Caterwauling

My boys have a habit of leaving me for homely women with acerbic wit. And by that, I mean they are washed-out, old-looking little things that are mean on their Facebook walls to the men who adore them down to the paper bag and muzzle they should be wearing. 

Ok it’s just two boys. Ain’t gonna be a third. I promise. 

I was looking at the latest one’s wall last night. She’s Whorothy with a different hair color and less black smudged eyeliner. Maybe a little more articulate but I found myself reading her with the same mean tone. 

I used to feel bad about nice guys being with these bitches. Then j realized someone is married in both those relationships anyway (hence, “Whorothy,” the whore) and they shouldn’t be fighting or flirting, in public or private, with anyone outside of their “sacrosanct” union. 

I gotta hand it to the Westboro Baptist Church. I thought they’d be Kim Davis’ biggest fans. Instead they blame her failed marriage track record for the rise and recognition of gay marriage. They kind of have a point — a warped one, but a point nonetheless. 

In any event, I think marriage should be abolished and the financial benefits taken away. You can say I’m just a bitter single person looking for a tax break. And you’d be right. But what’s the point of getting married when everyone you know has made a perfect mockery of it?

They say adversity reveals your true colors. But I feel like I’ve had so much upheaval in my life that I’ve got a bit of a reaction rainbow going on here.  As Forrest Gump would say, you never know what you’re gonna get with me anymore. 

I feel like my grace has gone out the window. Everyone and everything annoys me way too easily. If iron sharpens iron, don’t mind me if i beat you with one and stab you with the other for good measure. 

Mom found my last nerve recently and instead of walking away, I said if this were a marriage, I’d feel justified in asking for a divorce. 

And don’t get me started on what I really want to say/do to homegirl and her terrible offspring upstairs. She won’t discipline her rowdy kids but she will yell at Big Giant Pussy at 2:30 a.m.  

Right now it sounds like a jiu-jitsu drum circle taking place over my head. I suppose it’s grace that’s keeping me from procuring a firearm. I wouldn’t buy ammunition, though. I’d just pimp-slap them all with it. 

And don’t get me started on this rogue employee who just needs to leave before the rest of us stroke out at all the stress their presence brings. 

I have unpublished blog entries dedicated to it. And it occurs to me, don’t give them your power. Fuck them. You have your own issues. And the moment you document their uselessness, everyone looks at you with the same critical eye. No thanks, I say. 

In any event, I wonder if we are only apportioned so much “nice” in this world and you’re fooked if you use it all up too soon. 

If that’s the case, I’m as fooked as fooked can be. And who only knows what else is going to come out of my mouth or brain next. And that’s scarier than the prospect of living with mom under Thundercunt for the next 40 years …

There are no famous copyeditors. And it’s something I happen to love doing.

I don’t know that I excel at it anymore, and I certainly don’t think of it as a calling. Because, after all, there’s no way to become famous or rich THAT I KNOW OF.

But, this made me smile. Hope all you old J-school escapees can enjoy it too.

From Copyediting.com’s 25-year anniversary issue …

Mom’s smoke detector has been chirping all night. I was knocked out on Benadryl and didn’t hear it. The banshees’ room is right above hers. I’m sad mom didn’t wake me up to change the battery, but thrilled that those fuqrs had a bad night because of us for a change. 

Livin’ la vida Boca again, this time not in central Florida. 

Thundercunt was raging when we got home. Oh joy. I’m hoping yo-yo bitch shuts those meat flaps she calls lips long enough to let me pass out till the workday starts not-bright but certainly early. 

The escape was good. Ate at my favorite places. Swam in my favorite pool at my favorite resort. On top of that, I did a lot of soul-searching this weekend as we endured pounding in the villa upstairs (sigh). 

Why must crazy follow me? Whyyyy?

In any event, I realized I cannot get married unless we each have our own bedroom and bathroom. Close quarters and I are incompatible bedfellows. 

I just wish i were so decisive about what to be when I grow up. But I might have gotten an inch closer. 

Daily, I vascillate between being wildly uninspired after doing the same job for 10 years, and super-grateful for everything else. 

After all, I’ve done inspiring work with psychos (Pittsburgh comes to mind) and the only inspiration it gave me was to leave town. 

I didn’t come to any concrete epiphanies. It was more like I fear a pay cut if I change professions again. But maybe there’s more money to be made if I pursued my passions. Whatever those are these days. 

I heard someone say that she always assumed she would never make money as a writer. But she makes six figures on an average year. So, it’s possible to do what you love and never have to reintroduce your palate to ramen. 

I also read some affirmations about money. That abundance follows you and you have more than enough to get by and to help others. I liked that. After all, I have a chronic fear that everything goes away on a regular cycle. (I call that “experience.”) 

So that’s why I do the same thing for a decade.  I do love it, yes, but I still have a lot of storIes in me and I don’t want leave them untold. And I haven’t figured out how to do both yet. 

Emphasis on the “yet.” I’ll get there. Just as soon as I can. Whenever that will be. 

