MAKE AMERICA PIE AGAIN!!!!

Because by god, don’t we fucking need something we can all agree on at this point??!!?!?!?!?!

“This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.”- The Crying of Lot 49

Look, I know, I really do know. I am really feeling it today. Particularly because I am a person who has a vagina. What happened last night has me even questioning whether women are people (and I know this sounds completely dramatic and ridiculous to some and to those I would point you to this very interesting article written about a month ago on Salon called “Are Women People”), when a man, simply because he is a man, can be elected to one of the most powerful and influential offices in the world despite his complete lack of experience, lack of qualifications, lack of any real solutions to any of the issues facing America or the world, lack of basic human decency in dealing with his fellow man, and lack of tact, grace, humility or warmth.

I know that his being a man was not the beginning and end of his appeal for those that voted for him. I also understand that Hillary’s appeal was…well, virtually nonexistent. Only the most die-hard Hillary supporters were able to look past the fact that she absolutely represented the Washington Old Guard and the worst of what old fashioned political double-dealing and backdoor politicking will get you. But she was, at the very least qualified. Very well qualified in fact which is why it is so maddening that she lost to a bellowing fucking spray-tanned clown in an ill-fitting suit and a red power tie with absolutely NO political experience. Politics and prostitution are the only two professions I can think of where your complete lack of experience could be considered a selling point regarding your ability to do the job. It’s completely insane. But I digress…I am not here to talk about campaigns or candidates or victory margins or the “white working class” or how or why this happened (okay, I might talk about that a little bit). I just want to talk about how it made me feel as a woman, as a feminist, as a mom and a person and what I am going to do about it!

It made me feel like no one will ever truly consider women to be equal to men. It made me feel voiceless and powerless, scared and small, sick and helpless. I am disgusted and so ashamed that this, this MAN will be the outward face of our country for the next four years. This man who judges and sexualizes women. This man who has tried to make so many of us feel so small for so long is now our “leader”. This man who is the literal and proverbial face of white nationalism and who has frothed up an Alt Right and white nationalist movement engaged solely by the fear of growing racial diversity in our country (oh, and maybe by the election of our nation’s first black president….that might have something to do with it too). Fear is incredibly potent and last night saw a record number of white males (and this is a statistical truth, not just my own brainwashed libtard assumptions) turn out to the polls to cast a vote for Trump. But for what were they really casting a vote?

They were voting with their fear, their fear that their white majority will disappear (it will, that’s just simple mathematics), their fear that their guns will be taken away (America, that’s never going to happen, we are going to be allowed to keep shooting each other to death until time runs out), fear that the “progressive agendas” were moving too far too fast (we are all going to be forced to attend HUGE gay, muslim weddings officiated by Germaine Greer and Grace Jones wherein all the bridesmaids are Ru Paul and John Leguizamo’s character from “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar”, all the guests are Syrian refugees, and the fucking cake is made out of kale or some shit…actually that sounds like one hell of a party…except for the kale cake. Can we, as a species just admit that no one really “loves” kale? It’s fucking terrible, okay!), and as we all know nothing motivates like fear (think “why America invaded Iraq”).

A lot of people are not ready for the America that will inevitably exist. The fight is hard, the setbacks are terrifying and it is every goddamn day but eventually THAT America will exist, the one where sexism is meaningfully and universally eschewed, the one where the lives of all human beings, no matter their age, religion, skin-tone, gender, sexuality, or ethnicity, are valued equally in the eyes of the law and our equality will be sacrosanct! The America where everyone will work to preserve a brighter, cleaner, more civil and more understanding future for the generations that follow us will absolutely exist! It’s just going to take a lot more time than we want it to….than we think we have, than we think we can bear but bear it we will because, Goddamnit, WE ARE AMERICANS! We do not stop fighting for what is good and what is just and what is right just because it’s hard or even because at times it seems impossible! It is when we are faced with what seem like insurmountable odds that we are forced to do our best work and I have no doubt that this country will, in fact be great, and it will have nothing to do with keeping it white, or keeping it insular, or keeping certain people out and other people silent! It will be because we will all rise up to include and value ALL voices and ALL faces because true democracy is about action and inclusion of EVERY person, not just the “right” people!

And it is for that vision that I am formally declaring my candidacy for President of the United States of America in 2020. I said back in March that when I fun for President my campaign slogan was going to be “Make America Pie Again” and, unlike some other filp-floppers, I absolutely stand by this statement! I will make America pie again! And since last night’s election proved to us that Americans are perfectly willing to vote someone with absolutely no political experience into the highest office in the land I think I’ve got a damn good shot at this thing! My platform is simple; I am running for basic human decency, basic human rights (food, shelter, medical care, all protections of all the laws, freedom of speech and expression, freedom from oppression and bigotry, freedom to practice whatever bullshit religion you feel most aligns with your personal ideals, but most of all your basic and inalienable right to eat motherfucking pie) for ALL, NO MATTER WHAT, AND THE RIGHT TO MOTHERFUCKING PIE! I stand for freedom, and pie, simple as that! If we cannot put a pie in every pot (chicken pot pie, perhaps?) then and only then can we truly say we have failed as a nation!!!!

Feel free and even encouraged to download the Bibliodiva For President “Make America Pie Again” bumper sticker jpeg below and share it on all your social media platforms. If you are truly committed to the cause of equal rights, equal pay and equal pie for all and want to display your pie pride outside of the internet, click on the link below and it will take you to a magical place where you can purchase your very own Bibliodiva For President “Make America Pie Again” bumper sticker that will totally exist in real life and not just on the internet! May we all eat pie and may god have mercy on our souls!!! BIBLIODIVA FOR PRESIDENT!!!!!

bumpersticker

Buy your Bibliodiva for President “Make America Pie Again!” bumper stickers & t-shirts HERE! 

Also, (drink) I did not edit this so there are probably a lot of typos but if you feel the need to point them out to me, well, you are just a fucking monster!

Also, also, just so you know how absolutely seriously I am taking this platform, here is a picture of my desk as I sit here writing this…

1109161423c

Yup, that’s Pie! 

 

Pussy Grabbing, Locker Room Talk and Why Trump’s Comments are Truly Problematic

pig-pile

We get it, men talk about pussy. They do, and they talk about it like that, like it’s a thing having nothing to do with an actual person and while it’s not ideal I think it’s fair to say that it is normal and will continue to be normal until societal norms change, and I am sure they will, slowly, but they will.

But until we live in an ideal society where everyone has their own unicorn and all lives of all human beings are valued equally and we all get together and hug it out at a big fucking ice cream social every Saturday afternoon, men are going to continue to talk about women and their vaginas like they are a commodity, something to be obtained in order to bolster their own self worth. But that’s not the problematic thing about Donald Trump’s comments that were caught on a hot mic in 2005. The problematic thing with the comments that the Donald made is that he explicitly talked about kissing women without their permission and then went on to talk about how he didn’t need permission because he was famous! It’s not because he said the word “pussy”! It’s because he talked about grabbing said pussy without obtaining consent to do so! I’ll allow that his talking about trying to “fuck” a married woman whilst being married himself is gross but I think it’s gross because it’s Donald Trump talking about fucking and that’s just toe-curling-ly nauseating! Was is very “presidential”? Certainly not but is anything that guy does?

