Caterwauling

In addition to a perfume cloud of heterosexual-male repellent, Tom pointed out that I forgot to turn off my crazy-person attractor.

I’ve now officially met the world’s most insane person. Makes all the others seem like functional, normal citizens. Oh. My. God. I never dreamed this day could actually come.

There’s an old Poe lyric, that “You can’t talk to a psycho like a normal human being.” And yet, I keep trying with the newest nut. Because Crazy has something of mine that I paid a lot of money for and want to have back. Someone lent it to them without my permission — nay, AGAINST my stated wishes. Is it replaceable? Sure. But the principle is that I’ve been (mostly) nice and calm and friendly and patient, only to be the target of their mania. And there ain’t enough lipstick in Sephora to put lipstick on THAT pig. Lord.

I’ve always been the one to be the better person. And as tiring as it is sometimes to stay beyond reproach, I don’t stoop to others’ levels — I’d throw out my back. And that’s the thing. When you finally have had enough, especially from some asshole whose opinion has no bearing on reality and certainly not my reality, your options are pretty limited. I take Pisco’s advice to heart, which is to ask God to “please give that asshole EXACTLY what they deserve.” And move on. Quickly.

I have this bellowing pig of a woman who got hold of my phone number and e-mail. And boy, when I say “bellowing pig,” I’m being nice about it. I’ve been called so many names and been the recipient of an inordinate number of ugly comments that it’s just funny to sit and watch her try to get to me. The good news is that she can be obliterated with visual voicemail. But I’m sitting on a pile of threatening e-mail addresses and the IPs behind them, and wondering whether to tell the hog’s employer what his pwecious piggie is doing on company time. Or do I just re-route everything to the trash folder and call it a day that went by without seeing her obituary?

I just don’t get people who have to inflict their own self-misery on others. Nobody cares. Really. These idiots are like tornadoes, trying to tear asunder everything and everyone in their paths whether those folks did them wrong (per their perception) or not. You wonder how they look in the mirror and live with themselves, but then again, they get off on being obnoxious. So why indulge them? They continue creating drama in their own minds and then acting upon their ire that has no basis.

It’s not even worth it to ask why they’re targeting you. The answer is always the same, anyway. Jealousy. Insecurity. Boredom. Pettiness. Insignificance. No less, and certainly no more.

OK, so I did call her a double-wide, conniving, cruel, mean-spirited, evil, vicious bitch. Deservedly so, might I add. She says she’s calling an attorney and the police chief if I show up to get my stuff. *yawn* Honey, I have the FBI on speed-dial — let your Mayberry cops have at me. And quite honestly, the stuff I want back, I would probably end up bashing over her head. (One item being a television — I do have a delicious fantasy of throwing her through it and seeing her feet sticking out of it.)

Karma’s already hit piggly-wiggly with the homely stick, so I’m counting on God to finish what he started with that mess. I just find it funny as all hell that every time I say give me a time to get my stuff so I can get out of your life and, more importantly, I can get her mess of an ass out of MINE, I’m told to rot in hell. Please. That path has been pioneered. *yawn again* Me, rot in hell? With you? Delusional.

I’m not changing my phone number, my e-mail or my URL. Get used to it. If you want me to be out of your lives, STOP LOOKING FOR ME. Honestly, I won’t be hurt.

And BTW, Cowbell can HAVE the TV and whatever else. I’ll make more money and buy bigger and better. Honestly, I have just LOVED being calm and watching her head spin as I refuse to be rattled. For the record, silence is not a sign of weakness — it’s a sign of STRENGTH. It is also a blatant clue about my not actually giving a shit.

If it makes everybody feel better to rain on everybody else’s parade, fine. I will dance in the rain because that’s what I do — even if it’s someone else’s rain. The universe is watching our every move, and whether it’s a lawyer or a detective or Jesus Christ himself standing before me, I’ll be standing there guileless. And my suite in hell will have a spa and a martini bar, so I’d suggest being nice to me now while you still can. 😉

So my mom broke up with her idiot, backwoods-redneck, racist asshole of a boyfriend. Which, he didn’t show these things upfront, but when he did, hoo boy. Ass, meet foot.

