You have no idea how difficult it is for me to function.
My husband told me yesterday I suck at painting.
My husband told me yesterday I was better at writing than all of the other creative visual nonsense distractions I continuously pour my heart and soul into, which produce no money what so ever, not even enough to reimburse my expenses and only wears me thin enough to be on the verge of total nervous breakdown 85% of the time, so help us all.
He did say, yesterday, HONESTLY (way more than that Glenn Beck guy), and RATIONALLY (way more than that Christine O'Donnell chick) that he thought I could make money writing.
Beer money, maybe (lie, I'll be the top 1% supporting Bush tax cuts screaming in outrage that the help is stealing the silver).
I know what it can absolutely do and that is entertain like, 20 people I personally know. So far that's working out pretty good for me. Liking at least 20 people that is; most of you already know how I feel about the exponential troglodyte population growth curve. Other than that, it's a total crap shoot in my opinion. People these days tend to hand out cash to overly made up plastic housewives, people who birth more than 10 kids at once, and anyone willing to eat cockroaches for others entertainment. That cash, is not my cash.
I decided to submit some written work to a random internet website I stumbled upon while looking for porn. Sorta. More like I am submitting my already written blog, because I am both:
2. Currently involved writing another "thing" which I am pouring my creativity into, minus this and thatfox, which really only keep the mania going so the cycle can continue (3 c's in a row, score).
I have no time for scheduled writing assignments, which reeks of rules and time management I will no doubt, fuck up. Besides, thats their schtick; republishing web content in print form (and the roster is not so bad). So if they liked my asshole-ish email, and then my erratic blog content, I will be totally internet famous and promise to buy all the pitchers of beer for the rest of time!!!
If not, I got another days worth of writing done, entertained myself, 20 others, plus, found some more porn.
Now that's a score.
The submission request forum post asked for a two paragraph email on why my voice was important.
Why My Voice is Important
The Blog Goddess former known as HeyJules
(Who once blogged, was stalked and threatened, and eventually deleted all online content from the internet only to start blogging again because mania causes her to make loads of irrational decisions. Also, boredom.)
Now Known As TheWoodRabbit
(Who is in the process of making more irrational decisions: Hooray for us all!)
My voice isn't important.
Kidding (lie). But neither is yours. Or theirs. So there. Funny, the only voices that seem to impact repeatedly are those who, strangely enough, don't speak for themselves. They buy self-images from public relation specialists, have representatives that issue edited press releases on their behalf, or do speak only to retract everything uttered for having offended someone who has little reason to be offended in the first place. So uptight, this tiara wearing, entitled populace of sheep. The voices that are actually important warn us about overpopulation and disease; enlighten us to the possibilities of stem cell research or exploration of our universe (in which the voices that monopolize then scream bullshit and try to enact legislation instructing us all to believe in the tooth fairy or some other nonsense).
They aren't considered important because they haven't starred opposite Matthew McConaughey nor have endorsement deals with Coca Cola. Oprah or Bill Maher isn't waiting to book them for any upcoming shows. They don't know "The Situation" and probably don't own anything to have been seen on a runway.
They could think you out of a paper bag, turn it into a origami King and use it to beat another intellectual at Chess before you replied "plastic" to the cashier in the checkout line. Value misplaced on what's in the bag, the distraction, an endless nauseating cycle of consumerism far out of control (my reply is valued at $29.95).
This illusion of importance is created by our recent technological advances which allow anyone with an opinion, internet access, an email address, and limited ability to type phonetically embarrassing idiot code (LOL) to share themselves via social media, blog, forum, comment, or the lesser known bile of the great cyber deep: the chatroom. To put it simply, we aren't that important, any of us. Just a random group of cells, housed in a complexly constructed but extremely fragile shell, living with other organisms, attempting to forever kill each other (and destroy the environment that sustains us) like psychotic viruses, stuck on a big chunk of rock circling a star, in a evolving solar system, helping to make up only one of a bajillion galaxies, in an ever increasing universe.