Obviously we have had presidents in the past who were absolute poon-hounds and were absolutely unfaithful to their wives, before, during and after their presidencies but, as far as I know, none of them were ever caught on tape, describing themselves sexually assaulting women. And that is why Donald Trump parading all (okay obviously not all, it wasn’t that big of a room) the women who Bill Clinton slept with or sexually harassed or flashed or  who have accused him of sexual assault is not going to work for Donald. First of all using these women, who have already been through Hell, as a despicable political prop is pretty fucking lousy and just feels icky but the worst part is that, in doing this, Donald Trump seems to have completely disregarded that fact that Bill Clinton IS NOT THE ONE RUNNING FOR FUCKING PRESIDENT!!!! It’s like he can’t even treat Hillary like an individual human being and simply equates her to the closest man in her life.

But here’s the thing; Donald Trump wants to use the actions of Hillary’s husband against her, citing that because her husband did these things that somehow makes her unqualified to be president! WHAT THE DAMN HELL? So, on the same side of that coin, does Donald Trump’s wife posing naked on the cover of Max Magazine in 1997 (and naked on the inside of the same magazine with another naked woman in 1995) make him somehow morally deficient? My guess is that Donald Trump would argue that it makes him a “stud” because that is just the kind of grotesque, prepubescent logic and phrasing he would use. I find that Donald Trump’s repeated and continued attempts to use Bill’s actions as a case against Hillary to be genuinely disturbing and definitely a symptom of his own deeply held sexist attitudes towards women. Donald Trump is a sexist, I don’t think anyone can argue that point (although that won’t stop some from trying), but it’s the fact that there is an enormous segment of the population (as well as an enormous segment of people in positions of power) that is able and all-too-willing to overlook the fact that he is a sexist that is the real problem.

Which brings me to my next point, larger Republican establishment, why now? Why this audio? How is this the straw that finally broke the camel’s back? Is it because he said “fuck” and “bitch” and “pussy”? I’m guessing that’s why because you already knew who Donald Trump was, and this audio is EXACTLY who he is! You already knew that he was basically just a racist, upside down traffic cone filled with bile and overcooked steak who liked to start Twitter wars at 3 a.m. with former beauty queens or David Letterman or Rosie O’Donnell or basically anyone who has ever said anything bad about him. He has no self control (which is probably one of the reasons he is always cheating on his wife and trying to have sex with married women), he has no capacity for empathy, he is a pathological liar (I MEAN SERIOUSLY! JUST LOOK AT THE FACT CHECK SITES, THIS IS NOT FUCKING COMPLICATED! IT IS LITERALLY A GOOGLE SEARCH AWAY FROM YOU!!!!!!), he is a deplorable racist, he is a xenophobia-spreading cancer on this nation! But it was that fact that he talked about pussy that was just too much for y’all to bear? Seriously?

And the way that most of the Republicans who came out to denounce Donald Trump or remove their support of him was just as cringe-worthy as having supported him in the first place. All the cable news channels just showed wave after wave or white guys talking about how Trump’s comments disgusted them because they have daughters and/or sisters or mothers or wives or females dogs as pets or what the fuck ever. So basically, you’re saying that if you didn’t have females close to you then you’d be just fine with ol’ Pussy Grabber Trump prattling on to a giggling Billy Bush (and we are DEFINITELY going to talk about that scumbag) about how he uses his fame to justify assaulting women? It’s only the fact that you have daughters that makes you capable of understanding why his statements were deplorable and wrong? Otherwise you would have no understanding of why the things that Trump said were so damaging? Well….that’s just fucking great!

Your saying that you found Trump’s comments upsetting because you have daughters is nearly exactly the same as Trump saying that Hillary is unqualified to run this country because of the things her husband has done! Both statements are steeped in some seriously deep-seated sexism but really one thing should not have anything to do with the other! The things that Trump said on that tape should be condemned because they patently sexist and, even worse, were advocating sexual assault and if you could not come to that conclusion without first thinking about whether or not someone might speak that way about your daughter or your wife then you, my friend, are right up there with the Donald himself! And this seems like the perfect time to remind you of a point I made WAY back up at the top of the page; women are not pissed about Donald Trump talking lewdly, we are pissed about his admission that he has kissed women without their consent, that he would grope a woman without consent and would expect no consequences because he is famous!!!!

It’s not the words he used, it’s what those words said! Do I wish I could go back in time and never have to hear Donald Trump say the word “pussy”? You’re Goddamn right I do! That shit is gonna haunt my nightmares for at least another month at which point all of my frustration and exhaustion over all this sexist bullshit will be completely washed away by the elation of having our first female President of the United States of America…even if it is Hillary Clinton. Just like how racism doesn’t exist anymore because we had a black President!!!!

Wouldn’t that be awesome if that’s how things worked in real life though?

XOXO!!! Thanks for hanging and reading!

P.S. I said I was going to talk about that tittering piece of human garbage, Billy Bush, so here is it: Billy Bush is a vile little troll who single-handedly grossed out millions of women by acting as Donald Trump’s hug pimp and referring to himself as “the Bushy”. That alone should be an offense punishable by firing squad or being made into some kind of human piñata and then being continually beaten with a baseball bat until his intestines fall out his asshole. He is a shriveled, repugnant, jizz-stained, hair-sprayed, malodorous sack of fetid human waste who is absolutely the worst version of himself and I don’t even think that Oprah could help now. That is all.

P.P.S. Also, how great was it when actual professional athletes came out and started criticizing Trump for his use of the phrase “locker room talk” citing that sexually assaulting women was definitely NOT something that was discussed in actual locker rooms?!?!  Super Great! That’s how!

P.P.P.S. Also THIS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

54 Times Comics Were Totally Inappropriate

I have to do something…to say something, anything, just so that my not saying anything doesn’t go on for any longer. I miss saying things. I miss having something to say. I miss feeling like it was okay for me to say those somethings. I miss all of you. I miss me. I will find me, soon with any luck, and I will be back. XOXO

In the meantime here’s this:

54 Times Comics Were Totally Inappropes, Dog!

dazzler

That time Dazzler showed off her talents just a little too well.

jughead-the-butch

That time that “something” happened to Jughead. But on the plus side he appears to be getting a reach-around.

take-me-down-to-gay-city

That time that Superman went on holiday to that place he’d been hearing SO much about from Jimmy Olsen. Sorry Jimmy.

that-time-that-batgirl-made-clayface-splooge

That time that Batgirl made Clayface Slpooge all over himself.

that-time-that-batman-came-up-with-the-perfect-excuse-for-just-sitting-around-looking-at-gay-porn

That time that Batman came up with the perfect excuse for just sitting around looking at gay porn.

that-time-bruce-wayne-was-not-entirely-honest-about-his-relationship-with-superman

That time that Bruce Wayne was not entirely honest about his relationship with Superman.

aunt-may-jizz

That time that Peter Parker jizzed all over and Aunt May tried to clean it up.

that-time-lois-lane-was-clearly-sodomized-by-a-robot

That time that Lois Lane was clearly sodomized by a robot.

