I Knew It!! We All Start Life As Assholes!

The basics of making babies seem simple. You need sperm, an egg, and a womb to incubate in. Combine those, and a baby starts to grow. However, most people don’t know what develops first in the womb as far as the baby’s growth. Does it start with a brain? A heart? What organs come …
— Read on m.ranker.com/list/order-body-parts-grow-in-fetuses/laura-allan

There it is. In black and white. We all start our lives as assholes. I just never personally evolved past this stage of development.

Don’t feel bad for me though, I have a plethora of company. As a matter of fact, as far as I can tell, the last two generations have been filled with a LOT of assholes that never developed past this stage.

Just remember kids, you can stick a flower up your asshole but you still can’t call it a vase😊

Advertisements

This Bitch Here

Ocasio-Cortez allegedly screamed at border agents during recent trip to southern border: report

https://www.foxnews.com/politics/alexandria-ocasio-cortez-border-agents-southern-border

Explore the Fox News apps that are right for you at http://www.foxnews.com/apps-products/index.html.

I don’t care what end of the political spectrum you are on, unless you’re a pussified, snowflake, baby back bee-yotch, this asshole is a drama full, lying, hysterical, shit stirring she-devil!! Someone needs to choke slam this cunt! Even the other three shit starters, Congresspersons Booker, Omar and Tlaib have even slowed their assy rolls just the tiniest bit. Not AOC though. She’s not happy unless she’s making a god damn mockery of her elected office. I sometimes wonder what in the fuck kind of sheeple voted for this twat waffle?!?!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, probably many more times….what in the fucking fuck?!?

It’s the Sheeple Apocalypse!!

Jesus Christ, Jack Sprat and Jason Bourne

I was flat on my back after my spinal tap. The arrogant young doctor insisted I stay in that same position for the next five hours so I did not develop a colossal headache. Right about that time I realized I had to use the restroom and it was going to be a deuce.

So of course when the doctor asked if I had any questions, noticing he was at least 15 years younger than me, HAD to have been straight out of med school, and my puckered asshole had to have a better bedside manner than this douche, I decided wickedly to rattle his chain a bit.

I replied with what do I do if I have to drop the “Browns” off at the “Super Bowl, homie”? His fucking eyes almost popped out of his head, he sneered at me and said, “I beg your pardon? Also the name is Dr. Browning and I am NOT your homie, I’m your doctor!”

Oh hell to the NAW!!! I, by this point was so pissed off I responded scathingly with, “I don’t care if you are Jesus Christ, Jack Sprat or Jason Bourne, mother fucker, NO one is talking to me like that, so unless you want me to take an enormous shit right here on these super luxurious sheets that the fuckers up in the Accounting department charge me $300 a night for, someone best help me upright and get me to a toilet. Fucking STAT!”

I got help to the toilet in time, Dr. Browning passed my case off to a colleague, because he refused to step back in my room because I had also previously told him if he even thought about trying to come back in that I would crap in my hand and fling my own shit at him.

Moral of this story?

Don’t fuck with The Bella when she’s got a deuce prairie dogging her asshole😂😂😂😂😂

50 Shades of Cray In BR

Baton Rouge bridge traffic problems ranked 19th worst in U.S., research institute survey says | State Politics | theadvocate.com
— Read on www.google.com/amp/s/www.theadvocate.com/baton_rouge/news/politics/article_60c9c674-2f0d-11e9-b791-2b73ae48cab7.amp.html

Due to my severe social anxieties I’m pretty much an agoraphobic by nature. I only leave when I absolutely must (doctors appointments, food for the kiddos, etc). I don’t like getting out one fucking bit, but especially as a parent one sometimes MUST.

Yesterday was one of those days. I had an appointment with my Neurosurgeon at 10:30am. The ride from my little rural town right outside of Baton Rouge was mostly interstate and mercifully uneventful at that time of day. As I pulled into the parking lot of the medical complex where all of my specialists are located I noticed hundreds of people. Outside. “What in the fucking fuck,” I muttered to myself as I got parked, grabbed my purse and headed for the building. As I got closer I asked a super sweet, chatty, older African American lady what was going on. She replied with “Lord, child some stupid ass young ‘un done called in a bomb threat.” “To a medical facility?” I asked incredulously. This sent Miss Gladys (as I later learned her name was) into the most hilarious rant about the chirren these days didn’t get dat ass beat nearly enough. That’s why they ALL acted like assholes. I was so caught up in her story and doubled over in fits of giggles, I didn’t even notice or mind the medical complex officials herding us back into the building. I of course sat by Miss Gladys as she was there for Neurology as well. By this time it was 11:20am and those fuckchops at reception told me that I was late for my appointment. You fucking think?!? Perhaps it was because you had 300 of us sick and hurting patients milling about in the hundred degree scorching heat with ninety percent humidity. Want to know what that feels like. Go wet a wool blanket soaking wet, lay it over your entire body including your face and try to breath. I was so enraged I threw a full fledged, stiff armed bug stomping fit. Right there in the check in line. I was sweating, swearing and ranting to such a degree they had to call security to calm me down. I think the two twenty something rent-a-cop’s were a bit intimidated by me because all they did was bring me a glass of cold water, a cool rag for my livid, feverish brow and gave me a few soothing words and hand pats. I shit you not, I got a standing ovation led by my new BFF, Miss Gladys, cheering loudly, ” You tell ’em, baby!”

