We are two and we are toilet trained! Lucky us! Lucky YOU.....
To celebrate our second birthday we've had a revamp and we look very pretty. New features include TNBTV and TNB photo of the day, both new ways to embarrass ourselves in cyber space. I will be uploading pictures of my cats bottom and daily videos of my room mates having pillow fights in racy lingerie. Because that's how we roll here in San Francisco.
I'm excited.
As usual the link is -
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/
A direct link to my newest story and my archives is -
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/author/zbrock/
As ever, you can SUBSCRIBE to our RSS feed. If you don't want to do that you can bookmark the main link or mine and check in when you remember. And you can set your alarm clocks so you remember every five minutes.
There is a brand new story up and ready for you to peruse and have a laugh at my expense, it's called
and I have resolved to add one more each week no matter how crap it is, so I'll soon have a new batch of stuff up to replace the emo rubbish I vomited out earlier in the year. This stuff promises to be more filthy and deranged than ever. Why? Because I am more filthy and deranged than ever.
I've been practicing.
Many thanks for your continued support over the past two years, unless of course you never went to the site and read us or pimped us to your friends. In that case go fuck yourselves and to make amends please forward this to everyone on your friend and email lists.
Much love and group-hugs and all that other kiss-arse stuff I'm supposed to say, when all I really want to say is....
GO READ US NOW! WE'RE REALLY GOOD. COMMENT LIKE CRAZY AND PLEASE HEL TO SUPPORT OUR OTHER WRITERS!!!!!xoxo zb
ps- feel free to shoot Brad Listi an email complaining about how the new alphabetizing of our names has relegated me to the bottom of the contributor list. I told him I was going to change my name to Aardvark if he didn't put me back at the top but I think the bastard actually liked the idea.
pps- I am sorry to use MySpace only to pimp our site.... I've recommended to Brad that we include a threaded comments section to entertain you over there. Much love. (ass) x.
I'm sitting on my nice wooden floor (it needs vacuuming) grinning at my closet.
I have the face of a happy fool. A fool in love.
Oh yes.
I'm in love with something.
It's a closet. A big fucking closet. A big fucking closet with all my stuff in it.
It looks like a boutique. I could employ someone to pass me things and keep everything folded.
I can't stop looking at it.
It's so..... tidy.
I can run through it. I know this because I have tried.
I can even dance in it.
My hangers match (oh Third World please forgive me).
I love it and hate myself all at the same time. I feel shallow and gleeful, nauseated and completely turned on.
The part of me that is an anal-retentive princess is floating on cloud nine. The part of me that could live in a shack for six months with one sarong is ashamed and embarrassed.
Yes, I could actually live in a shack for six months with only one sarong. If it was hot.
Shit, if it was hot I could live without the damn sarong.
I imagine know most people think I'm a privileged, prissy, city girl, and part of me definitely is, but I also spent half of my childhood with a father who not only had an outside toilet and who often forgot to buy toilet paper (resorting in the frequent "recycling" of yesterdays newsprint), but who scavenged in rubbish dumps for odds and ends to build his house with and who spent his last dimes on cigarettes.
I used to love going to the dump- climbing mountains of crap and finding treasures amongst the filth.
New Zealand is not far from Antarctica and the Southerly wind that whips up from that continent is bitterness incarnate. Often I was cold. Really cold. My fathers love was tough and his lifestyle basic. There were no luxuries, there were barely even necessities, and if I ever complained or reacted to the lack of heat or milk or hot water or Charmin I risked a talking-to that went far beyond stern. Perhaps he was embarrassed, mortified even. I'm sure he took my discomfort very personally. He loved me very much and most of the time couldn't provide the things my mother could, not without conforming to the rules and being anything other than a struggling artist/renegade/dreamer. Either that or he thought I was a pansy.
So, in lieu of luxuries we had creativity. We were poor as fuck but we could write and draw and play music and tell stories. We could dance and stomp grapes in the living room and literally climb the walls of the kitchen and peer down from the cubby hole near the ceiling.
One of our walls was built of white plaster and had over-sized sculpting aids protruding out at different angles. A giant ear. A mouth. A hand. A huge white nose I hid boogers in.
