Here Comes Peter Cottontail

I’m not going to lie. We as parents can sometimes be cruel mother fuckers when it comes to our own selfish wants (a stupid picture) and our comedic entertainment (because y’all know good and damn well the harder and louder your kiddo screamed the funnier it got).

That’s not even mentioning that every one of our childhoods was predicated on a lie (trust issues much?). Yet we keep this bullshit up generation after generation. I’m sure once the millennials start having families, all of this aspect of familial trauma will stop dead in it’s tracks. Perhaps they can provide a kiddy safe space for snowflake children, that just can’t sit there and scream bloody murder for the 30 seconds it takes to snap the damn picture. Back in the day we did get a coloring book and a four pack of crayons (small consultation for literally having the shit scared out of us), but we survived it. My parents didn’t have baby proof outlet plug ins, cabinet latches, or leashes to keep up with the three of us at the mall. All we needed to stay close to mom was the threat of an imminent ass beating from dad. We were like ducklings in a row.

We rode our bikes without helmets, played until the street lights came on and drank piss hot water straight out of the garden hose and it appears all of us have made it through all of that “trauma” into adulthood.

The only thing I’m super pissed about is the big LIE. Santa, The Easter Bunny, The Tooth Fairy. Really?? Parents probably get the smallest amount of credit for anything in a child’s life. Looking back I should’ve told my kiddos, mommy and daddy worked our asses off to buy you ungrateful little shits all of this stuff. If you don’t get your act together, no more shit for you!!

“Santa is watching you.” No you little booger factory, ankle biting assholes, MOMMY is watching you and mommy is like the deep state, I watch you on your monitors, I listen in on your phone calls, I check your computer history AND have your text logs printed out through the cell phone company. Mommy IS Big Brother. That should scare you more than some drunk homeless dude or perv dressed up in a Santa or Bunny suit for twelve hour shifts so he can have enough money for his own Easter Basket filled with Booze, mind altering substances and some naked Whores wearing bunny ears, a tail stuck to their ass, platform shoes (try hopping in those bitches) and nothing else.

What can I say, I’m a realist.

Happy Easter, Y’all♥️

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Deb, The Long Goodbye

This is a photo of myself and my BFF, Deb, taken a little over five years ago.

That night as we sat sipping our beers, listening to some great music and shaking our tail feathers and laughing until we cried because we are both people watchers and HUGE smart asses and boy did we have a plethora of drunk assholes and desperate whores to make fun of that particular evening.

Who would have EVER fathomed just a few short years later, I would be watching her die.

As Deb becomes sicker and sicker with her terminal cancer, I always pull out this picture to remind myself how quickly your entire life can change. Practically in the blink of an eye.

My dearest Debbie,

I’ll be by your side until we kick this cancers ass, or I will gently hold you as you transition into another journey, but make no mistake, I’ll be there until the sweet bitter end if it comes to that. I’ll never let go!! I love you Deb♥️

Life Isn’t About Finding Yourself, It’s about Creating Yourself

What kind of happy horseshit is this?!?!

I know it sounds all nice and fucking peachy on a greeting card, but in real life?!?! Bitch please!!

First of all if I created MYSELF, my measurements would be 36-24-36. If I had stats like that I’d even keep the fucking BPD (but only if I had to), long beautiful shiny hair, perfect teeth and Kylie Jenner’s eyebrows, a smoking hot tan (minus the skin cancer, please) and I’d like that all spread across about a 5’10 frame. That’s how I would fucking create myself.

What about emotions you might ask?? Well I might as well be vapid and stupid because this world of AI makes you that way anyway plus if I looked like that people would put up with a LOT more of my bullshit. It’s a win-win. Now let me hit the numbers and find a plastic surgeon with enough technology to make me look 20 again.

A girl can wish can’t she?!?

Finally!! A Light at The End of The Tunnel

These are pics of our new home after we have unpacked (not every single thing) and have a little bit of order to everything. Have I mentioned moving sucks donkey ass?!?

I’d rather be drawn and quartered or burned at the stake or waterboarded than to do this shit EVER again. I’m delighted about the house but aside from that I’ve been a roller coaster of emotions. My OCD is in a frenzy and I’m traumatized because it took us two solid weeks to move from the rain. I suppose I’ll look on the bright side for a change and just think about all of the happy new memories we’ll make here♥️

Happy Weekend, my pretties 💕💕💕

My extremely handsome hubby watching me craft in the garage♥️♥️

Unicorn Tears

It’s 2019 and we thought the unicorn food trend was behind us. We were wrong, because unicorn wine is now a thing.
www.purewow.com/news/gik-live-unicorn-tears-rose-wine

Holy Shit!! If you don’t want a glass of this shit, then you have no soul.

I mean, really?!?

I want to go cuddle a puppy right now, just because of the freaking name!! Unicorn Tears. In a bottle?? This is the kind of fuckery that I heart♥️♥️

Year of The Hot Mess Express

Sooooooo, I started a list of New Years Resolutions, after two and a half pages (front and back) I decided what in the monkey fuck am I thinking?!?! The reason why this list is so long is because I’m carrying shit over from the past twenty five years. If I haven’t kept said resolutions in that amount of time, I’ve decided that being me is fucking awesome/just awful (depending on which of my “personalities” you happen to grab bag at that particular moment) and that I don’t need any improvement, therefore this year the only resolution I have is to keep being fucking awesome/just awful. Keeping just this ONE will be a piece of cake. My List?? In the circular file where it should have been stored twenty five years ago😂😂

New Years Eve at our new house was perfect and the fireworks show from our own backyard was amazing! I love, love, love being back in the country and I especially love a bunch of rednecks hopped up on Budweiser on New Years Eve who happen to have cornered the market on ALL fireworks in Livingston Parish where we now reside.

Here hold my beer and watch this!! ‘Merica!😂😂😂

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.

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog
— Read on hughsviewsandnews.com/2018/09/20/7-things-to-lookout-for-before-following-a-blog/

Great post! I am following waaaaaaay to many blogs just because they followed me first. I appreciate and am grateful to each and every follower, the thing is, I may not necessarily be interested in certain blog topics. It is nothing personal at all as I’m sure that even if I don’t agree with another bloggers views it does not mean that said blogger is not a lovely person. Following too many people is problematic in regards to the fact that the blogs that I do follow closely because I LOVE their content get lost somewhere in the rest. Thank you again to my precious followers for reading about my crazy, topsy turvy life AND for putting up with my excessive profanity, because well that’s just how I roll.

TTFN my pretties💕💕

The Liquor Train Is Pulling Into The Station: Booze, Booze

I’m not sure where I want to go with this post. I didn’t get out of bed until 2:00pm as I was THAT emotionally exhausted from the emotional “festivities” from yesterday, I feel like shit from the weight I’ve gained due to my koo koo meds recently and the gluttonous carbfest I went on yesterday. FUCKING BLAH!!

I suppose I’ve disassociated a bit for my own sanity. I don’t feel bad, I don’t feel good. Neither happy nor sad. Just blah.

I’m dreading the rest of the holidays and our upcoming move. My OCD ignites my anxiety into a fiery frenzy when I think of all of my meticulously placed “stuff” being boxed up and in disarray until I can meticulously put it back somewhere else.

I had an MRI on my back and neck last Tuesday. I got the results back today. Degenerative Disc Disease. Just fucking Jim Dandy. As if I don’t have enough mental and physical disorders and ailments. Just something else to deal with. I would just like to be emotionally normal and totally pain (physically, emotionally and psychologically) free for one week. JUST ONE WEEK! It would be utter bliss.

Well I suppose I’ll get started early this afternoon with a little holiday cheer (Evan Williams Eggnog) and try to drown my shitty mood in booze. As my darling fellow blogger @helentastic always so eloquently puts it, xxCHEERSxx!

Assholes, Booze and Coffee

Not In Any Particular Order

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, good morning friends😊

What can I say when one absolutely can not sleep at night, you have to squeeze some 💤💤’s in somewhere. Most of the time the 💊💊’s don’t even work. That is until about 7 am the next morning. That being said I get what I can when I can.

Once I get my second pot of coffee, I’m ready to start my day so hopped up and jittery I turn into a giant sarcastic asshole from caffeine overload. I was never good at happy mediums.

Now that I’ve got that off of my chest. I slowly get dressed, I’m talking if I make it out of my PJ’s for the day it’s a frigging miracle.

I’m aware that my badassery is just a legend in my own mind but that’s plenty enough for me, it’s also enough to make me an asshole. If it were a badge for the Girl Scouts it’s probably the only one I would have received and I would’ve worn that sap sucker like a queenly sash. I’d totally be wearing it to this day.

Haha! My favorite. Sarcasm and smartassery abounds today. My joints are swollen and literally locked up from my Fibro flare and my BPD and it’s friends OCD, ADHD and PTSD are off of the charts from the past 3 stress filled days.

Just wanted to throw this out there to my antagonists. Not today fuckers. Not today.

If I’m just being my normal sarcastic self you are totally safe because as many of you know in my opinion curse words are just colorful adjectives that brighten up any story.

To my friends, family and blogging family, I hope that you are having a blessed, beautiful day as I’m sipping a refreshing glass of vino, I’m going to leave y’all with how I think medicine needs to  undergo some significant changes……

Destin: Heaven On Earth

My husband and I returned from our seven-day vacation to Destin, Florida yesterday afternoon. What a glorious time we had. I was actually depressed to have to head home to Baton Rouge. I have totally fallen in love with the city of Destin and all of Okaloosa County. Everyone we met during our stay, from hotel check in clerks to waiters to cashiers at Wal-Mart and the many souvenir shops were super friendly. People from all walks of life, colors and ethnicitys all treated one another with dignity and respect with just a hint of that ”island” vibe mixed in for good measure. This beautiful place was our respite from our everyday doldrums, from all of the political BS blasting on every television around, and from the anger and divisiveness that seems to have our country in a choke hold.

What a wonderful reminder that we are all just people making our way through this crazy world, but there is also a better way to do so. We are currently looking at job openings in the area because all of our children are grown, we could pick up and move at moments notice. This beautiful place is where we want to end our careers and retire to. Destin is absolutely my Disneyland. The happiest place on earth!

Vacation=Best Anti-Anxiety Reliever EVER

As we are driving back from Destin, I am reflecting on what an incredible week I’ve had with my amazing husband. We were able to reconnect on every level. We REALLY needed this trip. We truly feel like newlyweds again. The long walks on the beach at sunrise and sunset, the talking like we haven’t talked in so very long. Every reason I fell in love with my husband was on full display during this entire trip. He has spoiled me rotten and I have loved every second of it.

We spent evenings at the Harbor Walk, Margaritaville and Gilligan’s whose rum runners will knock your damn socks off! Can anyone say FUBAR?!?

We collected shells together for our bathroom at home because it is done in a beach theme. We ate delicious food and had tons of laughter and fun. The stress and anxiety of the past couple of months has just melted away leaving two middle aged teenagers blissfully in love just like the day our eyes met across a crowded room. My BPD did not rear its ugly head one time and I’m so thankful for that. My husband has a calming influence on my soul and I adore him for it.  We watched the dolphins frolic and went on sunset cruises to watch the sun go down by boat. It was spectacular.

Both my husband and I truly appreciate the beauty and peacefulness of nature. We are truly blessed and I think we both appreciate that fact a lot more than we did at the beginning of this adventure.

Comfortably Numb

My doctor just put me on Vistaril. I took it for the first time last night. It’s 2:00pm where I’m at and I’m still walking around in a daze. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel good. I don’t feel jack shit if you want to know the truth. Absolutely nothing. I feel like I SHOULD be scared but I don’t feel it. I can’t really determine which is worse……feeling too much or nothing at all. I barely feel human. I could be a fucking autobot for all of the emotion I can muster. I’m pretty sure this sucks just as much as lying in a fetal position because the agony of my emotions has brought me to my knees time and time again. I guess that’s all I have to say because I need both hands to catch the drool hanging off my chin.