Monday, October 9, 2017

Long Lost Friend.

I imagine you're wondering if this is a nice post. You know who you are. Formerly two letters long, and dislikes being called 'Lady?' Be forewarned - This is a Vent post. A big one.

A few weeks ago it would have been a sweet post; I would have been hoping we could hang out in your new place and go get soup and enjoy a friendship. I would have told you all about the wedding we went to. I would have spoken to you about your NaNoWriMo plans! I may even have welcomed you back into my home.

But, well... Not really, now.

SO... if you don't want to know how I really feel, then stop reading. This is not a nice post. Thanks.

I want to berate you in every way possible. I want to take your face and rub it in the asinine crap you do. I want to talk to you like you're 3 years old because that's how you act. I want to peel away the layers of your face that make your fake little mask and spit on the real gremlin hide laying beneath.

I don't even know where to start - I have this delightful, infuriated euphoria. I wonder to myself what would happen if I ever saw you again. I wonder what would happen if I heard a breath, a whisper, a comment about you. It hurts you know. Oh, it hurts. I've never felt this way about someone I used to call a friend. What do I say?

Oh, oh, here's one, a good story, something I would like to share. There once was this little girl. We were friends. Such good friends that when I saw things that I thought would make her happy, I leaped at the chance to gift them to her. I enjoyed that she liked them. But then of course, the little girl threw a fit. And another fit. And each time she threw a fit, she also threw those gifts into the hallway, on the ground. Once she even told me to burn them. So I did. (Because well, you get what you freakin' ask for, don't you?)

She said she didn't want them any more. Didn't want to be reminded of us.

And these were gifts given before any changes occurred, gifts given over a lengthy span. For birthdays, holidays, Wednesdays.  BUT Funny thing. This little infant didn't quite know the meaning of conviction. Or commitment. Because not everything went into the tantrum pile. NO, no, no! She picked and chose, as if we would have forgotten the things we gave her.

Well. After having discarded a leather jacket, a hooded sweater, satin bathrobe, moonstone bracelet, shoe rack  and other nick-nacks she asked me to burn, she decided to keep a Journal, two dresses, a hand made dream-catcher (That she claimed didn't work anyway,) and a pair of fancy shoes. All gifts. Hmm, why were some more special than others?

I suppose she just thought tossing SOME items would have the same effect. (No. No it doesn't. It's just ridiculous. All or nothing, woman, fucking pick one you child. Either toss everything back in my face like a furious kindergartner, or grow the fuck up and keep all of it. And SINCE you announced the kindergarten route, then nut-up and send me the other shit because you are no longer eligible for the grown up option.)

Ahem. Perhaps that story was a bit rough near the end, I apologize, sometimes I do get carried away.

Anywho, onto a comment about Professionalism.

Whilst at your work place, is it appropriate to discuss personal matters? I suppose it's situational. If it's a completely outside force and you are friendly with some co workers, there may not be any harm in it.

BUT if you work with someone, and you purposefully spew forth this miasma of hateful nonsense JUST so that you can feel the validation behind your lying tongue, then you are unprofessional. You are not grown up enough to have a job, you should quit, go back home, and live in your parents basement until you can get you head up out of your ass and act like an adult.

Let me clarify, I think I trailed off there. It is unprofessional to run your mouth about a co worker especially if it involves personal matters that are none of anyone's goddamned business. NOT only does this make you look like a drama queen and an attention starved high-schooler, but it ALSO makes the work environment unbearable for the person you happen to be shit talking every single day you work. Do you know why? Can you wrap your measly little mind around WHY that is unprofessional? Does it sink in?

I'm going to assume not, so let me spell it out for you.

