BROKEN

All things must pass...even this rant. Promise.
Tell me, cos I demand to know...who is that on the Where the Wild Things Are movie trailer, I mean the band doing the song? and also...how can someone tell you something for years...when...they...never...fucking...talk...to...you? AND...G%^D!MM&T, it's always so much easier to blame others for the shucking of your own duties. I'm fed up, and quite tired of being harassed. I've been treated badly for quite long enough now. SO, I'm not going be all pathetic and let myself be bothered. I will begin to think straight...erm...now!orNOW!!Soon? I'm being messaged and blog-commented to pieces on myspace. Perhaps if I start posting all their messages as blogs they'll stop? Maybe I should just delete my myspace thing? I only made one so some asshole could see pictures of his kids frequently. But whatever. I don't have time for this shit. I have interviews to prepare for, more applications to fill out, custody to file for, kid evaluations to get done, people that must be taken to the dentist, practices to attend, books that must be read (hahaha, well MAYBE not), coffee that I must drink. Who the fuck do they think they are messing with? Seriously. I'm never busy. I do nothing. And my kids support me. I'll admit it, I DO feel like a fucking bum, but the TRYING and NOT GIVING UP, as far as looking for more of a means for sustenance...well, that's gotta count for something. And taking care of four kids is so fucking EASY. Making excuses as for why their dad doesn't call is so easy as well. I'd like to say, "Well, sweetie, your dad is just a douchebag with his dick stuck up Amanda's ass, and her dick stuck up his, and with those two kids down there that he has even said he loves more...he hasn't time for you." NO. Instead I say, "Well, he's probably at work.", "He's probably making dinner." Etc... He's still my kids' dad, and he belongs to them in that sense, and I don't want them to hurt, and I don't want them to hate him. And Amanda's really quite a decent person anyway. So, who is the one really guilty of the parental alienation? I don't even talk about their dad around them in any kind of negative way at all. I know Jesse, and I really have no doubt in my mind that that is what he'd be doing if the kids were with him, and yet, I do my best to make sure that they do get to see him. Took them all the way to dang Florida and he could only handle them two or three days. And he didn't even tell them they were being picked up. We got there and the kids were like, "Why are you here?". Did I say, "Well, your dad got tired of you sooner than expected, so he called and told us to come and get you."? No, of course I didn't say that. I decided a long time ago that life is too short to waste time hating...But if I ever did hate someone...well...I think I'm going to Rare Ould Times tonight. I think Curtis is proposing to Ella there. Well, we'll see. So when I hit about 45 I'll find someone that likes me, finally? Maybe I'll be completely different and not so much a dork. But maybe there's really not much wrong with me at all? There must be. But maybe there's not? Anyway, tonight, Chelsey, are you and Mike coming? If you read this, text or twitter me or something.
Posted by Mulledafter at 9:35 AM
Labels: do-si-do, squaredancing and other adventures of the grand liar.

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All things must pass...even this rant. Promise.
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Or
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About Me

Mulledafter View my complete profile

air(headed)for empty

I'm really not all that vapid. It is all the truth. Honesty shouldn't be forced or sugar coated. Hatred, true gritty and sick hatred, is a stranger to me. I wish you all the best, I hope you get all you deserve. Maybe you shouldn't smack the puddle with your paddle as much as you do. Do you hate me? You probably do. If so, delete me. I've said it before, I'm stating it now. In purple plainly. I don't hate you, never will. In fact, we probably could've been great friends. I know I've tried to not care about you and it hasn't worked, but obviously I must sicken you the same way I do everyone else. Just tell me bluntly. Just smack my face with it. "Just" by Radiohead is a good song. It reminds me of my daughter, but also of you. Also myself. Hell, maybe it applies to a little piece of everyone. Perhaps not, I know some people who wouldn't see it as so. It is definitely not stupid, though. If you don't want to know me, then don't read. Simple as that. You just do it to yourself. You do. I don't care if anyone reads this or doesn't read this. I don't care if anyone cares about all this. If it's here, hidden among the millions upon millions of binary gigabites of internet garbage, then Skylar won't be reading it. And that for me is enough. A paged and written journal isn't safe from her dowsing rod hands. And she reads well.

