Caterwauling

I heard a podcast the other day that touched upon unresolved trauma from childhood.

I wasn’t interested because my childhood was fine. I had more than enough love not to notice the things that we lacked.

The podcast suggested we have our inner child of today write a letter to the child we used to be.

My inner child said why can’t I just recapture that old magic of hiding out in my room with a Sweet Valley High book or 30.

That same inner child remembers happily being at home with a book because I preferred my own company over most others’.

Maybe that’s the trauma right there. People have always sucked the life out of me.

There have always been bullies masquerading as friends.

There have always been shady comments to laugh off like they were the funniest thing ever, to show I was in on the joke and yes, I totally get that there were times I was the joke.

There have always been the comments I wish I would have said. The things that come to my head a few minutes too late because I am conditioned to smile and eat the shit they serve.

Because I conditioned myself to do that. To not rock any boats. To not “upset the apple cart,” as a landlord said about me when I was 3.

In adulthood, I still do everything I can to please. Except, I don’t want to.

And I rebel in weird ways.

Like getting a job 90% done and walking away from it.

Like purposely not doing something important because it just doesn’t interest me.

Like seeing someone make a joke out of me and wiping the fucking floor with them to make up for all the times I didn’t but should have.

Hm.

I’m watching “Teen Mom Family Reunion” and watching Jade about to beat Ashley’s ass, and Ashley just twerking and being, as Bri said so eloquently, “Unbothered.”

I am Ashley.

Jade is acting nuts — and rightly so — about some of the shit Ashley said on social media. Ashley has that knack for cutting her to the quick.

I wonder if that comes from spending your whole life trying NOT to be noticed so people won’t talk shit to or about you.

In any event, I’ve spent a lot of years acting and eventually BEING unbothered about some shit.

I would never give, say, Psycho the time of day because he was never worth it. I only had one shitty comment I ever wanted to make to his face, but I never … there’s that word again … bothered.

I think the acting and ultimately being unbothered is the right way to be.

But I recognize it as the defense mechanism that it is. Rather, the not getting close to future people because the past ones left such a scar that the ones who didn’t leave it first managed to reopen.

I guess my letter from inner child to past child would simply be, your Momma dresses you too cute to screw up your face and scream at those who desperately deserve it.

Leave the ugly comments to the people who can’t play on a higher level.

And if you do snap, like Ashley finally did on Jade when she couldn’t take it anymore, say your piece to get your peace.

Then pull your shit back together and twerk your cute ass away.

Always leave them wondering and wanting more. And don’t ever fucking grant it.

J and me, inseparable as always.

The rest, now I see who all defriended me when I said to do so if you’re voting for TFG.

A couple years ago, I put a pic on Insta with all my pink tank tops from my travels. That was my favorite souvenir to collect.

Some cherub who loves to stick her nose in my business and then whine that I make fun of her nose (I make fun of it being in my business, but OK, keep lying and saying I was mocking your anatomy) had about 10 tweets about my photo.

Let’s see …

there was the “shallow shopaholic” shit …

then there was the sad collection of “beach town tank tops” that I believe was even retweeted to make sure I saw it again …

then there was the claiming of the color pink as her favorite … plus everything else I like, like astrology and tarot and Taylor Swift and RTing literally everyone I follow on social media …

then there was the extended dance remix of me spending my whole vacations in gift shops while she knows how to vacation so much better …

and of course I forgot about the 40 tweets about some bracelet I tried on and left at a store after I photographed it.

I’m posting this so she can also see the magnet, postcard and bottle of hot sauce I bought when I day-tripped to Key Largo on Friday … ENJOY!

See, this is the point where she will sic someone on me to say “StOp WrItInG aBoUt HeR!”

Sure. Her first.

In any event, maybe she’ll order him the hot sauce or make him take her there and buy him a bottle.

Not for him to enjoy but, in her mind, to make me jealous. Literally every post she makes is either to mock me or to brag.

I would like to say for the first and final time, I ain’t jealous.

