"But It Did Happen."

is it so wrong that i want my father to die?

am i a wretched, horrific, grotesque for feeling at this moment simultaneously nauseated, depressed and enraged that my father's slowly being extubated, is coming around, showing some small signs of — what? — activity? mumbling? drooling? i wouldn't call it "signs of Life," sure as hell wouldn't call it that because now that they're weaning him off the life-supporting nipple of the ventilator, the doctors, undoubtedly pleased they've "cured" him of the infection that rushed him into the ICU, onto the respirator, allowed, like a stealthy snake, a central line to invade his body, those doctors discovered:

whoops. Ray done had himself a series of small strokes while he was put under these past several days, that there machine doin' his breathin' for him. dang the bad luck!

an ambulance just screeched past the house, down the road, engine roaring like a semi-truck and i hope like hell that if they're on their way to the sickbed of some elderly, decrepit human goddamned being that, really, is no longer being, that ambulance speeds and squeals in futility; that they're too fucking late.

let's hope i'm a Sherwood Anderson-grotesque: worthy of sympathy and compassion. i doubt most of you consider me such, but here's to hoping. consider the Magnolia. consider the grotesques. consider sympathy and compassion: understanding.

***

what, in the name of my father's God, kind of condition is My Daddy going to be in now? fucking christ! his brain wasn't assuredly annihilated previous to this holy hell? how much longer? how much more? i've endured years of "everything happens in threes" and those threes — you can't fathom, i couldn't relay to you what triumvirate of kingdom come, what will was done — but i survived, i lived and i was either a child, a naive, innocent Lily of a Daddy's Glirl or a junkie, untreated bipolar, for fuck's sake.

but i lived. not sure how, not sure why, to what end or purpose, but....i live. i am, somehow, alive despite or, perhaps, in spite of, it all.










threes? threes? fuck your father, son, your whoring ghost — she caught the last train for the coast! bye-bye, Miss American Pie!

and today's Buddy Holly's birthday. you've gotta be.... completely forgot until.... was going to post "Everyday" with the caption "BUDDY HOLLY LIVES" but, no, no he doesn't, regardless of the cool graffiti testifying otherwise. Daddy loves Buddy, owned one of his greatest hits albums with that cool graffiti spray-painted on a whitewashed brick wall; i used to stare at that album cover for hours while listening to the spin, hiss and pop of Buddy and his Crickets.


whitewashed. every fucking thing. every goddamned day.


"....goin' faster than a roller coaster...."


why. can't. it. just. stop.

i cannot take one more thing; not. one. more. my friends — oh, what in the hell? — so many of them, you, are suffering, losing loved ones, struggling with your own health issues and here i am bitching and moaning—

fuckit.

i want for my father to die, peacefully; to go gentle into that good night. i want for this to happen right away, as soon as possible. when we last saw his mother, dying in a nursing home, i was fifteen; she was in and out of dementia (mostly in) due to her massive stroke (strokes?), one leg amputated due to years of ignoring or not treating her diabetes, horrible diet, and she'd been dropped by an orderly, her shoulder dislocated, had been trying to tell the physical therapists, nurses, everyone, "My shoulder....he dropped me...." but no one listened and they continued to put her through hours of PT every day, Buddy, every hellacious day, and she cried, moaned, begged them to stop, called out for her sons, but they rotated that arm, shoulder every fucking day, Buddy and when we flew in from Florida to see her in Denver, she immediately burst into tears and slurred, "My shoulder, Raymond....he dropped me. The man dropped me...." and my father knew exactly what she meant. she managed to garble out a bit more about the PT, the agony, how she tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen and my father, already five years into the crippling battle with arthritis, stormed to the nurse's station but had it been the 80s, his healthy days, that man, "The man" would've been found and hurt.

when we left that day, My Daddy stopped me on the sidewalk, turned me towards him, made me to look him in the eyes. i'd been sobbing at the sight of my dying Nana; Daddy, who i've seen cry four times in my Life, was teary, his face set and serious.

"Annie, promise me...."

"Promise you what, Daddy?"

"Promise me you'll never let me end up like that. Don't ever let me end up in a place like this — like Nana is now. Okay?"

"Okay, Daddy."

"I mean it, Anne Michelle. Never. Don't ever let me end up like my mommy."

"I promise, Daddy. I swear. I'll never let that happen to you."











why'd you make me break my promise, Daddy? why did you do that?



why is this happening? why does this shit continue to happen, this succession of bullets, this one after another of—

i want it to end. now. right the fuck now.


go back and read something not about me. i'm sick of me, my bullshit, my fucked-up, so-called-life. go back and read about true tragedy, about real sadness, about the lives of others, what i consider my best writing because it is, likely because it has absolutely nothing at all to do with self-centered, narcissistic, me, me, fuckin' me:


The Louder Actions: For Chelsea King

"I guess everybody has their own idea of fun."


better yet, read somebody else, their real lives, their unfiction, which is far superior to this, my above, before, too much, too much written shit: Kaplowitz: Tales From Dank Ct. Vol. 1



whatever the hell you decide to do . . . .


don't you dare judge me. don't you even think to do so.

******

i love you, Daddy.


now please — let go.


keep your end of the bargain, your promise and just....


give up.

Are You There, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner? It's Me...Mmmooom? What's My Name Again?

Sherif Ali: What are you looking for?

T.E. Lawrence: Some way to announce myself.

Sherif Ali: Be patient with him, God.

***

Are You There, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner? It's me.... GET YOUR ASS OFF THAT GODDAMN COMPUTER AND COME EAT SOMETHING, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!

Since I have such difficulty with my memory these daze, barely able to recall my own first name (but I'm pretty sure Mom's wrong—I don't recall even my full name running that long), I'm going to refer to you, my true golden-god, by alternating designations. You are, after all, a triumvirate, just as their Capital-G God is: the father, son and the holy spirit. Ghost? Depends on the house of worship. He's got a jazillion names beyond that: Yahweh, Yahoo (moniker specific to the tent-revival peeps), Lord, Dad (familial term specific to...well, him, but in his son's form. Also, specific to some humans "touched" by his finger who think they are him - or him, but in his son's form. See: David Koresh, Manson—or did Charlie state he wasn't Capital-G God? Well, the idea's been got).

Anywho, that's how I'd like to play this prayer: I'll dial out to Jebus, another holla' made to Saint Peter O'GoddamnToole, and a shout-out to Ol' Billy-Boy. Cool? I knew it would be. You're always cool with me. Because, well, you are me. That is so cool. Since we're on the topic of cool, let's jump on the....

***

O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole: Are you immortal? I often wonder this. You are, after all, 877.11 years-old. Well, you look that old. You're actually 77.11 years-old, but looking upon you in your current state, especially

when I juxtapose your current visage with photos of your younger face...........

chiseled lines..............

pierce-me-blues......................

golden locks......................

sucha' lean, mean fightin' machine........................

