A few days ago I was checking my mentions on Twitter, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but someone wanting me to review his mix tapes. Once I ascertained he was indeed not a porn bot and that we actually follow each other, I was happy and honored to oblige. I’m always down for the blogger struggle. Straight up!
I’m sure you will agree I’m immensely qualified to review music when you hear my qualifications. Here are just a few:
1.I have ears and I know how to use them. By using them, I mean hearing with them, though they keep up a bit of ringing as the soundtrack to my life.
2. I have electic tastes in music
3. I used to own a mix-tape ’til it broke and I used to listen to the DJ AM radio station on AOL until he died. 3. I’m here!
Without further ado, my review.
DJ Funkygraffish, Cristian Guzman, loves House Music and his mixes show his love. I was given two to review and he is currently working on another mix-tape. His first mix, Pasadena Good Morning, is an upbeat mix of beats great for background music, until roughly 10 minutes in, when the music gets to that point that makes you feel high. The second mix, Que Pasa Dena?, is in my opinion, his greatest. He interweaves old skool with modern beats. In Que Pasa Dena? Funkygraffish has created a sort of salute to the 80’s, 90’s, and beyond. Smells Like Teen Spirit somehow meets the chorus of Pass the Dutchie. Pump Up the Jam and Billie Jean are brought together. The mix is amazing.
Here is a link to hear his mix-tapes online, no downloading required!
Thanks Jammer for the idear. Now you can proudly say, “Lisa gave me an STD.”
STD for the Heart
Your love, my love, pains me to my heart’s core, that I plead to you, Make this pain no more!
My heart is a flurry of tell-tale spots, pulsating and throbbing with ecstatic fury. My love drips down my heart’s swollen confines; nefarious, necrotic, non-negotiable dropping like tears.
Your love, my love , seduces and destroys, no cure for it here anymore, the penicillin is still at the store.
OK, so Jezebel had a contest going for very short fiction, but alas, they closed early due to overwhelming responses. But I did write a miserable stream of conscience piece of crap that I knew had nil chance of winning, but was like “eh, what the hell!” Paint me vagina pink and call me Virginia Woolf, but it needs some sort of airing, so it gets it here among my devoted fans. Remember, it’s fiction. I don’t got no Gothic lover, though Lily is similarly neurotic.
E. Coli for the Soul
by Lisa B.
Lily thinks she’s in love. She also thinks she’s dying, but she will do nothing about either issue. Lily sees love as a germ similar to the flu. Love comes upon you suddenly and hard, then more often than not, leaves you weakened instead of dead. Death, on the other hand, is fatal, and she has no desire to know that she’s dying.
Is the pain in her abdomen strained muscles, or millions of cancer cells building and spreading throughout her body? Will she stop thinking about The Man so often? Wonder what he’d think about this thing, or that person? He is dark, brooding, but strangely kind. Lily loves the darkness, the Gothic quality of his personality. The sadness she loves too, her attraction to people who are more unhappy than she is acts like a magnet.
I will help you. I’ll love you. Please love me too. She won’t say it. She’s become a mute. Love is a contaminant to friendship, e. coli for the soul. He would reject her, not wish to speak to her anymore, and most importantly, he loves someone else better suited for him…
But death, now that’s a weighty subject for a weighty woman. As long as she avoids the doctor, she won’t have to know she’s dying if it so happens she is dying. She may not be dying at all, but she won’t take a chance for someone to say she is.
I have been kind of blah lately, and while reading all of your great comments when I got ’em, I’ve been lax at replying. Will start replying tomorrow. I know some folks might say it just to say it, but I truly do love you all.
Yesterday was an action packed adventure, so much of a one I’m inclined to share it all.
First thing’s first. I checked the internet for a symptom I’m having to see whether it’s a sign of cancer. Research inconclusive.
I tried to list some things on eBay for that much needed extra penny towards the end of the month, but my penchant for being easily distracted and my cats getting in the way on my desk and lap, as well as the slowness of my desktop computer made productivity minimal.
