current location: Up yer butt and around the corner
Sounds:: Alton Brown Podcast
Love my job. Just wanted to announce that. I wish I had more motivation to go to it. Also I'm sweaty.
Love my job. Just wanted to announce that. I wish I had more motivation to go to it. Also I'm sweaty.
Flashback life lesson: don't miss anyone you don't know.
In the last month I've been to jail twice. Both for domestic violence. Once not warranted, the other definitely warranted. I'm just going to put that out there. I'm not going to spend time on here talking shit about my husband or making excuses for what I did. He's even spent the last 24 hours telling me what a piece of shit I am, but whatever. Not the point. I've burned nearly every bridge possible. Why? I guess I need a reboot. Nothing's working.
Every day I would take the radio outside, do my crosswords and listen to Glenn Beck. Glenn Beck isn't on on the weekends but on Sundays they would air this guy who claimed to be Jesus. Needless to say, it was endless hilarity. At some point he did say that strife breeds character. If this is the case, I must be quite the character. Self-examination reveals that a great deal of things are my fault. At least at the core.
Regardless of all that, I had an epiphany the other day. Now, I glorify my Dad-- I pretty much always have. Who can blame me for that? The only other examples I had were- so say the least, relatively inept (namely my Mother, in the zombie-like pill coma she's been living in for years [fault of her own? I don't know, probably not. That's another story for another day]). Back-tracking again, my Nana has been wonderful in recent years- in fact beyond wonderful. Somehow retirement and extreme circumstances have uplifted her attitude, which, as I hear is typical of retirees. I'm happy for her.
Back to the epiphany. Mathew and I were discussing various childhood memories of tree houses. My step-brother and I had a two-story tree-house that my Dad helped us build. We had built the base a year before we found these massive wooden packing crates (SCORE!). Nate (step-brother) and I were overjoyed with the idea of stacking the crate on top of each other atop our base of a tree house. Oh man, we did just that. We nailed them to the base, then nailed them atop each other and cut a hole in the middle where they met. Fucking incredible. We went the extra mile and started stacking bricks around the base of the tree to create a "basement", we had a chicken-wire surrounded bathroom, a fire-pit, carpet all around the bottom (yes on the dry, dusty Arizona dirt), my step-mom threw out a sectional couch.....we had that too. We did back-flips off the top floor onto the couches...that was their main purpose. Sitting on them wasn't an option due to the prevalence of scorpions and baby rattlers near by. Back flips: totally acceptable.
Best fort ever. We called it " Blue Dagger ". We even had a couple of pieces of wood we tied together to make a dagger and spray painted it blue. It also doubled as a cross for our graveyard. Which again, is another story. Proud kids man, proud kids.
Back to epiphany. I had my younger Step-brother, Nate, who I was basically best friends with, and an older step brother named Ricky. Ricky's best friend Sean used to come-over every weekend. Ricky would get jealous of Sean hanging out with Nate and I and try to alter situations to his amusement. He created what he referred to as a "fight club game"....the game was that Sean would 'train' me and Ricky would 'train' Nate. They would put down a dollar or two on either of us and have us fight each other in the wash. I always lost. Despite the fact that Nate was younger than me, he was stronger and wiry. I was a clumsy almost full-blown puberty stricken girl. I'd get my ass kicked. I'd come home covered in blood, black eyes, scrapes, bruises etc. My Dad knew about the game. I'd get screamed at for losing. He'd call me a pussy. A stupid girl. " YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE MY SON " he'd say. If he was drunk enough, he'd push me around and say things like " LEARN TO FIGHT LIKE A MAN. DON'T BE A LITTLE BITCH LIKE YOUR MOM "
First instillation. I wasn't allowed to lose.
Flash foreword to middle school/high school. I ran away from home when I was 13 to live with my Dad. Why? Well, truthfully-- my Dad was my hero. (also...) Overall, it was the lesser of two evils. I spent the last two weeks of 8th grade at Sahuarita Middle School. It really felt like an eternity. I was used to the regular inner-city public school-- this school had uniforms and all that none-sense. I was a "goth" kid at the time. Me in all my ingenuity used the " ONLY NAVY BLUE, GRAY, AND WHIE " rule to the inth degree. I wore knee-high lace-up combat boots, navy blue sparkly tights, a navy blue pleated skirt and collared gray shirts with ties. I thought I was so funny. I made my own Pixies shirt and everyone thought it was a nick-name...not a band. Mind you this is before the uprising of "indie" music or whatever-the-fuck is going on now. Regardless, I got made fun of for that....(yeah but they're "cool" now mother fuckers...eat a dick). My nick name was 'pixie'. I got made fun of for a lot of things in general. I guess I brought it on myself, but back home in Tucson I was the cool music guru punk-rock-goth. In the middle of no where at the tail-end of middle school--- I was just straight up a freak.