Good thing she and I were having such a grand ole time because it made the hours pass much more quickly. It was nearly 2:00pm before either of us was seen.

The real fun didn’t start until I finally got on the interstate to head back home.

This is what I drove into. Remember I’m a shithouse rat CRAZY BITCH who had already had an unsettling fucked up day (except for meeting Miss Gladys, with whom I exchanged numbers so we could keep in touch) and as MY luck would have it drove into one of the biggest traffic cluster fucks of all time. People with BPD don’t do well with aggressiveness. In any form, and Baton Rouge drivers are the biggest road assholes on the whole god damn planet and I am their Queen. Queen of the Motor Assholes. The more aggressive other drivers became with me, the more I lost my shit! I mean seriously, I was going fucking beserk. I tried to run a semi-trucker AND two little old ladies off the road in less than half a mile. After two hours of inching along at a snails pace (I could have literally parked my car in the middle of the interstate and walked briskly home and I would’ve gotten home far more quickly than from sitting in that shit). By the time I made it home I was beside myself with rage. When I saw the house (remember I’m an OCD neat freak as well) and saw my fucking house in shambles from teenagers being home for the summer, I briefly contemplated murder but quickly realized that horizontal stripes make my fat ass like doubly wide AND neither black or white is on my color wheel.

Soooooo I did the only thing a raging mother fucker can do without being arrested……I went at my heavy bag in the garage (with my ex-husbands picture secured in a clear pocket I had so thoughtfully attached to it) until I puked. Just another day of 50 shades of CRAY in BR!!!

Anastasia’s Revenge: Veritas & Aequitas

Veritas and Aequitas Is Latin For:

Truth and Justice. It is a motto that stands for personal honor and truth in actions and in justice, regardless of the circumstances.

Various people have told me that I am an attractive forty seven year old woman that looks much younger than my years. To be honest when people associate me with the word attractive it literally makes me squirm because when I look in the mirror, that is NOT what I see. As far as my “attractiveness” goes if that is in fact what one might think the only thing I can think of to say is that I was just blessed with really good genes.

If you really want to know someone, look at their hands. That’s where their story lies.

My hands absolutely do not look like an “attractive woman” (my BPD refuses to let me agree with this word) in fact I’m cringing as I type it.

In truth I am Anastasia and her story is not fiction. It’s my story. There was a time that I was ashamed of it….but now I OWN it. Love her or hate her, she is I, although I was a victim for so very long, I never labeled myself as that. The thought never crossed my mind. Anastasia was, is and will always be a fighter. I will ALWAYS fight the good fight. I will ALWAYS err on the side of righteousness. I will always root and fight for the underdogs, the downtrodden and the victims for I was all of these things at some point in my life.

Look at my hands, I did not lie down and cower and take it. I fought back. I fought until I couldn’t physically rise up again to fight some more. I fought with all of the anger, hurt, betrayal, humiliation and sadness bottled up inside me. I could always hear dear old “Mickey” urging me on from my corner. I have fought back from drug addiction, homelessness and hunger. I have fought back from psychological, emotional and physical abuse. I have fought this monster inside of me (Borderline Personality Disorder) and for the most part have won that battle too. This mental illness is incurable, it is wildly erratic and one of the hardest mental illnesses to get control of short of a psyche ward. The suicide rates of Borderlines compared to all of the other mental illnesses in the Psychiatrists “little” Merck Manual combined are off the charts. I fight that bitch with every ounce of willpower and intestinal fortitude I have, every single hour of every single day. That being said, in my own way that gives me the W, one day at a time.

I don’t make excuses for it.

I don’t blame others for it.

I don’t lie, manipulate or connive to toy with peoples emotions “because my disorder made me do it.”

I fight this ugly beast and the horror of my past because although I may be little, I am mighty. I am fierce. I am fucking Sparta.

I fight because I love too much sometimes. I fight FOR the ones I love, even when they refuse to fight for themselves. All my heart knows how to do is fight for what and whom I love and love what and whom I’m fighting for.

Anastasia will never break. She’s got far too much fight in her because she KNOWS, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog that gets you through this Borderline life.

Trigger. Not Just The Lone Rangers Horse

Well I knew that it was going to happen sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know when. Living with Borderline Personality Disorder, one is ALWAYS waiting for the other shoe to drop. Right on our fucking heads. The good times are amazing, the bad times I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (well maybe that bitch that fucked my husband six weeks before we were married), I wish that shit squared on that whore. Along with Ebola, SARS, Malaria, Meningitis, Equine Encephalitis, Mad Cow Disease, Chronic Wasting Disease, Swine Flu, Bubonic Plague, HPV, HIV, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Syphilis, UTI, Renal Failure, blindness, deafness, muteness, Leprosy, Legionnaires Disease and the absolute worst case of dysentery there ever was. I pray for this vile creature to come down with EVERY single one of them EVERY night. I’m already going to hell for my own shitty past so at this point praying for someone like this slut to suffer so greatly will not impact my immortal soul any more than it’s already impacted. Go big or go home is my motto.