I'm sorry — what?

Is it wrong that I want to have sexual relations with Lawrence of Arabia-era you, Saint Peter O'Toole? Even Noel Coward told you, "If you'd been any prettier, it would have been Florence of Arabia." No? It's not wrong? Really?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Truthfully, sex with you is sex with me, not to mention the unmentionable: it's STD-free!

Sincerely....

Anyway, when comparing the two yous, when I'm finally capable of detaching my longing Lawrence look to that of you as now, the cliché "That man is older than Capital-G God!" comes to mind. So does the image of an extremely bloated bullfrog. I am truly sorry for thinking such sinful, yucky thoughts about you, O' Great And Powerful O'Toole. Do you forgive me? You do?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Fuck the Academy. I'll steal you a real goddamn Oscar - none of this "Lifetime Achievement Award" bullshit! I'll pry a statuette from Heston's cold. dead. hands.... "Moses." Psshhht! What did that staff-wielding asshat know about Moses?

Auda abu Tayi: You will cross Sinai?

T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!

Auda abu Tayi: And you will take the children?

T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!

Two years! TWO. YEARS. That's how long you worked on Arabia, sand all up in your gorgeous grill, that blasting sun tanning your golden skin into leather, the HEAT - okay, so it's a dry heat but THE HEAT! And, may I repeat:

TWO YEARS!

One of you's still above ground, makin' movies; the other?

Not so much.

Suck it, Charlie.

And, uh, hello? Anyone see The Ruling Class? Well, I did and I know that you not only portrayed, but in fact were, GOD. You, Dear GOD, did-indeedly-dude, RULED that classy ass! How do I know? First of all, I have eyes but, secondly, you said it yourself:

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

See. See?!

Well, of course you see - I mean them, they, the 3.14 pieple reading this.

Even if you pieple didn't see The Ruling Class, you damned well better have seen Lawrence of Arabia and, again, you - O'MyGod O'Toole - stated it clear:

T.E. Lawrence: "Do you think I'm just anybody, Ali? Do you?"
 

Hell no I don't and screw Ali and the rest of 'em for even thinking so!

"Just anybody."

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PIEPLE?!

Back to you, Sir Incredible Peter, and your immorality. I mean, immortality - potential: I have a very important question to ask you re such - and need-to-know-the-answer, STAT. And, based on both your real-life life-longevity and the cinematic discussion, exchange of dialogue that occurred between you as T.E. Lawrence and your desert guide, Tafas, I think you may have my need-to-know-STAT-answer:

Tafas: Is [Britain] a desert country?

T.E. Lawrence: No - a fat country. Fat people.

Tafas: You are not fat?

T.E. Lawrence: No. I'm different.

Are you still there, O' Mighty And All-Powerful Peter O'Toole? You are? Of course you are. Thank you for your patience, Peter, which stretches and runs as long as your O' . . . . so hard . . . . lived years. To my point: I have never been fat, though, at times, (ahem) chubby. However, I am suddenly, amidst this "fat country," very much not fat. No. I'm different. Quite.

Saint Peter, I did not, two entries ago, understand how 7 pounds in 7 days went by the wayside, waist-sides, into the desert wastelands, but I am further confounded, perplexed at how, from the day of that entry - Saturday - through the less than 48 hours skipping into Monday morning - 5 more pounds somehow . . . . slipped from my skin like so much Sahara silt into an Arabian wind, sandstorm — dust-devil.

Devil dust.

I do not, currently, resemble a picture of youth; I do not feel within me much sense of longevity.

No. I'm different.

What is it, All-Powerful, All-Knowing Great-god-A'Mighty Peter O'Toole, that's making - keeping - me different?

"I can't stand light. I hate weather. My idea of heaven is moving from one smoke-filled room to another."

Indeed, we are one and the same.... O'MyGod O'Toole, maker of heaven and mirth, from your lips to....well, mine. Then, from mine again? I dunno. This is weird. We're the same entity so I guess from our lips to their ears? How the Hell does that Capital-G God keep his phony-baloney straight? I can barely manage you, Oscar-less My Errr... Wiener!

So that's an idea of heaven, afterlife; what about here, now, Life?

"For me, life has either been a wake or a wedding."

. . . . Oh, Toole? That doesn't encourage me - much.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: I can't marry a second time.

Lady Claire Gurney: You're already married?

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: August 28, in The Year of Me, 1964.

Nearly, but no. However, the prospect of proposal encourages a bit more than say, it once did.... Need more encouragement, though. Marrying only to wither away into some....nothingness doesn't encourage much courage. I beseech you exercise your freedom of speech from your ruling ass, O' Lord!

"The only exercise I take is walking behind the coffins of friends who took exercise."

Mmm. Good God Sainted Sir, you are, indeed, a noble, brave knight (Brits be damned; Micks are far nobler and more worthy of knighthood!) for I do not take in even that much exercise. Never have. Now? Couldn't if I wanted. Unless you count "driveway-dropping" as exercise.

That, and excessive masturbation.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: For what I am about to receive, may I make myself truly thankful.

Hi, Mom!

What, you really think I can go....fuck-all, I've lost count....THAT LONG without sexual satiety?! Besides, GOD SAID IT WAS ALL GOOD!

She doesn't care. Sincerely - she doesn't.

"My dear sir, it haunted me for the rest of my life."

Oh, Toole, stop now. It's very difficult, living this invalid's Lif- "life" and I daresay even though we are one and the same, you know nothing of such loneliness.

"I'm the most gregarious of men and love good company, but never less alone when alone."

Well. I dared sayed too....daring...ly? That's what I get for taking the Lord's name in vain. Must be hard, being a god.

"I'm a working stiff, baby, just like everybody else."

Oh.My.GOD, O'PeterO'Toole! Are you daring me to again daresay? "Working stiff?" Really? Mmmm.... That is MOST un-pious speak!

Sooooooo . . . . how stiff do ya' work that baby, O' Peter-Oh-Toole?

"I wouldn't mind being a lord, though."

Oh, COME ON!

"The damage has been done."

....Wait. What are we talking about here? You mean my sexy-speak? I was just messin' around, you know that - seriously, you - we - know that. So, what damage done, darlin'? Little context, Lord O'MyGod O'Toole? Do it for the pieple.

"I'm 70 years of age. How do I look? You must understand, I've been very, very athletic in my life. I played every sport when I was a boy. I was a champion swimmer, a semi-finalist boxer at bantamweight, a cricketer. I played rugby when I was in the Navy...I was born fit. My dad was the same. And I've kept it up. I mean, I still play cricket."

....The pieple have no idea what the hiz-ell you're talking about, Petey. Even I'm a little lost. Bloated bullfrog? That how-do-you-look? That damage? The boozin', carousin', smokin' an—

"I stop from time to time. I didn't smoke for months until last week. I couldn't see myself at a film festival without a cig in my mouth. I'd feel foolish."

