Happy Fun Bags

Reposted from 5 September 2011

Okay, new post.

Why not, you know?

Besides this post is a happy post. Proof: it has the word 'Happy' in the title, therefore it's happy.

So there.

So.

I was at a parade, getting burnt to a crisp (yes: I have discovered I am not a panther. No, I'm a snake. The scales come right off to reveal mottled skin. MOTTLED SKIN! God! I'm a frikken cheetah ... or a what has spots? leopard?), so it was Memorial Day or the Battle of Bull Run, and I saw this father in a straw hat talking with his son looking up to his father adorningly, you know? Worshipful.

And boy, did that maternal instinct kick in. I wondered, if I had a son, or a daughter, would he look up to me like that boy looking up to his father? Or are fathers the only ones looked up to and we mothers just shepherd the kids to soccer practice and stay up all night with the sick kid when you're sicker than them while the husband snores away on the big bed while you're sleeping ... wait: sleeping? haha, good luck with that! ... on the floor in the nursery.

Or whatevs.

And then the next day comes and where's breakfast? and the dishes and laundry need to be done and the husband goes galavanting off to be the hero in the children's eyes and you're left with everything in the house to be done all the time and people actually sign up for that? ... actually want that? ... like are biologically craving that so badly they'd just fuck anything that moves to put a baby inside them and then get it out and then they're off to college after the 18 year grind and back home every quarter with the laundry?

ARRRRRRRGGGGGG!!!!!

Wait. Happy posting. Happy posting.

So, I was looking at this tableau, this father explaining something to his adoring son, and you know what (thunder-)struck me?
It was this:

Why do people have tits?

I mean: really! Half the world doesn't need them (half minus one according to Notting Hill) and then ... AND THEN! The other half only needs them right after childbirth for a year or few, but no! Everybody has them and WHY?

Yes, I'm still certifiable.

But hear me out first (before you lock me away).

I mean, take me for example. I don't exactly have 'happy fun bags' ... a term I learned reading a webcomic (yes I read comics: sue me, you won't get a dime anyway after the lawyers suck me dry (it'll be a very small suck, too: those bloodsuckers wouldn't even bother with skinny little me ... I don't even get bug-bites, as mosquitos know there's more elsewhere. Anywhere else where.)

(Unless you look at my titties and say: "two bug bites there, `phfina?" Yeah, thanks.)

And IN. THE. WEBCOMIC! (GOD! Can I EVER get off track) this Asian ninja chick was like Hiya! and the artist was like "That looks okay, but show us your happy fun bags so we can sell more strips" and she was like ... steaming and then: "This is the part where you die! HI-YA!"

And I was like: "Happy" "fun" "bags"?

And so, you know, I did a little self-examination.

I don't really have "Happy fun 'bags'"

You know the original meaning of purse is "to smoosh," like: "She pursed her lips."

So I have more like "Happy fun pursed" or "purses"

Or whatevs.

And the exam wasn't all that "happy."

But I have a confession to make.

(Oh, really, `phfina?)

Yes.

You know how superheroes have this one weakness, right? Like superman in red tights has kryptonite and the Green Lantern in green tights has a yellow weakness and ... hm, who else? Oh, yeah, Spiderman in his black tights has a "big fucking obvious plot" weakness.

But I digress, again. (but why do manly men have to wear tights? To show they've got six pack abs and a long john silver? So they defeat the enemy or alien or demon, and then whip out johnson and the twins and fuck the damsel's-in-distress brains out, and that's consensual intercourse, because obviously the superhero fucking her is better than the villain somehow? And this makes sense in what universe and to whom?) (and what if the damsel were a lesbian, and she was all like, 'thanks, but no thanks'? He's going be all gallant about it? Obviously, because he's the superhero, right? RIGHT!)

Anybody see that new Conan movie, btw? Anyone at all?

(Thor would be gallant, I bet! But he's got his hammer and likes fighting frost giants for fun. Well, that's Thor for you).

*AHEM!*

Well, my self exam was clinical, but, besides my whole body being an erogenous zone?