Later I walked by Club Ghetto/Trailer Park’s pool, and lo, 73 degrees and a family, including a couple beating me in the pleasantly plump category, were in the water. That’s wanting to swim. Perhaps they were afraid that they wouldn’t have time between now and The Rapture to get in a good splash? I decided to take my chances and wait until it’s supposed to get into 80 and up in a few days. A woman and her small daughter walked by me on the sidewalk and I let out a slight “hello” for fear of being rude. No answer. I began wondering why she didn’t reply. My hair probably went in several directions. I didn’t look her in the eye, so perhaps she thought I was crazy or “challenged,” or, eh what the heck, both. The possibilities are endless!
Much later, after washing my ‘fro and doing violence upon it with my comb, also conceding defeat to my cats lounging on the desk and chair of my computer, I decided to go to Club Ghetto/Trailer Park Pool to catch up on my reading. This would be my first time on the deck of our hallowed pool since last year, a rite of passage from spring to summer.
“Hey!” cried a voice, that distinct accent of southern gay man. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, the gentleman who helped my mother with the groceries the other day. I was inside putting frozen and refrigerated stuff away, so I had not made his acquaintance, but had heard his praises. He asked me if he knew who he was.
“Yes, my mom told me how nice you were helping her the other day,” I replied. She also had said he greatly admired me for always having a book with me. Well, that’s nice, though the day of the grocery incident, I was into the adventures of Cardcaptor Sakura (I’ve discovered the joys of Japanese shoujo (for girls) manga about 18 years late). I was pleased anyway since “admired” in reference to me is a rare bird indeed.
Cardcaptor Sakura
So here he was, The Gentleman, the same fellow who had the delicacy to leave the groceries by our door lest my mother confuse him for a rapist. A large man, rather stout, perhaps around 40, three necklaces including a large cross against his sunburned flesh, blondish ponytail, this was The Gentleman who had given me praise. Here he was again, waxing upon my literary prowess, quizzing me on this awful book I’m reading about Obama, one of those “Hey, it was free for a review” wonders, but far less interesting than the Girl Finds Jesus Under a Train book.
“What chapter are you on?” he asked as he looked at the table of contents.
“Two or three.” The book is kind of interesting, but like I said it also has the distinction of being “awful.”
“Hey wait a moment, I want to talk to you about the book,” he said in a kinda gay, kinda kind sort of voice, as though he recognized me as just shy, not a retard. “What do you think so far?”
Not used to on the spot quizzes, I could only garble out about how I thought the author disliked Obama for being black, his funny Muslim name, and that he blamed Obama for everything.
“Yes, you see it was a very unique time, Never before has there been an African-American president, even though his mother was white, so many people aren’t going to like him.”
“Yes, true,” I replied.
At another point in the conversation, he said, “I love to read too! What kind of books do you read mostly?”
“A bit of everything.” It was though I had become the most interesting person around, just a regular intellectual in her Paris salon. The alcohol on his breath, not quite tempered by his cigar, no doubt helped add to my allure.
Shootin’ the Bull on Books Old World Style
Another man was with him who said nary a word, the opposite of Mr. Sunshine. Thin, dark, and older, with a full head of gray hair that would make Donald Trump jealous, this fellow was just there. Since he didn’t speak to me, I didn’t cast my next “hello” before another unresponsive swine. I should have, mind, since when he’s drunk he gives stuff away, and one day I had a lovely piece of Ruby Red Glass from 1905 on our terrace from it, but I am horribly shy. One spurt of being uber friendly a day is all I’m worth. I wonder if he’s “The Cousin.”
Yes, The Cousin. As in my cousin, probably 20 times removed if at all. My father’s surname is rather uncommon, at least in these parts, so it makes me wonder. Though he grew up in a different part of Appalachia than my dearly departed papa, maybe there is a smidge of consanguinity. He certainly fits the bill of a relation on my father’s side, i.e., drunk. To be a male on that side of a family is to have alcohol running through the veins I understand –which would be great if they got a cut, but not so great for breeding.
“I want you to discuss this book with me when you’re done,” said The Gentleman.
“I’ll let you have it once I’m done with it,” I replied.
“Oh great, I’ll even pay you for it.”