that-time-batgirl-and-robin-had-some-big-weekend-plans

That time that Robin and Batgirl had some big weekend plans. #orgy

that-time-that-ben-wanted-to-destroy-his-weiner

That time that Ben Grimm was really, really, really hard on his wiener.

that-time-that-captain-america-got-his-junk-fondled-by-a-disembodied-hand-coming-out-of-a-cave

That time that Captain America had his junk fondled by a disembodied hand that emerged from a mysterious cave.

that-time-that-cheetah-got-a-little-too-frisky-with-wonder-woman-in-the-ladies-room

That time that Cheetah got a little too frisky with Wonder Woman in the ladies’ room.

that-time-the-joker-got-really-defensive-about-his-boner

That time that the Joker got super defensive about his boner.

that-time-that-wonder-womans-mom-contemplated-her-future-while-staring-creepily-at-a-big-lesbian-orgy

That time that Wonder Woman’s mom contemplated her future whilst staring creepily at a big lesbian orgy.

that-time-that-superman-was-a-little-too-close-to-his-naked-cousin

That time that someone really needed to teach Superman about the boundaries observed between cousins here on earth.

that-time-that-the-flash-just-fucking-needed-nuts-hunred-of-nuts

That time that the Flash just fucking NEEDED nuts….hundreds of them.

that-time-that-wonder-woman-got-stapped-to-a-giant-vibrator

That time that Wonder Woman was strapped to a giant vibrator.

time-that-batman-was-going-to-teach-robin-a-manly-lesson-in-his-batcave

That time that Batman was going to teach Robin a very manly lesson right in his Batcave.

the-time-that-superman-prematurely-ejaculated-all-over-everything

That time that Superman prematurely ejaculated all over EVERYTHING.

that-time-wonder-woman-needed-to-bite-through-her-gag-so-she-could-perform-fellatio

That time that Diana needed to bite through her gag so she could perform fellatio….obvs.

that-time-that-tony-stark-and-steve-rogers-got-a-little-too-real-about-their-needs

That time that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers got a little too real about their needs.

that-time-that-this-bitch-had-her-priorities-in-order

That time this Bitch had her motherfucking priorities in order.

that-time-that-robin-obviously-had-blown-batman-so-well-that-bruce-was-finding-it-difficult-to-stand-up

That time that Robin had blown Batman so well that Batman was having trouble standing up after the devastatingly life altering orgasm.

that-time-that-superman-needed-his-daddy-to-punish-him

That time that Superman just NEEDED his Daddy to punish him….I mean we’ve all been there, right?

that-time-that-hecules-had-no-qualms-about-living-up-to-his-reputation

That time that Hercules had not qualms about living up to his reputation.

beautyandthebeast_wrap1

That time that Dazzler stood in the rain while feeling Hank McCoy’s nipples after having finally been won over by his teddy-bearish charm.

that-time-that-superman-had-big-plans-for-jimmy-olsen

That time, after the roofies kicked in, that Superman had big plans for Jimmy Olsen.

that-time-that-hawkeye-was-a-total-being-a-total-pussy-about-tigras-pussy

That time that Hawkeye was a total pussy about Tigra’s pussy.

 

that-time-that-batman-failed-to-understand-how-consensual-age-appropriate-s-and-m-works

That time that Batman failed to understand how consensual, age-appropriate S & M works.

that-time-that-batgirl-got-a-lot-more-than-she-bargained-for

That time that Batgirl got more than just a ride.

that-time-superman-got-a-bad-blowjob-and-then-tried-to-forget-it

That time that Superman got a very unsatisfactory blow job and then tried to block it out of his memory.

that-time-that-batman-would-have-needed-to-reevaluate-his-relationship-with-robin-is-he-could-have-read-minds

That time that Batman, had he been able to read minds, might have considered reevaluating his relationship with the Boy Wonder.

that-time-that-green-lantern-and-green-arrow-got-super-intimate-but-then-had-to-worry-about-the-consequences

That time that the Green Lantern and Green Arrow totally had sex but then had to deal with the consequences of their actions.

that-time-that-robins-leather-thong-had-batmans-teeth-marks-all-over-it

That time that Robin’s leather thong had Batman’s teeth marks all over it.

that-time-that-robin-got-arrested-for-indecent-exposre-4-minutes-after-this-panel-was-drawn

That time that Robin was arrested for indecent exposure about 4 minutes after this panel was drawn.

that-time-that-red-skull-really-struck-a-nerve-with-cap

That time that Red Skull really struck a nerve with Cap.

that-time-that-mr-fantastic-was-super-fucking-sexist-on-multiple-levels

That time that Mister Fantastic was super fucking sexist on multiple levels.

that-time-that-ironman-wanted-to-play-rough

That time that Ironman wanted to play ROUGH.

that-time-that-comissioner-gordon-was-concerned-about-robins-ability-to-handle-a-boner

That time that Commissioner Gordon was concerned about Robin’s ability to take a boner….he really shouldn’t have worried.

that-time-that_oh-sweet-god-in-heaven-what-white-nonsense-is-this

That time that Captain Marvel…OH SWEET GOD IN HEAVEN, what white nonsense is this?!?

that-time-this-chick-gave-it-to-her-moms-straight-about-her-love-of-the-d

That time that this Chick gave it to her moms straight about her love of the D.

that-time-when-the-hulk-was-just-too-much-for-ironman-to-take

That time that the Hulk was just too much for Ironman to take.

that-time-that-we-totally-knew-what-hecules-and-quicksilver-were-thinking

That time that we knew exactly what Hercules and Quicksilver were thinking.

that-time-that-superman-violently-ass_raped-santa

That time that Superman violently ass-raped Santa Claus.

that-time-that-robin-finally-figured-out-that-shit-was-super-awkward

That time that Robin finally figured out that shit between him and Bruce was starting to get SUPER awkward.

what-the-shit-is-this-nonsense

That time that Robin wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

tom-and-the-bear

That time that Batman just sat on his fat ass in the next panel while a guy named Tom got sexually assaulted by a bear. Tom had to marry that bear.

that-time-batman-was-a-one-smooth-motherfucker

That time that Bruce Wayne was one smooth Motherfucker.

that-time-that-these-three-were-clearly-compensating-for-somethig

That time that these three were clearly compensating for something.

that-time-the-boy-woner-tried-tried-eating-ass-but-did-not-realize-you-had-to-take-off-the-pants-first

That time that Robin decided to try eating ass but did not realize that it works much better with the clothes off.

wow

That time that….you know what, this needs nothing from me that it does not already have on its own. Just….WOW!

that-time-those-bandits-used-a-vibrator-on-superman

That time that bandits tried to destroy Superman with a vibrator.

beautyandthebeast_bonuspanel

That time that Dazzler apparently got raped by Beast.

that-time-that-the-green-lantern-had-his-work-cut-out-for-him

That time that the Green Lantern had his work cut out for him.

How I Didn’t Die at the Pool! Go Me!!!