This weekend, we all went out to dinner — a goodbye thing, I guess. I don’t know. Fuckhead ordered the most-expensive thing on the menu, and when the bill came, he THREW it at my mom. Like she has any money. (She doesn’t.)

I was infuriated and paid the bill my damn self because he couldn’t be a man about it. I hope it gave him diarrhea.

But as further proof that he needs to just die already, he was hugging me goodbye. (I hate when people I abhor touch me. I love hugs as much as the next girl, but not from people I want to stab to death.) And his parting words to me?

Some bullshit that if he had a daughter, he would have wanted her to turn out exactly like me. (His two sons don’t talk to him. And in a second, you’ll see why.)

And he capped it off with this 1950s-reminiscent bullshit:

“Don’t date any black guys, OK?”

I was stunned for a minute. Like, did I HEAR that right? He’s met me all of four times and hasn’t met a soul I’ve ever dated, and THAT’S his lasting legacy to me?

The hell?

Although I wanted to say, “Hope Mom doesn’t date any more DOUCHEBAGS like you,” I refrained.

But in response to his comment, I did say, “Too late.”

*snerk*

That made him cringe. 🙂 Mission accomplished!

The fucker’s in AA. I would never jeopardize my karma, but I wouldn’t be hurt at ALL if he starts drinking again. It’s kind of like with the other person I hate most in the world — nothing wrong with asking God to “give that jagoff exactly what he deserves.”

And here’s to hoping she meets someone MUCH more worthy of her time and affections. Amen to her figuring it out sooner rather than later.

So I’m waiting for my SMS text message so I can get my $100 store credit for Apple. My colleague pointed out the fine print in the FAQS, however:

What products can I purchase using an Apple Store credit code?

You can purchase just about anything sold by Apple, except another Apple Store Gift Card or an iTunes electronic Gift Certificate.

Damn it!!! I’d already picked out the 10 albums I had planned to buy.

Apple truly is a cult. And like the Heaven’s Gate tools, I feel like we all cut off our balls to be a part of it. Steve Jobs is my shepherd; somebody pat my woolly ass as I trot after him. …

My weekend horoscope, which I just saw today as I was cleaning out the ol’ cesspool inbox:

“In general, Goddess, you are someone who is open to the unexpected experiences that can change a person’s life. Today, this kind of surprise could be coming your way so keep your eyes wide open. Try and prepare yourself for an experience that will satisfy your curiosity, and your incredible openness toward the unknown. Your life may never be the same afterward.”

If there’s a life that needs changing, this one is it.

Speaking of stars and moons and celestial beings and stuff, do any of you local denizens know any decent psychics? I found one in Vegas I want to try, but I admit, I’d rather do a face-to-face than a phoner.

One last thing, since I linked to Erin’s blog, I encourage all of you to read “Are You Overcommitted?” A highlight:

“I can’t possibly help everyone who requests help from me. And that’s hard for me, because I’m your go-to girl when it comes to giving. I can’t stand knowing there are people out there who need my help and I can’t give it to them. That’s when I realized I’ve become overcommitted. … So I’m learning to triage.”

I found that entry at just the right time that I needed to read it. I’ve got six voicemails on my iPhone from numbers I don’t recognize (maybe because I’ve never programmed the numbers I need to know), and more communications in my five e-mail accounts than I care to tally. Today’s a triage day, as Erin calls it. Whoever needs the love most is going to get it, and everyone else, sadly, has to wait in line, ’cause there’s unfortunately only so much Goddess that can go around.

And even in saying that, the despair I would normally feel at not being able to save everyone/everything is lifted as I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can regenerate enough spirit to be able to go on to help even more people who need it.

I awoke at 4 a.m. to a cat breathing in my face. A couple of mornings ago, I awoke to the same one sneezing down into my face, and you just KNOW what kind of day you’re going to have, after such an auspicious start.

Of course, it’s now 5 a.m. and I’ve discovered that said cat left me to go crap on the living room carpet. I think Michael Vick was on to something with killing vicious little four-pawed wonders. When he gets out of jail, he’s getting a package (maybe even with airholes) from me!

Yes, the acerbic wit is at full throttle today. I can’t even write it off as Tourette’s — I think everything and everybody sucks and I’m not afraid to say it. In fact, I know I let quite a few comments slip today, but enh. They’ll live.