I always knew we struggled, but I never analyzed it too much. It was what it was. In my mind we were always kings and queens, but the truth was that for half the week I was an upper-middle-class girl, and the other half I was mostly a pauper. Weird.
Now, looking at dozens of near-useless designer dresses and beautiful, perfect, expensive pairs of shoes I feel I can justify the frills and inanities because they are not ALL of me. They are just a part of me. A part of me that isn't a very big part at all anymore. Being a Girl is a fun disguise and a pretty game, but the real me is still climbing around in the trash with a big silly grin on my face, finding broken dolls to play with and talking to bums outside the pub while my father is inside drinking.
Hello closet. Hello new house. Hello new city. Hello again America... it's really nice to be home. x
Having my insides felt up and prodded, scraped and swabbed and stuck with things.
It wasn't very sexy.
At all.
Blood tests. Peeing in bottles. The Works.
And it's not good news, either.
Apparently there are things wrong with me that make me act kooky. My girlie bits are screwed up and effect my head. At least I have some sort of excuse for flipping out or off or up or down or over.
I guess.
Hormones. Whore-moans.
I went off the pill a while ago when my relationship died and because I was horrified at putting chemicals into my body. I felt like I was watching my life count down in tiny round white increments in an aluminum package.
I'm now back on the pill after a few weeks of major head fucking and hormonal weirdness. My body went nuts, and it took my head with it. The pill does all sorts of other things to me and my head. I don't like it. I have to lump it.
Shit.
Does anyone else out there have Polycystic ovaries?
I briefly thought I was cured.... but it's not to be. It means I might not have kids, might be weird forever.... I'm really upset about it. The Dr diagnosed me with situational depression, whatever the fuck that is, and tried to put me back on other stuff.
A part of me just wants to cut my girlie bits out completely. The way I see the world when I feel like this is skewed and negative, the way I treat people is dreadful, everything. It's cost me so much already, and I can't seem to get a grip on it at all.
I want kids. I want to be healthy. I want to be stable and mellow and calm. Heh, I typed "clam" there. How Freudian.
I'm feeling alone and need some sisters.
Advice?
x
JUST WANTED TO THANK THE FEMALE POPULATION OF MY READERS FOR BEING SO SUPPORTIVE AND LOVELY. I'M NOT REALLY UP TO RESPONDING TO COMMENTS RIGHT NOW SO THOUGHT I'D DO A BULK THANK YOU AND HOPE YOU DON'T MIND IF I JUST GO BACK TO BED AND REST A BIT. I HAD NO IDEA STEAMGEEK AND STOKER AND GEORGE WERE WOMEN!!! THAT'S BEEN AN EYE-OPENER AND SOMETHING I DIDN'T SEE COMING. OF COURSE I DID KNOW THAT SUPREMO AND SPENCER WERE BIG GIRLS...... THAT WAS NO SURPRISE. BRIAN- THANK YOU FOR BEING MY CHAMPION, AS EVER. THANK YOU ALL FOR MAKING ME SMILE (AND CRY). THANK YOU TO JD FOR ACTUALLY ASKING ME IF HE WAS ALLOWED TO READ FIRST! THANK YOU TO MY OVARIES FOR NOT PACKING IN ENTIRELY. THANK YOU TO ME FOR ACTUALLY SLEEPING LAST NIGHT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A MONTH. THANK YOU TO MY DOCTOR FOR GIVING ME PILLS THAT ENABLES ME TO DO SO.
Home is where your own personal brand of crazy blends in with the locals.
Home is where you accidentally put the windscreen wipers on every time you try to use your blinkers.
Home is where the accents are so thick you have a problem understanding your best friends after they've had less than half a glass of Pinot.
Home is where you can do this... only an hour from civilization but a million worlds away-
God I love this place.
I wish you were all here to see it with me.
I've just inherited a beautiful house by the water for the month of June (thanks NXM) and I am going to be a writing, meditating, yoga-ing, relaxing, creating, cooking, loving, cuddling, working, sleeping fiend.
And my mum is coming to stay.
I am very excited.