I have been meaning to relink/republish some older posts that were deleted in the website reboot. I figure since I am too damn busy getting ready to get married in two weeks to actually write anything, now is the perfect time to repost some old shit that I have already written and pass it off as new…or not, since the jig is clearly up. Why can I not just keep my fat mouth shut? Anyhow, this was originally published on April, 6th 2015. I hope you enjoy it!

So it was a fairly normal Tuesday when I suddenly found myself childless and in my mother’s car on the way to the aquatic center to participate in something called River Run Boot camp. And that should have been the first red flag right there. As a chubby person whose laziness is depthless I should really know better than to willingly participate in anything labeled as a “boot camp” but I was so intoxicated by the idea of two whole childless hours that you probably could have gotten me to go along with anything at that point. You could be like, “Hey, Dacia! You wanna come with me to a  Hitler youth rally and then have our toenails pulled out and our feet dipped in lemon juice?” and I’d be like, “I don’t…..” and then you’d be all, “Someone will watch Bo for a couple hours so we can go.” At which point I would already be sitting in the car waiting for you and only wondering a little bit how, exactly, our toenails will be removed.

And that is how I came to be in the women’s locker room at the Snohomish Aquatic Center (or SAC if you’re into brevity and funny acronyms) stripping down in front a six-year-old autistic girl who was hiding in the corner to be away from the noise of the cacophonous hand dryers and her mother. I learned a long time ago that there is no point in being bashful in these situations and that if anyone didn’t want to see something they could just look away so I took to removing my clothing with casual efficiency. Then the mother started up a conversation and to my surprise I was not put off at all by making small talk with a complete stranger while removing my panties. “Is it spring break?” she asked me. “I have no idea.” I said. At which point I realized that Easter is this weekend and it probably is spring break…somewhere. I added quickly that my “little one” has spring break next week at which point I noticed a look of abject horror cross the older woman’s face. “He’s just in preschool, though.” I added with a nervous chuckle. This did nothing to temper her appalled expression. At which point I realized that she was asking me about spring break because she assumed I was either in high school or possibly college. There was some additional banter and then she and her daughter were off. I sort of wanted to yell after her, “I’m not a teenage mother! I had him when I was 30!” but I was admittedly pretty flattered at being mistaken for a teenager….especially while topless.

I am white girl. I know this seems pretty obvious but I am not just white, I am like a 10th degree Caucasian and whenever I have occasion to wear a bathing suit in public this fact does not go unnoticed. Inevitably I will catch someone staring at me like they are not sure if I am real or just an apparition at which point they have to look around at all the other people to see if they notice me too. Most people give up staring at me once they realize they are not hallucinating. I was relaying this fact to my mother as we entered the Jacuzzi. She laughed and then pointed out another pale girl across the pool and said, “I dunno, she’s pretty white.” I agreed as we both studied the young lady and she continued, “It is a different kind of white though, she’s less….”
“Transparent.” I offered. “YES!” she agreed excitedly, as I had intuited the exact word for which she was searching, and added something about her whiteness being “creamier” and “more opaque”. Now pay attention kids, my terrifying pallor will be a topic of conversation again.

My mom and I get out of the Jacuzzi and into the river run area which is basically a slow moving current going around in a figure 8, or at least the current seems slow, until you try to go against it, then it seems kind of like trying to wade through Nutella while wearing a lead jumpsuit. Needless to say, about 4 minutes and 38 seconds into the actual boot camp, my doughy ass is sweating like a whore in church and this is really an odd sensation. One is very rarely, if ever, aware of their sweat while actually submerged in water. I see that every time I pass the instructor whilst going through the figure 8 she looks at me with what appears to be barely concealed alarm and I know this is because I probably look like a beefsteak tomato that someone has put in the microwave. Which brings us back to my whiteness. As a 10th degree Caucasian who is nearly transparent, when I am experiencing exertion I get red; my chest, my cheeks, my forehead all turn crimson, same thing happens when I cry…which is really why I should try to do that in public less. About the third time I pass the instructor and notice the same look of concern on her face I almost scream “I am totally not having a stroke! I am just Norwegian!” Instead I just try to smile and look like I am having fun, which I actually am, but I think my attempt at conveying “I am totally having a good time and you should not worry” appeared more like “I am a sociopath that has no idea how to properly express human emotions…and also I might be pooping right now”.

In a shocking turn of events, I managed to last the whole hour of boot camp without dropping dead, much to the visible relief of our instructor. And after a brief post-boot-camp soak in the Jacuzzi it was back to the locker room, where upon catching a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror on the way to the showers, I had to admit to that I really could not blame the instructor for thinking I was going to die because I was, really, really red. But none of this is the best part!!! The best part is that while showering and getting ready to leave I found a kickass pair of Jack Skellington hairpins abandoned in the shower soap dish!!! Score!!!

Totally fucking worth nearly getting mistakenly carted away from the pool on a stretcher!

And, yes, I am fully aware that I should have turned the hairpins into the lost and found at the front desk but I feel as though it is a pretty well established fact that I am an asshole…so I didn’t do that.

Goodbye for now my dearies!

“They Don’t Call it Hero-lose”

A while ago Saturday Night Live aired a sketch about the growing heroin problem in America. The trouble was America was not laughing. Heroin use, abuse, and deaths have been steadily on the rise for the last 15 years and increasing at an alarming rate since 2010*. The politicians are calling it an epidemic. The headlines are calling it an epidemic. It kind of seems like heroin is everywhere. But it’s not….not really, is it? As close to home as this has reached for so many Americans to many other Americans it still feels like “someone else’s problem”; someone who’s poor, or not white, or not living in “my neighborhood”, or someone who’s a criminal or a street person.

But here’s the thing; heroin is a suburban problem. It’s an urban problem. It’s a rural problem. It’s an everywhere and everyone problem. In a report released last July the CDC found that “significant increases in heroin use were found in groups with historically low rates of heroin use, including women and people with private insurance and higher incomes. The gaps between men and women, low and higher incomes, and people with Medicaid and private insurance have narrowed in the past decade.” The fact is that 90% (yes 90%) of first time heroin users are white. Many are middle class or “wealthy” and 75% of new users have had previous addiction issues with prescription painkillers.

But that’s just where the story starts this time around. The fact is that heroin has been in my life for over a dozen years. I have seen what it can do and what it does to people first hand at an uncomfortably close range. And I use that phrase with great intention. Talking about this makes people wildly uncomfortable. Most of the people who are outside that small circle of folks in my life who know exactly how devastating heroin addiction can be, just kind of cannot believe that someone, in real life, in their life, knows anything about heroin addiction. It’s like people don’t believe it’s real. That it’s something that only happens in the movies. But it happens in real life.

I have heretofore refrained from talking much about Bo’s dad because I have tried to be respectful of his privacy. His story never felt like it was mine to tell. But it is also my story.

I was 24. It was December. It was always December. I knew something was wrong with Zach. I just didn’t know what. I would, in time, grow very familiar with all the signs and symptoms of his drug abuse. At some point all the relapses blur together. Other moments, the really bad ones, stick out. It wasn’t until 2 months later, when he was fired from the restaurant at which we both worked for leaving a needle in the manager’s office that I knew something else had to be done. He was using heroin…again. I had caught him, eventually, back in December. He tearfully admitted it, said it wasn’t that bad, that he didn’t need to go to rehab or anything and that he could take care of it on his own. I trusted that he was being truthful because I didn’t know any better.