“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I got it for free myself for a review.” (Note I said nothing about my blog, but if he ever does find this, perhaps it’s forgivable).
Finally, I went to a lounge to sit and read. “Oh! Don’t you want a chair?” my new friend exclaimed.
“No, I prefer this kind of seat actually, thanks.”
“Why don’t you sit in the sun?” I moved in deference, though the late afternoon light tried to get into my eyes. I began reading the book I brought with the “awful” Obama book –a fascinating graphic novel about none other than Ronald Reagan. Well researched, it’s a fascinating read. You begin it thinking it will be an ass-kissing homage to the former president, but then it goes into the douchey things ol’ Dutch did, including the part about how Reagan made sure the Iranian hostages weren’t released until he was elected.
Suddenly I heard, “Adios!” I figured it was someone saying bye to the people in the pool then, but no, it was The Gentleman, carrying a sort of Moses-style cane for fashion’s sake. And the winner of the BestGay Pimp Award goes to…
As the sun went further down, I began to feel chilled. It was barely 70 with no sun shining on the pool and yet a family continued swimming as I was WTF-ing. I’d have thought they were Canadian ex-pats had they not been both dark-skinned and speaking fluent Spanish to each other. Far braver souls than I.
As I wobbled home, I spotted The Gentleman far off. Feeling shy with anyone I haven’t known some 15 years or so, I walked on until he began waving. “Hi, Lisaaaaa! I live here!”
And so the first day at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park ended and I already made a friend. It’s true I’ve been very lonely, wishing I had my blog friends here, someone who “got me.” Maybe this is in part what I wished for (though the Nervous Nelly in me says, “Personal space, too, please”).
Yesterday was an action packed adventure, so much of a one I’m inclined to share it all.
First thing’s first. I checked the internet for a symptom I’m having to see whether it’s a sign of cancer. Research inconclusive.
I tried to list some things on eBay for that much needed extra penny towards the end of the month, but my penchant for being easily distracted and my cats getting in the way on my desk and lap, as well as the slowness of my desktop computer made productivity minimal.
Later I walked by Club Ghetto/Trailer Park’s pool, and lo, 73 degrees and a family, including a couple beating me in the pleasantly plump category, were in the water. That’s wanting to swim. Perhaps they were afraid that they wouldn’t have time between now and The Rapture to get in a good splash? I decided to take my chances and wait until it’s supposed to get into 80 and up in a few days. A woman and her small daughter walked by me on the sidewalk and I let out a slight “hello” for fear of being rude. No answer. I began wondering why she didn’t reply. My hair probably went in several directions. I didn’t look her in the eye, so perhaps she thought I was crazy or “challenged,” or, eh what the heck, both. The possibilities are endless!
Much later, after washing my ‘fro and doing violence upon it with my comb, also conceding defeat to my cats lounging on the desk and chair of my computer, I decided to go to Club Ghetto/Trailer Park Pool to catch up on my reading. This would be my first time on the deck of our hallowed pool since last year, a rite of passage from spring to summer.
“Hey!” cried a voice, that distinct accent of southern gay man. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, the gentleman who helped my mother with the groceries the other day. I was inside putting frozen and refrigerated stuff away, so I had not made his acquaintance, but had heard his praises. He asked me if he knew who he was.
“Yes, my mom told me how nice you were helping her the other day,” I replied. She also had said he greatly admired me for always having a book with me. Well, that’s nice, though the day of the grocery incident, I was into the adventures of Cardcaptor Sakura (I’ve discovered the joys of Japanese shoujo (for girls) manga about 18 years late). I was pleased anyway since “admired” in reference to me is a rare bird indeed.
Cardcaptor Sakura
So here he was, The Gentleman, the same fellow who had the delicacy to leave the groceries by our door lest my mother confuse him for a rapist. A large man, rather stout, perhaps around 40, three necklaces including a large cross against his sunburned flesh, blondish ponytail, this was The Gentleman who had given me praise. Here he was again, waxing upon my literary prowess, quizzing me on this awful book I’m reading about Obama, one of those “Hey, it was free for a review” wonders, but far less interesting than the Girl Finds Jesus Under a Train book.