I’ve been lying awake for the past hour-plus. (You’d think that, with all the Guinness I consumed tonight, I’d be in a coma till at least Sunday.) And there’s no end in sight to being so tightly wound that I could eat coal and fart out a diamond. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be able to crap out a full tennis bracelet by lunchtime.

I had some funny thoughts while I was tossing and turning, but now, I got nothin’. Well, they made ME laugh anyway. But I suspect other people can’t take a joke … even if they themselves are a walking punchline. (And not a very good one.)

Oh well, back to bed. Maybe this time I’ll get in more than two hours before a cat breathes, belches or barfs in my face. …

Steve Jobs might have pushed his fist up our asses elbow-deep yesterday when the iPhone went on sale by $200, but he’s proposing to make it up to us with a little cuddle.

In an open letter to customers on the the Apple Web site, Jobs says

“Even though we are making the right decision to lower the price of iPhone, and even though the technology road is bumpy, we need to do a better job taking care of our early iPhone customers as we aggressively go after new ones with a lower price. Our early customers trusted us, and we must live up to that trust with our actions in moments like these.

“Therefore, we have decided to offer every iPhone customer who purchased an iPhone from either Apple or AT&T, and who is not receiving a rebate or any other consideration, a $100 store credit towards the purchase of any product at an Apple Retail Store or the Apple Online Store.”

$100 is probably the sales tax on what I want at the Apple store, but my friend suggested getting an iTunes gift card instead. Given that headphones and chargers go for $20 apiece and iPhone skins are $30ish, that’s about all you can buy in the retail store for that amount. But having the ability to buy some audiobooks or a few extra albums? The inflammation of my anus is slowly subsiding as he pulls out. …

To quote my friend quoting “Idiocracy,” “Ow, my balls.” And from the fact that we’re walking around bowlegged, ow, my ASS!!!

iPhone 8-gig model listed at $399

The early adopters in my office will be busy rubbing aloe on our burning assholes from Steve Jobs’ 3,000-mile-long dick that somehow got implanted in them. Thanks, Steve. You can’t put a fucking laptop on sale (lord knows I’ve been waiting), but the iPhone wasn’t out two months before this sale.

I feel so violated. *cowering in corner, sobbing for innocence, and $200, lost*

I’m looking for a paper bag to breathe into because I’m about to pass out.

I need a vacation more than oxygen itself. I want a new car.

But for the first time in my life, I have a savings account. And I like that security.

But …

When I wasn’t working a few years ago, the credit card companies refused to talk to me about my hardship. They said they wouldn’t try to make arrangements until I started missing payments. Hahaha — I showed them. I stopped paying EVERYTHING.

And who the hell can get back into the groove of paying when you’re barely making it anyway? What, give up what little luxuries I do enjoy to pay bills to people who didn’t care that I was about to be living on the streets, just so long as I paid my 22% interest on those groceries?

Anyway, Citibank has been following me around and calling about 70 times a month and spending more on postage than I owed on my card. Finally — finally — they came up with a 50%-off offer from my balance (about $1,000 of which is interest from AFTER I STOPPED PAYING). And I said sold — I’ll take it.

I just cleaned out my savings and paid the three-year-old bill. Whew. Oh my god, I’m so broke, it isn’t even funny. But to have that thick, dry dildo removed from my asshole? Priceless. My va-jay-jay is no longer painin’ over that dilemma.

Sure, I still need a vacation and I don’t have any emergency money. But I’ll earn more — I just have to figure out how to spend less when I don’t spend all that much in the first place.

Anyway, I don’t know whether to shit or go sailing right about now; I would, however, like to crawl into a fetal position under my desk and suck my thumb for awhile. But if this bullshit doesn’t help my fucked-up credit score, nothing will, and that’s the only reason why I did it. The new car can wait until the duct tape stops holding this one together, right?

So I had a doctor’s appointment today. Which of course brings being wrapped in a napkin — i.e., the paper-gown top that doesn’t close in the front and the life-sized napkin to hold over your cooch as they talk to you. And did I need to be undressed for anything more than the EKG? No. Misery.

Anyway, of course they got on me about the occasional smoking. (Hey, I think a pack a month is pretty damned good!) I said, look, Marlboro is what’s keeping the homicide rate in Montgomery County so low. Why judge?