After he got fired in February even he had to admit that the problem was more serious than he had been letting on. He agreed to get clean. His best friend and former girlfriend, Sagan, who had been through this with him many times before, offered her help. She was not working at the time and offered to be the babysitter for the better part of the ordeal. When I was at work someone had to watch him while he was going through the difficult and painful process of detoxing.

We gathered his things and went over to Sagan’s apartment where we would be staying for about a week. At that time, in Seattle, there was a doctor on Beacon Hill called Dr. Si whose specialty was helping ease heroin users through the detox process with a combination of several non-narcotic prescription drugs. A lot of muscle relaxers, sleep aids, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety medications, taken all at once so that the patient is basically an anthropomorphous blob of relaxed, sleeping, human skin who occasionally wakes up to pee and drink gatorade. Through this detox process the patient does not experience as much or as intensely the classic symptoms of detoxification such as vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable shaking, sweating, cramping, anxiety, or excessive screaming if you are junkie being played by Leonardo Dicaprio.

Sagan and I had to go fill his prescriptions and gather the necessary supplies (e.g. gatorade, consume, saltines etc). Before we left him in her apartment alone, we took the phone (kids, this is when people still had land lines) which was not a cordless so we just unplugged the receiver from the phone and took it with us, along with his wallet, his keys, his pants and his shoes. We figured those measures would at least be a deterrent; if he wanted heroin he would literally have to run down the street with bare feet in his underpants begging for money in order to get it. We thought we were so clever.

The rest of the week was, for me, going back and forth from my apartment to feed our new kitten, to work and then to Sagan’s apartment. At work, everyone knew why he’d been fired. No one even asked me if I was okay, or what I was going to do about it. It’s like they just assumed that I was going to dump him because of his drug use. Truth is, I don’t know what I would have told them had they asked. I was just doing the one thing that made sense to me; helping my friend, whom I loved, with his problem. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that he would still be in it with me.

The trouble with being a junkie is that even when you’re not on heroin you’re probably on something else. Maybe it’s alcohol or cocaine or the program or yoga or guilt or self loathing or whatever it is, the hole that heroin left inside of you is going to get filled with something. He always filled it with alcohol, guilt, depression and hatred.

I cannot remember how long it was until the next relapse. He got his job back after some time. And then lost it again after refusing to take a drug test that he knew he would not pass. He said it was too hard to stay clean working downtown, right next to the blade. The drugs were unavoidable. And every time he started using again and started lying to me about it a little bit more of my confidence would erode, not just in him, but in myself. Finding out about it each time was like finding out I was being cheated on and effectively I was; his mistress was heroin. It would always be.

There was the time I found the make-up he had hidden; foundation that he used to cover up his bruises and track marks. When I confronted him with it he said it was old, from the last time he relapsed and he had just forgotten about it. I told him I did not believe him and that he’d have better luck with concealer than with foundation. He used that excuse all the time; “I haven’t been using I just forgot about (insert whatever piece of incriminating evidence I found) since the last time!”

After losing his job, again, and kicking heroin again, in the midst of his job search I encouraged him to take some time off. I worked two jobs and we could get by on that for a while. He took a year off work. He wrote and drank and cried for a year, but he did not use heroin. For that I was thankful. When he started to look for work again I was scared. I didn’t want to start the same thing all over again.

But it was okay. For a long while it was okay. He got back in touch with his son from his first marriage. Things were going well. Then some shit happened as shit tends to do. His longtime friend, who also struggled with heroin abuse, came back into town. That was hard. They would continually flip this coin wherein its landing on one side they would try to lift one another up but the other side of that coin was their dragging one another down. His friend, Ronnie, was about to have a baby with his girlfriend, who also used. Ronnie was trying really hard to get away from heroin but heroin is a mad goddamn dog and it does not stop coming after you. I watched over Ronnie as detoxed on an air mattress on our living room floor. I watched him as he writhed and cried and begged for drugs. I watched him get clean. I watched him relapse. I watched him get clean again and it all felt like a microcosm of what I was going through.

One morning, a watery grey dawn, I woke to find that I was the only one in bed, save for my cats. The dog, Ronnie’s dog actually, who had been living with us while Ronnie was homeless, was gone and so was Zach. I did not even have time to lean into the full froth of my panic when the door of the apartment rattled. It was Zach, dogless and bandaged about the neck and wearing a hospital bracelet and a shirt that did not belong to him.

He had waited until I went to sleep, took the dog out for a walk and while out, decided to stop on a side street and shoot up. The paramedics found him lying in some bushes near the sidewalk, a needle hanging out of his neck…with no dog. The depth of what happened, the overwhelming weight of the situation was completely overshadowed by the lack of the dog. Ratchet was not just a dog, he was Ronnie’s child, his partner of over a decade. That dog meant everything to him and he was missing.

I pulled on clothes. It had grown lighter out now, it was around 6:30 in the morning. We walked the whole neighborhood, looking and calling for Ratchet. I walked until my feet were sore and my throat was raw from calling Ratchet’s name. I cried. Out of despair for the loss of the dog, despair for the whole situation. I wanted to scream.

Ratchet, as it turned out, upon Zach’s passing out in the bushes, ran back to our apartment building where he dutifully stood outside, leash dangling on the ground and barked, and barked and barked, presumably in an effort to wake me, but to no avail. When he finally gave up on barking and returned to find Zach no longer where he had left him, Ratchet went to the local drugstore up the road which was open 24 hours. There he sought shelter and companionship for the rest of the evening. He was returned to us around 10 am. I was so exhausted from worry, hopelessness and relief that I collapsed into bed with Ratchet and my two cats and slept all day, until I had to go to work that night. I was simply trying to run away from the thought that there would be another detox, another “starting over”, another broken promise, more fighting, more anger, more exhaustion, more pain, more pain, more goddamn pain, more consuming and unfaltering and inescapable fucking pain. Pain….for poppies. Just poppies.

I was completely alone to deal with this, too. How could I expect anyone to understand what I was going through? I didn’t even understand it. I was just trying to survive it. I remember confiding in a friend, at the time, about what was happening with me, with him, with us. She seemed bewildered. She did not know what to say or do…so she just stopped talking to me. What I was going through was too much for her to handle. I wish I could say she was the only one. She was not. After a certain point I learned  my lesson and just didn’t talk about it anymore.

That was 2006. In 2010 our son was born. In the intervening years, after the last “getting clean” was all over, there were no more incidence of heroin use, at least none that I knew about.

It wasn’t Zach’s heroin abuse that (directly) lead to my ending the relationship after 11 years when our son was just 3 years old. It was a decade worth of things. A decade’s worth of my corrupted sense of self, a decade’s worth of alcoholism, a decade’s worth of mistrust, a decade’s worth of codependency. It was a death by a thousand cuts and I was quickly running out of unmarred skin. I felt like I couldn’t breathe under the weight of his hatred and judgement of me. After all HE had done it was ME who was never going to be good enough, never going to be able to repent enough for the past. He was always like that. He could never find the fault in himself but was a surgeon about finding it in others.