“What chapter are you on?” he asked as he looked at the table of contents.
“Two or three.” The book is kind of interesting, but like I said it also has the distinction of being “awful.”
“Hey wait a moment, I want to talk to you about the book,” he said in a kinda gay, kinda kind sort of voice, as though he recognized me as just shy, not a retard. “What do you think so far?”
Not used to on the spot quizzes, I could only garble out about how I thought the author disliked Obama for being black, his funny Muslim name, and that he blamed Obama for everything.
“Yes, you see it was a very unique time, Never before has there been an African-American president, even though his mother was white, so many people aren’t going to like him.”
“Yes, true,” I replied.
At another point in the conversation, he said, “I love to read too! What kind of books do you read mostly?”
“A bit of everything.” It was though I had become the most interesting person around, just a regular intellectual in her Paris salon. The alcohol on his breath, not quite tempered by his cigar, no doubt helped add to my allure.
Shootin’ the Bull on Books Old World Style
Another man was with him who said nary a word, the opposite of Mr. Sunshine. Thin, dark, and older, with a full head of gray hair that would make Donald Trump jealous, this fellow was just there. Since he didn’t speak to me, I didn’t cast my next “hello” before another unresponsive swine. I should have, mind, since when he’s drunk he gives stuff away, and one day I had a lovely piece of Ruby Red Glass from 1905 on our terrace from it, but I am horribly shy. One spurt of being uber friendly a day is all I’m worth. I wonder if he’s “The Cousin.”
Yes, The Cousin. As in my cousin, probably 20 times removed if at all. My father’s surname is rather uncommon, at least in these parts, so it makes me wonder. Though he grew up in a different part of Appalachia than my dearly departed papa, maybe there is a smidge of consanguinity. He certainly fits the bill of a relation on my father’s side, i.e., drunk. To be a male on that side of a family is to have alcohol running through the veins I understand –which would be great if they got a cut, but not so great for breeding.
“I want you to discuss this book with me when you’re done,” said The Gentleman.
“I’ll let you have it once I’m done with it,” I replied.
“Oh great, I’ll even pay you for it.”
“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I got it for free myself for a review.” (Note I said nothing about my blog, but if he ever does find this, perhaps it’s forgivable).
Finally, I went to a lounge to sit and read. “Oh! Don’t you want a chair?” my new friend exclaimed.
“No, I prefer this kind of seat actually, thanks.”
“Why don’t you sit in the sun?” I moved in deference, though the late afternoon light tried to get into my eyes. I began reading the book I brought with the “awful” Obama book –a fascinating graphic novel about none other than Ronald Reagan. Well researched, it’s a fascinating read. You begin it thinking it will be an ass-kissing homage to the former president, but then it goes into the douchey things ol’ Dutch did, including the part about how Reagan made sure the Iranian hostages weren’t released until he was elected.
Suddenly I heard, “Adios!” I figured it was someone saying bye to the people in the pool then, but no, it was The Gentleman, carrying a sort of Moses-style cane for fashion’s sake. And the winner of the BestGay Pimp Award goes to…
As the sun went further down, I began to feel chilled. It was barely 70 with no sun shining on the pool and yet a family continued swimming as I was WTF-ing. I’d have thought they were Canadian ex-pats had they not been both dark-skinned and speaking fluent Spanish to each other. Far braver souls than I.
As I wobbled home, I spotted The Gentleman far off. Feeling shy with anyone I haven’t known some 15 years or so, I walked on until he began waving. “Hi, Lisaaaaa! I live here!”
And so the first day at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park ended and I already made a friend. It’s true I’ve been very lonely, wishing I had my blog friends here, someone who “got me.” Maybe this is in part what I wished for (though the Nervous Nelly in me says, “Personal space, too, please”).
Quickpress is great for the depressed and needing to lay bare their souls I think.
Heaven help me, I’m so screwed.
Most of the time if someone slights me I swallow my resentment and can somehow take it as my desserts. Not so with myself or my mom. I feel awful when my mom becomes the subject of my ire, because I don’t just get mad at my mom, I go into a full bona fied rage.