Yeah. Me, too. Then again, you're me. Only I'm not in my 70s. Chronologically. Internally, we add up the same: old, damaged, un-exercised, un-exorcised, lewd, smoky and foolish-fucktarded.

I'm tired, Dear Wouldn't Mind Being A Lord. Tired and in pain. I do not know the cause, the culprit, likely won't know for some time because free medical care, as it currently stands, is a slow, tedious, arduous process - akin to crossing the Arabian desert.

Okay. That's a bit hyperbolic.

But I am so very, very tired — and in quite a lot of pain. When your ribs crunch into your pelvis whether seated, supine, hunched (proper posture went by the waist-side long ago) and your chest crushes (pain one breath away from a name), you're wont for a very specific, special name for this, these pains. It's beyond the everyday arthritis pain; nothing at all like the shock-to-the-system pain of bloomin' ovarian cysts. It, very simply put, hurts.

The not-knowing: it damn well 'urts!

T.E. Lawrence: Of course it hurts. The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.

See. See? This is why I come to you, Saint Peter, for you not only have so many answers, but you have The Answer - The Great Answer to all of Life's questions. I knew you would.

This is why, O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole, you are so. god. damn. cool.

***

Club Secretary: I say, Lawrence! You are a clown!

T.E. Lawrence: We can't all be lion tamers....

T.E. Lawrence: It's my manner, sir.

General Murray: Your manner?

T.E. Lawrence: Yes. It looks insubordinate, but it isn't really.

General Murray: You know, I can't make out whether you're bloody bad-mannered or just half-witted.

T.E. Lawrence: I have the same problem, sir.

T.E. Lawrence: I pray that I may never see the desert again. Hear me, [g]od.

******

"And let them ask anything. I think that if you try to rehearse the question first, it's not too good. Whether it seems frivolous to you or not, ask it. We'll take the gloves off."

William "The Sound and The Fists of Fury" Faulkner

Hello, Faulkner....

Nice to see ya'.

It's beeeen uh looonnnng tiiiiiiiiime—

You're just as lovely....

As you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Used to be.

How's your new Life?

Are ya' happy?

Does it remind you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

Of Mississippi?

Just like you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

That's the birthplace

Of Conway Twitty.

Born in Friars Point—

But that ain't the point.

Because you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Were born

In New Albany.

But wrote all about

Yoknapatawpha County.

It sure read pretty—

Goddamned hard to me.

Which is why-eyyy-yyy-yyye

I end this ditty—

Ain't it a pity....

'Cause ain't nothin' rhymes....

With Yoknapatawpha.

"Pointless . . . . like giving caviar to an elephant."

I know, I know, Bill. I expected that response. How did I know? How'd I know to expect it?

I've been repeating this axiom for a number of years but, I do declare, Southern truisms should be declared and repeatedly:

"Billy-Boy knew his shite."

But, of course, you know this.

Many - most - of the 3.14 pieple reading this, however, do not.

Bill, we both know that "[e]verything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency" just to get the goddamned book - blog - whatever - written, so you forgive me my pointless, inelegant elephantine ramble—

But hold the caviar.

Yes. As you should.

"Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency to get the book written."

See. See, pieple? Billy-Boy here knows his shite.

Bill also knows o'tools: as in which a writer requires. Tell these here folksy, Faulksy.

"The tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey."

Billy, I don't need whiskey, but, like you, the tools I do require as a writer are tobacco, paper and food.

In. that. order.

We both know this wasn't always the case.

Food and tobacco always ran in nose-to-nose for a first place tie.

Now . . . . well, I don't print anything out, so paper's unnecessary and, as aforementioned, I don't need whiskey - never have been a drinker - but my appetite for tobacco rages insatiable while my desire for food?

Gimme a seventeen syllable word for "nil," Bill.

I mean, really — what the Yoknapatawpha?

"If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything."

Hm. This is a point.... Not a pretty one, but a point, nonetheless.... I would like to regain my appetite, yes, a voracious one, yes! But dining on the dead? Well.... I'll leave that to those who prey on Capital-G God.

Ohhhhhh . . . .

"I'm bad and I'm going to Hell and I don't care. I'd rather be in Hell than anywhere where you are."

See? See? This is why you are so. goddamning. cool.

But you know this....

Okay, O' Litterateur O' Lafayette: what else ya' got?

"A gentleman can live through anything."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hm.

I—

Bill, y'know, you and your big words. Define "gentle" for me oh-so-vocabulated-one. And need we be so gender-specific, sir? Rather sexist, if you ask me. What? Say again? IN REGULAR SPEAK, DAMMIT! I ain't got no "Faulkner-to-Dumbass" thesaurus at-hand!

"Man performs and engenders so much more than he can or should have to bear. That's how he finds that he can bear anything."

Food for thought. Like how you worked "engenders" in there despite keepin' on with the sexist-speak: "MAN" CAN! You are such a southern smartass. Ooh, whatta' Rebel!

Huh?

"I believe that man will not merely endure. He will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance."

Bill, I am giving you a look.

I get your gist but if you keep up the mucho-macho shit, I'm gonna prevail on your inexhaustible sass with a can o' WHOOP-ASS!!!

This WOman is, like any man, exhaustible. Exhausted. Perpetually. This exhaustion is enduring, I can tell ya' that. Apparently, so is my voice, since I just told you that and so much more - will continue to do so. Forgive me, Faulkner, for I know not what I do. You do forgive me? Ah, I tell ya - this, just another reason why you are so. damn. cool.

You're a compassionate sonofabitch, Billy-Boy. In fact, I'm willing to say with my inexhaustible voice that your compassion endures beyond....well, that of any man.

Me? My compassion? Well, we are one and the same, ain't we? Just....minus the talent....and the vocabulizin' skillz.... However, as far as compassion runs, yes, we measure up as equals: mine endures. It, in fact, bleeds, it runs in such enduring strains.

Howdyasay?

My spirit?

Gimme' a twenty-two syllable word for "wan," Man.

"I decline to accept the end of man."

Are you— Did you seriously just smartmouth me AGAIN?! A mule may labor ten years willingly and patiently for the privilege of kicking you once but I ain't no virtuous woman, never have been, so patience goes by the board just to get the damn Bill KICKED-IN!

What the sam-hell did you just say to me?

FINE. I'LL REREAD IT. YOU JACKASS!

You decline to accept the end of man.

Well whoooo-hooo! GOOD FER YOU! I decline to continue losing weight at unfathomable rates! I decline to accept feeling like donkey shit every hour of every day! I decline to tremble in fear as I await these chest X-Ray results and the vast array of tests to be performed, results yet to come! That's what I decline! So why don't you just go FAULK YOURSEL—

"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid."

Oh. I see. That's better.

Wait — you callin' me base, Bill?

No, no, no. I didn't think you were. This is why you are so. damn. cool.