Obviously I’ve triggered. No matter what I trigger over this horrific part of my life ALWAYS gets thrown in for good measure by myself.

I’m not sure if my trigger was the upcoming holidays, having two extra “guests” in our 800 square foot condo, or if it was the fact that my husband was exhausted from work, in a shitty mood and said some (in my opinion) awful shit that Daddy Dearest used to say to me. I completely fucking lost it though. Every single time, I think I’m making progress, that giant shoe drops and shows me who’s boss…..and my boss is BPD.

FML😏😏😏

The Sheeple Apocalypse

As I was channel surfing through what seemed like an obscene amount of cable TV channels (I’m a reader, TV blows), I could not help but notice the horrific number of IQ lowering reality shows. In my opinion, the absolute worst of the worst celebrates some slut who’s only original claim to fame was fucking a semi-celebrity’s wannabe singers brother and videotaping it for posterity and having…….wait for it……her money and fame hungry whore of a mother leak it to the press for publicity. Eeeeeeewwwww much?!? No wonder your husband had his dick chopped off and started wearing your panties, Kris.
As stomach churning as this is, it’s not even the thing that makes the vomit creep up to the tip top of the back of my throat. The thing that makes the vomit come so perilously close to projectiling like pea soup as my head spins ALL 360 degrees around atop my shoulders is that enough mindless, soulless, impressionable minions and brainwashed keyboard soldiers have bought into this shit to keep this family of fancy gutter sluts on television for 15 seasons. Yes, you read that correctly. Now excuse me while I go eat a Tide Pod, smoke some fucking potpourri, snort some bath salt and wait for the Sheeple Apocalypse.

Keep Your Day Job Singing For Tweens, Biebs

Justin Bieber is lashing out at Laura Ingraham after the Fox News host mocked slain rapper Nipsey Hussle on her show.
— Read on hollywoodlife.com/2019/04/18/justin-bieber-laura-ingraham-nipsey-hussle-diss-fox-news/

Politically speaking, Justin Bieber couldn’t find his asshole with a flashlight. Nobody gives a shit what you or Mrs. John Legend think, Biebs!!

Everyone is ENTITLED to their own opinion, that’s why crybaby’s such as yourself are given airtime. Someone please tell me when did our once great, proud nation turn into a bunch of poontangs?? I agree what Laura said to some could be viewed as inappropriate or insensitive, but the song Fuck, Donald Trump isn’t?? It’s also a fucking OPINION!! Jesus Christ!! If I got fired, kicked off of WP or whatever for voicing my opinions, I’d be an extremely fired mother fucker.

Dear All Crybaby’s,

Go find a “safe space” together. Cry it out, talk it out or circle jerk one another for all I give a shit but please for the love of all that’s good and right, shut the fuck up!!!!

Peeing, Vagina Costumes and My Right To Bear Arms

I know I’m waaayyy out of line in my A-Z Challenge. I tried and I failed miserably at keeping up. Doing things on a “schedule” has never been a very strong personality trait of mine. On the other hand I’ve realized and accepted that I’m a flawed human being and I’m cool with that.

Aaahhh, P, not the letter. The urine variety. I recently noticed when some of you have me doubled over in fits of giggles with your posts and/or comments, I tell you I think I pee’d a little, I AM NOT speaking metaphorically.

I realized just how many times a day I say this and what normally causes it (for the record I change clothes in the event something like this happens. I don’t walk around pissy all day). The main causes seem to be laughing, sneezing, coughing, straining to hard when I yell FUUUCCCCKKK at the top of my lungs, hiccuping and God Forbid, I have Poot Wars: Legion of Doom with my teenagers (yes I’m the coolest mom EVER, although my kiddos would surely debate that) I might as well put on fucking Stage 47 Pampers Waddlers. If I’m straining that hard there’s DEFINITELY going to be pee involved.

This morning as I was mulling this over in my crazy mind, I had a revelation of sorts. That we woman, as a gender have so many more indignities (natural and otherwise) inflicted on our persons during the course of our lifetimes than our male counterparts.

There is menstruation, the blossoming of bosoms, Pap smears, annual gynecological visits, childbirth (hence the peeing).

Men try pushing something the same weight as a small bowling ball out of anywhere south of your belly button. Unmedicated. Then we can compare war stories.

After child bearing and rearing years comes the annual mammograms (bro’s stick your twig and berries between two flat plates and squeeze just a little to have a tiny inkling of what that’s like), because these people are not just putting a ladies breast in between those plates, those cruel fuckers are pulling back fat around front and everything.

Then comes the peeing every time you make a move and then the mother of ALL indignities, Menopause. Just because women of a certain age normally speak of this in hushed tones amongst ourselves does not mean it is to be taken lightly. Actually we huddle together and speak of it quietly because menopause is Lucifer, Māra or Iblis depending on ones beliefs. We do not want to bring this evil thing up from the fiery depths by speaking its name too loudly.