I was about to jump on a plane and come back to the States next week but then I realized my priorities were all fucked up. Friends and family.... you win. I'm sorry there was ever any doubt.
This is a very personal piece of fiction. Please be kind.
The old man looked over at the old woman and smirked.
She eyed him suspiciously from her nest on the sofa and her eyes danced as she spoke. "You look very cheeky," she said. "What movies are you playing your head tonight?"
"I'm playing the one about the moment we met." He replied. "I'm playing it in a decrepit Soho theater in Technicolor with a down-tempo electro-synth break-beats soundtrack and, to top it off, I have a girl in a short skirt selling popcorn in the aisles."
The old woman laughed. "Sounds like a chick flick."
"No, no. Au contraire. It's more of a romance/action/drama/comedy/porno with moments of noir and the occasional zombie."
"Tell me how it goes, but don't ruin the ending."
The old man looked up at her. His green eyes smiled even though his mouth did not. "I don't know the ending yet to be able to tell it, cherie, but if I remember correctly it started off like this....
It was early afternoon, not long after mid-day and the October sun was pale but warming. A silver car eased into the right lane and pulled to a stop next to a corner where a young man in a green t-shirt waited by the side of the road. The passenger window lowered and the driver leaned over, grinning, and said to the man "You'll do."
So he got in.
A short while later they walked on the beach where she picked up a bee from the path to save it from being trampled. Her heart beat faster as the insect crawled on her flesh, and she willed it not to sting her as it's tiny, furry feet marched near-invisible pollen tracks upon her skin. She placed it out of harms way on a patch of grass by the sand and breathed a small sigh of relief to have escaped unharmed.
"That is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen," said the man, and he asked if he might hug her. She said yes. It was a long hug and it felt easy, comfortable, quiet and safe.
They sat for a while and watched the ocean, the pier, the clouds and sky. People passed by them as they chatted about the things people chat about when they meet for the first time. It was a nice time, not awkward, not hard in any way. Like two old friends meeting again after a long time away.
After they parted they both knew they had met someone they recognized as important but they didn't know why, or what to do with it. Two weird people with very different lives, from very different backgrounds, had suddenly stumbled into each other, their paths crossing and becoming one single track, and neither of them was wearing the right shoes to traverse it.
"I was too wearing the right shoes." Mocked the old woman. "I always wear the right shoes."
"Babe, seriously, it's a metaphor."
"Oh no you don't," she sniffed. "My metaphorical shoes are just as perfect as my real ones."
Suppressing a smile the old man picked up his iReader 2050 and began to read.
A bright hologram iFire flickered on the wall behind them and the iLights automatically adjusted to the perfect reading brightness for the old mans eyes. He read for a while as his lover dozed, and he occasionally glanced up to make sure she was still there, still smiling in her sleep, still breathing.
The room was very quiet.
At the end of his chapter the old man put down his book and the light metal casing touching the wooden table made a small noise that startled the old woman into wakefulness. She had always been a light sleeper. She opened her eyes.
"You've been reading me, I can see it on your face." She said.
"You've been writing me, I can read it in your words." He replied.
"All of my love stories come from reality."
"Sometimes," he said "I think you love me more than I deserve."
"Never."
"Oh really" He picked up the book and began to read aloud.
It hurt. The stretching apart and breaking of the chords of love. The untangling of dreams woven. The snapping of the ties that bind. He left her one day, after a bitter fight and cruel things uttered. She saw it coming, made it happen, had to force the end to control the destiny she feared more than anything. Her heart broke and her head betrayed her. Too much thinking, not enough thought.
She was young, and very foolish.
She begged and pleaded, argued her case, tried to pull him closer. The more she pulled the faster he turned to dust, slipping through her fingers and out of her life. She clung to the dust, soiling her hands and her face and her soul in the process. Dust does not nourish, without moisture and stillness it simply blows away in the first slight breeze.
Losing him was a great lesson for her, and one she wished she had learned before so that she might have had a chance to make them last.
Unable to stay in a location close to him she left the place where they lived and turned once again into a gypsy. No ties, no binds, no outward signs of home and connectivity. Bags packed and skirts lifted she set out on the road, trying to run from all she wanted and could not have. But he came with her, of course, in her heart and mind and soul. She couldn't escape him, even though she tried.