Come again?

"The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat."

Wow. Well . . . . I'll be damned. I . . . okay. I don't know what to say. That . . . . yeah.

I'll remember you said that, Billy-Boy.

"Woman."

Hot-damn, won't I remember you said that....

"Fear is the most damnable, damaging thing to human personality in the whole world. We have to start teaching ourselves not to be afraid."

Last word freak....

***

"I reckon I'll be at the beck and call of folks with money all my life, but thank God I won't ever again have to be at the beck and call of every son of a bitch who's got two cents to buy a stamp."

Faulkner's resounding, righteous, reckoning resignation from The University of Mississippi's post office

University of Mississippi professor: "Mr. Faulkner, what did Shakespeare have in mind when he put those words in the mouth of Othello?"

Mr. Faulkner: "How should I know?"

An elderly woman who slipped into a writing class Bill taught at Chapel Hill got up and read an involved passage from one of his books, then queried:

"Now, Mr. Faulkner, what were you thinking of when you wrote that?"

Mr. Faulkner: "Money."

"People need trouble — a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. Artists do; I don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. Only vegetables are happy."

Billy-Boy On My Current "Happy" State

******

"The artist is of no importance. Only what he creates is important, since there is nothing new to be said. Shakespeare, Balzac, Homer have all written about the same things, and if they had lived one thousand or two thousand years longer, the publishers wouldn't have needed anyone since."

William Faulkner

"I was apprehensive about bringing off this Homer."

Peter O'Toole

******

"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Q'Toktok: Are you enjoying your ox testicle?

Homer: Oh, yes — very much so.

Q'Toktok: Really? You sure you wouldn't rather have a coconut? They're delicious.

Homer: No, I'm good…. Ohhhh, great. Now my testicle's got ants on it.

"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Jebus, we both know that, for me, you're really Homer J. Simpson. We also know that we are one and the same. Which means you wrote my second-to-last blaaaarrgh entry wherein we definitively established:

I 100% do not have testicular cancer.

Which means I get to keep my balls so yeah, the potential for ants remains. Ah, you're always right. Why do I ever question your wisdom? Mark that one up as a big, fat, delicious.... Mmmmmmmm.... D'OH!-nut on my behalf.

We know that the "J." in Homer J. Simpson actually stands for "Jay," but I'm gonna say the "J." stands for Jebus instead. So, Homer Jebus, let me ask you this:

Wha....

Hmmmm....

Why....

Mmm....

If—

What the hi-diddle-eee-ho-there, neighboreeno is wrong with me?!

....And why are you building that chapel?

"Because you're all terrible sinners!"

Since when?

"Since I got here! Now grab a stone or go. to. Hell!"

Well, Homer Jebus, would that I could lift a stone, I woul- wait. No I wouldn't. "I may not know much about God, but I have to say".... I don't believe in building cages for him. And I actually do know much about Capital-G God, too, which is why I wouldn't lift a ston—

WILL YOU JUST ANSWER MY QUESTION?!

"I gave you a glittering Vegas, and you turned it into a skanky Atlantic City!"

Mmmm....

You mean.... Me fail drug tests? That's unpossible!

But...I have over 2 years clean! Yes, yes, over 1/3 of my liver was shot whence I got clean but the liver heals thyself! Like your flying, barbeque pig: "It's still good, it's still good!"

Right?

"Well, let me ask you this: Shut up."

You potation and glutton your way through Life, yet manage to endure, prevail; how can a human being possibly bring off this Homer, Jebus?

(Homer Apprehension: the videos have a tendency to not load on first attempt, require a little "retoole-ing;" simply reload the page, which generally solves the problem.)

"Mmmm.... I see."

Okay, Marge, okay. I see, too.

So you're not a human being, Homer Jebus; you're for fake. You live in a made-up world in which you can visit other made-up worlds. Hell, you're erasable! Your mistakes are erasable! Mine?

Not so much.

The intentional mistakes inserted into your for fake world, Life? Well, Hell! They're intentional! For fake for fun! Nothing could possib-ly go wrong! Me? My Life?

Welcome to Brilliant McSexyAss Land where anything could possib-lie go wrong! And thiiiiis health helicopter ride? It ain't the first thing that's ever gone wrong in Brilliant McSexyAss Land. No. Far from it.

Still, we two are eerily similar, Homer Jebus.

Let us never speak of this "shortcut" again.

******

T.E. Lawrence: The truth is: I'm an ordinary man. You might've told me that, Dryden.

William Faulkner: By temperament, I’m a vagabond and a tramp.

Homer J. Simpson: Why are you torturing me? I'm just a man!

******

Duderonomy:

I am not a fan of anyone who rails pro-religion or anti-religion; rails are for trains. And coke-fiends. Whichever, both are too damn speedy, dangerous, liable to run you down without warning. Potentially, kill you without braking or a look-back.

I do not like that.

Bible-thumpers? No. Not a fan. Angry atheists? Nuh-uh. Not a fan. The Great Purge of July, 2010 (aka, deletion of Facebook "friends" from my list) included people from both sides of the tracks. Obviously, I'm an atheist, so why would I ix-nay my fellow non-believers?

Because there's a fine white-line, former fiends, between love and hate. Religious zealots (ha) incense me, yes, but so do angry atheists and if the latter are so blinded by the "light" of what they deem as "THE Capital-T Truth" that they cannot discern they've now crossed the line — become just as zealous as the bible-thumpers they so deplore and rail against — well, then, here's you a one-way ticket for the next train on outta' Tolerance Town. Because I don't like meanness; I do not like rails; I do not like hysterical blindness; I do not like people who blissfully, ignorantly dance o'er the thin line of Love and hate; I do not like dancing - at all - I suck at it; I really don't like cocaine. Never tried it, but speedy drugs scare the crap outta' me. No way. I preferred to risk my Life suckin' on Fentanyl patches, thank you very much. Yes, I indeedly did like that.

Not anymore I don't. No. I do not like the fever of the flavor of Fentanyl. Nor any other drugs. Save the good kind that keep me sane. Right now, you do not believe I am on those drugs; you think I have on my tongue a host of bodies of Christ! innumerable narcotics!

No. I do not. I am making a point. That point is: to each their own. But allow me to....allow a more learned, articulate poet (I ain't no poet anyways, and don't I know it - in many ways) make the point for me. Homer, oh great and epic one, if you will:

Are you still there, 3.14 pieple? It's me.... Mmmooom? What's my name again?