And that ain’t nothing compared to the adventures I have left in me. Even if I can only do them on the weekends. 

Livin’ la vida Boca, but doing it in Orlando for a change. It’s momma’s birthday weekend and we were overdue for an escape from that overpriced prison we call home. 

The baby duckie died. Maia’s dog dropped him and the rains came and flooded the lake. The baby’s body floated belly-up and all the other duckies gave him his space. 

When the workday was done, I cried in the shower for a good 20 minutes. Maybe more. Maia walked her shithead dog, this time tightly leashed, and she was too busy playing on her phone to notice what had become of our fuzzy yellow friend. 

I’m haunted. But maybe it’s good for mom that we know he’s gone. She would still be worrying, hoping he would be there to greet us on Monday. 

I would never wish Thundercunt’s loud mouth on anyone. But if she happens to be in her usual fight-picking rage this weekend, i wouldn’t say I have any sympathy for Maia and her bloodthirsty dog. 

On that note, Kadie is so calm in our rented villa. She’s not jumping out of her fur and glaring at the ceiling. For a change. I love it here. And I hate going back home after this sliver of peace. 

The only joy we get out of living at this dump is feeding the ducks. Yesterday some dickhead yelled at me for doing it. I did not say “How about you clean up when your dog shits so it doesn’t bake in the sun and I have to smell it” in response, as I should have.

Today Thudercunt woke us all up around 5.a.m. with her mouth. So we went out to feed the ducks.

We have four mama ducks with babies of varying sizes. One has 10 tiny babies, another has seven slightly bigger ones, another has nine that are a little bigger, and another one has three.

Other ducks come and go. We name them. There’s Tom, who never gets any food, just like our friend Tom whose wife takes all the money and he literally starves. And then there’s Mike, named after my Mike who we always called Weird Duck (because, it fits). And so on.

Two days ago, one of the nasty stork-type birds (hate them) attacked one of the nine babies. But even though he’s hurt and limping, he tries so hard to keep up with his brothers.

He usually makes it up to our sidewalk so he can eat. But yesterday he wasn’t able to. And that makes us so sad.

Today our baby DID come up to us. We were thrilled. He’s slow and has so much trouble walking. But he did it!

And then … Maia’s dog came out of nowhere and picked him up in his mouth and tried to eat him.

He somehow got away, but was hurt twice as bad. His momma came back for him and pushed him into the water.

Mom started screaming and crying. Maia looked at her like SHE (Mom) did something wrong.

I hugged Mom. I didn’t say a word. What could you say? Maia was supposed to be my ally here against Thundercunt. But she’s just as bad as the rest of the assholes here who don’t leash their nasty dogs.

The ducks just came back for a snack. Without their little brother. He’s probably too hurt to walk now. He might even be dead.

We are so sad, we could just die. He tried so hard. He was such a happy little duckie. He loved coming to our house and eating seed.

He reminds me of my mom. Sick and can’t walk but tries so hard to be good. 

We are going away tonight. Mom hates leaving her ducks because no one else loves them the way she does. But I guess it’s good to get away and get them out of the habit of visiting us.

Maybe they will move to a better neighborhood. Lord knows we need to do the same.

I want to tell you how awesome my mom is.

You know I have lead-footed psychos upstairs who are either kung-fu fighting or dancing the jungle boogie all day, every day, any time of day.

It’s easy to hate them, as you can tell. I gave up on my “maybe they are just young parents who fight a lot and don’t mean to destroy the peace” mantra about two weeks into my current five-month stay.

In any event, it’s Mom’s birthday weekend, and I got us a cake. We were enjoying it immensely when we heard the Baby Who Cries Like Daddy stomping around in the hallway.

Mom’s psychic senses kicked in. And she says, “Those kids have never had a piece of cake in their miserable little lives.”

I said really. And she said yes. None. Nothing special. Nothing fun or celebratory.

She said think about what life must be like to be surrounded by fighting and body-slamming and constant chaos. No wonder she cries all the time. She feels unsafe, unsure and unloved.

That doesn’t give us any sympathy for the shitheads she calls parents who can’t control themselves, let alone the kids. But to go through your miserable little life with no cake?

Now THAT is tragic, and probably a fine reason to call DCF and have them put in a house with cake.

Not our house. It already sounds like they are in there. And no, mom isn’t sharing her cake. But isn’t it nice that she can look past the absolute shitshow our apartment is to feel empathy for people who deserve it least?

I have a guy in my newsfeed who is always posting about how wrong it is to circumcise boys. It’s treacherous. It’s murder. It’s insanity. Uncut men rule. 

So every time I see this, I throw up in my mouth a little. Obviously, he’s uncut and so are his kids. 

Not for nuthin’, but I heave a very happy sigh of relief when I see a man is cut. Chances are, I’ve groomed for the occasion. Is it too much to want to see something equally tidy and manicured?

Between the poo-tinky building I sit in all day and the jungle boogie I’m treated to all evening/night/morning, I’m turning to the universe. Halp?