What I say isn't going to change anything, therefore my voice isn't important; not even in Ego-land, where Id and Superego point out gross grammatical errors and tell me I'm fat.
But(!) but, some people tend to think my voice is interesting (might be the tourettes). Some days, even amusing (might be the prescription medication). I suppose on that account I fall into one of your categories o'publication. Or maybe you'll just have to pull restraining orders after the barrage of WHY NOT ME I'M IMPORTANT TOO emails you are bound to get, henceforth. Either way, we'll be in touch.
Soft glow of the moon illuminating my exhaustion exhaled. Shards of cruel intention scattered at my feet, flicker.
He slides up behind me, his hands moving slowly over my hips. I quickly forget the rage, lulled. My need for explanation, dissipates.
Time ceases. The air dares not move.
Eyelids heavy with the nefarious honey on his lips; senses multiplied with every liquid gold suggestion that sweetly creeps down my neck.
Overwhelming repulsion stimulates and my need to be touched, deepens. He cradles my reasoning. Laughs at my projected weakness.
Clouds move in with the beating of wings. The sky turning black as crows gather amongst the trees to bear witness.
“Careful, little girl,” he whispers as a hand moves to my throat.
Still. Silent. His. Again.
“Your penmanship is stunning,” he sighs as hasty apologies scrawled on a napkin, fall from my fingertips.
Discourse melts into the cold, sordid pavement. Pure foolishness welcomes fortune's delivery.
My back against his chest, his hands move first to caress, massage.
His nails begin to dig, and rip. My flesh ignites, climax arrested as delicate strings of pain dance.
Heart beats force air from my lungs. His malicious laughter mocking obstinate desire.
Damn you. Damn me.
Pretension crumbling before him, I am slowly released.
He walks around to face me, bound lesson plan open in his hands.
Red marks and slashes bring me to quiet shame.
Comments in the margins mimic chastity; overt deceit teases with barbed tongue.
I couldn’t remember being present for half the instructions. Absence a defense moth ridden and stale.
A wicked smile spread across his face. He wasn’t buying the innocence. And he was right not to.
Oblivious nature to justify happenstance that is, yet is not. Hypocrisy, a sweet poison we share.
Down on my knees. Wrists again bound. Head hung, I seek reticent absolution.
As I look up into his eyes, he mouthes the words “repent” and tears of sorrow roll down my icy cheeks.
The bright lights of a city on fire. Demons rise like smoke, as I watch it all burn to the ground.
A noose loosely placed around my neck. He makes his exit and once again, I am alone.
They ridicule me.
This is what the famous do. Demand shit and get it.
12 bottles Fiji water (chilled on ice)
2 bottles quality Cabernet Sauvignon
2 bottles Australian Sauvignon Blanc (chilled on ice)
6 cans of Red Bull (chilled on ice)
1 bottle Jagermeister (chilled on ice)
1 bottle Jack Daniel's
12 cans of Coke
Olives with Garlic Cloves in the center
Cheese tray (assorted)
Fruit tray (watermelon, kiwi, star fruit, and Bing cherries)
4 Medium Rare Filet Minions, seared and thinly sliced
1 Key Lime Pie
1 pack Hubba Bubba Strawberry bubblegum
1 pack Hubba Bubba Watermelon bubblegum
Over sized red couch with lots of fluffy down pillows
12 Nerf hand crossbows with extra darts
6 BigWheels for adults
Unless fame came in the form of great stupidity or illegal activity, in which case this list consists of 1 orange jump suit.
We have no snacks/there is nothing to eat.
Pretty soon, I'll be able to drive.
Can I stay in the house alone, by myself, overnight?
I gave my friend some of your condoms.
What if I want to be an interior decorator?
I need _______ (requires money).
What's for dinner?
My phone isn't working.
Can you get an STD from oral sex?
She's touching me.
We have no milk/toilet paper/bread/paper towels/tampons.
Do YOU have a vibrator?