If you're still there, 3.14 pieple, it's me.... QUIT. GODDAMN. SMOKING!!!! I just wanted to thank you for listening to me and my conversation with my god, as I know him...s. Funny that my personal Jebus just-so-happens to not only work as a three, three, three gods in one! but - and I really did not notice this until I hit my Homer:

"I enjoyed it. The only thing that wasn't enjoyable was in the green room. I said, 'Can I have a drink?' 'We have lemon juice, apple juice, still or sparkling.' I said, 'No, I want a drink. No drink?' I said, 'All right, I'm fucking off. I'll be back.' A man with earphones said, 'No! No!' Eventually, this vodka was smuggled in." —Peter O'Toole discussing his mostly-enjoyable experience at the 75th (2003) Academy Awards

"Pouring out liquor is like burning books." —Faulkner on the importance of being earnest— or a Barn Burn-erest....?

"To alcohol: the cause of — and solution to! — alllll of life's problems!" — Homer Jay Simpson, epic poet; epic DUFF-drinker

Crippled Christ on Cloudy Crutches. My-eyye god... is a drunk-en god! He....wanes? Stains? Drains? Potation... Potains?

Seriously — what the Yoknapatawpha?

Well, seriously, my god(s) are, like me - well, they are me - which is why my Facebook religious views stand as Peter O'Toole speaking as Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney speaking as a "delusional" man (relative to your perception of the character) speaking as Capital-G: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

Me, Myself and I. Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner. The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Allah. Yahweh. Muhammad. Dad. KNEEL before ZOD!

I do not care. Truth is, I stopped believing because Sundays are for football. That's it. That and the fact that circa the time of my, "Sorry, Journey, but yes, I am going to stop believin' no matter how much Steve Perry implores me not to," The Bucs sucked. The Suckaneers. Hence....me of little faith.

You? Believe in whatever you want. I won't judge you, you don't judge me; I won't force my beliefs on you, you don't try and Journey your beliefs on me. I like that. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure I do. I think I do. Do I? Wait - hang on a sec—

Mmmooom? I like being tolerant of other pieple's religious beliefs, don't I?

Okay. IF YOU DON'T THROW THOSE GODDAMN CIGARETTES IN THE TRASH, GET IN HERE AND EAT SOMETHING THEN GET IN BED AND GET SOME GODDAMN REST FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, I'M GONNA BEAT YOUR SKINNY, SCRAWNY ASS! does, in fact, like being tolerant of other pieple's religious views.

Ain't that so. damn. cool?

***

Regardless of whether I've got a sinus infection, tapeworm, TOOMAH or absolutely zip-zilch-zero wrong with me, I know this much:

"It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: SHe made the books and SHe died."

William Cuthbert "Billy-Boy Faulking" Faulkner — Who Knew His SHite

....She. She. Definitely a female designation, name — Mary?

Too pure.

. . . . Margaret?

Got it!

Judy. Judy Blume.

Hot damn, I knew it would come to me! Thank you, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner!

"And Though It's Hard To Tell You This...."

i'm too sick to write these days. expect not much. expect nothing. which is what you've been getting in spades these days so continue to expect the expected.

this will be shit.

expected.

expectorated?

that's spit.

close enough.

a lotta' both these days. because i am sick. how a body loses 7 pounds in 7 days i do not know but hope to find out. or do i? see, there, you sonofabitch Shakes, is the rub.

what we can rule out with absolute, unquestionable…something…? my fucking head hurts with a terrific pain that is not at all terrific. i can't — don't — think straight: not these daze.

what Annie 100% Sonic Youth Truth does not suffer from:

1) testicular cancer.

2) diabetes. i peed on a stick, if you recall. meaning, you read the blog. meaning, you read the blog and are at all able to recall what you read. jesus christ, the Lab just farted and i do believe i'll die from gas poisoning before the doctors ever figure out whatever's actually wrong with me. now that i think about it, maybe that is what's wrong with me: every damn animal on this Orwellian Farm is out for my blood. the Labrador. the Dachshund puppy. THE HORSE.

the wiener dog lives up to his name in more ways than one. we named him after my mother's favorite singer… Willie Nelson.

wiener dog.

Willie.

every time i so much as lay a finger on him, that phallic phucker rolls over and, with bashful expression, excitedly pumps boner-fide pee, his rig spillin' oil faster than BP's. Texas Tea! southern hospitality! so hospitable, gonna land me in a hospital!

i shit you not one shite—nor piss you one trickle.

yet, i love the little dick. he's adorable. aren't all women suckers for dickheads?

yeah, i know. no, i don't care. i'm sick, tired, and if you don't know me well enough yet to expect this sort of vulgar expectoratin' well then…go phuck yourselph.

the Lab: okay, Sport is old, suffers terrible arthritis and hip dysplasia so every time he stands, walks…moves…his bowels loosen, and if he really gets a movement on—catches sight of a bird or cow or…fly…decides he's gonna give runnin' a go? yeah. soon as he's done, poor guy comes gimping back here, to my carport office, falling into terrible splayed displays, then five feet away from me he stops—and dumps a hugeantic load of shit in the most vile pile you can imagine. so imagine it, because i have to witness it every fucking day several times a day. also, when excited into a barking tizzy by aforementioned bird, motionless cow or a Whitty blade of grass, Sport-o spurts farts like bullets of gas. i mean, machine-gun succession and when it's 2 in the morning and you're still up because you're in too much fucking pain to even think about a wink—just the notion is laughable—so you're in the carport office Facebooking your pathetic "life" away (dull dulls the pain) with only the barely-there-glare of the claptrap laptop monitor serving as light and from the not-too-distant distance there comes a steady stream of extraordinarily loud Uzi fire?

you about shit your pants.

THE HORSE: people who know me and know me well know i hate…THE HORSE. because he hates me. Ranger. yeah, we're super-original with the pet names around here. Sport and Buster, the dogs; Ranger, THE HORSE. we once had a cat named Fuzzy. sooner or later, there will surely be a bird named Tweety.

back to the fuckin' HORSE.

he is evil on four legs. bites at me, scares the (sorry to overuse the term but i told you, i am drain bread) everloving shit outta' me (and others. see: Little Brother) by carefully hiding around corners then…stands in wait, motionless until you walk out the door, casual, nonchalant, mid-conversation, look to your right and—

BAM!

the fuckin' evil eye of…THE HORSE.

Little Brother almost collapsed after one of those encounters. truly terrifying. i felt terrible for him. which is why i pointed and laughed at him for many, many, just several, countless minutes.

THE FUCKING HORSE spends most of his time standing in front of The Puppy Pen (aka, Folsom Prison. we also have a Jack Russell pup, Wailin', named for, yes, Waylon Jennings, but spelled different because he takes to, yes, wailin') and THE HORSE stands there all day long, purposefully, merely to instigate, rile the pups into barking FUHRER. (ya' think Annie gets any naps during the daytime hours? you do? well then, you're a fucking moron.) the only time THE HORSE leaves his purposeful post is post-dinner: post-oats. why? WHY?

so he can amble on over to Annie's Place, lift his tail and dump shit-tons of fertilizer all up in my FACE. not to mention (but mention i will!) his midnightly strolls that just-so-happen to coincide with Sport's barks at the moon. why's he feel compelled to lone ranger his way on over?

to let fly from his ass gas that could:

1) knock a plague of flies off a shitwagon.