Of course I worried that the break-up would send him back into heroin’s sedative and tranquil embrace. But for a while he was okay. Then, at preschool orientation, he showed up high as fuck! He denied it when I confronted him about it because of course he did. I had no proof. I did not know what to do. I think that I secretly, and quite stupidly, thought that Bo would keep him on track. That the presence of this bright, coruscant, and breathlessly beautiful creature would somehow keep him out of the darkness.

One day, I went to pick Bo up for preschool at the apartment I had moved out of in favor of living in the back of my bookstore. At this point Zach and I were splitting the weeks with Bo. He was with me 4 days and 5 nights of the week and with Zach on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. This was one of the days that Bo had stayed with him and it was a work day for us parents at our Co-op preschool. I approached the door, opting to knock out of some sense of decorum despite my having a key. No answer. They should have been up and ready to go. I did not hear Bo inside. I did not knock again. I opened the door and it was quiet. Bo was still in bed. I looked at the couch and there was Zach, passed out with his sock rolled down and his foot and the needle still in his hands, his works spread out on the coffee table. I chocked on my own horror. I could not believe that he would do this…with our son asleep just feet away in his bedroom.

I did not scream. I woke him up. He tried to play it off like what I had just witnessed was, in fact, not at all what it looked like. I still did not scream. He scooped up his things from the coffee table, finally regaining his wits. I calmly assured him that I knew it was EXACTLY what it looked like. He tried to make more excuses. Then, finally, I screamed; “WHAT IF I HAD NOT FOUND YOU?!?!!! WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN HIM?!?!” I screamed, gesturing toward the hall down which my son’s bedroom lie. He started to cry. He was out of excuses and out of heroin and the reality of what he had done and what he had narrowly avoided began to hit him.

I told him that he would never see his son again unless he got help. I also told him that, this time, I could not be the one to give it to him. After all, I had a child to raise and a business to run. I woke Bo, gathered his things and we left. We did not go to school that day.

It took Zach a little while, and after exploring other programs, he got on methadone. I was not particularly pleased with this course of action. As far as I was concerned it was really no better than being on heroin. While it was not illegal, there was virtually no chance of overdose and it was free he was still going to “be on drugs” and quite dependent upon them too. And that is what eventually lead to his getting fired from yet another job. Even on methadone he could not hide the fact that he was a junkie. His decline was just too obvious, to me, to his employer and to everyone else around him. And of course, his losing his job meant his losing his home (when he realized he could no longer afford the apartment without my income, although he, ironically, always insisted that I did not contribute to the household financially as I was a business owner and did not “bring home a paycheck”, he was forced to take up at an “hotel” that rented rooms by the week).

After getting fired, just about a year after our split, he could not even maintain his room at the hotel and was forced to move out, seeking the succor and infinite patience of Sagan, once again. She was compliant with his presence in her home for as long and longer than anyone could expect. He had started using again, street drugs. It was too difficult to get to the methadone clinic each day, apparently, but not too difficult to steal money (or whatever could be sold in exchange for money) in order to buy heroin. It becomes really difficult for me to recall the timeline of events with much accuracy at this point. I had gotten a new job and in lieu of putting Bo in daycare, a step I was very reluctant to take as he had never been in any sort of childcare previously, Zach would take him during the day. At this point I thought he was still on methadone. He was, however, pretty much homeless, staying with friends when he could.

It was September when I was cleaning out my car, which I would leave for Zach and Bo to use while I was at work, that I found something under the diver’s seat. It was the small metal dish, the kind you get from the needle exchange, that is used to cook the heroin, an unfolded paper clip for stirring the drug while it cooks, the lot of which were charred and stained with the drug’s sticky, black residue. I was enraged but not surprised. I immediately made arrangements to put Bo into a school near my work. That Monday when it would usually be time to meet up with Zach before I went to work, Bo and I went to his new school/daycare. Bo was so excited to be in school, with other kids, it was like he didn’t even know he was supposed to be upset about my leaving him. The next day, however, was a different story. When it was time for me to leave him at school he cried and then I cried and I hated every decision I had ever made as a parent.

Zach actually had the fucking nerve to not only be indignant that I made the unilateral decision to put Bo into daycare and remove him from his care but he also fucking denied that what I found was his!!!! THE FUCK!!! Even if it were not his (which, DUH, it totally fucking was) the best case scenario is that he let one of his junkie friends use my car, drive my car, whilst on drugs and/ or use drugs in my car, and where was my son when all this was happening? Who the fuck knows? I could not let shit like this continue. I was pulling absolutely no punches this time after a fucking lifetime of giving him the benefit of the doubt, he was decidedly out of benefits.

It was November, the first time he was arrested. In between then and the first of the year he would be arrested and jailed more than 5 separate times. He would get released and then go right back to using and stealing to support his use. At his age it’s a damn miracle he hasn’t died from the physical stress of detoxing in jail. He was arrested for the last time in mid March. He’s been in jail ever since. It’s the best place for him. At least in jail there is a roof over his head and no heroin. We’ve spoken a few times. I still don’t think he realizes how much everyone around him hurts because of what he’s done. He’s never been good at looking at himself with a critical or even realistic eye.

He will get released soon. He sounds hopeful about his future. I want to be too, so that Bo might have his dad back someday. But I am not optimistic, for I’ve far too much sense and too much experience to have much room left for optimism.

That’s it for now. I realize the strokes, although measuring nearly 3,500 words, were indeed quite broad, this is all I have the mind to put to print at this point. There’s more, so much more, and maybe someday I will get around to writing it all down. For now…XOXO.

*what had been a steady increase in overdose rates, 6% a year, from 1999 to 2008 took a HUGE leap as overdose rates skyrocketed with a 37% increase in 2010.

P.S. As for the title, I have always said that if you cannot laugh about it, it WILL definitely kill you.

Another Day, Another Death Threat…also UNICORNS!

So, on Tuesday I wrote about how I was upset about a gruesome murder that took the life of a woman from my city over the weekend….and people lost their damn minds! It was probably because I said “fuck” a lot, like even for me, and in the title. I may have suggested that some people could go fuck themselves. But if I had only known that all I had to do was use the word “fuck” in the title of a post to get over 5,000 views in the matter of a few hours I would have been doing it…much more often than I currently do.

But, of course, the more people who actually read your blog the more people you are likely to piss off….which is what I love most about being a writer. On Tuesday I wrote a post that addressed the idea that a social “safe space” is kind of a fucking joke. I also said some  things about people’s attempts to “regulate hate speech” within these “safe spaces”. People were very unhappy with this. Which is kind of ironic, someone getting all freaked out about one stupid person’s opinion (yes, you read that correctly) when aren’t what we are all (when I say “we all” I am kind of confused as to who is lumped into that anymore but let’s go with a vague outline of peaceful, progressive, intelligent humans who want to work toward a just and ultimately free world where all lives are valued and respected equally under the eyes of the law…now, doesn’t that sound nice?) working for is a place where ideas and ideals can be expressed freely without fear of legal or custodial retribution? But here’s the thing, about regulating speech, any kind of speech; it’s a slippery motherfucking slope!

