Wednesday, May 26, 2004
I wish it were easier. I wish I didn’t have this nagging inclination to run around and pull my hair out like a lunatic. I wish that in my big bag of satisfaction there was room for more and I didn’t sit and pine away for something that was never mine to begin with. It is a constant inner struggle that doesn’t even makes sense to me yet it goes on for so long that I inevitably forget what exactly it is I that has me wrought with inadequacy. It is stupid and retarded and I am utterly sick and tired of bitching and moaning and generally hating all of mankind because they are stupid and retarded too.
I am not creating and it makes me sad.
I want to create but I am too tired to put forth any sort of effort to do so.
I LOVE my family and I want to spend every hour of every day with them but I think I am loosing myself in the process. There is simply too little time to accomplish all that I aspire to do.
I read journals of those who are not bind to the daily responsibility of a career and it makes me angry that I am not afforded a lifestyle that nurtures my propensity to need constant stimulation. I roll my eyes when they complain about not having any time to do this or any time to do that and it makes me want to kick them in the shins while yelling profanity at them.
I hate them because I am jealous.
I want to be in New York. I want to bathe in the chaos. I want to be emotionally and mentally challenged 24 hours a day. I want to walk out of my front door only to be punched in the face by life.
You know, because it will be better elsewhere.
In reality, I want all of the perks but none of the responsibility.
Gee, that’s fucking original.
I am not creating and it makes me sad.
I want to create but I am too tired to put forth any sort of effort to do so.
I LOVE my family and I want to spend every hour of every day with them but I think I am loosing myself in the process. There is simply too little time to accomplish all that I aspire to do.
I read journals of those who are not bind to the daily responsibility of a career and it makes me angry that I am not afforded a lifestyle that nurtures my propensity to need constant stimulation. I roll my eyes when they complain about not having any time to do this or any time to do that and it makes me want to kick them in the shins while yelling profanity at them.
I hate them because I am jealous.
I want to be in New York. I want to bathe in the chaos. I want to be emotionally and mentally challenged 24 hours a day. I want to walk out of my front door only to be punched in the face by life.
You know, because it will be better elsewhere.
In reality, I want all of the perks but none of the responsibility.
Gee, that’s fucking original.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Even though I am a mother, most children bug the ever living shit out of me and I cannot bear to be around them for long periods of time. I hardly blame the child as in most instances the parent(s) (and I use that term loosely) are the problem. It really doesn’t matter who is to blame for what, the fact of the matter is, most kids are annoying assholes.
We involuntarily started our family at a very young age. While ALL of our fabulous hipster friends were living large, we were at home, miserable and broke, wondering if life would always be that way. No one tried to understand our position and we were constantly trying to justify why we couldn’t do this or why we had to cancel from doing that. It was difficult and for a long time there were mountainous walls standing in between us and our closest friends.
My intention was not to complain about the degenerate youth of today. That would make me a crotchety old bitch and I am not quite ready to affix “old” or “crotchety” to my title as of yet.
During the days of diapers and liquefied chicken and peas, I got through many of my days telling myself that the sacrifice would be well worth it. Having your child grown and out of the house by the time you are forty is a marvelous occurrence to look forward too when you are mentally, emotionally and financially broken. I am beginning to realize however that many of our friends will be knee deep in neon green poop and sleepless nights while we are sunning our selves in the Caribbean. It is completely selfish of me to say that I don’t want our friends to have children but if they do, it will seriously effect our ability to play like adults (Fondue and key parties baby!) and it is something that I never took into consideration. Young kids were NOT part of my grand scheme of living large. It is difficult for me to hide my own personal feelings when the subject of children come up during idle conversation and I find myself biting my tongue more than I should be. I ask myself though, “would their lives be complete with the addition of a child?” and honestly, the answer is never a definitive yes. Perhaps I don’t know my friends as well as I think I do and maybe my judgement is completely clouded by my own selfish motives. All I can do is keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.