2) knock back a sonic boom.

i bet i have Swine Flu.

******

number 105 is not alive, folks. especially when it's stretched out over a long, small-boned, 5'8" frame.

but it is up from the 104…ish of a few days ago, so that's something.

sorry, Mom, but i didn't want to freak you out into any further stress. secretly weighed myself after the "I suddenly feel compelled to take a seat in the middle of the driveway!" episode. but—hey!—last night's 3 pounds of General Tso's tseems to have tstuck, tsoooo…that's tsomething… right?

100% definitely not testicular cancer.

more than a slight chance of toxic gas poisoning…

my pack-and-a-half-a-day smoking "habit" surely helps rather than hinders whatever health crisis this might be. which reminds me…

Hel-looo, Lovah…

some residual something from the 7-ish years of narcotic abuse? i dunno. seriously—i dunno because my brain—memory—is so annihilated, i don't remember fuck-all about 7-ish years ago, much of what occurred during those 7-ish years, much less what the hell i did or said yesterday. this morning.

who the fuck are you?

what was i saying?

oh yeah. regardless of whatever the hell is wrong with me, one thing is certain:

i definitely get to keep my balls.

******

fresh cigarette's a'lit

i spin to a '59 Sound.

the choking in my spit,

what i must bleed upon the ground:

"Here's lookin' at you, Kid."

******

i say, i say, this shit's for you, Motherfucker.

fuck typos.

******

"WHAT'S IN THE FUCKIN' BOX?!"

Somerset: "We're talking about everyday life here. You — you can't afford to be this naïve!"

Mills: "Fuck off. See, you should listen to yourself. Yeah. You say that the problem with people is that they don't care, so I don't care about people. It makes no sense. You know why?"

Somerset: "You care?"

Mills: "Damn right."

Somerset: "And you're gonna make a difference?"

Mills: "Whatever."

Se7en.

Mills: "Do you like what you do for a living? These things you see?"

Massage Parlor Proprietor: "No, I don't. But that's life."

Se7en.

******

John Doe: "Do you hear me, Detective? I'm trying to tell you how much I admire you…"

Se7en.

do you peoples know how much i admire you? you're an astonishing bunch. every day, you link us to updates, news of the world, or personal tales of trials, travails, fervently hoping that, in their names or for your—our—sakes, we understand, laugh, take action: hell, sympathize. of all aforementioned truly yours, it's the sting of your powerful, personal swings—triumphs and downfalls—which ring 'round one, mismatched, face-off:

a swift but soft landing smack.

a bee-ware butterfly before the uppercut: let's box.

beat bloody, blind I: Kerouac.

come to seeing brilliant yellow stars, fireflies of awe and "Awww…"

your gut punches strike this sucker dumb—and founded.

John Doe: "Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention."

Se7en.

Mills: "Honestly, have you ever seen anything like this?"

Somerset: "No."

Se7en.

California: "Somebody call…somebody."

Se7en.

******

John Doe: "It seems that envy is my sin."

Se7en.

envy gets a bad rap.

admiring, envying you, my remarkable friends, does not within me stir the desire to behead you. i like your heads! they produce said stories, thoughts, compulsions to act in the name of justice, righteousness, emotion, confession and, honestly, when i look upon your heads set squarely beside your admirable words, i think, "What lovely, lovely heads they are! Cellar-door beautiful, in fact!"

heads… in boxes…

John Doe: "I didn't do that."

so yes, i envy you admirable folk and your stupefying, everyday feats. you may not recognize them as such but, oh, i do. you played with your son today and, after audaciously plucking from your child's hand his prime, Optimus Prime placement, your boy transferred back said Transformer from your ignorant hand, curtly informing you, "Daddy, you don't get to be Optimus Prime. I do. You are Bumblebee." or you successfully battled a migraine without the aid of opiates and, royal miracle, upon your weary, woeful crown i gently dub you Queen of Pain for i know that Sting all too well and fuck the rest, they who don't understand untreated suffering: you are majesty, you are majestic. or you, bleeding out your poetic, prosthetic, prose-etic vains and, in turn, receive a return shot, an onslaught of misunderstood bullets and what poetic injustice: their aim, unfathomably untrue. yet, you do not fall. you shed for them not one drop of red.

i envy you. you and all the rest of my friends. i admire you so.

John Doe: "You should be very proud."

the expression made sincerely, genuinely for you should: be proud. pride within carries no sin. (so long as you don't cross over into pretense, arrogance, hubris…basically, don't get all big-headed.) however, pride poses a question: am i sinful, admiring and envying you wondrous beings living and loving and meaning in your everyday doings?

Mills: "Who knows? So many freaks out there doin' their little evil deeds they don't wanna do… 'The voices made me do it. My dog made me do it. Jodie Foster told me to do it.'"

no. there's no sin in admiration and my envy is pure, unwilled of ill, no evil intention: both, for you, seed, root, grow, and flower from my heart, bloomin' love.

******

Somerset: "Apathy is the solution. I mean, it's easier to lose yourself in drugs than it is to cope with life. It's easier to steal what you want than it is to earn it. It's easier to beat a child than it is to raise it. Hell, love costs: it takes effort and work."

Se7en.

Somerset: "Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.' I agree with the second part."

Se7en.

California: "This isn't even my desk!"

Se7en.

John Doe has the upper hand. i've hit a bottom today, a low so depthless i cannot see light. saltwater stings, blurs, blinds everything—details are unimportant. within, a flicker, an enzyme of hope zooming aimlessly around my heart but directionless, disabled, blind to my brain's pathway: my head, cut off.

Mills: "Awwwww, what's in the box?"

i assure you, it's not a bisected head: nothing bipolar, manic, depressive. this, always, the first conclusion jumped upon when people know your mind is halved but know that mine is whole, attached and the poles, aligned.

but, on the other sleeve, my heart is hole.

so weary, exhausted, overwhelmed, overcome, overtaken. the hormones, you see, i'm awash in them, they tsunami an insanity unlike anything chemicals could ever imbalance. the essence…i'm so whelmed over, eating is not only a chore, worried upon me by my anxious mother, but now, to eat? an impossible feat.

the antithesis of gluttony: unwilling starvation. does that mean i'm up for canonization?

my poor mother. this morning, my stepfather encountered me in my standard, black-before-break-of-day repose: outside, lawn chair seated, laptop lapped, fingertips tapped, coffee capped. after exchanging our perfunctory "Good morning," greetings, he paused at the car door, sighing, "Boy, I think your mom has had it with those dogs. They're driving her nuts! She's just plain mantic!"

and i laughed until tears ran. not to mock my stepdad and his occasional breakthroughs of verbal dyslexia, but because the word was so apt. "Mantic." yes, manic, frantic—this, the condition my current condition wreaks upon not just stupid, sickly me, but those i love—those who, every day, desperately, frantically, wit-endingly, exhaustively extend when helping and caring for stupid, sickly me.

that…is a sin: willfully or, through no fault of your own, creating within your loved ones hindering, overwhelming, overpowering, mantic states. sinful, wrestling them with wrath.

mantic: adj. Of, relating to, or having the power of divination; prophetic.

that, not the state sickly, stupid me summons. oh, were that it was… to know what is coming, what's for sure, what will happen, if all will work out and, finally, be…okay.