They also got on me about not exercising other than sprinting to the ladies’ room occasionally. I said hey, I have those hand-sized barbells in my office, but I have to keep them hidden lest I whale one at a deserving noggin. Again, see death rate in MoCo: low because I’m not contributing to it!

It wasn’t all fun and games. I had a reason for going in, other than to get a physical and tetanus shot. Unfortunately, we couldn’t just fix what I wanted to get fixed. In fact, I got the name of a specialist and a, “Surgery might be your only option.” Because that’s just what I need to hear before I’ve had any coffee for the day.

Anyway, I’m staring at the phone number right now and trying to grow enough of a set to make the call. As the doc said, I’m too young to be dealing with this crap — might as well get it fixed now. And I said it was hard enough taking the time off work to attend this appointment, and you think I need SURGERY? Don’t you know Ye Olde Employment Establishment is going to put my laptop in my hands on the operating table?

I so don’t have time for this shit. Of course, that’s why it’s progressed this far. *sigh*

Isn’t it enough to just be good at your job — do I have to surmount impossible obstacles with relationships and health, too? Can’t I just skate by, once in awhile?!?!?

I used to be able to sleep pretty well with stuff undone in my world. And I guess I still can, but it’s getting harder. I am getting pretty good at leaving things for “whenever” as long as the “right here, right now” shit gets addressed.

But I also know that the “easy” part of my week is already gone and all I have to look forward to is more sleepless nights. Not because of worrying but instead because I’ll be overtired. But yet, the next day or week comes altogether too soon. The nights/weekends don’t just seem to be getting shorter — they actually are.

I used to love the night. Back when it was for partying, for whomever I might have spent it with, or for the much-needed silence it afforded me for thinking, writing or simply vegging out. Now it’s a place where I stare at the clock, thinking, “If I fall asleep now, I can cram in X hours’ worth of Zzzs.” And then I get up and say the hell with it. And I’m not a pleasant girl when I haven’t slept.

So on an equally depressing note, I’ve answered what feels like a billion dating-service e-mails and, well, they write back. Not that I’m shocked, but here’s the Goddess’ dating tip No. 20 billion: Write something that I can respond to. Whether it’s in your profile or in, *gasp*, the actual letter itself, SAY SOMETHING. None of this, “Hey, liked your profile. Write/message me if you want.”

Guess what? DO NOT WANT.

Now, I am a nice enough person that I reward initiative. I’ve written back to almost everyone. Except that dude in the hoodie who looks like the Unabomber. And then there’s the one who’s easily twice my age, the one whom I simply wrote back to thank him for writing to me. Not, “Hey, let’s chat.”

Which is what he did — messaged me to chat! ARGH.

I don’t want to talk to you. Your profile showed me nothing. You showed me no initiative whatsoever than to say I was pretty. Which, DUH. 😉 Thank you for the compliment. Buh-bye. And suddenly, I get this insane message from you in the e-mail asking why I didn’t accept your chat invitation. Because I was busy answering more-interesting e-mails, if you HAVE to know the truth!

And the most interesting people, of course, live hundreds of miles away in one direction or another. But maybe it’s because I don’t necessarily care what they think — hell, if I’m never going to meet them, I can be 100% me and if they don’t like it, oh well. And that’s the THING — they seem to love it. It’s the ones I care about impressing (read: the odds of seeing them some Saturday night are way higher) who I can’t seem to connect with. Go figure. 🙂

Here’s the thing with the out-of-state people. I’m not opposed to leaving town. I’m dreaming of it, in a way. I know, I just moved again and all that jazz (and there IS a lot of unspoken jazz), but I’m absolutely unopposed to a good offer. And the farther away, somehow the better. I think, anyway.

There’s a part of me that wants to save every spare penny (there aren’t many, but the ones that I do spend are to take the edge off my stress level, that’s for sure) and go do something crazy. Like take a vacation and decide to never come back from it. Maybe I should be trolling for guys in Hawaii or Rome or something — go visit, have a fire sale back here and call it an adventure. (Yes, I WILL do anything to get my weeknights back, funny you should ask!)

Now that’s a plan. An unrealistic one? Maybe. But one that might soothe my nerves and get me back to sleep (only to have to be up in three hours)? I’ll take it.