In other news.
Today on the radio the jocks were interviewing a guy that ventured onto the taboo subject of abortion. He was going on and on about how him and his wife had an abortion a few years back but for totally valid reasons. It wasn’t because they were irresponsible and not ready to have kids but rather because he, “wanted to see what it was like to kill a baby.” After I got over the initial shock of his comment I laughed my ass off. Not because of his wholly inappropriate comment but rather because I could hear the outrage ringing through the city. There will be many wadded up panties tonight my friends.
We involuntarily started our family at a very young age. While ALL of our fabulous hipster friends were living large, we were at home, miserable and broke, wondering if life would always be that way. No one tried to understand our position and we were constantly trying to justify why we couldn’t do this or why we had to cancel from doing that. It was difficult and for a long time there were mountainous walls standing in between us and our closest friends.
My intention was not to complain about the degenerate youth of today. That would make me a crotchety old bitch and I am not quite ready to affix “old” or “crotchety” to my title as of yet.
During the days of diapers and liquefied chicken and peas, I got through many of my days telling myself that the sacrifice would be well worth it. Having your child grown and out of the house by the time you are forty is a marvelous occurrence to look forward too when you are mentally, emotionally and financially broken. I am beginning to realize however that many of our friends will be knee deep in neon green poop and sleepless nights while we are sunning our selves in the Caribbean. It is completely selfish of me to say that I don’t want our friends to have children but if they do, it will seriously effect our ability to play like adults (Fondue and key parties baby!) and it is something that I never took into consideration. Young kids were NOT part of my grand scheme of living large. It is difficult for me to hide my own personal feelings when the subject of children come up during idle conversation and I find myself biting my tongue more than I should be. I ask myself though, “would their lives be complete with the addition of a child?” and honestly, the answer is never a definitive yes. Perhaps I don’t know my friends as well as I think I do and maybe my judgement is completely clouded by my own selfish motives. All I can do is keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.
In other news.
Today on the radio the jocks were interviewing a guy that ventured onto the taboo subject of abortion. He was going on and on about how him and his wife had an abortion a few years back but for totally valid reasons. It wasn’t because they were irresponsible and not ready to have kids but rather because he, “wanted to see what it was like to kill a baby.” After I got over the initial shock of his comment I laughed my ass off. Not because of his wholly inappropriate comment but rather because I could hear the outrage ringing through the city. There will be many wadded up panties tonight my friends.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Even though I have been relatively stationary since I made it into the office today, my head is scattered and I feel as though I am wandering aimlessly in a futile effort to figure out exactly what it is I am supposed to be doing. I am well aware of what my tasks are for the day however the actual act of doing those things seem foreign and I literally feel lost. It is a bit odd feeling as though I am standing beside my corporeal self, almost as if I am having an out of body experience. But what are ya going to do but march on and get through your day to the best of your abilities.
I am one step closer to my website being done as I now have my very own logo courtesy of my favorite undead boy of all time! As soon as we get our computre’ bandaged up and in decent working order, I will yet again profess my desire to launch the damned thing. Perhaps it will be ready to unveil in 05’ but I cannot make any substantial promises, just the ones of the empty sort.
This morning I was reminded of a fond memory that my shame had shoved into the bowels of my closet and although I was HORRIFIED when it happened, now that I am older it makes me chuckle.
Seeing as though I am horrible at recounting the exact time of my life when certain situations occurred, I am estimating this happening anywhere between the ages of eight and twelve. I had gone out to retrieve the mail, as I did on a semi-regular basis, and on the way back to the house I noticed that my father had received yet another one of those magazines. My curiosity could hardly wait to steal a peek, so I made an executive decision to sit right there on the front porch and lustfully peruse the periodical. As I ripped open the plastic and peeled back the unadorned brown paper wrapping to see luscious boobies and pretty pink kitty kats, I was hoping that no one would notice that I was mentally masturbating to my pop’s nudie mag. It was a fleeting concern to tell you the truth, as the power of the throb seems to cloud one’s judgement. I mean, it had not even occurred to me how I would explain the fact that the plastic had been removed.