Because you are dealing with someone's livelihood. YOU are making their WORKPLACE a torment, for NO OTHER REASON than to feel superior and validated by the people you think are your friends. You just want to gather up a little team of minions and look down your noses at someone who isn't even THERE half the time to DEFEND themselves. You just want to feel like you were right, no matter how much you distort the truth, no matter how many times you mope and roll your eyes and click your tongue, and scowl at them when they work the same day as you. YOu want sympathy, pity, you want to be coddled and you want your hand held. YOU can't get past your own ego enough to realize HOW STUPID (Yeah, it's a bad word, don't call people stupid, I know, but it's fucking true here,) you sound when you tell people that YOU claim responsibility for the 'HEX' on him and how his health is declining and how shitty his luck is.

... Are you seriously proud of being such a petty moron? A HEX? You're going to go around talking to people who work directly with him and NOT YOU, and tell them all sorts of awful shit, roll your eyes, waggle your chin with fake ass tears (I may be elaborating, but I imagine, as with other occasions I've actually witnessed, that this is the case) and PLEA for them to take SIDES?

You know what? If it was just a harmless rumor it wouldn't matter. BUT if your petty bullshit interferes with the job, you are actually in the wrong. That's right, you are not LIA and you are not righteous, and you are not a GOOD PERSON. And if this influences MANAGEMENT against the person you're talking shit about then you should just slap yourself in the face since I can't currently reach you right now.

It's like you don't even fucking think before you speak. Even before you started spewing hate to everyone who would even listen to you, you tried to spew it at me. ME. WHEN I WAS THERE AND KNOW WHAT HAPPENED you would try to spin it against him, as if, AS IF in a thousand years I would 'take your side', WHAT THE HELL, who are you how old are you, fucking seriously?!?

YOU NEED THERAPY. That isn't a joke, and it isn't said sarcastically, I honestly think you need therapy. It would probably do you a world of good.

On another note:

I am so incredibly glad you are out of my life because I swear if I ever see you again I think I may actually hit you.... All right, I wouldn't hit you.

More likely, I would just burst out laughing. So much for your self-decreed maturity, huh?

Keep talking shit about the man I love and I will eviscerate you in writing every chance I get, because honestly, you aren't worth the effort to hurt or maim. Also, I'm not an idiot and I don't want to go to jail. Unfortunately, I'm a grown up now, and the best and only way for me to vent how much I actually, honestly hate your rat guts (without any legal repercussions,) is to go on this silly blog and tell anyone who reads it that I hate you.

ELIRAE, I hate you. (I contemplated actually putting your name. Was this close.)

But I am still so mad, I am uncontrollably mad, I can't get past how freaking mad I am, I keep thinking of colorful combinations of curse words and 'Twat' to substitute your name with. I - I - I don't even have the words for how disgusted I am with you.

The wedding was lots of fun, I'm glad you weren't there, and I only thought of you in worry that you would damage our personal possessions in our absence.

Enjoy the shit we gave you that you decided was too nice to go into the burn pile, you bitch.

Tell all your work friends about that, maybe you'l get a hug. AND I won't care because I DON'T FUCKING WORK THERE AND I DON'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR SHIT.

There. Spite had. Done. Phew.

Ok. I feel a bit better. 😁

Saturday, July 29, 2017

No Wonder

You know, if I knew it would be this easy, I would have mentioned it sooner. If I knew this was all it had to be for you to listen, I would have done it. If I knew that this was everything we evidently needed, I would have handed it to you years ago. If I had known that we weren't enough on our own I wouldn't have started.

That's a lie. Of course I would have started. How couldn't I have started? Besides, it's already done. These things have already happened. These suggestions and revelations have already occurred. I can't change them. I can't prove their worth or existence.

I can't really do Jack Shit, can I?

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Comparatively Speaking

Ever have that irrational envy when you look at someone else's life? Sort of seeing from the outside how amazing their life is and knowing you will never have that sort of life?