I’m not one to physically lash out, thank God, but my mouth is terrible and my thoughts that don’t quite verbalize are so bad I deserve lightening striking me.
I almost said to her today that “Sometimes I hate you.”
Do I hate my mom when I get that mad? I doubt it. I’d still do anything for her, but if I hate anyone it’s myself. What kind of person am I? I even call her terrible names under my breath.
The other times I’m that mad is at my own damn self. I am OK with letting myself know what a worthless pig I am and usually I just get mad at myself, but when it spills out on my mom is when I really have a problem.
What motivates my rage? My absolute need for perfection in myself. I wake up each morning promising myself that I will be perfect, that I will make no mistakes at all. And I’m serious about that thing. What do you think, then would send me into a rage? Anything that reminds me I’m not doing everything just right. My main gauge of “screw up” is my mom when I’m not getting the feeling that I need to restart my own damn miserable self.
When someone is that hellbent on doing everything just right, it takes very little to send me into a ragey panic state, which makes me the douche that I am. It’s only my mother and myself that can make me that mad.
Things I expect of myself everyday:
Not to get angry at all, or at least suppress it.
To think of others always before myself and do my best to be selfless.
To perform every damn little ritual my sorry ass can come up with that day.
I know I’m going to fail each time I promise myself this and I can’t stop! No amount of meds seems to stop that need to be perfect. It makes me miserable. I feel my perfect is everyone else’s normal too on one hand. I feel I really have to strive to measure up to anyone. I know people think I’m dumb and ignorant, and my only consolation, is that in some areas I’m smarter than they are (it ain’t that hard here -and see, there’s another imperfection of mine -secretly knocking people around me when it’s my sorry ass that’s on disability and even if I am smarter I will never amount to shit).
OK, I think I have it out of my system now. Thanks for listening.
Not exactly a diarist of this caliber.Cover of The Diary of Anne Frank
I only got so far as B, so it’s going to be the A to B Blogging Challenge. For added grins I write it in “Melodramatic Victorian:”
My dear readers,
Given the task of writing a ‘B’ article for the A to Z Blogging Challenge, my mind turns to the idle days of youth. Those days, dear readers! Oh, those days! My pen quivers at the memory of budding life ‘ere the blossom bloomed and old age withered the emerged flower! Do you remember, my most constant friends, those days when our cheeks were cherry red with acne and life? I recall it as though it were yesterday…
It was the fall of my thirteenth year, and I had yet again given into the flights of fancy peculiar to me, the furies of fear, which set me apart from my schoolmates. The other children at the schoolhouse could not leave such a curiosity as me be. The privy, the dining area, out on the grounds, few places were safe from the little villains. I was afraid and yet part of me felt that negative attention was better than no attention. Better not forgotten, but awful being remembered, I found that I despised educational pursuits altogether, so when I was installed in a safer place I still wanted to be done with the lot of it. In a way indeed I was.
This school, instead of being awash in Godless heathen, was awash and a dried with God-fearing souls of a fundamentalist sect. I had been there, done that, and bought the appropriate apparel in the earliest of my formative years, and did not wish to do so again. Though the overwhelming majority were of the nicest sort of people, having been away from such beliefs for so long gave me a distaste for such ideas. I recall walking past a bulletin board against the candidate for the US senate who I supported because of abortion. Tsk, tsk. I also recall the campaign against Halloween, that evil Pagan holiday, where someone might sacrifice you to the devil if you were a virgin (a peril I’d still have to worry about today, sigh, as an aging spinster). I called “BS” on such fancies, having not recalled in all my 13 years hearing anyone in our town being sacrificed, but as you no doubt know, there’s a first for everything.
I wanted out of there, a place one could say was a liberal’s hell, and I feigned being ill so often they dismissed me from among them. I wish I could go back, give the proverbial rat’s derriere about learning, and propel myself through the middle grades. But I didn’t. I stayed home being homeschooled and developing agoraphobia, you know, the typical plights of adolescence.