For weeks and months she tried to concentrate on the moment, but days were lost in dreams and fears for the future, and in the sad/happy memories of times past.
She felt lost, adrift, mad and ashamed.
And yet she knew she was growing. She knew that through her pain and loss that she was becoming a gentler, softer, better person.
She said a prayer that he might know this and still want her. She asked the gods to help him find her again when he felt ready, and then she slipped off into life.
"That's enough!" She interrupted. "I suppose you think romance should have died with Microsoft?"
"Don't get huffy." His tone was amused. "I love your romantic words and syrupy ways. I feel honored to have had so many 'works of fiction' inspired by me."
"You're the fantasy lover of a million divorcees and suburban house-fraus the world over. Teenage girls swoon over my literary versions of you and young wives feel bitter disappointment upon discovering their husbands bear no resemblance to my descriptions of you. I raise the bar for men everywhere every time I write a new novel about a green eyed man and brown eyed girl and their adventures and mischiefs throughout time, space and the interwebz."
He laughed. "LOL."
She grinned. "Besides. It must be nice to be a doddery old bugger with hairy ears and yet still have millions of women desiring you."
"In essence. I'm pretty glad they don't know it's actually me."
"So am I." She said. "Then they'd definitely stop buying my books."
They were quiet for a while. The light shifted outside, growing darker and more solid, a wall of ebony nothingness surrounding a bubble of light. The old man smiled in the bubble, his mind as sharp and dirty as it ever was, lost in reverie.
"Perhaps you ought to write a porno next. One with bathroom encounters and bus rides full of urgency and abandon."
"Rooftop rendezvous and getting caught in parked cars with your pants down?"
"Seaside sandy sex with gritty bits under starry skies?"
"Cramped coitus in small Parisian hostels on the banks of the Seine?"
"The Louvre."
"Oh! That was a funny one."
"Early morning embraces with dawn light sifting through white curtains highlighting youthful skin."
"Spooning in the Sahara..."
"Kissing in Khartoum."
"Fellatio in Fiji...."
"Coming under a Tuscan sun..."
"We're too old to talk this way."
"Talking is all we really do these days, we might as well make the most out of it I guess."
They sat for a while, lost on the winding dirt tracks of memory lane. Two old people still feeling young. Two lives, separate and yet shared, almost over, winding down.
The minutes ticked by. Outside the window the afternoon stretched into dusk, a soft, almost pixelated gloaming of husky pinks and greenish purple shadows dancing over the hillside.
"Can you play for me?" She asked when the silence had become too lengthy and languid. "Something to wake me up a little so this day can last longer. It's too early to sleep, too pretty to miss."
"Any requests?"
"Somersaults."
Shaking his head fondly at her interminable emo-ness he picked up his iKeyboard and began to play, elegant fingers making sweet music from plastic keys on a metal contraption. It never ceased to amaze her, it never stopped her heart from exploding in her chest.
He sang as she sat there in silence and loved him.
"...You talk to loners, you ask how's your week You give love to all and give love to me You're obsessed with hiding the sticks and stones When I fear the unknown You feel like home, you feel like home..."
.
The woman awoke with a start, sitting upright in her bed, gasping for breath. Her hands, held up before her, were still young, still pretty, with emerald green nail polish that reflected the dawn light. Turning her hands she checked for age spots, wrinkles, signs of time not yet spent.
Nothing.
She was still young.
She was still a gypsy.
"Oh." She said.
It was a bittersweet moment as she realized that, if she were ever confronted with the option of jumping to the end of her ideal life so that she might know it's perfect outcome, or continuing on alone and blind, she would actually chose the latter.
The sun streamed through her windows and she opened the blinds to a new day.
Currently
listening
:
Another Late Night
By
Zero 7
Release date: 2002-02-19
ASS BANDITRY - an end is just a new beginning with different clothes on.
Good day to you boys and girls, freaks and weirdos, lovers, leavers, tree-huggers and madmen alike. I've got some things up my sleeve and I wanted to share them.