Do I wish people were not dicks? Yes. Do I wish everyone knew that some shit, you just don’t fucking say? Of course, naturally. It would be nice if all us folks could get together in our collective unconscious and have a meeting where we hand out leaflets telling everyone all over the world that we don’t hate on women or homosexuals or transgendered or poor people or people that happen to have a different skin tone or religion than we do. That would be super, and I get that there are people who ARE out there doing this work every day and they deserve credit and probably a trip to Dairy Queen for a delicious Blizzard treat because that is goddamn hard, unending and merciless work, but to not address that the liberal ideal (and, yes, I am a liberal…like a motherfucker) might be a two-edged sword is just willfully ignorant. Sometimes when you’ve been fighting so hard for so long for what you feel is right, the rhetoric of battle can become skewed along the way.

Basically, what I have realized about some people who favor the official or legal regulation of speech is that they are kind of narrow-minded. Several of the people who told me they favored things like “safe spaces” were the same people saying that they “would want to kill me” for saying that I thought “safe spaces” were kind of bullshit. Does that seem a little counterintuitive to anyone else? The same person who thinks that we should all be able to go through life without ever having to be offended or uncomfortable or feel threatened or ever having to hear anything with which we might disagree is the same person saying they want to “kill me”!?!?! I mean, WTF? Seriously, WHAT. THE. FUCK.

But you know what, while threats do not fall under the guise of “protected speech” I think that the person who said those things was angry about their beliefs being called to the carpet and I respect their passion. I realize not everyone would view things as diplomatically. That’s probably why we have “safe spaces” but let me elaborate on that; if we are never made to feel uncomfortable, never made to confront what is different, never made to argue for what we believe is right, never forced to face adversity of any kind then why would we work to change anything? If every space is a safe space, what would motivate us to progress? Do you really want everyone in the room to agree with you 100% of the time about everything? I sure as hell don’t…but then again I rarely have to worry about that’s happening.

Thanks for reading, and, in the interest of making people feel safe and happy and just as precious as the special little snowflakes that you all are HERE are 29 pictures of majestic fucking unicorns! Also, in my safe space, everyone will have a sense of fucking humor and not take themselves so goddamn seriously! XOXO

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Hey kids, it’s the “Last Unicorn” Unicorn! 

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Yes, it has wings but it also has a horn and therefor, technically, still a Unicorn….Pegacorn? 

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This one is galloping straight into your heart…and not at all in a stabby way. 

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So majestic! 

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So fucking majestic! 

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The only thing I resent my son for (other than the obvious things all parents resent their children for) is that he said he did not like this movie….we’re working through it. 

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Majesty like a motherfucker! 

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This one was taken in my backyard

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This speaks to me on deep, personal and emotional levels that only Batman riding a robotic unicorn amongst a pod of dolphins could ever reach. 

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This one too, also taken in my backyard…to be fair I might be a pathological liar. 

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MERMAID!!! 

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Ooooh! Purdy! 

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Don’t anyone say that I failed to represent diversity among unicorns.

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So Fancy! 

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Okay, this one is legit, kind of creepy.

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Like Jell-O and patriarchy, there is always room for Lisa Frank! 

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Is that a rainbow samurai sheep riding a rainbow maned unicorn into sparkly battle? Why yes, friends, that is exactly what that is! 

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Old School unicorn action

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This one is off the charts with majesty! 

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Raibow? Check! Sunset? Check! Unicorn? check! Majestic? You bet your ass!

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I, no joke, had this as a huge poster-size framed print on my wall in my childhood bedroom. Did I mention that my walls were painted pink? At my request, nay, may insistence!

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There is nothing that I could say that add the this perfection! 

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I WANT IT!!! 

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I think the best part of this one is the eagle. 

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This pony is all full of lightning!

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Majestic-ing so fucking hard! 

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Damnit! Now I have to go buy felt! 

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D’aw! 

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Hey! How’d that get in here? 

 

Fuck Your “Safe Space”

No seriously! Fuck your fucking trigger warnings and your fucking “safe spaces” because they are a fucking illusion! Your safe space, ANY safe space does not fucking exist!

Last weekend a woman from my neighborhood, a single mother of three, went on a date with man she met online. They went to a baseball game and then later that night she ended up hacked into pieces and thrown into someone’s recycle bin in the fucking Central District. How ’bout you stick that in your fucking safe space!

THIS, This, this is the reality of being a woman, being a human, that there REALLY is no safe space. There is no escape from the darkness. No escape from reality, not really, because even if you’ve created the perfect physical space where no one uses bad words, no one ever says anything offensive, no one treats anyone with disrespect, no one is violent, no one even talks about violence, no one has to do, see, say or experience anything that makes them uncomfortable, well, you could still get swallowed up by an earthquake or mowed down by a hail of bullets in yet another random, mass shooting.

Safety is just an idea, an illusion, a concept that exists in our heads so that we can still have hope. Hope, however, is the only honest thing left in this world. It’s when hope is gone that none of us will be safe.

You can spend your time trying to get people to use the right words so that no one is ever “offended” or “made to feel uncomfortable” but at the end of the day none of us can protect anyone from reality, from evil, from each other. All we can do is hope….and love one another as much as possible because you never know when you won’t wake up, when the earth will reach up an take you where you stand, when you’ll end up in pieces in a fucking garbage can.

Can we stop all trying to be social justice warriors and just start being good to each other? Listen kids, you’re gonna see some shit and hear some shit and experience some shit in this life that is going to offend you, make you sad, make you angry, make you fall, make you scared, make you uncomfortable, make you cry, make you want to scream, make you want to change things but life cannot be censored*. It just is.

I tell this story sometimes when people talk about not wanting to be “offended” (which by the way, go fuck yourself….oh, sorry, was that offensive? Just kidding, I totally know it was and I also don’t give a fat shit!) because life does not care about your delicate sensibilities; one time I parked downtown on Second Ave. and was getting out of my car to go to the record store when I looked down the street and saw a man, a clearly mentally handicapped man, standing next to a building where its corner met a parking lot, looking out towards the street while violently masturbating. Would I have preferred not to have seen that? Abso-fucking-lutely! Was I offended by this? Yes. Did it make me feel uncomfortable? Definitely. But no amount of “safe spaces” or “trigger warnings” or “regulating hate speech” could have saved me from having to see that. It just was. Here was a man, who probably did not know any better (or did and just didn’t give a shit), just doing what felt good to him…and no amount of telling him that people would be “offended” by his behavior was going to change his behavior.

But hey, I consider myself very lucky. I am still here. I am not chopped into pieces and tossed into the trash like this man, this monster, who carried out this horrible act would have Ingrid Lyne believe she was. She was not trash. She was a human, a mother, a woman and now she is not here anymore. And I am extremely uncomfortable with this story, this narrative offends me so much, it is beyond the telling. But if we shy away from telling these stories because they are horrible, violent, sad and they make us feel like we will never be safe, then we can just forget about hope. Hope in the face of nightmares is the only thing that will wake us. Hope is truth. Hope is what will carry us forward.