Maybe that isn't a bad thing, you know. Maybe you were never meant to have the wedding with the groomsmen in matching tuxes or the bridesmaids taking funny selfies on the beach. Maybe you were never meant to travel the world with your BFF with nothing but your paperwork and a backpack filled with random clothes and a cellphone. Maybe you were never meant to have roses on Saturday or surprise parties or friends that lived close by and would stop in just because they felt like it for no other reason then they want to hang out with you.

Maybe you were meant to live in the low income housing in the shitty neighborhood, just to put a smile on someone else's face? Maybe you were meant to have your car break down every time things are supposed to start looking better for you. Maybe you were meant to be living paycheck to paycheck working for the paycheck alone and having little to none left to show for it. Maybe you were meant to be in a giant, stupid, ugly, stinking hole.

If that's the case, and 'meant to be' has anything to do with a higher power, or God or Destiny as a creature or deity, then Seriously. Fuck Them.

And fuck those assholes that do everything to tie you down and keep you in that place. Because they've been eating their Wheaties, and shoveling shit onto your plate to keep you weak. Because this is life, ladies and gents, the wonderful kaleidescope of bullshit.

Congrats. We're here. Now why the FUCK are we bothering to stay?

Saturday, May 27, 2017

All of a Sudden

Sometimes a song will come on that has this sort of sadness to it and it doesn't matter how good of a day you are having, or how well your life is turning out, or how lucky you are, but suddenly your soul sort of breaks to pieces and the tears start flowing and everything is awful for no reason.

Or sometimes the morning sun will shine just so and glint just slightly and gleam in a specific way off of the grass and summon a sort of alien longing and yearning and grief from the pits of your stomach and it is crippling and unexpected, so much so that you have to stop what you are doing and just blink.

Or what about those times when a breeze ruffles your hair, bringing with it the scent of something so foreign, like a west wind stuck in a southern gust that brushes the inside of your lungs and makes you desperate to see the ocean, or the mountains, or the sky or the stars, and the impossibility of a voyage of that immediacy and spontaneity makes you rage against the unfairness of it all.

And then that rage sort of consumes you from the inside and everything after that one little breeze tickles the underside of that great beast, urging it higher and higher, near to the knot in your throat, pulsing behind closed eyelids, grinding against the back of your teeth like prisoners digging a tunnel beneath their cells towards freedom.

Don't let it out.


Sunday, April 23, 2017


One day I wrote a poem about my heart. I guess I was trying to understand how it worked, or something, so of course I do this stream-of-consciousness sort of freestyle thing that goes on for two pages. Was it good? Definitely not my best, but I guess it was all right. That isn't really the point though, is it? Was it honest, or did it help me to understand myself? Well, maybe in pieces. What I recall the most about the poem was that it was two pages long.

A two page long freestyle, stream of consciousness poem, in size 12 times new roman, single spaced. And at the end of it I still had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. It just went on and on, and I ended up jabbering in circles, as a result? No clarity, only more questions.

Now one day, in the much more recent past, I wrote another poem. It wasn't about my heart, it wasn't about feelings or right and wrong or moral centers or what people expect of me and you and everyone else. It wasn't about acceptance, and it wasn't about friendship. It had nothing to do with social stigma or politics or the education system. It was a three line haiku, written in a chilly, rainy night in a room open to the woods and flanked by wysteria. On blankets that smelled slightly musty, and the noise of a few dozen bees about five feet from the foot of my bed. There was the popping of bamboo stalks on a bonfire in the distance that resounded like gunshots, and the sky was completely inked black by clouds.

See the point is you don't have to puzzle over everything. Not everything can have related logic patterns and make perfect sense.

Life doesn't MAKE sense. Life is chaos. Love is chaos. And the heart? It beats, it pumps blood, it can be dissected and recreated into a jet engine turbine that doesn't have a pulse, or whatever. It can be measured and tested, it is a muscle in a body full of muscles and it is made of flesh and blood, and without one we die.