I've decided to say goodbye to Ass Banditry for a while. I'm not sure if I will delete this page entirely, or simply put her to bed for a while and let her rest her sore, swollen, chafed bits in preparation for another onslaught at a later date. In any case, I've been backing up my favorite writings from here for months and feel quite comfortable about hitting delete at some point if the desire arises.
Do not be afraid!!!!! The FIB site promises to be... not so much fashion as... anarchy. We will have guest blogs by freakish people and are already filming content here in Australia for our own broadband show and TV project. Perhaps you would like to blog something there yourself? If so please let me know by emailing us on the FIB page.
These freaks have given me a microphone and free reign.
Suckers.
I will be posting video blogs as soon as we have enough content for me to hit the editing suite and assemble something weird and funny.
I'll be explaining what I am doing down here in Oz very shortly and giving a run-down of the show, guests and the utter madness inherent in shooting well-dressed people who take themselves and their clothes really fucking seriously, and the joys of filming those who don't.
Needless to say.... I'm having fun being naughty.
"Zoë Brock here at Australian Fashion Week, live, unscripted, uncensored and completely unhinged. I'm wearing something by somebody and all I can tell you is that, whatever it is, it would look much better in a rumpled heap at the foot of your bed."
My job description? Swearing a lot and cuddling people.
Speaking of cuddling people....
Yesterday my god-daughter and her mama, my dearest friend, came over for breakfast. It was my first day off since I arrived here five days ago, the first day I got to really relax and absorb the feeling of being amongst people who really know and love me, the first day I didn't have to work and be ON. No make-up, no mad front-of-camera personality, no running in high heels.
I love being here and seeing all these people who are dearer to me than almost anything, but a part of me feels very unsettled still. I've walked along the beach and seen so many faces I know, felt so many arms around me... I forget how many friends I have here and how amazing it feels to be so loved. It's a funny feeling to be at once so connected to this place and yet to not want to live here. Life would be so simple if I did. Friends on every corner, love in every face... a quality of life that surpasses most others. Wandering under blue skies next to roiling oceans and knocking, uninvited, on front doors for unexpected cups of tea and catch ups with old lovers, sisters and brothers.
I caught myself saying "People here are nicer than I remember" but then I realized they were, in fact, the same. It is I that has changed, grown more confident, more able to just sit down and BE. For years I was too insecure to relax around most people, all but my closest. I couldn't just sit still and enjoy a chat or be present. It's quite a remarkable feeling to come back and start again with all these lovely people who I had no idea actually liked me, let alone loved me.
Huh.
I'm not the worlds most smartest anything sometimes.
So I am taking it all very slowly. New jobs, new adventures, new feelings, new outlooks.... and I'm rushing none of it for the first time in my life.
It's quite relaxing going at a slower pace.
Just call me Turtle, professional lethargician.
x
ps- Turtle hopes to see you over on those other places, where she will endeavor to be a more regular participant than she's been able to lately.
Cliché number 1,098,456- A New York state of mind.
Goodbye city, goodbye friends. Goodbye organized chaos, constant throbbing hum and pulsing pavements. Goodbye crumbling facades, peeling graffiti and man-made tangles of rusting pipes- the metal veins of the city. Goodbye yellow-golden-orange sunsets and twilight reflections in tall shop-front windows. Goodbye tripping under lilac-colored blossoms and skipping in high heels along cobbled streets.
A week in The City has given me a new lease on Life.
From the madness of an over-populated dirty island I find myself invigorated, energized, inspired and serene.
I leave behind old friends, old ways and old fears.
I take with me some new friends, a new out look, new possibilities and a very new, very curious, very fresh feeling in my soul.
I can't quite describe it... but I think it's freedom from myself.
Sometimes, when I write like this, I pre-judge my own thoughts. Should I write them? Should I share them? Who will call me emo and critique my feelings and the way I express them?
I don't care.
The next couple of months are going to be busy and beautiful. I know because I shall make them so. My wings are unfurling and my scars healing over, slowly- a new adverb for me. My life has always been lived in a hurry... too quick to grow up, too quick to judge myself and others, too quick to run or hide or jump or freeze.
