Life in the Lowcountry


Why can’t I not feel sorry for myself? Because I don’t believe in double negatives.
October 10, 2010, 9:25 pm
Filed under: Life | Tags: , ,

I can’t feel sorry for myself because I’m loved.

I have friends who love and respect me.

My family supports me and I love them all, too.

But what of those people whose family shuns them? Should ignorance and hatred bar these people from love? NO! And I shout again with a voracious tenor voice, NO!

So if you ever find yourself with a  wrongful voice whispering in your ear that you are unworthy of love, that you are unworthy of anything but abject adulation…then you must turn yourself into the complete opposite and realize that you’re so worthy of this love that you’re going to kick the ever living shit out of the bastard trying to take it from you, and…wait a min. think i’m on to something else. Inspiration seems to have taken a track to retribution. FUCKING HELL.

Going to compose myself for a minute. Back after a brief bourbon. Or a brief Gin, as gin is easier to spell when one is completely into tequila. Love the Cuervo. Jose, you are a friend of mine.

Did I mention the time I met STEW? He was my one-eyed sailor friend. No? Remind me to tell you of him. It’s quite amusing. He actually liked me. Which is amusing. Not so much for STEW, (still not an anachronism for anything, it was his name.)

So this is my story, in not so many words. And nothing that my mother can burn in her misguided attempt at “saving me.” Because, I’m blogging, BIATCH! Can’t burn the internet! 🙂 Love ya, mom!

(BTW, my Dad’s a lawyer and this is his worst nightmare come true!)

Last thought. Hopefully not MY last thought, just the last one for the blog…Am having a birthday on Friday that is, for some, a milestone. I consider it another birthday which by any family account is NOT A BIG FUCKING DEAL. I fear that people will make this a BIG FUCKING DEAL and I won’t handle that well. Conversely, if my friends don’t pay special attention to me on Friday I will make it a BIG FUCKING DEAL. I’m a Libra that way. Regardless, I like this.  I like where I am in my life because I believe that I am where I should be. I truly believe that. Sorry, got sidetracked by Twitter. There are these hot guys that I’m following, and they may be tweeting me. STARS, tweeting me! Shit, I am special. And not because I heckle them! They really like me for me! 🙂

<disclaimer: I’m attempting wit, not delusion or insanity>

 

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Delving into the past. It’s a process. Work with me.

She is transported to the past in order to bring you this blog…<insert Wayne’s World ™ deeeedledoooodleeeedeeeedeeeellloooodddoooodddllle here>.

It’s 1993, I’ve graduated, found a job, and basically fulfilled what I thought was my parent’s dream list of : “the things that you do after being educated.” I missed the part about getting married. Damn. One of many dreams that my parents had for me that have yet to come true, through no fault of their own. They just didn’t give the best impression of marriage. Dad’s version: “I married her, it’s FOR LIFE.” Mom’s version: “We got married, we made the family, I am a housewife, FUCK YOU. DON’T DO IT! Drinking is a much better way to deal with it. FOR LIFE.”

I’m being harsh. And snarky. FUCK YOU. I learned it somewhere. Nature vs. Nurture? Not just a theory.

Back to the story, It’s 1993 and I’m a year out of college, a year after or right as “The Real World” featuring Pedro, the AIDS guy who I totally fell in love with even though he was gay and had AIDS and by the end of the season died…”Spoiler Alert too late” he was the shit. I kid a lot but that guy had some heart and opened my eyes to the world. Brought me out of my hometown conservative homophobia to the “Real World”. And that’s what freaking reality TV should be, not this trumped up game of who’s going to screw whom ever else over like there is on TV today. (Or so I hear, I quit watching that stuff an hour ago.)

Again, I digress, but I do have a point, albeit a disturbing point, to make. Consider yourself warned. And intrigued. Although only you can consider yourself intrigued if you genuinely are intrigued, which, to beleaguer the point is something only  you can determine at this point by reading on. So to not further digress I will move on past this beleaguered point.

STEW. Not an acronym for anything, that was his name. He was the first AOL (acronym for America On Line) to seduce me online. He convinced the 20-something version of me to say dirty things to him.  I still have conversations we had saved on a disc somewhere but I cannot fathom how to get them off this freaking 3.5 floppy onto Word. I’m hopeless when it comes to computers. So back to the story, it was titillating, people! I tell you this IM chat was HOT! We did stuff I’m still proud of today. And probably was made mention in Penthouse forums simultaneously. I’m just sayin’ that I was young and horny.  And wanting to be talked about in Penthouse.

So Stew, that guy…he got me all hot and bothered while talking to him on IM. So I agreed to talk to him LIVE and IN PERSON! And he dug my voice. “OOOOOHHHHH what a sexy voice you have, can I stroke my cock to it? Can I make you feel good?” And I’m all like, “Um, stroke your cock all you like, you’re not going to make me feel good while you’re in New Jersey and I’m in California. Fucker.”  – He liked that. I was taken aback at the lack of seriousness. If you want a girl to feel good, FUCKING BE THERE to make her feel good. Don’t talk a game…So clearly Stew was out of the picture at this point. He walked the walk that he was walking… whatever that means. He was done for me. Stop it, I’m smart. Too much so, apparently.

Oh, but Stew story, meant to be something of a lesson. He was apparently some kind of movie previewer in the 90’s and had a thing for young chicks. And he wanted me to send him a pair of my unwashed underwear. GROSS!  So if you know the guy, call him out. Seriously, he sent me inappropriate videotapes, I repeat, “VIDEOTAPES”. He sent an impressionable girl “VIDEOS” which I can’t show ’cause they are on beta. But I digress. As I often do.

My favorite story that I don’t tell: Meeting with Stew. He’s such an enigma. He so totally “got” me that I find it hard to tell this saga. I don’t even think you can call it a “saga” without sounding “facetious” when  speaking of Stew.  Stew isn’t “Stew” in this anecdote, he was actually XXXX, but I don’t think it’s right to call people out when writing about them without their previous knowing of it so I’ll call XXXX, Stew. He’ll probably sue me later but fuck that, I got no money! I GOT NOTHING TO LOSE! And I never mean anything in mean spiritedness, Stew.

OK, done delving into the past. More recent past than my only reader knows about. Tom, want more? let me know. I can fill you in. Think this is entertaining? Please let me know. I am pandering here….