John Doe: "You will accept my apology, won't you? I feel like saying more, but I don't want to ruin the surprise."

"The surprise." I'm not sure what it is, but the rest applies.

Mantic: what divinity divine must be! to prophesize!

"I didn't say I was different or better. I'm not. Hell, I sympathize."

******

Mills: "Whatever. I don't think you're quitting because you believe these things you say. I don't. I think you want to believe them, because you're quitting. And you want me to agree with you, and you want me to say, 'Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're right. It's all fucked up. It's a fucking mess. We should all go live in a fucking log cabin.' But I won't. I don't agree with you. I do not. I can't."

Se7en.

***

Mills: "Fuckin' Dante… Poetry-writing faggot pieceofshit motherfucker!"

best line of the film, despite the awful homophobic slur. true to character, though, which is essential to good—great—writing, and after this incoherent babble? thought you could use a bit of great writing. (if you'll please excuse the homophobic slur.)

the following? couldn't resist. oh-so John Doe apropos. McBrilliant, if i do say so.

Anne'd i do.

John Doe: "It's more comfortable for you to label me as insane."

Mills: "It's very comfortable."

John Doe: "I'm setting the example. What I've done is going to be puzzled over and studied and followed…forever."*

*Quote referencing Annie's blog. Image showing: Annie's blog.

FACT: One In Four Fucktards Will Misread This Blog

FACT: One in four women can misread a traditional pregnancy test.

FACT: One in four women is fucktarded.

Did you pee on the box and not the stick? Do you suffer from an undiagnosed visual impairment that challenges the discernment of single from double lines? Or, if you ponied up the big bucks for the "fancy" digital test that actually spells out in big letters YES or NO, did the test malfunction and burp up a maddening NESYO?

Orrrrrrr is one in four women simply fucktarded?

"What the... Two lines?! What the First Response does that mean? I know the instructions say it means that, sure as sugar, I'm sweet sixteen and knocked-up like a foul ball into the left field bleachers, but that can't be right! I'm not pregnant! Yes, I had unprotected sex 57 times last month—58 if you count Bobby which I don't—but I'm not pregnant! This test is wrong. Oh, I'm so confused! It says right here: Clearblue Easy! I don't... I do not find this test neither clear nor easy!"

What I'm thinkin' is this: one in four women is not fucktarded; rather, the keyword, "traditional," is overlooked. "Traditional" pregnancy tests make me think of the chemistry sets women of my mother's generation were made to use, which were veritable bathroom-based science experiments. Women were not only likely to misread said results, but might well blow up the house in the process.

The e.p.t test of 1978 was described to the public in Mademoiselle: “For your $10,” the article notes, “you get pre-measured ingredients consisting of a vial of purified water, a test tube containing, among other things, sheep red blood cells…as well as a medicine dropper and clear plastic support for the test tube, with an angled mirror at the bottom.” The test took two hours, and was more accurate for positive results (97%) than for negative (80%). A Thin Blue Line: The History of the Pregnancy Test Kit

Yeah, I think I'd misread those results, too. Because it's difficult to read what's been blasted clear across town, shattered into slivered smithereens, 'cause that's what happens when you load vials, tubes, mirrors and THE SACRIFICIAL BLOOD OF INNOCENT SHEEP into a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher, blow it sky-high and ain't that some sweet emotion right there, honey! Call that baby airborne, Air Jordan, call you an Aerosmith as you walk this way singin', "Can't catch me 'cause the rabbit done died!"

Yes it did!

And so did the sheep!

By the bye: Why is a man in a collared neckline siftering and inspecting my at-home urine?

Perhaps why one in four "traditional" test results were misread...

If I'm looking too deeply into the clear blue (how unlike me), then I'll be the first to say it...again: One in four women is fucktarded. Then again, I took me lots o' literary theory and criticism classes and a few courses on pop culture, and minored me a wee degree in Women's Studies. I likes to analyze. And methinks the word "traditional" be a clever ploy, one meant to snooker us into believing 25% of all women are fucktarded, incapable of properly discerning between one line and two, the words YES and NO.

Why am I writing about this today? Because of my impending hysterectomy? Or is it due to this morning's burst of the ovary? (Yes, say it with me, friends: "Again?") Blame the freakin', flappin', what-the-happenin', "Watch me grow a beard riiiiiiight...now!" hormones?

Nope. Well, maybe a little bit, okay, but not really.

FACT: I see that commercial constantly and every time think, "Then one in four women is fucktarded. I really need to write about that..."

FACT: I had to pee on a stick today! Ha HA! Didn't see THAT one comin', did ya'? But not an at-home pregnancy test stick. (Duh. That would be funny though. "So I'll talk to you later. I'm headin' out to buy a box of pregnancy tests. Just for funsies. Hey, man—you never know! Look at Mary Mother of Jesus! I ain't sayin' I'm, like, a virgin. I'm just sayin' The Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways!")

Back to reality...

Checking to make sure I haven't become diabetic in the wake of all of this hormonal hell. The extreme weight loss despite gorging is more than a little worrisome, so I peed on a strip. I am not diabetic. Which blew my mind like a traditional pregnancy test from a grenade launcher because, sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, I got every other auto-immune disease known to the medical world! FACT!

But NOT diabetes. FACT.

Unless I misread the test results...

FACT: No rabbits nor sheep were killed in the making of this blog.

FACT: Okay—one in four rabbits and 25% of all sheep used in the making of this blog were, in fact, killed.

They pissed me off.

A Mother's Day Retreat: Let Me Show You To Your Womb...

Happy Mother's Day, Ma! How's about an oral contraceptive with your freshly squeezed OJ?

May 9th is the 50th anniversary of the invention of the birth control pill. I ain't makin' this up! Google that shit! This Sunday may serve as the greatest example of irony in the history of the ironical. Theater and writing teachers, take note! "Example of irony, example of irony . . . Ah, yes! How about the 50th anniversary of the invention of the birth control pill — that medication which prevents pregnancy so, therefore, sex yields no children which, thereby, brings a screeching halt to the creation of mothers — falling on the same day as . . . tah-daaaah! Mother's Day, 2010! Oh, that was a great day for irony lovers across the land! Some say Alanis Morissette wept."