It was a fleeting concern until I heard the door open behind me.
The moment between the door opening and my ability to actually move in a feigned attempt to cover up my crime seemed to last for decades. Attempting to thread a needle during an earthquake would have been easier than trying to get the magazine back into the wrapper but does the humiliation stop there? Well of course not! As I turned around to face the judge and jury of my father and/or mother, I realized that it wasn’t either of them but rather my big, burley, trucker neighbor, Steve. I was utterly aghast as he joyously called for my dad to come outside to see what was in my little red hands and they both reveled in the hilarity of the situation for, again, what seemed to be decades.
“Why are you looking at my magazine?”
“Where is the plastic wrapper?”
“Why didn’t you close it when you realized what it was?”
“Do you like looking at pictures like that?”
“Exactly how long have you been out here then?”
I am convinced that my chances would have been better had I been a Jew sympathizer in the hands of the Nazi Army. They were relentless and found great pleasure in broadcasting my mortifying experience to half the neighborhood. I am surprised that I am still standing to tell the tale of me and my randy adolescent ways.
I am one step closer to my website being done as I now have my very own logo courtesy of my favorite undead boy of all time! As soon as we get our computre’ bandaged up and in decent working order, I will yet again profess my desire to launch the damned thing. Perhaps it will be ready to unveil in 05’ but I cannot make any substantial promises, just the ones of the empty sort.
This morning I was reminded of a fond memory that my shame had shoved into the bowels of my closet and although I was HORRIFIED when it happened, now that I am older it makes me chuckle.
Seeing as though I am horrible at recounting the exact time of my life when certain situations occurred, I am estimating this happening anywhere between the ages of eight and twelve. I had gone out to retrieve the mail, as I did on a semi-regular basis, and on the way back to the house I noticed that my father had received yet another one of those magazines. My curiosity could hardly wait to steal a peek, so I made an executive decision to sit right there on the front porch and lustfully peruse the periodical. As I ripped open the plastic and peeled back the unadorned brown paper wrapping to see luscious boobies and pretty pink kitty kats, I was hoping that no one would notice that I was mentally masturbating to my pop’s nudie mag. It was a fleeting concern to tell you the truth, as the power of the throb seems to cloud one’s judgement. I mean, it had not even occurred to me how I would explain the fact that the plastic had been removed.
It was a fleeting concern until I heard the door open behind me.
The moment between the door opening and my ability to actually move in a feigned attempt to cover up my crime seemed to last for decades. Attempting to thread a needle during an earthquake would have been easier than trying to get the magazine back into the wrapper but does the humiliation stop there? Well of course not! As I turned around to face the judge and jury of my father and/or mother, I realized that it wasn’t either of them but rather my big, burley, trucker neighbor, Steve. I was utterly aghast as he joyously called for my dad to come outside to see what was in my little red hands and they both reveled in the hilarity of the situation for, again, what seemed to be decades.
“Why are you looking at my magazine?”
“Where is the plastic wrapper?”
“Why didn’t you close it when you realized what it was?”
“Do you like looking at pictures like that?”
“Exactly how long have you been out here then?”
I am convinced that my chances would have been better had I been a Jew sympathizer in the hands of the Nazi Army. They were relentless and found great pleasure in broadcasting my mortifying experience to half the neighborhood. I am surprised that I am still standing to tell the tale of me and my randy adolescent ways.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Yesterday on the way to Johnny k’s 30th birthday dinner, Ralphie was telling us about his day and the many end of the year parties he attended. This is what he told us about his music party.
At my music party I wanted to listen to *99x and the rest of the class wanted to listen to **Star 94. They played Hillary Duff so I sat there and screamed (in a shrill, horrified voice) 'IT BURNS! IT BURNS!'