megrims

I have arrived at a point in my life where I realize that I cannot afford to take a bad view of myself all the time. I don't think that every human being comes to this sort of realization, as there are some who never think badly of themselves at all, or some who just never get to a point where they can see any good in themselves ever. All the people I went to school with have careers or something, or at least the ones I still associate with. And I have grown a habit of swallowing bitter concoctions of regret, megrims, apprehension...poultices of pain as well. All I've done in my life thus far is birth four kids and survive two miscarriages and nine years of an akimbo relationshit/marriage. I did graduate high school which is something my mother never did because of my impending birth. Had I not been the custody of the state of West Virginia for my high school years I probably wouldn't have. I'm not giving up, though, is really what I've decided. I have no idea what I might have to offer, but something is there I'm sure. I'm not my mother's or my father's child, in other words.
I generally feel very lonely. I've tried to not make this make me seem overly desperate, so I spend a good deal of effort trying not to get too involved with people. I'm constantly worried I'll say the wrong thing, or that people really don't like me even though they act like they do. Half the time I feel like people don't, the other half I'm chastising myself for being foolish. But feeling like a hated creature does nothing for my self-esteem, and my view of myself does nothing but feed that feeling of feeling like a hated creature. To take a clinically detached view of these feelings is tantamount to being sucker punched repeatedly all over my body. And brings me to believe that I am nuts. But having friends who really care nothing about my fears, dreams, or bowel movements is disheartening. I have a friend I speak with daily. I hear her problems, her fears, her pains (heart and otherwise), her dreams, and yes, about her toilet time as well. She hears nothing of mine. If there's a lull in conversation, and I start to speak about how my day went she suddenly has to get off the phone.
I feel true friend reads you, they listen, and they offer a clearer voice in all the chaotic background noise. They FOLLOW. When the path is dark they paint it glow-in-the-dark, or help you paint it anyway, and then you can find your way back after whatever beast has been vanquished. When they need it, you FOLLOW, and help them back. I don't think I'm wrong in my assumptions. In these days things don't mean that much to anyone anymore. But they do to me. So I guess that's why it bothers me so much. I don't know how to quit letting it bother me so much when I feel idiotic to do so. I've tried to be completely nonchalant, and it doesn't suit me. I've tried to revel in ennui, but those playgrounds are too quicksandy. I know that my life isn't of much importance to anyone. I know that the exploits of infant gymnasts are much more amusing, or the whining wheedles of prostitutes so much more shiny. Guess I'll FOLLOW, even though when I need it I don't have a wingman. So delete me if you want. My words, whatever I've given you. I understand that that is the way you like it since you don't like me so much. Why read or keep any of it when it is really of no consequence to you? When it's gone I'll understand.

third prize goes to...

I HATE YOU
but love you all the same.

unutterable

you believe you are not
superficial
but you are mired in it.
yes...the juvenile,
but not so chaste...
they prey there
for the timorous,
the simply doltish,
the tartly piquant,
the covertly amorous...
those sweaty, palsied
wielders
of axes and other dandy
artistic engines.
should all this be despised
or pitied?
you have no idea just how
many years (yes EONS!)
you have trod
through corridors
in my aching mind.
you have ambled slow
and lazily through
meadows there.
contrived stairways
to scale star-crowned
mountains.
you are armed
but your weapon is slung
across your back,
easing for employment.
and i...i have
become ensnared in
all this circumlocution.
anchoresque bonds which
burn away and reform
without end.
and the resulting
plethoric embers
cannot be cudgeled
to ashes.
perhaps a lack
of effort?
maybe one day
i will fashion
an enchanting inferno.
all the right words
won't always be known,
but the features playing
in those flames will
be phenomenal...
such entertaining undertakings.

Sam McGee

a matter of convenience only;
keys lost or bent,
tumblers not engaged.
no twisting to define
that rusty mechanism.
the flood will pound it
to pieces.
it cannot be dammed
or tamed, or diverted.
thriving in that tumult
is a creature of nightmare.
love? it is called love?
love then is no angel.
hands of a cherub, perhaps,
but fanged reptilian face,
hatchet eyes to
decapitate reason,
all shiny and flat
with madness simpering.
and fingers ceaselessly
picking apart the seams.