I retired to home, schooled myself for two years in what I felt like learning and naught else, kept a diary, and remained agoraphobic except when with my mother. The villains from the school before last and a crazy man who jumped out at me one night sealed my fearful state so much that only other fears brought me back into society two years later.
After my years à la Diary of Anne Frank, I resumed my education, my epistles in my diary became sporadic at best. Life lived outside the tiny expanse between my ears gave me other concerns than giving blow by blow dissertations on why my family ‘sucked,’ to use the vernacular common today, or what transpired on the television. Looking back on the juvenilia, I am tempted to chuck those little books for the poor quality of the writing, but old sentimentality bade me stop.
We leave adolescence behind now and look beyond to the institution of higher learning ,The Community College, where one is given two year’s (or, in my case, five year’s ) instruction to go to higher-higher learning or to take up a trade. I was a wretched student for the most part, my inability to make deadlines one and for two there were diversions aplenty downtown. Secondary school had been easy for the most part. College was a whole other kettle of fish. I wonder at times, dear reader, if my days trudging the hallowed halls were worth it, that all my learning went for naught since I am pensioned by the government’s good will towards the mentally afflicted. Yet, one may postulate that knowledge, from the tiniest kernel of truth onward, is never a waste of time for anyone should it enhance the life of the pursuer –Eve excepted of course. The canvas of my mind was painted the hues of a liberal education, subtly infused with yellow flowers of reading and writing and a happy sun of Windows 98. Oh, wonderous beauty, oh marvelous keyboard of life (never mind I failed the word processing class. Moveable type wasn’t perfected in a day and the metaphor is effective just the same).
It was Creative Writing I that first propelled me forth in my illustrious pursuit of the written word, along with Creative Writing II, which had a few lesbians trying to find their Sapphic muse as I tried to find my voice too. In class the first I learned and listened in between the peculiar fits of panic I was dealt at that time of my life. From hearing my teacher lecture others and myself I learned:
Do not besmirch your paper with a preponderance of adjectives and adverbs -a little goes a long way.
If you see something wrong with someone’s writing, tell him , that he might improve instead of gushing how wonderful his writing is (ah, but should I be bade to tell someone EXACTLY what I saw wrong with something, I could pick out a few things. While my own writing considerably lacked and I wasn’t able to discern just how bad it lacked, I could see a lot with the rather unexceptional lad with whom I was paired).
You need to work on the punctuation and spacing in your poems.
When writing a poem about your mother, don’t make it sound like a Hallmark moment (though said mother preferred the generic version as opposed to emo blood n’ guts version, thanks).
While you got a knack for pacing, this is the sort of story that’s been told 1000s of times, and your characters are archetypal (Lisa, cut out the gothic dramas, and what the hell is archetypal?.
If you’re writing a vintage style detective story, Oldest Guy in Class, don’t let the narrator call one of the characters “an old Jew.”
Young Guy, don’t use “ye olde English,” there’s enough of that from classic poets. To thyne own self be true… but only to a point.
During Creative Writing the First, we were all expected to keep an “observation journal,” which was not to be a “How my boyfriend and I argue all the time journal” (not a problem for me, believe me). I was in the “wish I could disappear phase of my college education, so my journal became the friend I didn’t have. Rather, my teacher by proxy became my friend since she read the journal and left comments in the margins if I were lucky> I wrote about my observations and thoughts on things in what I flatter myself to be a humorous way. When class ended it was as though I lost a very dear friend. But this was another pre-cursor to my life as a blogger and horrid comment whore.
During Creative Writing the Second I began to realize my life was not meant to churn out fiction, rather my life was meant to chronicle my life, mundane as it was, and get a laugh or two. I remember I wrote a short story based on my life in high school and college and told of my one forray into the romantic world (humiliating myself for the grins of others, which pleased me. Better to laugh than cry…). The teacher had us read excerpts from our writing at a bar that had a small stage, so perfect venue! I didn’t eat anything, lest I be sick, but I got up there, before the students and their friends, plus people who just came in to drink and didn’t care what else happened. I made a “Hi, mom” crack and began. I was a hit! It was one of the best moments of my obscure life.