Hot flashes?!?! If you ever want to know what being roasted alive on a funeral pyre or spending at least 10-60 minutes in actual hell feels like, have one of these. Simply put, hot flashes are the devil. So by my age us women are having annual intrusions in our lady bits, boob squashings and hot flashes. If that is not enough indignities, around this time in life most women have to start having colonoscopies as well and if you are a gentleman that’s 40ish or older you are probably at least familiar with this one. So next time one of you guys is feeling icky about some “medical” procedure, just reread this blog post.

I should think that having another man softly cradling your balls and telling you to cough every so often for a physical or an after 40 occasional lubed, gloved finger gently inserted into your butthole qualifies you guys to bitch about ANYTHING ever again.

Disclaimer:

This excludes any of you fellows with legitimate medical complications or chronic health issues. I’m speaking in generalities about Mr. Everyday Joe (the ones that generally do the MOST bitching about anything medically related).

I’m not some raving, lunatic feminist as I’ve never marched in Washington, DC dressed as a giant vagina. As a matter of fact I thought that was the most idiotic shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Just think of the outcry if men wore hats with balls and a penis sticking off the top of them to protest something. Jesus Christ, it would be complete and utter anarchy.

Before any raving, lunatic feminists or anyone else that does not like my opinion try to attack me or mine by surrounding my home and trying to scare me by acting like a bunch of assholes let me warn you, if you are in my yard I will drop every one of you like a sack of of shit with my LTL “beanbag ammo” (don’t let the cute name fool you, anything coming out of a 12 gauge shotgun at 205 mph will make you rethink your position, quick, fast and in a hurry). For any slow learners that actually have the audacity and ignorance to break in and actually make it inside my home, it’s open season on you fuckers. My newest baby is a Smith & Wesson Model 500 X-frame revolver. For those of you that are unfamiliar with firearms this is one badass MoFo for one badass bitch that got knocked asshole over elbows the first few times at the range but has become quite accurate since. This gun is not for the faint of heart. I’m a southern girl from a long, long line of military and Law Enforcement Officers. I’ve been familiar with and shooting firearms since I was 10 years old. I’m an expert marksman and a FIRM believer in my 2nd Amendment rights as a US Citizen. So in closing for any nutjobs out there….PLEASE, PLEASE Come at me, bro!!

I apologize for straying so far from my original blog topic, but as I was voicing my opinion about the vagina costumes, I started thinking about all of the elected officials being run out of public establishments or having their homes surrounded (Tucker Carlson, with his wife and children inside) by ignorant assholes that think that there can be only one opinion. Theirs.

Hence the anger and tirade. I can assure you that no one is running my ass out of anywhere for having a fucking opinion. Corner me and my fight or flight instinct kicks in and since I weigh entirely too much to take flight, that’s ass if anyone actually makes an unauthorized entry INTO my dwelling intent on harming my family or myself.

*rant over*

Happy Thursday Y’all♥️

Chronic Pain is a PAIN

Much of the attention surrounding the opioid crisis has focused on the lives tragically lost to it. That focus is understandable, given the rapid climb in opioid-related fatalities in recent years, with nearly 50,000 deaths in the U.S. seen in 2017 alone. But rarely do we hear from those most personally affected by opioids—the people still regularly using these drugs.
— Read on gizmodo.com/chronic-pain-patients-describe-how-new-opioid-policies-1832444041

I am a sufferer of chronic pain. The times in my life that I remember not feeling any pain are fleeting and few and far in between.

Due to the ongoing opioid epidemic, legitimate pain sufferers have seen their medications for it dwindle from too little to nonexistent, forcing sufferers to resort to either illegal or untested remedies. My untested remedirs are Kratom and an EXCESSIVE amount of Goodys Extra Strength headache powders (I’m talking like 10-12 a day). If you are not sure what Kratom is, google it, I could explain about it in this post but it would take me all day.

The more I read about this FDA unregulated substance, the more frightened I become. Something that was born out of necessity for me is warranting a second look because of the tremendous amount of side effects that regular users are complaining of. I’ve experienced some of them myself. As if the abnormal amounts of Acetaminophen that is slowly destroying my liver is not enough to contend with.

My question is what does one do when one is suffering greatly but has absolutely no help from the medical community to alleviate said chronic pain and symptoms do?!?!

Nothing. We’re just fucked, fucked, fucked!

A Growing American Crisis: Who Will Care for the Baby Boomers?


amp.timeinc.net/time/5529152/elderly-caregiving-baby-boomers-unpaid-caregivers-crisis

If you are currently middle aged and still lucky enough to have your now elderly parents and loved ones and are watching them reluctantly wander into their golden years but aren’t a hundred percent sure what they are so concerned about, read this article that explains exactly why.

Not only are the statistics in this article spot on, they are also terrifying. I’ve been teasing my parents for years because although they are upper middle class, they are two of the most frugal, tight fisted people I’ve ever seen. Perhaps they have been concerned about this looming crisis for years and I’m only just seeing it on the horizon. When I read this article, I was absolutely flabbergasted at the turnover rate of low wage caregivers. I shouldn’t be surprised. My husband works at a long term care facility and he reinforced what I read about the turnover rate of minimum wage caretakers.