When are we going to get there/how much longer is it going to be until we get there/how long does it take to get there/when are we leaving?
I don't feel good.
Do we have to watch this show/movie?
I don't like _______ (whatever I have cooked for dinner).
I can't find it.
She's making that face again.
I might have broken something.
Can you take me to the mall?
Kid A: Can I get some gum?
Me: Sure. But you have to go in together and get some paper towels too. I'll wait in the car.
Kid A/B: Ok.
(ATM card surrendered: 15 minutes later byproducts emerge)
Me: What's that?
Kid A: Gum! 60 pieces!
Me: Wait. Where's your bag? Did you get tampons? Where are the paper towels? You only bought gum?! Are you kidding me, go back in!
Kid B: There was a hot guy in there!
Me: Go back in!
Kid A/B: We can't!
Me: Wait until he leaves then buy the damn tampons!
Kid A/B: He's the cashier!
Kid A: He looks like Kurt Cobain. We can't buy tampons from Kurt Cobain.
ME: “Hey, look at this purse, it’s so hot!”
SANE PERSON: “Cute. How much is it?”
ME: “The tag says $550.00; I totally think I am going to buy it.”
* SLAP *
ME: “Better yet, wanna go get a Coke Slurpee from 7-11 and risk getting mugged?”
I paid $300.00 for a $400.00 purse two years ago.
No one was there to render proper logic and even though I really like that purse, I could have spent the money on an extended weekend of masturbation in Savannah, rather than Orlando.
I got shit to do.
If my “toothbrush” just happens to “fall” into the toilet I have to throw it away. No cleaning that, right. Soooooooooo, if my “cat” just happens to “fall” into the toilet, do I have to go out and get a new cat too? I need answers and I need them now.
Please reply before 5:30pm EST.
I was thinking today how great it would be if McDonalds sold the McAbnormal Sandwich. Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onion and a cow ear, eye, tongue or hoof depending on region (health insurance sold separately) on a sesame seed bun.
My soul is cramped. PMS: Pre-Menopausal Soul.
Tampon or Laxative?
These are the decisions that keep me awake at night.
IT IS THE ELEVENTH WONDER OF THE NATURAL WORLD THAT I EVER GET ANYTHING ACCOMPLISHED IN LIFE.
I am so getting a Big Mac today for lunch without moving from my desk.
This post is done.
“Bunny, I am not as sharp as I used to be.”
I think it is profound but then again it is Jesus. He has a great sense of humor.
I do not collect things. Moving so many times when I first left my parents home solved that quickly. The garbage bags went from 15 down to 2 after a few nomadic wanderings; when one has 24 hours to vacate premises, one tends to only carry what requires a single trip. But, I have thought about starting a collection because the act of hoarding and coveting just one thing appeals to me. One might, by default, assume I would collect Pandas or Bunnies. You, assumer of things, would be wrong. If I start to collect Pandas or Bunnies, then I will eventually hate all Pandas and Bunnies. Everyone I know that collects something for a significant period of time, ends up hating it after awhile because everyone buys them that crap and soon their life is saturated with Collection X. And how, I say, can you hate on a Bunny. You prevent that shit straight out.
But see here, I have found something that I will never tire of: Jesus. Jesus interests me. Others infatuation with Jesus, interests me even more.
It really, only makes logical sense. My life, for as long as I can remember, has always been saturated with Jesus. Jesus and I go way back. We have been through some rough shit together, me and that Jesus. I loved him. I hated him. I forgave him. I loathed him. I didn't believe in him. I taunted him on the playground. I said I'm sorry, and shared my lollipop. I kicked dirt in his fries. I made him my pen pal.
Even he, cannot beat me in Scrabble.
We have history. Major history.
Jesus (fist to chest pound), that's my boy.
So, yea. I want to collect Jesus everything.
Bathroom towels, salt and pepper shakers, spinning Jesus lightup clock, paintings, bobble-heads, shot glasses, commemorative crucification plate, and most importantly a stuffed Jesus for sitting on top of my bed when it is made.