My kid is fucking cool. Really fucking cool! Johnny K even had a stranger of our ilk come up and tell him so at dinner (neither one of us were quite sure why but he did nonetheless). If we manage to stay out of jail AND Planned Parenthood during his teenage years, I will take all the accolades I have coming my way.
My cousin was in town on Friday. It had been three years since I last saw her. She said to me, “No one believes that you are Ralphie’s mom do they?” So I answered, “No”, because they don’t. I tried to figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing in her eyes. I wonder if people look at me and laugh because I certainly don’t look as if I am a mother. I wonder if they look at me and say things like, “She is WAAAY too old to be wearing that” or, “Isn’t she a bit too old to have her nose pierced, tattoo’s and die her hair jet black?” When the crows feet come walking across my face and the laugh lines make a permanent appearance is when I will re-evaluate my look. Until then I will continue to milk the fact that I still look as though I am in my early twenties. Perhaps I am just an asshole that people laugh at behind my back but I tell myself they are just jealous of my supah sexy hott mama’ness.
*Atlanta’s “alternative” rock radio station
** One of Atlanta’s shitty pussy-pop music stations. Clay Aiken and Jessica Simpson are part of their regular rotation just to give you an idea of their repertoire of “music”.
At my music party I wanted to listen to *99x and the rest of the class wanted to listen to **Star 94. They played Hillary Duff so I sat there and screamed (in a shrill, horrified voice) 'IT BURNS! IT BURNS!'
My kid is fucking cool. Really fucking cool! Johnny K even had a stranger of our ilk come up and tell him so at dinner (neither one of us were quite sure why but he did nonetheless). If we manage to stay out of jail AND Planned Parenthood during his teenage years, I will take all the accolades I have coming my way.
My cousin was in town on Friday. It had been three years since I last saw her. She said to me, “No one believes that you are Ralphie’s mom do they?” So I answered, “No”, because they don’t. I tried to figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing in her eyes. I wonder if people look at me and laugh because I certainly don’t look as if I am a mother. I wonder if they look at me and say things like, “She is WAAAY too old to be wearing that” or, “Isn’t she a bit too old to have her nose pierced, tattoo’s and die her hair jet black?” When the crows feet come walking across my face and the laugh lines make a permanent appearance is when I will re-evaluate my look. Until then I will continue to milk the fact that I still look as though I am in my early twenties. Perhaps I am just an asshole that people laugh at behind my back but I tell myself they are just jealous of my supah sexy hott mama’ness.
*Atlanta’s “alternative” rock radio station
** One of Atlanta’s shitty pussy-pop music stations. Clay Aiken and Jessica Simpson are part of their regular rotation just to give you an idea of their repertoire of “music”.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Last night I felt it. A twinge, a tingle, a moment. It has been far too long that something, anything, has moved me as I was starting to wonder if I was in fact dead on the inside.
Fuck it!
After sitting here writing a million and one words in a million and one ways to try to introduce this thought, I realized that I cannot articulate a goddamned thing. Do you think anyone will know that this is a feigned attempt to write something insightful and witty? Do you think anyone is aware of the fact that I started writing around 7:30 a.m. and will be utterly shocked if this is published prior to noon. If you looked deep into my eyes all you would see is blank.
I am starting to question the validity of my persona. Who I portray myself to be and who I truly am are two totally different people and I feel as though I am living a lie that I can no longer contain. Am I a fervent soul with fire burning in my belly that just needs to rest on occasion or am I truly this indolent sloth with the sporadic burst of enthusiasm? It’s so hard to tell but goddamn I am tired.