As for the government kicking the can down the road. What a fucking shocker!! Everyone in Washington sits idly by finger popping their assholes on Capitol Hill until things that could have been planned for and handled turn into a crisis of such proportions that there is very little that can be done.

Well Senators and Congresspeople here’s an idea: all of that money you want to spend on Medicaid for all, free tuition, free cell phones, free housing, etc., take three quarters of it and dedicate half to Veterans, law enforcement and teachers and the other half to providing for our new senior population that always took care of us.

You assholes would rather give EVERYTHING away for free. Stop giving food stamps and welfare to young able bodied younger people who can work but just won’t. Put some restrictions on that shit. Random drug tests for recipients would be a nice start. Also after ones 8th child with no income, no employment and no desire to be employed, benefits should be slashed if not stopped. So many people are allowed to abuse the system that the ones that truly need the help fall through the cracks and get fucked, fucked, fucked.

Unlike what the dipshits in Washington may think and want to convince Americans is a wonderful idea, uber taxing high incomes, or even taxing the middle class at the current tax rate would not be necessary if the hundreds of thousands of lazy, good for nothing, shiftless fucks would actually go to work and could also be taxed, the problem would almost fix itself within a generation or two.

I’m 47 years old and for the most part, except for that one assault charge in my twenties (but he deserved it) have been a tax paying, law abiding citizen. I’m sick and so tired of getting the short end of the stick because I try to do what’s right and the people that NEVER do what’s right are rewarded for it. It makes me so angry I want to go bitch slap a random millennial, with their give me, give me, give me, shitty attitudes and expectations.

It seems like society is headed for an everyone for themselves crisis to me.

Go ahead sheeple. Trust the government.

Vietnam Veterans: America’s Unappreciated Heroes

I’ve recently been advised by a couple of my dearest followers in my blogging family to write more things that are controversial or things that I’m passionate about. Mainly because I have strong opinions and because of that I write with raw, genuine emotion. One controversial thing that I am passionate about is the Vietnam War and it’s impact on veterans like my father. Who has by Gods grace reached what should be his golden years. My father is a disabled veteran with severe undiagnosed PTSD. Men of that generation tended to be macho men who seldom went to a doctor for anything much less something of a psychological nature.

The first time I realized that my Dad “wasn’t right” I was eleven years old and was awoke by my fathers bloodcurdling screams of “Get down, get down goddamn it!” As I sat up in my bed terrified and half awake I was unsure of whether I was still sleeping and having a nightmare or if this particular nightmare was one of a more literal sense. I soon realized that this nightmare was all too real as I heard my mother say, “Wade, get off of me honey, it was just a bad dream. We are at home in our bedroom. Safe,” then her voice faded off to just soft soothing words and sounds. Many years later as an adult my mother confided in me that Daddy had thrown her on the floor and covered her body with his many times in his first decade home from Vietnam. She said the first year or two were the worst when this same scenario happened at least every couple of days due to my fathers night terrors of still being in combat under enemy fire.

The United States government failed to make good on its promises to those who served in this War. It failed them in every way imaginable. Available GI benefits for those returning home from Vietnam were nearly nonexistent. As if having your government send you off to a war that wasn’t ours then cruelly turn it’s back on the lucky ones who came home outside of a body bag was not enough of a slap in the face to the soldiers who fought and died for our country. More insult was heaped onto injury by prospective employers, as the time came for said veterans to integrate back into society by obtaining civilian employment and were met with thinly veiled disgust.

These young returning soldiers were not looking for a ticker tape parade or a hand out. They were only looking for basic human support and help in readjusting to civilian life after this extremely brutal and long war.

The Vietnam War claimed the lives of more than 58,000 American service members and wounded more than 150,000 more.

My dad upon his return was spit on, jumped by a mob of angry anti-war protesters and was the object of ridicule and disdain. Why? Because he loved his country unconditionally and would have done anything to keep her safe and free. That included taking extra classes in high school so that he could graduate a year early. At barely seventeen years old and having to have his mothers consent enlisted to go to a foreign land to fight the good fight for a cause that wasn’t America’s fight to begin with.

It is now almost fifty years later. My once strapping, strong manly father is a shell of his former self. He is VA determined 100% disabled because he has gone blind. There are thousands more veterans of this particular war with the exact same issues as my father. The government is finally, just recently admitting that his blindness and a multitude of other health related problems of he and his fellow veterans were due to American forces spraying the dense jungles of Cambodia with Agent Orange to kill the vegetation with no thought to all of the troops on the ground being covered with it. If you don’t know what Agent Orange is, look it up. Today’s equivalent would be spraying yourself from head to toe with Round-Up weed killer on a regular basis for an extended period of time.

I can not even imagine in my worst nightmares, and I’ve had some doozies, what these soldiers endured, not only abroad but also the atrocities that they suffered at the actions and the hateful words of ungrateful, ignorant, piece of shit human beings upon their return.

