph, you know, like when your mom was pissed and used all three or five of your names, ‘Jesus H. Christ’. Then of course are the variations for effect… christ on a cracker, or christ on a fucking cracker or in a really good moment mutha-fukin-christ on a mutha-fukin-cracker. The christ on a cracker seems to have been adopted by several friends, as have choice other things… and that is an entirely different story.

This, this is really a story of a man named Brady. Okay no it isn’t, but that would be rad right!? Well, actually there is a dog named Brady… but I digress. So one fine eve at the beer drinkin’ writing spot, I was hangin out with Zimm and Grrr. We were discussing life and the finer points of beer as we are want to do over a fine Belgian, IPA or some other high alcohol content beer or six two, and a conversation started about my affinity toward the Jesus Candle. I don’t know if you heard about my love of the Jesus Candle or my quests to find the most amazing possible pieces for my collection but let’s just say the “finger puppet candle” has had a place in my home. As our discussions progressed it was noted that one of my favorite sayings (drop-line) had changed to “Gerald F.”. Probably because I had said it twenty times already and also they were tired of hearing it had no fucking clue where it came from. So I explained…

‘Well ya know how everyone says Jesus H. Christ?’
yeah
‘I was tired of dealing with the dirty looks and all the bullshit that the ‘thumpy peeps’ give plus you can’t just blurt out Jesus H. Christ in front of a bunch of kids so I needed something else to say. I was gonna go with ‘Buddy Christ’ but it doesn’t fix my problem, and frankly George Carlin giving a thumbs up isn’t the attitude I’m looking for… So I came up with ‘Gerald F.’! And to solve the kid-in-trouble action ‘Gerald F. McCracken.’

What??
‘Gerald F. McCraken’. I need a name with uh-thor-i-tie!

The looks of shock and awe were less shock and awesome… and more like – holy shit Sars, you have officially fallen off the deep end.

You haven’t fallen off the deep end and started a cult have you? Did you call Tom Cruise or Oprah Win-e-free and get approval from the MotherShip?? Is there poison in our beer?!?
‘No. I just needed a little word replacement therapy. Jesus H Christ gets a point across. And you know, runnin’ around sayin’ goddamnit all the time just “ain’t christian”.’
Peels of laughter and beer-spray… Um-Kay….
‘But it had to be something strong… with uh-thor-i-tie. ‘Gerald F. McCracken’

and a hush fell over the crowd…..

But then Zimm, my ever faithful beer chemist and friend said… so who are the rest?
‘what do you mean?’
Well you have ‘Gerald F. McCracken’ he’s kinda like “the son”, you know, it’s his title. So who are the rest in your little cult, sorry, group?

At that point I admit I hadn’t given it much thought but the idea was making me smile. I think we needed a Copola style ‘god father’ that would be his title. We started chatting, and it was all down hill from there… First was the decision that all names should start with the same letter.. and there should be three, (because you can’t have proper rock-paper-scissors tourney without three) but we couldn’t call it a trinity, (duh) and so the TriFecta of Gus was born.

‘With Gerald as “the son”, We needed “the father” and only the son has a middle initial. So I think Gus should be “the father”, I like Gus.. Let’s go with Gus. With Gus “the father” and Gerald F. McCracken, “the son”…’
Why Gus??

‘It’s a good name, and short. you know…’
But wait, who was Gerald’s mother?
‘the virgin Connie Swail of course’
mm-hhhmm, mm-hhmm, of course, duh.

Coming up with a third name was not nearly as easy, being mostly drunk didn’t help as much as you’d think. Gene didn’t sound ghostly and really, no one else could come up with any more in our thoroughly beered state, until I said…

‘What about Geoffrey, you know with a “G”? He could be all snooty and British sounding, Gee-off-ree’
What’s his title??
‘huh?’
I think he should be “the holy” Geoffrey. his title should be “the holy”
‘Sounds like a plan to me!!’

And thus it came to pass the TriFecta of Gus was born… Gus “the father”, Gerald F. McCracken ‘the son’ (born to the virgin Connie Swail), and “the holy” Geoffrey. It was glorious! We parted ways with a toast to Gus and felt as though all was right with the world. Maybe it was the 9% beers but I’m going with the holy Geoffrey.

About an hour later my cell rang… this never happens. It was Zimm and he had a question about our newly minted TriFecta that only Zimm & Grrr would come up with.

So Grr was wondering… is Gerald F. the Extra Crispy Saviour? Because you know, the original is already taken.
‘If Grr says it should be so, I’m gonna go with her instinct. I don’t think he’s “popcorn style”. So we revised… Gus “the father”, Gerald F. McCracken ‘the extra-crispy saviour’ (born to the virgin Connie Swail), and “the holy” Geoffrey.’

Great Gus I think I just peed….

posted from my tablet thingy

not quite a .38 special

I know, I know… before you launch into a tirade about how I should be writing more, and it’s cathartic, and will cure whatever ails me.. piss off.

Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it. I want you here, but (and it’s a Star Jones pre-surgery sized butt) only if you are prepared for the older, not necessarily wiser, unfiltered, unadulterated, unashamed madness that is sars at 37. Because suddenly I found myself staring down the barrel of .38 trying to figure out where 37 years, a bunch of dreams and half my mind had gone. Shit (y’all). shit… Where the fuck did 37 years go? Why do I have all this shit to say causing me ocular leakage, filling my sinus’ and giving me a goddamned headache? Why indeed! I created my own fucking happy place and I intend to use this shit as I see fit. So the warning sign that some fucking hipster kicked over has been reinstalled in a concrete post hole and The Social Assassin has it in his sites (don’t fuck with him, he pulls no punches and will make you cry for years to come.). That being said, well… I don’t know, I make this shit up as I go. Long before the advent of pinterest or someecards or any of those places, I would quietly collect and share little quotes, words of wisdom with people through writing and correspondence. (and maybe the occasional framed card or something) You remember writing on paper don’t you? I am a walking pinterest board with all the quotes I have collected over the years. So as I stare at 38 I decided to share some shit, not necessarily just quotes, or some gold or some golden shit… whichever it may be. So without further adieu…

Buddha said “All life is suffering.” Y’all know I love me some Buddha. If I were Buddhist I may sit here and tell you how we should forgive all, trust everyone and allow ourselves to be in the moment and be one with our suffering because it is the way to achieve enlightenment. Horse. Shit. I do believe we should forgive, we should let go of the past – but (there is that but again) we have to learn whatever lesson we were supposed to from whatever shit hit our fan. Otherwise we suffered for no fucking reason. Because that Buddha, was right (again) when he said “Holding on to anger (or insert resentment – I do) is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at the one who wronged you. You are the one who gets burned.” I’m not saying forget everything… just move forward. It is important to remember… remember what we learned from the hurts we feel, remember the times we fall on our ass, remember the people we lost because we fucked up royally… equally as important is to remember the people who fucked up and hurt us, so we don’t fall for the same trick again. We should learn from our suffering because Buddha may have said that all life is suffering, but ya know… he never said you have to suffer to live. I think every time we move forward and learn from the mistakes of the past, maybe, we can prevent a little suffering in our future.

Facebook is not a substitute for life. If you are reading this you probably know that I hate Facebook. The only reason I am on there is guilt. I probably need to work on that to prevent some suffering. Anyhow… we are the age of technology rapidly becoming the age of completely connected. This sounds good on paper.. er.. screen, but we are losing touch with each other as human beings. We are becoming isolated, lonely, and forgetting that we need each other. Put the cellphones, iPads, tablets of another variety, laptops and netbooks away for a bit and have dinner with your spouse, significant other, kids and friends. Remind yourself and them, that reality is where you look at each other, touch, hold hands, hug, laugh, cry, scream, find out that things are happening because someone’s mouth spoke the words, not because someone random posted something they heard from the neighbor on facebook. Take an entire day without tech. Can you do it? Send a birthday card without posting a witty abbreviated message on their wall. I read a cover story for The Atlantic recently that dug in to the meat of this very topic. (there have been several articles disputing The Atlantic’s story, my opinion on these articles is they are written by people that do nothing but play on facebook, they don’t understand reality and personal contact.) It took deleting my facebook completely to realize who my real friends actually are, and it isn’t the people who tell my boyfriend how great I am but never bother to tell me to my face. I am more than the number of “likes” or +1’s that my post has. I am more than the number of views on my blog. I am less than the number of friends I have on Facebook, and that suits me just fine. Because at the end of the day ~when I find myself fading I close my eyes and realize, my friends are my energy.~ I said friends, not facebook… that would just sound dumb.

I had a more amazing nuggets of wisdom to impart, but I decided that it has taken me a month to post this so I may want to speed this along. Plus it gives me some shit to post over the next few days. I feel some blog vomit about to happen and it will not be for your children. Because sometimes it’s just like that, you look in the mirror and you aren’t 21 anymore. And it’s a good thing, at 21 you are afraid to say the word cunt.

tanks mang

Who took the elephant?
You know the elephant, that was here.
It was right here!
It’s been sitting on my chest for months and even though there is still a Mastiff there now, I can tell it’s gone. The anxiety and stress and fear, well they aren’t all gone but they are in reprieve.

I have been patient, waiting, looking for something so I would be responsible. I didn’t want to pile on another bad decision. I didn’t want to disappoint everyone so I waited. And I shrunk. And the elephant got bigger and heavier and it was harder to breathe.

Sorry… I know this is a bullshit “rich first world issue”, but growing up where you have a car for every house (because lets face it, our public transit in most places is fucked) you learn the freedom that brings. I do realize how fortunate I am in every way. This is not about being thankful for that just now. That is a different grattitude for a different day. Today I am realizing just how oppressed I felt not having the ability to come and go as I please. I have great friends that would cart my ass and the most patient man ever who gave me cart blanche (for the most part) with his vehicle… but it wasn’t mine. I never felt okay, just going without asking. It wasn’t mine.

So the bullet was bitten and the purchase made. It was not the originally intended purchase, in fact far from. It will mean being a grown up and saying no sometimes. But everytime I have to say no to the movies this time, I’ll remember the elephant and how it felt to be released from it’s weight. I’ll do something else. I’ll remember the tears shed in lonliness and sadness and I will smile. It is okay. I am mine, I can go. I am free to choose where and when. It was a good decision. It was a smart decision.

Sometimes it takes removing one weight to notice there are more, but I can get to those. I can make my way to each, on my own, without asking anyone’s permission. I can give each one its turn and look… wouldn’t you know, that bastard was sitting on my confidenece. I knew it was here somewhere.

Lets dust it off, shall we?

this is not about you

If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:

 

~posted from my tablet thingy~

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLjrD-oXkhA[/youtube]