***
Chris Vrenna, the brainchild behind Tweaker, a musical project that I fell in love with a few years back, has just released his second album, 2 a.m. Wake Up Call. While on his site (which admittedly I have not visited in some time) I found that he has selflessly posted a smattering of his music free of charge which I encourage both of you to take advantage of. I knew Chris had scored the soundtrack to the popular computer game American McGee's Alice however I have never played this game nor had I heard any of the music until last night. There was one track in particular that struck me sideways called Flying On the Wings of Steam. The childlike music is haunting and is very much indicative of how I view today and the world in which we live. The twisted sound of the toy piano reminded me of a childhood that no longer exist. Not for me and not for my child. We are slowly murdering every measure of innocence left in the name of greed, power and religion. We are the ones that willingly dove head first into the downward spiral which is resulting in the slow but sure demise of humanity. At times I toy with the notion of feeling guilty for letting the horrible world exist beyond my bubble but ultimately, when I lay me down to sleep, I honestly don’t feel as though I should be punished for the sins and stupidity of others. It is one hundred and twenty-seven percent selfish if you dissect it. If we could easily turn a blind eye, if we were not saturated with images of murder, poverty and everything else that is ugly and wrong, wouldn’t it be easier to feel good about the things we are afforded living in a privileged society? Do you REALLY care about the rape rooms and the beheadings and the torture or do you ponder these horrible things but in the end walk away feeling blessed that you live in the good ol U.S of A. where these heinous acts don’t occur? We "care" and are "concerned" by the shit because we are forced to reckon with it. They say that WWII was the "romantic" war and this is because the media did not infect us with the horrible truths of combat. Do you think it was simply the times in which we lived that satiated us with Father Knows Best, casseroles and homemakers? No, back then we lived in utter ignorance, content knowing that the rest of the world did not bleed on our doorsteps. The more we are exposed to the more we have to justify and then acclimate.
Welcome to the dichotomy of my brain.
Where in the fuck did all that come from?
Fuck it!
After sitting here writing a million and one words in a million and one ways to try to introduce this thought, I realized that I cannot articulate a goddamned thing. Do you think anyone will know that this is a feigned attempt to write something insightful and witty? Do you think anyone is aware of the fact that I started writing around 7:30 a.m. and will be utterly shocked if this is published prior to noon. If you looked deep into my eyes all you would see is blank.
I am starting to question the validity of my persona. Who I portray myself to be and who I truly am are two totally different people and I feel as though I am living a lie that I can no longer contain. Am I a fervent soul with fire burning in my belly that just needs to rest on occasion or am I truly this indolent sloth with the sporadic burst of enthusiasm? It’s so hard to tell but goddamn I am tired.
Chris Vrenna, the brainchild behind Tweaker, a musical project that I fell in love with a few years back, has just released his second album, 2 a.m. Wake Up Call. While on his site (which admittedly I have not visited in some time) I found that he has selflessly posted a smattering of his music free of charge which I encourage both of you to take advantage of. I knew Chris had scored the soundtrack to the popular computer game American McGee's Alice however I have never played this game nor had I heard any of the music until last night. There was one track in particular that struck me sideways called Flying On the Wings of Steam. The childlike music is haunting and is very much indicative of how I view today and the world in which we live. The twisted sound of the toy piano reminded me of a childhood that no longer exist. Not for me and not for my child. We are slowly murdering every measure of innocence left in the name of greed, power and religion. We are the ones that willingly dove head first into the downward spiral which is resulting in the slow but sure demise of humanity. At times I toy with the notion of feeling guilty for letting the horrible world exist beyond my bubble but ultimately, when I lay me down to sleep, I honestly don’t feel as though I should be punished for the sins and stupidity of others. It is one hundred and twenty-seven percent selfish if you dissect it. If we could easily turn a blind eye, if we were not saturated with images of murder, poverty and everything else that is ugly and wrong, wouldn’t it be easier to feel good about the things we are afforded living in a privileged society? Do you REALLY care about the rape rooms and the beheadings and the torture or do you ponder these horrible things but in the end walk away feeling blessed that you live in the good ol U.S of A. where these heinous acts don’t occur? We "care" and are "concerned" by the shit because we are forced to reckon with it. They say that WWII was the "romantic" war and this is because the media did not infect us with the horrible truths of combat. Do you think it was simply the times in which we lived that satiated us with Father Knows Best, casseroles and homemakers? No, back then we lived in utter ignorance, content knowing that the rest of the world did not bleed on our doorsteps. The more we are exposed to the more we have to justify and then acclimate.