Today I see far too many parallels between the anti-war hippies of that era and the far left, radical millennials of today. We have raised yet another generation of violent, ungrateful, self centered assholes. I say we, because it is mainly my generation that raised them. Although my two children are of millennial age, neither of them have a millennial bone in their bodies. I’d like to think it was because they were raised with discipline, integrity and being able to realize when they were wrong or perhaps wronged another in any way to take accountability for their actions. Children like mine, through fate who were born into this shitty generation are the exception. I am extremely lucky and certainly blessed that I was able to raise such empathetic, loving, independent thinking, young adults as my beautiful daughter and son are.

To all of our remaining Vietnam Veterans and their families, although words seem completely insignificant in relation to what each of you endured, from the bottom of my heart thank you.

I’d also like to apologize on behalf of a nation that did not give a shit about you. I’m so very sorry for your treatment by the same fucked up government that sent you there and the citizens who did not appreciate your many sacrifices. Ones that the United States Federal Government wrote the check out for and made all of you pay for it with your sanity, limbs and 58,000 service members who paid the ultimate price with their lives. Lady Liberty weeps for you, and so do I.

The Glory Hole Cafe

My amazing brother-in-law and I are quite the cooks in the family. He’s a commercial supervisor for a Heating and Cooling Company, I am a disabled housewife…..but long ago we decided that our collective retirement dream would be to open a restaurant called The Glory Hole Cafe.

Now as we all know, success in business comes with hard work, being good at what you do AND a catchy name for marketing strategies. Who wouldn’t want to eat at the Glory Hole?!?! I’d check it out just because the name makes me laugh. Glory Hole is not necessarily porno……a fisherman’s sweet spot is also called a Glory/Honey Hole, so I decided it would be a seafood restaurant to take off the porno innuendo, but sick fucks like myself would still consider the porno aspect of it. So tell me, my dear blogging family…..would you or would you not stop by and check out the Glory Hole Cafe & Gift Shop?!?

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones. Words Can Sever Souls.

I like to say I fear no words but that’s a lie.

I have anxiety about my health because my mother would growl when I smiled: Your incisors are BROWN. Pinworms: Placing me, naked, face-down on the couch, parting my seven-year-old buttocks with her fingernails, summoning Dad: Come see these damn things crawling in and out!

She scolded me for inhaling their microscopic eggs off some shit-fingered kid.

The very air was dangerous. Wet grass, which gives girls colds in their panties, could kill.

I also fear words — any words, but telling you this gives you power over me — said loudly. Shouted. Yelled. The word “yell” itself scares me, because in my mind I hear “yell” yelled. My parents yelled at me. A lot. They screamed cusswords into my face, their hot saliva speckling my eyes. Now that sounds like a lie. Why would two highly educated intellectuals roar at a mild-mannered, obedient, anxious child? They said they had no choice, because I was a fucking slob. They said I drove them to it by using language they loathed: ain’t, for instance, and you guys

The main word I fear lately is the A-word. I can barely say or write it, here or anywhere. Which A-word? you demand. Australia? App?

Hint: It rhymes with Larousse. Vamoose. Abstruse.

I can’t type it. I can’t.

That’s why I came here today. To say this.

I had what witnesses would call an absolutely ordinary childhood. Sun-baked suburban home. Food. Clothes. No siblings. Never beaten, never sexually assaulted.

See? I evaded using the A-word there. Instead, I wrote “assaulted,” because horrible as assault is, it remains alien to me, thus oddly anodyne.

I had an absolutely ordinary childhood during which, day after day, I was humiliated, shamed, deprived of privacy and terrified.

My parents said they loved me.  They had anger issues. They had no previous experience with kids. They suffered too, but both were adults when they screamed at me.

A name exists for this. It is not physical maltreatment of the Mommie Dearest kind but emotional, verbal … the A-word. Vamoose.

And don’t I wish I wasn’t writing this? Don’t I wish I was lilting about dragonflies, kabuki or one of my other interests instead of chanting childhood anecdotes like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner who collared helpless passersby to rant, froth-lipped, eternally, about an albatross?

I’m writing this to tell the world of not just me but way too many of us: We who were traumatized with words and looks by toxic parents who believed they were doing their best, when we were too young to know otherwise, too young to believe this was anything but universal, normal, justified. Too young for any form of self-defense.

Society might call our type of touchless trauma tiny. So it seems, compared to war and sex crimes, but new studies show that childhood verbal and emotional … Larousse … can damage its victims as lastingly and harshly as any physical assault can.

This is because, according to developmental psychologists, the human brain acquires self-awareness at age three, then remains in hyper-absorbent learning mode for twenty years. Terrify someone so young that his or her sense of self is larva-soft, someone whose only god is you. Tell him or her that he or she is ugly, stupid, boring, bad, a fag, a pig. Do this early and often. Do it in the comfortable closed-circuit crucible called home. Do it authoritatively. Never apologize. Abracadabra: You, making no mark upon the flesh, have slashed a soul and tossed aside its disconnected, twitching bits.

As a random example, I am living proof. I wish I wasn’t. I want out. I want to stop repeating myself, want to walk out of my childhood free and clear and start thinking of other things — kabuki, ravens — but cannot until I stop using these anecdotes as standup-comic shtik whose practiced, memorized rimshot delivery anesthetizes me.