Of course, that's hyperbolic example. Most women don't take the pill their whole life-long so they may never have any children and never be mothers; rather, they take it for the convenience of choosing when they will or won't get pregnant — when they will or won't become mommys. However, some women take definitive action when they swallow the pill, having decided at some point they didn't want to have children; that, for whatever reasons, surgical intervention was not for them nor any other method of birth control prevention. And to be able to make that choice — to have the ability to daily take a pill because now is not the time for a baby, or to stop taking said pill and say, "Now is the time to have a baby, I want to have a child now." — that easy for so many women! — what an awesome ability that is.

Still, the irony. Oh, ya' gotta laugh. I gotta laugh. Or else you'll cry. Or else I'll cry. I cry at the drop of a hat these days. I cry at the drop of a hat, drop of a sock, drop of a shirt, a pen, a pill — really, there's no need to drop anything because I cry for no reason at all — not sure why I necessitated the dropping of a hat to begin with. Silliness. Madness. Mad Hatters? Hormones.

Q. How do you make a hormone?

A. You kick it.

Oh, so terrible, so terrible, offensive on so many levels but so funny, so funny and ya' gotta laugh, I gotta laugh or someone's gonna drop a hat.

HORMONES.

Not one word of a lie — wish I could video record while writing — after boldly typing "hormones" with the intent to draw a laugh I stopped, stared at the word and cried — laughed but cried, hands held up in the universal "What the fuck?/Search me!" gesture.

And thatfast — the tears dry up. But that salty wall still pushes impending behind my eyes, sinuses — all the time. It's so stupid. It's such silliness. It's the unending dropping of hats.

Madness.

It is pointless to tell you

It is now and it will continue to be pointless to tell you when I'm made to pull over for breakdowns. Repairs are quick affairs, usually: oily hormones clog the machinery, the engine overheats, leaks and fails. These are delicate works, cannot be forced, roadside rest must be taken, pulled over before attempting reigniting, at finding the lost spark, then shift into neutral, sit idle, and soon enough I'm again back on the rocky road. There's a destination ahead, The Mother's Day Retreat, and I aim to get there, breakdowns be damned.

So throw it in reverse and burn rubbers, 'cause this is a retreat — a retreat from the mothers.

From madness.

Hyster-(o): from the Greek meaning uterus; hysteria.

Socratic, sexist bastards.

Explains a lot, though.

Gotta laugh, gotta laugh . . .

This Mother's Day, Sunday, I'll be here at my mom's, likely laid up on the couch; Ova Marie warms-up her . . . pipe . . . alla agiato, affannoso, promising ostinato ovations for the weekend. Oh, she's such a diva-bitch.

But I'll listen, keen — cry myself breathless over the melancholy music played by my little internal organ and the knowledge that it's the last time I'll ever hear her discordant anguish.

Hysterectomy: meaning uterus, hysteria, removed.

Mother's Day: meaning . . .

There are other hopes, other meanings, other means but — if you please — don't ask she, still stuffed full with the hysterical, to focus on such right now. The hats are dropping and should you point out future potential chance or "luck" those hats will drop mad.

Some other hysteria palpated within my weird womb remains unnamed, unknown so we'll see. It's funny (seriously, it is funny — well, I had to laugh, anyway) when the doctor examines you, palpates your right side, stops dead and awkwardly asks, "Um, Anne? Didn't you say they took everything out of your right side?"

Keep in mind, Doc's got one hand all up in my mamma jammas, the other pushing on my belly, I'm doing everything I can not to look him in the eye and all-hell hurts like a motherfucker but it shouldn't because—

"Yes, yes they took everything, everything OUT!"

"The right side?"

"Yes!"

"Ovary, fallopian tube, appendix, too?"

"YesyesyesYES!"

"Huh. I'm palpating a mass over here and it's about the size of an ovary — small lemon-ish size—"

"I know and it hurts! What is that?!"

"Well, could be a wad of scar tissue, could be something . . . else, we'll have to get a better look later. Let's check the left side now. I'm sorry, I know this is going to hurt."

"I'm sorry, too but just do whatever you have to Doc I want to know what all's wrong so go ahe— ohmygaaaaaawwwwwwd."

"I'm so sorry, I'll go as quick as I can—"

"No don't — just take whatever time you need just do whatever you have to find whatever you have to — it's okay! Really it's okay!"

"Some masses over here, too. Might be cysts or scar tissue. I know — just hang on, Anne, we're almost done. You've been such a patient lady. Okay, we're done. Okay."

Okay.

"I grow scar tissue like kudzu," I tearfully informed him afterwards, postured painfully in Quasimodo hunch on the edge of the exam table.

"Oh, I'm sure, after 7 surgeries, I'm sure you do, and the surgeon will find out exactly what those masses are and — that's the only hiccup — I don't do hysterectomies anymore — but I've got 3 people on my staff here who do, so I'm setting you up for a consult with one of them. Next week . . . Tuesday okay?"

Okay.

And it is okay 'cause the thing is, I know it's all scar tissue — it grows in me like kudzu — my mind isn't consumed with preying masses. There's the money, or lack of, I should say; unassured as one uninsured but there's help, assistance for the unassisted. Junk: dope, narcotics, drugs — terrifying for the recovering addict who just last week celebrated two years clean but y'know, not so terrifying as I thought it might be. Twenty-four months of sobriety, sanity, chronic pain suffered without the aid of painkilling . . . all of this time to reflect on what's really tolerable and what isn't . . . I know I'll come through shining.

I know I'll be okay.

Okay.

But I'm still going to lament the loss. I'm going to cry myself to sleep each night from now till then — the day they take my unknown babies away — when I let them show me to my room, show to me my womb and I make my final retreat: wave bye-bye . . . bye-bye . . .

It's okay. It's time. I've held on so long. This battle . . . I fought as gods and monsters and whether anyone else knows the truth of that matters not: I know it. This is not a surrender. This isn't even a retreat.

This is a peace-offering.

I offer up to Hecate my hysteria that I may reclaim my Life — my sanity — my peace — myself.

I cannot raise another of her artificial sprites.

Time has had with me her druthers,

And please believe — that is okay.

Celebrate your children, Mothers:

My birth is that of better day.

*****

HECATE: Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,

Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.

Macbeth. III.v.34-35

******

Forgive the awful writing. Mad hats dropping . . . everywhere, endlessly.

Please — no advice, however well-intended, or stories of hope, hang-in-there, been-there-and-had-success-if-you-just-try-this, do-that, etc. I know what I've endured. This is my decision. I'm so tired. I'm not living; merely existing, and not well. I'm done. Well-done.

I'm one who's done well.

Thank you, Mark Sleiter, for unobfuscating things for me when really, you had no call to do so. You are the most awful, terrible, horrible mean man. You should be clubbed with a baby seal.

My ovary is in the mail. I N L O V I N G M E M O R Y.

Scary scrawl.

Thank you, Mark. In all seriousness. Seriously.

But ya' gotta laugh . . .

Seriously.

:D