Someone I love thinks that moving slowly is better than moving with haste and, after much icky frustration and denial and argument, his wisdom is rubbing off on me.
Here. Have a story. "You're the most romantic sumbitch I've ever met in my life." She said.
He smiled at her fondly. "This is the seventeenth goodbye we've said in the last two months. Aren't you ever going to bloody leave?"
Laughing, she conceded.
"Melted, I drip away."
The last embrace, the last pang, the last desperate effort to burn the imprint of his skin to hers, and then nothing. They parted ways the final time.
The taxi pulled away, a yellow beast in a black night, and the rain came down like a gift from above. Wet streets and tear-stained cheeks mirrored the lights from tall buildings.
Flickering images in her brain played back the story of her last adventure... the touches, the music, the song sweetly sung in a sacred moment in a stolen bedroom in a loft in Nolita. Fingers on her back, playing in her hair. Tenderness and love and loss and the giving away of need.
It’s been a long time, children. How are you? I’m grand. Life has been busy, full, mad, chaotic, beautiful and adventurous.
Today is Sara’s birthday and I am therefore unable to give her the desired amount of grief for causing this prolonged absence of mine. After all, when she changed my password (to an as yet undetermined word with the number 66 at the end of it) she certainly didn’t forget it on purpose.
And, in an ironic twist, I didn’t forget to send her a birthday gift on purpose either.... so I guess we’re even.
The last few months have been a roller coaster of work and emotions and new beginnings. I live in San Francisco now but am about to return to Sydney for a few months of creativity and love and madness. I am happy and alive and growing and excited.
And a little terrified.
Big Life, Big Dreams, Big Crazy.
Bring it.
Here, have a song and a story... double the pleasure to make up for time away. It’s nice to see you all again.
Unlike Beijing.... let the games begin. x
It’s rush hour.
The bus is crowded and sweet-salty humid with the air-born sweat of human secretions. The blood in my veins feels lethargic and viscous, greasy and sticky like spilled motor oil. It’s going nowhere. My heart beats dangerously slow but with tremendous force, a slow, throbbing, near-cardiac arrest as it tries to pump hot-wet-red-stuff through the million miniscule tubes of my body. Boom. Boom. Boom. I feel obvious and naked. I am bruised, raw and bloodied.
And I am not alone.
I face someone. A man. Taller than me, lean and long and lanky. A three day beard shadows a strong jaw. Kind green eyes watch me, seeing past my inane, protective facades, melting me. He is beautiful, and he is no stranger.
The bus swerves. We collide into each other, pressing close to avoid contact with other humans. People who are not US.
The driver accelerates sharply to avoid a parked car and I stumble forwards, crashing into him. A shot of electricity charges through my chest, my face, between my legs. I flush. A sharp intake of breath gives me away.
"Shh". He consoles me. "I have you."
It is a truthful statement, in every way. He had me then, and he has me still.
When we boarded the bus there already existed a heightened sense of emotion between us. Longing, loss, love... all compounded with that other L word.
Lust.
It’d been a month since we’d ended our relationship, a month since we’d been intimate, and not a day had passed without me yearning for his touch or missing his nearness.
The bus brakes again, jamming his body closer to mine.
He holds me close, keeping me safe, preventing me from falling. Preventing me from falling physically, but, with every second we touch, sending me plummeting further into the abyss of love and want and confusion and sorrow.
With every sudden lurch and every violent braking we are jammed against each other and pulled apart. I feel as if I am drowning. The people around us are a blur, a tide of humanity that washes around us like foaming, undulating ocean.
I close my eyes and imagine a huge neon sign above our heads that reads "THESE TWO PEOPLE WANT TO FUCK EACH OTHER", alerting the entire, crowded vehicle to our plight.
In retrospect I don’t think a sign was necessary.
I’m certain that our energy is infecting all of the passengers around us. Deep desire oozes along the aisle and seeps up trousers and skirts, soaking fabric, into the souls of the commuters, causing each and every one of them to debark in a flustered hurry, to rush home to furiously masturbate, grind their pelvises against their walls and make urgent, frenetic love to their partners.
Brake. Lurch. Rev. Brake. Jolt.