We the toxically parented, we the emotionally and verbally vamoosed either silence ourselves as we were silenced or tell our tales endlessly as if this telling will itself release us. But it won’t. Silence and logorrhea can both become empty la-la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you rituals.

Which we repeat because we cannot bear to hate those who meant well. We must seek some spell in between: some way to sanctify our stories, in silence or sound, as scathing epic Iliad-esque tragedies which we somehow survived. (At least one friend of mine has not.)

But criticizing incisors and calling someone the F-word are miniscule, you say. Maybe between adults. (Maybe.) But, inflicted on children during those developmental years, such interchanges become retroviruses. Depth charges. Time bombs tick-tick-ticking in our heads.

Did your parents insult you? Did they mock, humiliate, reject and/or neglect you? Steep you in their addictions and other adult pain? Were they too self-absorbed to even see you? Did they demand worship, trample boundaries and damn your dreams? Consistently?

That was … abstruse.

I’m not saying let’s wave our pain around like Pity Me flags. I’m saying almost the opposite: We who were emotionally/verbally toxically parented want to feel normal and live in the adult world. We don’t want to blame ourselves anymore. We don’t want to be numb, dissociated, frozen, sleepless, hypervigilant, incapable of giving or receiving love and trust.

We want to know why we are this way.

Because trauma can do this. Trauma is why.

Because society decrees that only body-involved violence “counts,” that we are lucky by comparison, we call ourselves ungrateful, spoiled, selfish and childish. Staggering like zombies, we refuse to name our suffering.

So I will. We were traumatized.

Sticks and stones break bones. Words can sever souls.

I wish I’d had a somewhat different childhood. I wish I could drop this topic, but I can’t. I wish I had another song. I don’t: not yet, but maybe if I sing this one with meaning now … ? What happened in that hot-roofed house decades ago is why I’m stuck. It’s why I often hate myself. I need not pretend anymore to wonder why. This hurts like murder, but whom have I spent a lifetime trying to protect? And it happened by accident, with perfume and marshmallow Peeps. It happened in sunshine, with love.

For You Fuckers That Don’t Think America is “That Great”

www.youtube.com/watch

If you feel that way, by all means GET THE FUCK OUT!!

Seriously, you pieces of shit, get out and let some of the legitimate, legal immigrants and asylum seekers take your place, because obviously THEY still think America’s the greatest nation in the world to the degree that they are literally fucking dying to get in!

To America’s soldiers, law enforcement, firefighters and first responders, you are the heart of this country and the glue that holds our society together with no regards to your own comfort and safety, thank each and every one of you from the most humble and grateful place in my heart. YOU ALL ARE HEROES!!

I’ll Cut A Bitch

I went to the doctors office this morning at an ungodly hour, 7am is about the time I’ve only been asleep for approximately 2.5 hours most nights because of the tossing, turning and writhing in pain from Fibromyalgia. After an entire pot of coffee AND a shower with one leg stuck out of the shower door (due to my knee surgery four weeks ago), I was only half awake and pissed off because of how I had to shower led to me having an inch of water on my entire bathroom floor, which I immediately slipped on and busted me new voluptuous ass (I’ve gained 20 pounds in two months due to my koo koo meds). I’ve never been so happy to have the increased volume of junk in my trunk. I finally made it to the doctor ten minutes late for my appointment because I took the elevator and missed my floor. Twice. By this time I was fucking fuming and sweating like a hooker at a tent revival because of my fury and an inopportune time for a hot flash. The receptionist was about to tell me I’d need to reschedule because I was by then more than ten minutes late to my appointment. She took one look at my disheveled hair, fire engine red, sweaty face and the wild look in my eyes and decided against it (she has no idea how close she came to bearing the full brunt of my rage).

I finally settled in an uncomfortable waiting room chair to wait forty five minutes for my surgeon NOT to see me….he had his PA take out my stitches and tell me to go one floor up for physical therapy. Now in addition to my physical ailments, I’m a raving nut job….you just don’t spring this kind of shit on me at the last minute, but since I was already there, I agreed. It wasn’t until after I was laying on the physical therapy table that I had my WTF was I thinking moment….I’m lying on a table waiting for someone to come torture me sans pain meds, because due to the opioid epidemic my surgeon only sends his patients home with fifteen Lortab 5’s after MAJOR knee surgery. What kind of fuckery is this?!? I have fibro, fool, and 5 days after surgery you are telling me to take a fucking Tylenol?!? How about if I sever your penis and shove it straight up your ass and YOU take a god damn Tylenol?!?

By the time the PT made it too my room another 25 minutes later, I had enough. She opened her mouth to question me or chastise me or what the fuck ever, to which my response was,”Not today, Satan. Not today,” as I stalked (as well as someone with a bum knee can stalk) out. My BP was 146/95 when I first arrived an hour and a half prior, no telling what it was when I left, I had to have been a prime candidate for a fucking stroke.