What I am is happy to have proof that even the world’s least lovable (IMHO) can find someone to love them.

Gives me hope, really. That there are angels here on earth.

Maybe someday they can all show me on the doll what those pink tank tops did to them.

And what I really want to know is how someone can call someone else a “shallow shopaholic” when all the stuff in their house had to get there somehow.

At least I have good taste!

And don’t even get me started how she says I drunk-tweet when she’s the one always posting about booze. Shallow alcoholic?

Putting hashtag Black Lives Matter in all your bios to keep my friends from wanting to beat your ass only decreases your stock with them.

ETA: ohhhhhh i forgetted. Tryna co-opt one of my friends. Have em, gurl.

Going out of town and shit Tweeting about me 9x/day every day.

All that money spent for nothing. Sad.

I played hooky and skipped town today. I didn’t log into Twitter to post or to read.

I only had pleasant thoughts and deep gratitude for being so fortunate to have a safe, fun trip.

I suppose I should be flattered that when people see beauty, they think of me.

Nothing like getting your final tax form from a past entity to sever the cord.

I wonder which of us thinks it was all a bigger waste.

It’s a Hermit year for me. I mean, it’s been a Hermit decade so far. But I’m finally ready to embrace what the solitude holds

S. would have been 37 today.

For a while there, I was doing the living that she no longer could.

Most of those leaps turned into belly-flops into drained, cracked pool tiles. But still. I met a lot of beautiful people and ate a lot of pretty food and visited gorgeous places that are out of reach to most people.

The real way to honor her, other than leaving the country and never coming back, is to find a friend. A real friend. And keep them forever.

The last time I saw her, we were both in our phones with our boys du jour. These guys were long gone by the time she was.

It wasn’t always like that. It wasn’t EVER like that. I think we were both just exhausted from life and embracing pain disguised as pleasure instead of the usual pile of plain old pain.

I wish we could sit around today with some Chianti and Retsina, although it was a boy who introduced me to Greek wine and not her. With some hummus and pita her famous cheese casserole and whatever delicacy Mom made for us.

I wish we could compare All the Notes and learn from each other and laugh and cry and wait too long to do it again but we’d eventually do it again.

What a shame that I lost S. and gained a big old C who can’t quit me instead.

Try this instead of boo-boo cow-ing all over Twitter that your mocking of people’s grief is not mocking at all.

Fuck Yus-less assholes who mock grief and lie about it.

Every day, I sit down to write something here.

Every day, I think of the awesome people who read here who might sympathize, empathize or maybe even benefit from my stories.

Who might provide a laugh even if it really isn’t funny. Who would nod and say, I enjoyed reading that, thanks.

I miss those early days of Ye Olde Bloge. And Ye Olde IRC Chatroom and MySpace and wherever else I had friends.

Then I think of the freaks who don’t have an idea of their own so they come here for something to write about as their own on some other medium.

Because without me, they are nothing. Even with me.

I mean, it makes sense. I say things that they don’t know at their advanced age, like maybe don’t announce to the world that the protector of the house is out of town or how about don’t say shit meant to insult me when there are other people out there who are taking that insult personally because you can’t think past the end of that schnoz on your puss.

In any event, my heart is with Gabby Petito’s mom as the dumb fuck Moab cops release a statement that they should have arrested Gabby and maybe this could have all been avoided. (ARREST THAT TINY, SWEET GIRL FOR WHAT.)

It’s also with the parents of Stanley Davis III who was killed at an intersection by my house. A fucking Braddock Beach cop who’s been involved in now THREE incidents like this chased this poor kid up the street and now he’s dead. And, um, where is the body camera footage?

I have been arguing with some dumb Karen on our local rag page on Facebook because she thinks Stanley’s parents should be charged. With what, another shitty cop killing another black child? I’m like how about an ounce of compassion for yet another family who has to go to bed tonight without their baby? She told me it’s time for me to shut up. Oh HELL no.

All you miserable fuckers who have nothing good to say to or about me can seriously go be useless somewhere else.