Day three of Hubbysaurus being gone and I am starting to level out.
I apologize (sort of) for the dust from yesterdays construction zone. I am still not sure if I was building a sacrificial alter or just a coffee table.
Routine makes my life possible. Las Vegas conferences do not count as normal routine. Like throwing a frisbee, it's weeeeeeeeeeeeeee.........
Anxiety and mania attack like rabid dogs, I am lucky to not be drooling. But I got this. Old hat, my friends, you just white knuckle the bar and hope you come out unscathed on the other side.
Intense focusing helps. Its a channel.
I stayed up last night to complete an art piece I have been working on for the last few days. Everyone at work loves it. Happy girl.
It feels good to finish something. It feels good to create.
Was thinking I might try painting a fish this weekend. I have been, putting it off. Sorta. Kinda. I have, fish history, we will get to that.
My brother in law thinks he can sell them in a shop near the beach so, why not. A few months back, he asked me to paint him a large snook for his living room and loved it so much, he offered to seriously try and market them for me. He is fish crazy, loves the fish. The people he has shown, love the painting, so yea. Fish painter.
Me. Irony would be that I become a fish artist, considering my distaste for fish in general. Distaste. Hm. Hatred. That might be a much better word. I fucking hate fish. Hate. Fish.
When I was seven, a catfish I caught and then dropped on my left foot, ended up scaring me up pretty bad. A broken busted up toe and a full scale operation (after the botched emergency room no anesthesia trial run) to remove the barb from inside the top of my foot sort of put a bad taste in my mouth as far as fish are concerned, probably for the rest of time. I am by no means an animal hater but fish, ugh. My scar still hurts; if lightly touched, I recoil in pain and only a few times has something ever dropped on it, rendering my foot useless for more than a week. Sucks. I hate that fish. I hate all fish. Fuck fish. Fuck'em swiming around in their smelly gill and scale nastiness. FUCK FISH.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a galaxy far far fucking away, I was married to this redneck, gun rack, dip chewing, piece of shit, violent racist fuck of a first husband (one day I will tell you the real reason you should say no to drugs; because drugs sometimes cause you to do things like marry stalkers you have only known for two months, SURPRISE I used to hide out on your roof in full camouflage and watch you undress!), who would take me along with him fishing for catfish, specifically. I suppose I never did fit the scene (oh yes, there is a scene) in my flip flops and sarong, reading books about psychology in my lawn chair but fuck: when have I ever fit in anywhere? Yes, I would absolutely LOVE another can of Budweiser, motherfuckers, FUCKIN' A! (Oh sweet Universe, please forgive me my sins.)
Any way, so ex-tard catches some fish and strings them on a line, to keep them alive and fresh in the shallow part of the lake we had been sitting at for going on now, several hours. And they were barking. Fucking barking. And all I could think was, it was once because of your kind, doctors were digging in my foot for over an hour with only a local anesthetic looking for the barb of golden delight that was swimming somewhere in my very sensitive flesh. And you dare. And you dare bark at me. (I don't care how other people process, the memory of pain for me does not go away; I remember screaming at the top of my lungs with multiple people holding me down and from that moment on, I swear to all that is honest and true, that I have hated fucking fish with all my soul.) Fuck you, fish.
A few beers later an annoyed me stumbled upon a stick. I love sticks. When I am in the woods, around a campfire, nothing is quite like finding that one awesome stick to poke and prod shit with, amen.
By this time, the ex-bastard needed to go on a beer run and decided it was a good idea to leave me with my stick and these barking ass fish. I had thrown the book aside awhile ago, just pacing around with my stick now, drinking beer from a can, issuing a loud FUCK YOU to the fish, hearing the SHUT UP echoed back (by the ex-jerk). I was restless. Who can read with all that annoying barking going on - FUCK YOU FISH - I was getting down right angry as time creeped forward and I began to feel the pangs of alcohol induced retribution tempting me. Catfish. Hate em.
He hadn't been gone but three minutes, and it started with a little poking. Poke poke. Bark bark BARK. Poke poke. Bark. POKE. POKE POKE POKE POKE. FUCK YOU, poke poke poke. BARK! POKE FUCK YOU POKE!! POKE!! POKE!!!!
And then, a vile demon of fish hate took over my body. Everything went red and I just... started beating the fuck out of the fish on the line with my stick. I was smacking the water repeatedly, screaming out directly to the fuckers, I HATE YOU FISH!!! BAM BAM BAM! Apparently, my stick blows were hard enough to pop open all of the hooks, thus releasing these battered and verbally abused fish, back into the river to either bark some more, die slowly, commit fish suicide, or who fucking cares THEY WERE CATFISH GODDAMN IT AND THEY HAD BEEN MOCKING MY DRUNK ASS FOR THE LAST FOUR HOURS!
I found my calming center before he returned, weapon of mass destruction cast aside in the bushes, book in hand, words swirling in my head connecting themselves together quickly devising an explanation of how these fish could have somehow miraculously released themselves off the line, which seemed the best option having panicked, refusing to return to the scene of the crime to close the open hooks or to address what I had actually done.
"Seriously sweetheart, I didn't hear any more barking, so I walked over there to check on them and they were just gone, I don't know WHAT happened. Can they pop themselves off the hooks? Maybe they are just really smart catfish. What about if their jaws are strong, can they open the hooks on their own? I didn't notice, I was just so busy reading, I totally got back into my book, it's great. It's sort of like they were super catfish, baby, too bad we don't have any to bring home now, I bet they would have been awesome for dinner. You'll catch more another day, I am sure, let's just go home."
Doe eyes of angelic innocence totally saved my ass that day. No other words were exchanged and I considered it a Get Out of Jail Free card from the Universe.
I was never invited to go fishing, ever again.
I am not proud of what I did, but I admit to having done it. Let me go to hell for beating to near death, some nasty fucking catfish, I'll take that. I got fish issues, man.
Shit, was personal.
So yea. Fuck it. Fish painting.
Irony, reaches new levels in my life.
Can't wait. Can't fucking wait.