I whimper. He draws me closer, pulling my head into the space between his neck and shoulder, that place I know so well and fit so perfectly. I rest there, allowing myself to drown a little, but not enough.
And then the ride is over. Suddenly, too soon, we step out into the world, still apart, still sad, still hurting.
And now I lay here on the floor, days later, reminiscing as I often do.
It was a bittersweet ride, from beginning to end, and my only regret is not thanking that heavy footed bus driver for the best almost-sex I’ve ever had in my life.
Dude? If you’re reading? I fucking love the way you drive.
It's a sad day for me here in northern California. Over the last few weeks I've come to realize that there are certain things in my life that need changing, habits that need breaking, patterns that need shredding. It's time to weed out my friend garden and start anew.
With this in mind I give you... an open letter to an old friend-
Dear Cheese.
How are you?
I hope this letter finds you well rested after our party last night. Personally I feel quite wretched and ill, and my experience in the bathroom this morning left me quite unsettled and gave me pause to think about our relationship and if, in fact, we are good for each other.
I've decided we are not.
So I'm writing to you to tell you that it's over.
I'm sorry, we're through.
I cannot go on.
Why, you ask? Where do I begin?!!
It was one thing to be told of your unholy indiscretions with my intestines by a scary woman with a hose colonic irrigator several months ago while she pumped tepid water into my bowels and begged me to leave you for my own well-being.
It was two things to be told by a nutritionist, while she leaned over her desk and made cats-bum faces calculating the amount of dairy I regularly ingested, that I didn't have the required amount of stomachs necessary to digest bovine by-products.
It was three things to be told by a Japanese friend that to some Asian cultures most Caucasians smell like rotting milk..... but... and this was the deal breaker, my darling .... it's another thing entirely to try and kiss my lover after you and I have dallied, only to have him recoil in horror and disgust at your pungent smell upon my breath.
He knows about our affair! He does not approve of threesomes or open relationships. He is a truly jealous man and I fear for you if we keep seeing each other!
And therefore you must go.
That's right. I am choosing another over you.
Please don't beg. It's undignified.
Really. Stop.
It breaks my heart but not my scales (confirmed by the incredible shrinking size of my bottom and the re-emergence of my skinny-jeans from the depths of a long-forgotten suitcase).
For years I've believed that your orange hue was your true color, and that milk went through some kind of futuristic bleaching process in order to become white.
I was wrong. You lied to me.
Stop crying. You'll melt.
Last night? Oh shit. Last night was our final interlude, my dearest. Last night I found myself in a different city from my lover and I thought, well, I thought we could meet up and have one final fling... a farewell party, an adieu. Last night I rolled you in olive oil and threw you on pasta with reckless abandon. I suppose it was selfish of me. Cruel. I didn't mean to lead you on... truly I didn't! I thought that one last night together would give us something special to remember the other by.... but I was sadly wrong. Now you are hurt, and I am just nauseated.
I'm so sorry.
Take care.
I will remember you fondly.
Z
Yuk. I'm going to the fucking gym.
Currently
listening
:
Dick at Nite
By
Richard Cheese
Release date: 13 November, 2007
FREE SHITTY ADVICE!! FREE SHITTY ADVICE!! GET YOUR SHITTY ADVICE RIGHT HERE!! FOR FREE!!!
I was walking through Venice earlier today, kicking my heels and admiring my lovers ass as he walked. Mmm. Ass. My life had a soundtrack at that moment, even if it wasn't a very good one. Primal African drumbeats and lazy hip-hop merged with bad techno, the zing and scratch of an electric guitar and blood-curdling pre-recorded Peruvian panpipes- a bastardized, unappetizing cloud of bad world music that hovered and squatted over the promenade like a grunting, constipated beast.
I liked it.
Noise, chaos, madness.... life.
The dog was full of stroppy canine attitude and the sun was high, reflecting off the ocean like a strange dream, or a very weird trip.
Milling around us were the dregs and detritus of society- street kids, drop-outs, homeless, the dirty, the vagrant, the opportunistic, the tourists, the crazed musicians, the fortune-telling peddlers and the mad men with the twinkles in their eyes.