But it is also the part that links our souls to our bodies, you know. When something hurts, we feel it there, in our hearts. When something gives us immeasurable joy, that is where we feel it. It is the safety pin holding our souls to our bodies and an anchor to this reality, and the string to the end of our kites. And that safety pin bit, the clincher, the anchor, the little golden thread is an inexplicable, incomprehensible mystery.

Who the hell am I to try and explain or fathom or logic it?

And in that case, who the hell do you think YOU are to try, either?

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Love Poem

To Jes & Jayce

My heart Believes in many things
In first sight, distance growing & true.
It used to believe that one was for one
Until it began to think anew.

There are so many of us here,
dwelling, fighting, laughing on this rock,
And we are split, fractured and divided
as we look for a heart's building block.

Who is to say that you love only once?
That only one person will be all you own
That you can only live in monogamy
Or else be damned, outcast and thrown.

My heart Believes in many things -
That My Love is true and kind
But that another can make us whole?
"Yes," my heart made up it's mind.

So when we three walk hand in hand
With smiles and hearts linked like a fence
One man, two women, all friends in this void
If we're at peace? If just to try, it just makes sense.

Monday, April 10, 2017

How Many

When man was new
And soul-gifted, freely given
And Will and Spirit born,
How many were there to go around?
When the Earth was young,
And man first crawled about,
helpless infants fresh to life
They all had a soul each, I assume.
One for each matron, girl and crone
One for each brother and father
One for each lover and each villain.

But that was many years ago.
There is no newness about man,
And I wonder, at what point
Did whomever-up-there decide
"Well, I just ran out -
So let me break them into pieces,
That way everyone gets at least a little."
Because they evidently thought it fair.
But it isn't.

Since we all only have a piece
A sliver of something once whole,
We slave and search and wonder
for the rest of us, driven, determined
to find just one other piece of us.
So in fact, whomever-up-there gave us holes.
And if you happen to find one piece -
Or Good gracious lucky you, Two! -
Hang on to them good.
Because it only makes sense that you -
And them, and her and he and whomever you see -
Can fill each other's souls in
Like a puzzle. (Or another cliche.)
Add thus be a little more whole
Then you were before.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Free Fridays

Ahh, the first day off of the week!

So let me update you loyal readers with a few things!

Until March 31st, 2017, I will be participating in a Novel Contest through (Although it asks you to sign in, it is totally free, and is basically just so you can add things to your personal reading lists.)

Anywho, this writing contest isn't just voting and such. There are several factors that go into judging all the fine stories that were submitted. Firstly, there is the count of 'reads' a story gets. This is basically every click my story gets that would send a reader to it's first chapter, as well as all subsequent clicks to other, later chapters.

I am currently at 94 'reads'!

And though that makes me feel wonderful, there is another aspect in which stories are judged. This is the over-all 'hooked-ness' of the readers who click on my story. This is judged by time spent reading a chapter, how many chapters are read in succession, if a free copy is downloaded for reading, if it is added to a reading list, etc... Inkitt will collect all of this data and analyse it to see if it is publish-worthy.

Every contestant gets 100 free copies that are available to readers. I am down to 89.

The number of copies left also factors in to where on the listing your story places. For example - contest entries with 0 copies left are usually at the top of the list. Therefore, people are far more likely to click on them and read them, as opposed to mine, which has 89 copies left, and takes 5 clicks of the "show me more" button to find.

SO I took the liberty of posting the link to said tale in my right hand link column there --->

It is The Cellar City Chronicles.

It is also Rated R, mature audiences only, at least 18+ please.

PLease enjoy and support your local Oru!

It would seem she very much needs the support that is sometimes very fleeting in these parts. Of time. And The World.


Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Wedding

Someday, there will be an autumn night with a crisp, clean sky, free of clouds. The stars will shine in their sockets like diamonds and a cool breeze will drift lazily across the rolling yard. Several red and brown leaves will scatter into the paths of patrons as they arrive, all dressed to match their masks.

The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.

The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.

Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.

And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.

Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.

The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.

And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.

They smile.