I wish I could say after graduating, I became a celebrated writer or journalist or even went on to university, but it wasn’t to be. My anxiety, shyness, and inability to concentrate won in the end and I get paid by the government to exist and that’s my life.
But of course, my story doesn’t end there, my blogging story that is. Since graduating, my society with others, which was originally insignificant, almost went to nil. I have 3 friends I see regularly and other than that I keep to myself. Though I like people, I prefer it this way. In case you weren’t aware I’m terrified of rejection, plus I like being left to my own devices most of the time.
To supplement my lack of social life, I started conversing in a chat room for about 5 years or so. Now let me tell you something about chat rooms, lots of the brilliant conversationalists have problems bigger than yours, and no I wasn’t in a mental health room. It just seems like not many were “normal” insofar as my weak understanding of the word means and I don’t mean that as a slight. They say you don’t really know people online, but in 5 years, one does after a fashion, in a way some people are more their true selves online than off I venture to say. Why I say this is you see how they deal with their fellows online and you know they are more flawed than you would see exhibited in polite society (not that I was a saint either to people who were rude to me).
In my chat room days I kept a couple of blogs. One I did a couple of posts and lost interest in it, another I posted a few times until someone from the chat started pasting my musings into the chat to embarrass me. Then I restarted blogging on that site, but my dearest mother sent me into fits of paranoia that the SOB gentleman down the way would find out I was writing about how he NEVER PAID ME BACK that $73.00 I loaned him to pay his light bill (what, me bitter? Not I, Christian charity, etc.). After a little while blogging almost privately I stopped writing there also.
Skipping on to the beginning of 2010, my best chat room friend and I had a falling out and suddenly I had nothing in my opinion. I stayed out of the chat room and the fellow who caused our quarrel began instant messaging me again. One day, as befitting his tastes and humor, he showed me a video of his favorite actress of the adult genre, Penny Flame. Who? What? Huh? “What makes her your favorite?” I asked, because watching said actress on said couch riding said man, she looked, well, like an actress of such moving pictures. A more everyday lass, less artificially rendered in make-up or enhancements of the bosom, but an actress none the less.
“She’s affectionate,” he said.
“Oh.”
Well, now, this wasn’t enough for me and my delicate sensibilities, so I researched her, and that brought up that infallible oracle of truth, Wikipedia.
“Hey, did you know she retired, went on a Sex Rehab thing, and now keeps a blog as Jennie Ketcham?”
I became fascinated with not-Penny and was amazed by her goodness and how we seemed to have similar insecurities though she were endowed with more beauty and talents of letters than I ever should be gifted. I observed how her writing seemed to truly help people and a peculiar idea came to me, “Hey, maybe I could help folks while helping myself by writing too?” Misery loves company, right, I thought, and perhaps it would help other anxious people to know they aren’t alone or some such, etc. So I created this magnificent, magnanimous blog. Though I ramble something awful, can’t stay on topic to save my life, and worry all the time about losing my blogging friends, I must say this is my crowning achievement in life (I know, “winning” right?). I’ve met so many wonderful people through this blog and love you all. You give my life meaning and I hope to keep blogging as long as I live.
I think most of y’all are familiar with Bearman over at Beartoons, right? The fellow with the green hair that looks like he had it styled at Donald Trump’s salon? Yeah him. Well, besides being a super artist of political/pop culture cartoons and commentary, he’s socially conscious too.
Bearman will give the first $500.00 he gives away to a Cincinnati, OH food bank . If he does more than $500.00, the rest will go to the Red Cross to aid Japanese earthquake victims up to $ 1000.oo. This is his 3rd year sponsoring charities All without you donating a blood red cent or giving personal info. BEARMAN DOES THE DONATING!!!
I will let Bearman himself explain his terms on his site. For instance, this post I am writing will make him donate $10.00.
Ramblings about my life, my mental health & my physical rehabilitation following my suicide attempt. “They say don’t look back, but sometimes it’s important to see how far you’ve come.”
The terrifying and intrusive thoughts of Harm OCD can mentally cripple individuals and family alike. You are not alone. This is a treatable, manageable neurological disorder.
Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings 