cruelwench's Open Salon Blog

Questionable (repost)

Thu, 30 Dec 2010 21:12:01 -0500

I searched the entire world wide web but Yahoo Answers aren’t.

I looked on my bookshelf and on the bookshelf at Borders trying to find it but no smiling pop psychologist can help.

I tried to pray — or is that just talking to oneself? — but got no answers there. God forsook me long ago when I forsook him.

I wore out my friends and drowned my very best friend with my questions…just get over it already!

I can find others who share with me but they never have any answers either…only poems and songs and the same questions.

I want to know…

What am I? child…wife…lover…mother…trap

Who am I going to be tomorrow? still me…always me…is that good?

Where do I fit in? i am probably not a vampire or a lesbian or a mental patient or a tortured artist but someone must want me in their camp

Why am I not able to be loved the way other people can be loved? i can…i was…i am…chemicals and electrical impulses am i

Does this get better soon? the answer is unclear…check back tomorrow

What the fuck? yes…yes, indeed

The Taker

Thu, 30 Dec 2010 21:12:25 -0500

Alone here with my eyes dry

All I want is everything

All I need is more than you have

Yet you give and give

I fall so easily from this ledge

And sometimes I jump

The struggle to keep me upright

Wears us both out

It’s time now to let me fall

If I break my heart

It won’t be the first — or last time

Blood and tears are shed

You will write about me someday

When I am your past

When I have taken it all for myself

And I can’t cry anymore

I Can Almost Hear the Footsteps of the Messiah (repost)

Thu, 30 Dec 2010 21:12:43 -0500

That’s what the email said. I hastily looked out the front window to catch a glimpse of the sacred sandals, but only saw the garbage man, critically eyeing our too-full bin from above to see if he could charge the extra fee for the lid being open more than four inches. I doubt he’s the messiah and he never actually exits the truck so it can’t be his footsteps I’m supposed to be almost hearing.

I do hear someone walking across the deck outside my room…is it the lord? No. It’s my son-in-law coming in from working on a run-down (should be BURNED down) trailer he hopes to move into someday. Son-in-law and pregnant daughter moved back in with us several months ago. He and she and now baby makes three are living in one small bedroom adjacent to our one small bathroom. He is no messiah.

My mom wouldn’t lie to me – she has been telling me how excited I should be about the impending end of the world for months now. This messianic stompathon is just the latest in a series of preacheries and propheteerings sent to me on a weekly basis. So,maybe I need to listen a little harder.

I hear my cell phone ring at 8:00 every morning, and then the beep of a voicemail. It’s some creditor, determined that I am going to send money I don’t even think I owe and certainly don’t have.

I hear the email notification go off on my husband’s computer. It’s a form letter from Job Source letting him know that a crappy, minimum wage, entry-level job is available and has only been viewed 1100 times in the past 20 minutes. Another merrily chiming email lets him know that he’s been eliminated from the pool of qualified candidates for a part-time job as a bank teller.

Wait, that sounds like footsteps…but no…it’s just that weird heart palpitation I’ve been having. I should have it checked out, along with having a 15 years overdue pap smear and my first mammogram, but I have no health insurance to go along with my no money. I guess the end of the world will solve those problems for me anyway.

I walk out to the end of the driveway, looking down the street to see if I can see Mr. JC, but I only see a row of forlorn forsale signs in front of houses that no one will buy, homes that no one here can afford to keep.

Relieved, I can hear the sawmill down the road. Some people in our sad, little hamlet still have jobs, but many are selling firewood out of their trucks, old VCR tapes from their trunks — puppies, eggs, cut flowers, worn out souls.

I can also hear the dull twang of country music and clinking glasses from our shabby shed of a town tavern. Maybe the savior stopped in there on his way. This is a rough time in a red town. Everybody knows his name and uses it often.

Back in the house I hear the television. Explosions and gunfire and coups and death. Starving babies and human rights violations. Corrupt politicians and tragically spoiled celebrities, all screwing the wrong people and spewing their bile all over the rest of us like so much Linda Blair excreta. I suppose the footsteps are being muffled by all the global drama and trauma, or maybe that’s what his holy hoofbeats sound like. I don’t know.

I’m not giving up, though. I’ll stand here and wait until those footsteps my mom can almost hear are coming my way. When they do I will meet the messiah at the front door and ask him why…why…why…and what now?

Objectify Me, Baby!

Mon, 26 Apr 2010 19:04:38 -0400

Seriously, they are neither secret nor sacred. They just ARE. It's all good.

Imma sit back now, have an adult beverage and wait for the shaking!

Keep Big Government Out Of My (tanning) Bed!

Wed, 24 Mar 2010 12:03:55 -0400

There were tears glistening on the lashes of the perky, blonde newsreader (possibly called Britnee). Who could have foreseen this? If only we had KNOWN, we could have campaigned against health care reform even more arduously!

Did you realize that "tucked away" in the bill, hidden from the scrutiny of people too lazy to read that kind of stuff, slipped upon us while we were watching Family Guy, is a TAX on tanning! Ambyrr led us on a tour of the beleaguered pigment-support industry and spoke to anguished owners who worried that the ten percent tax would drive all but the most steadfastly narcissistic patrons away. It brought a non-cancerous lump to my throat.

That, however, is NOT the only sneak attack on our constitutional rights buried in the bill. The next thing over which Bambee grew weepy was the unfair targeting of the restaurateur. How unreasonable is it that the calorie counts of EVERYTHING on the menu must be available and yes, even printed! The data probably even needs to be accurate.

The worst part of this latest assault on our God-given right to indulge ourselves without worrying about the consequences is that it specifically targets the small Mom and Pop businesses with twenty or more locations! This will cost "the restaurant industry" fifty million dollars. Maybe they can have a bake sale.

So, if you care at all about America, God, Ultimate Appetizer Platters, and Melanin, look your pudgy, pasty face in the mirror and ask yourself ... is health care for everyone REALLY worth it at this cost?