Jules: No man, I don't like babies.
Vincent: Are you female?
Jules: Yea, I’m female, I just don't dig on babies, that's all.
Vincent: Why not?
Jules: Babies are filthy animals. I don't like filthy animals.
Vincent: Babies are cuuuute. Little kids are cuuuuute.
Jules: Hey, babies may look like golden sunshine, but I'd never know 'cause I wouldn't handle the filthy motherfucker. Babies sleep and hang out in shit. That's a filthy animal. I ain’t touchin’ nothin' that ain't got enough sense enough to disregard its own feces.
Vincent: How about puppies? Puppies don’t sleep in their own feces.
Jules: I don't like puppies either.
Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a puppy to be a filthy animal?
Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call a puppy filthy but they're definitely dirty. But, a puppy's got personality. Personality goes a long way.
Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a baby had a better personality, he would cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true?
Jules: Well we'd have to be talkin' about one charmin' motherfuckin' baby. I mean he'd have to be ten times more charmin' than that Michelle on Full House, you know what I'm sayin'?
5am: Stumble to laundry room. Load clothes in washer. Start machine.
Reset alarm for 6am. Go back to bed.
6am: Stumble to laundry room. Transfer wet clothes to dryer.
Reset alarm for 7am. Go back to bed.
7am: Wake up to clean clothes.
Fine print: Now, please bend over.
You never know when fine print is hiding down a dark alley waiting to knife you in the back. Fine print might give you herpes if you take it to bed without protection. Fine print steals left socks from your dryer and puts the orange juice container back in the fridge empty. Fine print may leave your dogs ass sore when your back is turned.
Read the fine print or you may just be the new owner of a llama.
Fudge is ew. Someone convinced me to eat this sugary confection before 9am today; before coffee, because awake and coherent bunnies say no to fudge at all hours of the day and night.
Question: Why do bunnies say no to fudge at all hours of the day and night?
Answer: Fudge is ew.
I get this feeling that I have done something wrong. Not from anyone in particular, just an “in general” feeling that I may have transformed into a Werewolf while sleeping and attacked and devoured some poor unfortunate soul that they will find later in some park, half eaten, guts hanging out, holding a lock of my hair or something.
I know. Sometimes everyone gets that not so fresh feeling. Moving right along...
What ever happened to anthrax. I haven’t seen a really good front page story on anthrax in what seems like forever. Someone needs to bring anthrax back. I get tired of reading about lame bomb scares and hostage situations. Anthrax is the shit, clears out a building, quarantine, oh no its just some idiot mailing baby powder again, let's go back to work, JUST KIDDING, you're all dead.
I know I haven’t mentioned this in awhile but we are all going to die.
Please drive through to the second window.
(so we could go to the Caribbean)
Like the dolphins
(cause last time, you tried that leap into the air thing and you looked more like a Marlin)
Like dolphins can swim
(or rather, you appeared to choke and almost die)
Will keep us together
(except superglue, and maybe duct tape)
We can beat them
(eggs and cream)
For ever and ever
(because we are super human)
Oh we can be heroes
Just for one day
(and then they lock us up in the mental ward)
I I will be king
(cause I like crowns)
(this is your part)
You will be queen
(cause you are a bitch who likes being waited on)
Though nothing will
Drive them away
(except your garlic breath)
We can beat them
(with clubs and sticks)
Just for one day
(or two if it is stimulating enough)
We can be heroes
(we can play like we are Fire Fighters)
Just for one day
(because we will probably get burned to death, we don’t know how to work the hose)
I I can remember
(my Alzheimer’s hasn’t set it yet)
(cause my ass hurt from sitting all day)
By the wall
(which was brick, cause I am in an alley pimping your ass on the street)
And the guns
Shot above our heads
(because you weren’t careful with your teeth with that last ‘trick’)
And we kissed
(even though it smelled like garlic and sweaty balls)
As though nothing could fall
(except you, from grace)
And the shame
(yea, we got that covered)
Was on the other side
(because it was MY face that smelled like balls, not yours)
Oh we can beat them
(with a wisk and maybe a blender)
For ever and ever
(or until we die)
Then we can be heroes
(maybe we will wait with a lifesaving device for when someone jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge)
Just for one day
(or two if you have more cash for this hotel)
We could be heroes
We could be heroes
(I doubt it)
We could be heroes
We could be heroes just one day
How do I take my coffee?