An awesome thing to note, is at the time, I had my own trailer. We had the regular 'home' trailer, and another one that was in the process of renovation in the backyard that I lived in. I had no running water or anything, and my electricity was run through on extension cord-- (which my dad would pull all the time to be funny to watch me walk back and forth).....but it was awesome. It was mine. I spent most of my time doing paintings, making stickers and patches.
Custody battle took another step foreword and I got sent back to my Mom's. At the time, and still, my Mom had moved in with my Nana due to her mental problems. SO. Going back and foreword--- we were living in a two-bedroom apartment in the "ghetto of east-side Tucson" sharing our 'apartment block' with two half-way houses. My brother, mother and I were supposed to share a room. I refused to after the fourth time my mom brought a guy home and fucked him in the same room I was sleeping. It wasn't a big room. I started sleeping on the couch and aside from the break at my Dad's house, it stayed that way until my great-grandmother died in 2004. OK, in the summer I would sleep on the balcony that was caving in (we were on the second story-- it was a thrill!). SO, back to the point. I went back to my mom's. During this period of time I decided to quit smoking weed (which I started when I was 12). I got addicted to adderall, which I also quit after seven months or so. I was taking up to 8 a day.....yet again, another story. Did a lot of other stupid things, but overall, got my shit together. My dad won the custody battle just in time for my sophomore year, I moved back in with him and got straight A's. But that's not the point of this whole disjointed story.
The point is, I got picked on. Bad. To the point, as stupid as it sounds, a bunch of jocks plotted to dump a vat of ketchup on me at lunch. I got beat up by a football player for mistakenly taking his chair while he was up (he was sitting with friends of mine). I came home with a busted nose and a black eye. I told the school I tripped down the stairs (we had a lot of big concrete stairs). My Dad told me to go back to school and beat the shit out of him; or at least sucker-punch him. I didn't. Day after day I didn't, or even try. I ignored him. I stayed away from him. My Dad yelled at me every time I got home for not fighting back. I got punched in the head a few times just for not trying to fight this big ass football player. Why? Booze. I blame booze. Because otherwise I can't make sense of it. None stop " DON'T BE STUPID PUSSY, I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY SON. YOU'RE JUST A FUCKING WORTHLESS GIRL NOW "
Booze. Booze. Booze.
I never fought that kid. His name was Marc Briones and later on that year he died in a car accident. He was stoned, asked this other kid who picked on me to drive-- kid said no, so he drove. Killed himself and three of his friends. I went to his funeral. I don't know why. I guess I looked pass all the bullying bullshit. I beat up several other kids though....one grabbed my ass in the hallway..I called him "inverted Dennis Rodman" because he was this super pale kid with fuzz on his head he dyed black. Either way, he grabbed my ass so I beat the fuck out of him. My math teacher (former nun...again, another story) saw it happen. Didn't say a word, but she used to also creepily rub my friend and I's shoulders and tell us how pretty we were. Fucking bizarre. Especially cause I was a fat ass. I also beat up some kid named Richard that rode the bus with me because he drove me up the wall, he was from Indiana, had the most annoying accent and said some of the dumbest shit and used to try to pick on me but he was just to fucking stupid. I jumped over two bus seats and pounded on him. Again, my Dad told me to. I will also like to point out that during this period of time I had had the same boyfriend for nearly two years and we were sexually active. My mother figured this out, took me to get a new "immunization" which turned out to be Depoprovera birth control (the shot), which is proven to cause irritability in a adults. Who the fuck knows what it does to a teen girl going through puberty. I also believe this to be the reason I'm sterile. Yes world, I'm sterile. It's either Depo, Plan-B, karma from being a card-carrying member of Zero Population or all of the above. Take your pick boys and girls. Regardless, the latter is my only consolation. I never wanted kids (and now I have a 14 year old step-daughter....yet again again again, another story for another day).