Welcome to the dichotomy of my brain.
Where in the fuck did all that come from?
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Let me preface this by saying I DO NOT condone it one single bit, but after reading countless articles of the prison abuse, I was reminded of a study I read a while back. I believe that any one of us given an ounce of power, especially power over people we despise, would more than likely act in a similar manner. You can blame the soldiers who partook in the exploitation you can even blame the Bush administration, however it is nothing more than human nature for us to binge on authority when given the chance and you are lying to yourself if you think otherwise. Will humanity triumph over evil?
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Fire engines and body bags.
Do you ever wonder when you walk out your front door if you will in fact return?
Is my reaction to death normal? When I hear of perfect strangers meeting their untimely demise I am stricken with overwhelming grief and I can hardly function. Be it a horrible automobile accident or yet another account of where so and so was at in New York City on September 11th, it is inevitable that I struggle to keep the tears and the lump in my throat from materializing. I have learned to understand and even respect the act of dying. It is the grief and the pain that is left in her wake that I strive to accept. I have dealt with the fact that I am not invincible however I cannot bear the thought of my family’s anguish when I do end up passing on. This topic is quite morose and a bit too large to tackle in the hour I have for lunch but the dead body lying in the road on the way back from the mall threw me for a loop.
Do you ever wonder when you walk out your front door if you will in fact return?
Is my reaction to death normal? When I hear of perfect strangers meeting their untimely demise I am stricken with overwhelming grief and I can hardly function. Be it a horrible automobile accident or yet another account of where so and so was at in New York City on September 11th, it is inevitable that I struggle to keep the tears and the lump in my throat from materializing. I have learned to understand and even respect the act of dying. It is the grief and the pain that is left in her wake that I strive to accept. I have dealt with the fact that I am not invincible however I cannot bear the thought of my family’s anguish when I do end up passing on. This topic is quite morose and a bit too large to tackle in the hour I have for lunch but the dead body lying in the road on the way back from the mall threw me for a loop.
Monday, May 10, 2004
feh
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
I wonder how a hooker's revenue is effected three to seven days out of the month? I know some guys are into the bloody fuck but I have to imagine that most like a "clean" girl. Strippers are unable work as I dont see how one could incorporate a white cotton string dangling between her labia as part of her repertoire of costumes. I sure wish I could lay out of work when the red, bouncy dot has infected me.
I often wonder how sad it would be if I began documenting all of my inane reverie.
I often wonder how sad it would be if I began documenting all of my inane reverie.
FUCK! I think my cover has been blown Cagney.
That's not good Lacey. That's not good at all.
Sometimes, trying to lurk around unnoticed is the most garish thing you can do.
That's not good Lacey. That's not good at all.
Sometimes, trying to lurk around unnoticed is the most garish thing you can do.
Monday, May 03, 2004
My body image is so fucking distorted it is disturbing. As I looked at myself in every reflective surface I walked past today, all I could see was this fat bloated woman with a big pooch and back fat. I saw myself as I was five months ago, twenty pounds heavier and barely fitting into my heifer digs. I was extremely discouraged and in my sideways mind, I was doing 80 mph on the elliptical every time I had the unfortunate privilege of seeing myself. It didn't dawn on me that I was a bit contorted until someone told me I was getting TOO thin. A concept most women are unable to grasp. I just want to look at myself and see me for who I am. Not for who I want to be or for who I am afraid of becoming. It makes all the hard work seem all for not.