Like I take my souls, black and sugary sweet.
The coffee is poured, but the sugar: there is none. I go to the sugar drawer, withdraw the sugar, walk back to the counter and AS I am pouring the sugar into my coffee, the microwave beeps. I didn’t set it. It wasn’t ON, yet, here it is, beeping.
Oh Microwave, Master of the Kitchen Appliances, One who makes my food ready to eat in less than 2 minutes, what do you have to tell me?
The display panel reads: END.
So, yeah… totally gonna die today. Mark your calendars, the funeral will be on Sunday. My favoritest flowers are gardenias, lilies, jasmine, and yellow roses. Wear black.
There will be a scavenger hunt afterwards. I have been devising it for years.
I know that there will only be a handful of people who actually GO on the hunt because they know. They know me.
If I care enough to bury something in the desert, years prior to my death, "You fucks better care enough to carry out my last wish and go dig it the hell up!". That, by the way, is how the hunt directions start off, which is why probably, my family will not be on this adventure. I kinda was also hoping to have some jokes told at my funeral too, at my expense, of course. I don’t want to offend people or anything. Maybe even a puppet show about how I died, which means, if I don’t die tragically, the puppet show will be very boring and everyone will get up and leave in the middle. Someone in the back will scream out – THIS FUNERAL FUCKING SUCKS! - and there will be crying and stuff.
Happy Birthday to Bunny,
You smell like a strawberry,
and you look like a truck.
Yesterday the universe gave me the gift of Ocular Migraines. Which is kinda trippy. No really. You see like you are on acid, lines waving, kaleidoscope, man in the wall trying to poke his way through to give you some candy. Ok, maybe the last part was a bit of a stretch. I had been driving in the car when it started and within 10 minutes (luckily I made it back to the office first) my entire field of vision was overtaken by bright flashing lights in geometric patterns.
So not cool. It lasted for another 15 and then like Kaiser Soze *poof* it was gone.
I don't get the headache part, which apparently would make it a full migraine, which is also awesome because the other choices for problems one potentially could have had with these symptoms include brain tumor, retina detachment and stroke.
I'll have what's behind Door Number 2.
IF YOU TRULY GAVE A SHIT ABOUT OUR FRIENDSHIP YOU WOULD CONTRACT RABIES SO I COULD POKE YOU WITH A STICK THROUGH THE BARS OF THE CAGE I AM BUILDING IN YOUR HONOR.
Mouth Foaming, Motherfucker.
I am 35 today.
My mother called to wish me a Happy Birthday this morning and reminisce about being preggers with me. And apologize for haven taken acid while I was all swimmin' round in her tummies. Silly rabbit, LSD is NOT FOR FETUSES. No really, it all makes total sense to you now, doesn't it.
Also, she apologized for having tried to abort me when she was 895 weeks pregnant.
Don't I get whatever I want this month?
That's the rule, right?
Where is my genie - where is MY parade?!?!
List of what I want:
Chocolate covered skull.
Wax covered corpse.
Very large tractor tire.
Self-maintaining rose garden.
Vial of Rabbit Anti Mouse.
10 white bunnies with cages and also, ramps and flaming hoops and balls and stuff for circus training.
Telegram (not one of those jackass ones delivered by a purple gorilla, a REAL one; must also contain important information I need to know).
Bazooka Joe Bubblegum Lunchbox, purchased solely with Bazooka Joe Bubblegum Comic wrappers.
Willy Wonka Golden ticket.
I am so excited to have cupcakes today.
Happy Birthday to me's.