At some point a loud and angry man yelled vitriolic obscenities at diners as he stormed past them in a fit or furious pique.
Two roller skaters practiced a symbiotic routine.
A bearded guy with a torn piece of box that read "FUCK YOU" in large black letters asked me for three dollars. I smiled.
Our bag of donuts was hot and greasy and cinnamon sugar-dust coated our lips.
My smile had sugar-dust on it.
Magic.
And then we saw him.
Chris.
A smiling lethargician with a heart of cheeky madness and a wit to match.
I gave him a buck.
When asked what topic I required shitty advice for I chose "Travel".
Without skipping a beat he replied "Ever been to Gary, Indiana? No? Go there immediately. Go there right now."
Haha, I laughed.
That sure was some shitty advice indeed, and worth every fucking penny.
We gave him a donut and I promised to put his picture online and write a blog about him.
This one's for you, Chris.
With that in mind I am offering you the opportunity to get some Shitty Advice.
Is there anything you don't need to know? Any problems you don't need solving? Can I not help you? Please let me.
Actually don't thank God... I think he might be mad at me.
AHEM!!!!!!! (clears throat and begins)
T'was two weeks before Christmas, and all through the land, Pretty lights had been strung up to make life less bland. And inside the houses all the people were sleeping, Unaware that two weirdos down their street were creeping.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of consumerism danced in their heads. And outside in the cold and the dark and the night, A car stopped in the road and turned off it's lights.
A woman emerged as the engine kept running And crept into a yard with obvious cunning. She stood there a moment, surveying the scene, With a grin on her face that was not so serene.
There, in the garden, prayed a family of plastic, And our criminal knew she must do something drastic. She looked at the parents, the slumbering child, She looked back at the car, felt evil, and smiled.
She bent down in the dark and scooped up the prize Then dashed to the car with panicking eyes, GO! She squeaked to her driver, her partner in crime, GET OUT OF HERE MAN! WE DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME!
QUICK. FUCK. She yelled loudly. GET US OUT OF HERE! The driver, still laughing, lurched the car into gear, HIDE THAT BABY! He cried. GET IT OUT OF MY FACE!!!* AT LEAST 'TIL WE'RE SURE THAT THEY AREN'T GIVING CHASE!
The car screeched it's tires and flew out of the hood. While the plastic baby Jesus slumbered on as he should. The kidnappers were proud that they'd been so bold For what asshole leaves a baby sleeping out in the cold??
Later they plugged his umbilical chord in to a socket And stood there, so happy, as he lit up like a rocket. A good deed well done, she said with satisfaction, that's what I call a necessary religious extraction.
THE END.
*no plastic baby Jesus' were harmed in the making of this story. All plastic baby Jesus' involved in this dramatization were adopted out to better homes with hotter, drunker, sluttier mothers. I promise. See?
xx
p.s. I think the fact that Jeez wasn't actually plugged in was a sign from God that he wanted to be taken. But that, just like that kooky Bible, is definitely open to interpretation.
Why I am the coolest "crazy auntie" in the land.....
Because I draw informative and easy to understand cheery graphics for you when the crayons come out.
Because I understand your needs, and forgive you your drunken discretions.
Because I am prepared to get trampled to death by stampeding monkeys...... to take you on your first big scary slide.
And it was SCARY, right? (Thank you for not laughing at me when I crapped myself on the way down. You were very empathetic. Not like your parents. I know you have a sense of how mortifying that is. But at least I don't do it EVERY DAY. Hahahaha!).
Because I love you. No matter what. Forever. Even when you act like a big baby and pull Grouper-Face and make that noise like a screaming banshee that makes my ovaries ricochet up into my eye-sockets.
How can I ever be mad at you when you look like a miniature Golden Girl in your moms glasses?
Oh, Chili. Next week your little sister is going to be born and you're going to have a serious adjustment to make, but I promise, here and now, to give you as much love as you need, and to draw as many skanky hookers as your little heart desires.
You and me kid. I gotcha. x
ps- don't tell your dad that I cut the bum out of his nasty, noisy track pants to make chaps? Cool? Thanks.