I have now been home for three hours and my mood was finally simmering down until I opened the medicine cabinet to glare at the Tylenol. If I took enough Tylenol to even put a dent in my chronic pain, I’d die from liver failure in short order. So not giving a second thought to my bleeding stomach ulcer, I took 4 Maximum Strength Goody’s headache powders and prayed to the powers that be that 1) that many Goody’s at least takes the edge off of my pain and 2) I don’t die from internal bleeding because I’m taking such desperate measures.

It’s a good thing I have no idea where the state DEA’s office is because today….

The Narcissistic Family Tree

“The typical adult from a narcissistic family is filled with unacknowledged anger, feels like a hollow person, feels inadequate and defective, suffers from periodic anxiety and depression, and has no clue about how he or she got that way.”

It is common for adult children of narcissists to enter treatment with emotional symptoms or relationship issues, but simultaneously display a lack of awareness of the deeper etiology or cause.

The narcissistic family hides profound pain.

Such families tend to operate according to an unspoken set of rules. Children learn to live with those rules, but never stop being confused and pained by them, for these rules block their emotional access to their parents. They basically become invisible—neither heard, seen, or nurtured. Conversely, and tragically, this set of rules allows the parents to have no boundaries with the children and to use (or abuse) them as they see fit.

The following are some common dynamics of this profoundly dysfunctional intergenerational system. (Keep in mind there are always degrees of dysfunction on a spectrum depending on the level of narcissism in the parents.)

1. Secrets. The family secret is that the parents are not meeting the children’s emotional needs, or that they are abusive in some way. This is the norm in the narcissistic family. The message to the children: “Don’t tell the outside world—pretend everything is fine.”

2. Image. The narcissistic family is all about image. The message is: “We are bigger, better, have no problems, and must put on the face of perfection.” Children get the messages: “What would the neighbors think?” “What would the relatives think?” What would our friends think?” These are common fears in the family: “Always put a smile on that pretty little face.”

3. Negative Messages. Children are given spoken and unspoken messages that get internalized, typically: “You’re not good enough”; “You don’t measure up”; “You are valued for what you do rather than for who you are.”

4.Lack of Parental Hierarchy. In healthy families, there is a strong parental hierarchy in which the parents are in charge and shining love, light, guidance, and direction down to the children. In narcissistic families, this hierarchy is non-existent; the children are there to serve parental needs.

5.Lack of Emotional Tune-In. Narcissistic parents lack the ability to emotionally tune in to their kids. They cannot feel and show empathy or unconditional love. They are typically critical and judgmental.

6.Lack of Effective Communication. The most common means of communication in narcissistic families is triangulation. Information is not direct. It is told through one party about another in hopes it will get back to the other party. Family members talk about each other to other members of the family, but don’t confront each other directly. This creates passive-aggressive behavior, tension, and mistrust. When communication is direct, it is often in the form of anger or rage.

7.Unclear Boundaries. There are few boundaries in the narcissistic family. Children’s feelings are not considered important. Private diaries are read, physical boundaries are not kept, and emotional boundaries are not respected. The right to privacy is not typically a part of the family history.

8.One Parent Narcissistic, the Other Orbiting. If one parent is narcissistic, it is common for the other parent to have to revolve around the narcissist to keep the marriage intact. Often, this other parent has redeeming qualities to offer the children, but is tied up meeting the needs of the narcissistic spouse, leaving the children’s needs unmet. Who is there for them?

9.Siblings Not Encouraged to Be Close. In healthy families, we encourage our children to be loving and close to each other. In narcissistic families, children are pitted against each other and taught competition. There is a constant comparison of who is doing better and who is not. Some are favored or seen as “the golden child,” and others become the scapegoat for a parent’s projected negative feelings. Siblings in narcissistic families rarely grow up feeling emotionally connected to each other.

10.Feelings. Feelings are denied and not discussed. Children are not taught to embrace their emotions and process them in realistic ways. They are taught to stuff and repress them, and are told their feelings don’t matter. Narcissistic parents are typically not in touch with their own feelings and therefore project them onto others. This causes a lack of accountability and honesty, not to mention other psychological disorders. If we don’t process feelings, they do leak out in other unhealthy ways.

11. “Not Good Enough” Messages. These messages come across loud and clear in the narcissistic family. Some parents actually speak this message in various ways; others just model it to the children. Even if they display arrogant and boastful behavior, under the veneer of a narcissist is a self-loathing psyche—that gets passed to the child.

12. Dysfunction—Obvious or Covert. In narcissist families, the dynamics can be seen or disguised. The dysfunction displayed in violent and abusive homes is usually obvious, but emotional and psychological abuse, as well as neglectful parenting are often hidden. While the drama is not displayed as openly to the outside world, it is just as, if not, more damaging to the children.

Reviewing these dynamics, one can see how this kind of family can look pretty but be decaying at the same time. If you recognize your family in this description, know that there is hope and recovery. We can’t change the past, but we can take control of the now. We do not have to be defined by the wounds in our family systems. As Mark Twain defines the optimist, I see the recovering adult child: “A person who travels on nothing from nowhere to happiness.”

We can create new life that will flow through us to the future and stop the legacy of distorted love learned in the narcissistic family. If we choose recovery, we can defy intergenerational statistics.

We Can!