Here’s a link to the fundraising page for Ingrid Lyne’s daughters who are now without their mother. It’s official, the real deal, I checked it out. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. XOXO
Also, I did not edit this so if you want to point out typos feel free, just know that I will tell you to go fuck yourself….just try not to do it in the middle of Second Ave. Cool?

Here’s this in case you weren’t already bummed out enough:

*and don’t think for one second that’s not what everyone out there who is trying to “regulate hate speech” is doing. It’s just censorship that got too far up its own ass to be seen for what it really is.

Just Filling the void

This is not a real post.

I totally keep thinking of awesome things about which to write but I am usually in the shower or driving or lying in bed when I should be sleeping and nowhere near a computer when these nuggets of brilliance seep up to the surface. I think I need to get one of those chalk boards that I where around my neck like Anthony Hopkins in “Legends of the Fall” after he has his stroke and can’t talk anymore.

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Dude! He also has a pipe on a string around his neck. This idea could revolutionize EVERYTHING!

 

Except for that brings up the whole issue of having to learn to write upside down and frankly, I am totally done learning new skills.

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If you did not cry during this scene you obviously have no soul….or no tear ducts which is a totally real thing!

Or, and I am just spit-balling here, in lieu of the bulky chest chalkboard (chestboard?) I could carry around a note pad. OOOOH! Or one of those little hand-held tape recorders (I know all the millennials are just shaking their heads at me and saying to themselves in voices full of thinly veiled pity and condescension “Yeah, there’s an app for that on your smart phone.” And to them I say “You are talking to a woman with a typewriter collection who grew up idolizing Hunter S. Thompson and for whom outmoded and anachronistic means of communication will never be anything short of wildly romantic and awesome…so suck it!”). C’mon, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about having one of those pocket tape recorders wherein you store all your sagacious, enlightened, little tidbits of brilliance that pop into your head from time to time. I think the bummer part of that whole process would be sitting down at your desk at the end of the day or, even worse, the end of the week, to record all your noteworthy opining and unprecedented epiphanies and all you have is a note to buy more grapefruits and then two hours of continuous recording of the noises that occur inside your purse. GENIUS! Except for not really.

You know what WOULD be genius? If you had the idea to combine a few great things into one AMAZING like hash browns and masturbation and watching  Daredevil into….I don’t know, but those the the “few great things” I came up with on the fly and, frankly, that seems like a pretty damn solid list to me.

I totally forgot where I was going with this, but I think that kind of drives the point home about my needing a chestboard or at the very least a tape recorder and that’s good enough for me. I think I will quit while I am ahead-ish or at least ish.

XOXO

A Little Thing

My Dad’s memorial/wake/celebration of life thingy was yesterday (I started this on Sunday so “yesterday” was actually Saturday) and I wrote a little speech thing to kind of get the sharing ball rolling:

“I write a humor blog and when I have had the occasion, in the past, to do live readings I usually start off by talking about one of my greatest inspirations; my Dad. Those of you that knew him well, knew him peripherally or just stood in the same room with him for any length of time whatsoever, knew that Scott was rude, crude, crass, foul, vulgar, uncouth, tactless, classless, tasteless, coarse, obscene, profane, blue, purple and perhaps even off-color. Scott wove cussing into every day discourse with the stealth of a ninja and the precision of a surgeon. He loved dirty jokes. In fact when I was 6 he taught me a joke, the meaning of which I was totally unable to grasp until I was a little bit older but that did not stop me from sharing it with everyone at the family reunion that Summer. Here it is; What do a 747 and a peroxide blonde have in common? They both have a black box (pauses for laughter). At 6 years old I genuinely thought I understood this joke in that I believed that the black box that the bleach blonde had, referred to the box in which her hair dye came from the store…turns out I was wrong about that. 

The story I usually tell people about Dad is so inappropriate that I almost don’t want to share it today….almost. [BOAT STORY]
(This was actually copied directly from my notes wherein I did not write out the boat story. And no, I will not write out the boat story. I tell it at the beginning of nearly every live reading I have ever done, so chances are a lot of you have heard it. It would also lose something in print because if you cannot hear it in Scott’s voice [which, of course, at this point is impossible] you should at least hear it told with my impression of Scott. It would be no good in print…and also I don’t want anymore hate mail this week. Long story still pretty long, if you want to hear the boat story you have to come see me read…or just bump into me in line at the grocery store; I’ll totally tell it to you there)
My Dad taught me that it was better to laugh first, and last and every occasion in between. I am deeply blessed to have his wonderful sense of humor as well as his high tolerance for alcohol, his impossibly Scandinavian whiteness, his love for having fun, being outside, setting things on fire, camping, fishing, star-gazing, rivers, beaches, animals, loud music, laughter, dancing (not well, but dancing nonetheless), drinking, eating, and bullshitting. I think one of things I admired most about Scott was that he could make friends with anyone, and often did, as we can very well see looking around here today. Thank you all so much for coming, and I hope we can all share some wonderful memories and celebrate a man for whom we all cared very deeply and who cared very deeply for all of us. 
Sharing Scott’s love with all of you has served only to grow it, not incrementally but exponentially. Scott always had room for one more, at his table, in his home, in his heart whether you were human, canine, feline or my old roommate Rob’s rabbit that he didn’t want anymore, Scott would welcome you. And for those who would say that his passing so early on in life is a tragedy that could have been prevented; prevented with prudence or moderation to them I would say that there are those of us who would prefer to live our OWN life as opposed to a LONG life by someone else’s rules. Thank you!”
It was an awesome day! A difficult, nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching, confusing, sorrowful, unforgettable, awesome day and I really, really, really appreciate everyone who came out to show their love for Scotty. Everyone who laughed and cried and drank and shared, you made my day and I am sure a lot of others’ day as well. A few “thank yous” and “shouts out” to people who went above and beyond the make the day not only bearable but actually pretty darn okay:
I wanted to thank Skyler Cesarone for the beer, albeit Scott would never have touched an IPA I was very grateful, as I am sure most attendees were, that everyone could come together and raise a glass in Scott’s honor. Thank you so very much! Also, it was great catching up!
Sharon Lambert, I know you’ll never read this which is why I feel free to say that while I am fully aware that your eagerness to host my Father’s wake was not entirely egalitarian I nonetheless thank you so much for your hospitality, your reaching out to make the day possible and above all, your friendship with my Father which I know he valued a great deal. Also, I will be by later on tonight to pick up my Mom’s coat. See you then!
Those Pedersen Women, all of whom have married names now, and all of whom are my Sisters-in-law and for that I count myself amongst the luckiest gals alive. Thank you all for seeing that glazed look of confusion and uselessness in my eyes and knowing that it was your time to shine. When I could not handle it all three of you knew exactly when and how to take charge. You are a blessing to me and to everyone who knows you, of that I am sure!!!
Thank you to everyone who stepped up to share a story! I am sorry if there were any that I missed while I was out back sobbing in the horseshoe pit.
I know that just because we had a memorial does not mean that memorializing or remembering is over. It does help me, in the broader scope of things, to start to move on if such a thing can be done, but I will be celebrating Scott’s life every day for the rest of mine! I love you, Daddy! I miss you more than I can aptly express and I just hope that you are comfortable and happy and proud, wherever you are! XOXO