The point is. I got beat for not fighting back. That was the revelation. I still love my Dad, and think he was a genius, but I'm FINALLY starting to recognize how much damage he did to me. I'm violent sometimes. Which is weird because I don't believe that's my inherent nature. This isn't much proof, but I'm good with words. I don't need to use physical violence. I consider this revelation a step in the right direction. A painful one, but a clear one. Too much shit to work on. THERE YA GO BOYS AND GIRLS. DISJOINTED STORIES FROM THE LIFE OF MANDA LYNN!!!!!
This livejournal has been around for a decade. Just realize that. FUCKING SHIT I'M OLD. :)
Not in the mood to reflect...but happy decade JunkiePants LJ.
You brought up being raised alone-- being abandoned at thirteen by me. It's true. I moved away. I moved away when you were to young. I'm sorry. I'm just going to level with you-- You're 18 and growing up sucks. It doesn't justify all that we've been though. There's no way to-- we've been through so many different things. I wasn't around for certain years-- but I did show up! I tried. But either way, we go on our own journey. You jumped into the florescent arts............I was into my photography. I dicked around with the "high society" of Tucson ( which are all dicks) you had your hooligan badass friends, who just wanted to encourage art.
We wrote ' Fuck The Police '.
We said we love each other. We forgave each other. Our mom is ill, our dad's are different, but we always forgave each other until now. Brandon. Life will never cater to you. If it does-- give me the number to the person who's making that happen. Regardless, it doesn't make you any less of a person- it makes you a survivor, but you also don't have to over- compensate.
We haven't had normalcy. Ever. But we've made our own- in the past- we've laughed...but you're older now, and it's easier to see and it's easier to blame. I don't blame you--- but that's the way it's always been. We're OK, as long as we take care of ourselves. We've always had to. You say that I didn't have to-- well Mr. I just got a car for free and then sold it-- I never got a car. I had to buy my own food, I didn't have a car until I was 19 years old and I sure as fuck did not get my license or a car through our family. Scratch that, I passed the test in the focus that you sold, and I was lucky for that.
I've even invited you to live with me little brother. Just stop the shinanigans.
I'm working on this. I'm too tired right now. My B's in bad trouble.
47. (Yesterday, technically)
Adventures in NOT drinking:
I need to eat the calorie equivalent of the beer I drank. I keep losing weight. Don't want to be what Mathew calls a " skinny bitch "...
Oh, I'll drop to my knees if you forgive me. Seriously. I don't write anymore. I have yet to decide if the universe listens anyway. I've been doing this for well over a decade. Yes. That's right. I'm fucking old. I keep forgetting I'm 25. Seriously. I catch myself actually wondering how old I am-- I've been plunged into a oblivion of disbelief..........stay on topic Manda.......................
How could that happen so quickly? I was going pee the other day and I thought to myself "Well, Jiminy Fucking Christmas-- It's been three years since I was 22 years old." I don't even know what that means. I always thought that 22 was going to be the best year of my life. I can't deny that it was awesome, but it wasn't the best. Now I'm looking to the future. I'm already seeing it. I've got wrinkles. I'm 25-- actually, technically, 25 and a half. I have wrinkles and a half. I believe I've aged a decade in the last 3 years. Is it Flagstaff? Is it me? Is it the unrelenting anxiety? No idea. None. I don't even know where to begin and I examine this from every angle everyday. I stare at it like the cube from Hellraiser. I turn it every which way, I yank, I push, I run my fingers along it's gentle ridges and you know what? No results. Is it Pandora's box? Probably not. It's probably a box of some kind of potential I have yet to tap. A potential I don't even know HOW tap.
I live in a city that I don't trust. I don't trust it as far as I could throw it...............have you ever tried to throw a city? What I've figured out though is that all sense of comfort in any regard is gone-- out the window. Kapoosh! I did that. I'm glad I did, but it's taken me longer than I would have thought to adjust.
You know what happens when you fall in love? You enter the unknown. You allow yourself to be blind folded. Peeks here and there-- but overall-- You'll never be a fucking psychic. Whereas in single life, or in some sort of comfortable life you can expect or at least create a level of expectation. Love is a vast and mysterious land where you learn to take things in stride and expect only surprises. This is not to say this is a bad thing, because this is the most magical part aside from the genuine feeling which is so rare in everyday society. Everyday bullshit.
I found a guy in front of a health food drink. I've come to learn that I think I love said drink more than he does. I think he was attracted to the fact that *I* liked it. There's a bond in things like that because most people would walk past it, scoff at it, or fawn over it without actual knowledge of what it is in order to look cool in front of their other friends that are trying to look cool. What the later don't realize is that while they fawn over the Kombucha trying to look cool their friends are too busy to notice because they're fawning over the organic produce in a Safeway.
" I'm going to pay 2 dollars extra even though I can't tell the difference, just to make me look like I give a shit. But lets keep the fact that the clothes I'm wearing were made in a sweat shop and the amount of product in my "dreads" is probably a danger to the environment. Regardless, I make up for it by not eating honey....those poor bees have suffered enough "
That's just the tip of the iceberg. He picked me out of all the skanked up college kids who go to Safeway. The ones who throw on their hot pants, hoodies and Uggs in December (MY ARMS ARE COLD BUT MY LEGS ARE NOT). The ones who do their hair up right and make sure to throw on that push up bra for good measure. Apparently they know Safeway's where to meet guys. I guess I never thought of it-- but before and beyond our meeting they keep trying. Gettin' all hoed up for the Safeway...why...I don't know?
I show up in a T-shirt in jeans.....
Why the fuck would I wear anything else unless I was on my way somewhere? Attention? At a chain grocery store?
Guys aren't any better. Their exorbitant amounts of cologne. Why? My only guess is that they have come back from camping and have yet to shower, but even then all evidence proves otherwise. They peruse the liquor section looking for balls. (Take that as you will)
The sad part is to think I understand the universe ever so slightly more than I understand people. What does that say about me? I don't know.
I feel like I'm in a big all gloop of gel...sliding around, trying to see out, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. WAIT! Yes. I feel like I'm trapped in the blob. DP has increased exponentially, but I've still managed the last over a week to control myself! Although I am working on the last beer-- however, I have a reason. I've been applying for a jobs. I got the sleight of hand talk in regards to my present "bread winning" position. Which is none. I've made nothing in several months. In my head it's an achievement to have made anything. I didn't think I'd ever work in Flagstaff again. Why? Because I don't fucking want to be involved with anyone here. I make the best of it at home-- I don't need the constant disappointment of a mediocre town with less than acceptable people. It's like a jacuzzi of acid. If you stuck your toe in and it burned off half your fucking toe...why would you do it again? and again? and again? Seriously.....
Oh, because you have to be grown up?
Probably. But I'm not ready for that. Although, as discussed earlier-- I can't really put it off anymore. But how am I to feel grown up? I'm not. Any actions pertaining to being grown up would only be a farce. An illusion. I'm not the illusion type. I don't want to blend in. I don't want to stick out either. I just want the freedom to be me. I want to love and be loved. I want to revel in what we share.
So much is falling to the wayside. But you know, I think that's what comes with at least trying to grow up. If this is the attempt, I'd hate to see the real thing. Jiminy Christmas.
I can't even say....
I'm scared for this world
and I'm scared of me
Eviscerate your memory
Here's a scene
You're in the back seat laying down
The windows wrap around
To sound of the travel and the engine
All you hear is time stand still in travel
And feel such peace and absolute
But slowly drift into sleep
The road to California
Dreams through windmills and cold desert.
Wake-ups to Asian travelers and dirty restrooms.
Up to the sky in transit
The stars are the greatest thing you've ever seen
up to a familiar place with unfamiliar people
to wrestling in the grass
to the sky in standstill
to our star gazing
to those distant suns
And they're there for you, for me, for us...but...
you are the everything.
been deleted over and over
Christmas worked out(ish)...Mom at least spoke to Mathew, even if only about murders in Tucson
My room was a literal cat box.
My step kid is awesome
BEING a kid is awesome
stockings are awesome
Mathew is awesome
My pipes blew and I have no running water, but we'll survive
was talking to my future self but don't have the resilience to write about it anymore as what I wrote was so badass I'm still mourning the loss
Pooping in bags
but life carries on.....and I'm sooo happy it does.
Grandpa said " Manda, you wouldn't be you if you had good luck "
I think that's true to an extent.
Nana had major back surgery. Was kind of frightening at Christmas. Coddled. How could I not? Made out like a bandit. Now BS with the Xbox, but over all--- I think things are going to come together despite lack of money. We have each other. We have art. Not to sound fucking lame, but most important of all-- we have love.