A guaranteed way to ... get my attention?

Well, I mean, the wind blows after a good rain, and the boys perk right up and and say, "Hey, what's going on out there?"

And they announce it loud, and clearly, to all who care to notice.

And notice they do.

And besides me dying of shame on the bus with the too damn good air conditioning, I ...

I just can't help but be so. fucking. turned. on that all you would have to do is not even touch.

Just blow, or hint, or look at the twins.

... And I'm cumming. I'm cumming like a fucking freight train.

I mean, God is obviously not a girl, because HE would never have said, 'Oh, yeah, let's every month turn my gender into complete bitches with cramps and an attitude that could melt lead at thirty paces, just because.'

No, a guy would do that. "Oh, yeah, they're fertile every month, so yeah, they can just slough it out, no problems!'

"'No' 'Problems'"?

But period or no. You give attention to me right there, and right there, (`phfina nods downward first left, then right) and ...

And ... oh, my God, I'm getting ... um, distracted, just thinking about somebody giving me attention there, and me getting that attention there.

With soft breaths, and caresses from fingers, and ... and lips ... and ...

And, I'm like: why? Why do I have to be this bundle of impulses that a girl can just turn on like a light switch, once she finds my superheroine weakness? I mean, they are such tiny little things, like my feet or my kitty, but they become the universe as soon as somebody looks across the room at them, or I get angry, or a cold breeze cuts right through my cotton tee, and the boys perk right up and are like ...

"The boys"? GOD! I can even say 'nipples' without dying from shame.

(`phfina turns pinker than her fucking mottled (mostly descaled under) flesh)

Um, ... Christ.

No, I haven't been taking drugs, not even non prescription medication.

I. Fuck. I'll just end this post now. I'll just post this post now and bury my head under my pillow.

Anything's better than my last post. Even this one.

Good night.

Saga's not talking to me. I wonder why she ever even...

fuck.

fuck.

No. Fuck. No. I'm not done yet. Not yet. One more nail. Always one more nail.

And here's why I'd make a terrible mother. Right here.

Besides the fact that my child would starve to death in her first week, 'cause no matter how much I'd fill out, she'd suck the blood right out of me and still be thirsty, and 'oh, yeah, I'm just using formula to supplement her diet, because I don't have it to be her full nursing mother.'

Yeah, everywhere I look I'm a failure. But it gets (much) worse.

You know how some women orgasm while breast feeding? Very embarrassing, I'm told.

Not for me.

I'd be like, 'c'mer, kiddo, mommy needs to cum right fucking now!'

Yes, I just wrote that. Lovely image, right? me, my baby to my breast, and my other hand between my legs and I moan out my whatever.

Talk about a fucked-up mother fucking up a childhood. Could you see me at Mass throwing my head back and cumming like a freight train, right during the fucking Consecration?

They'd

Oh, God!

They'd take my baby away from me.

And.

o god

And with good reason. And they'd tell her. Her growing up in foster care. "Your mother was sick. very sick. and she killed herself, and that's why we had to

I can't keep writing that. This.

Even after I'm dead, I'm still poisoning myself and all who touch me.

And ...

And if that's not bad enough ...

And ... I ... I haven't been in an ANR, but I ... I ...

I think about it sometimes.

And i ...

Um.

How to salvage this post? i keep thinking 'how to salvage this post?' and i keep writing, and keep digging myself deeper.

ill stop now. ill do the world a favor and stop now.

i

no. ill stop now.

Pandora opened the box, and there's no way to un-open it.

Pandora was the sister to Pan, wasn't she? At least etymologically speaking. Pan:

Chaos.

im tired. im so, so tired.

gud natt.

Passin'

So, okay. I wrote summat ("Happy Fun Bags"), and I put it up, and then I took it down. Now, I'll put it back up again.

Moving on.

So, I wrote a story, I write stories, and I sometimes show up in them, or I write blog entries, and I show up in those.

So, but really! A 24 yr-old girl who doesn't even look 14? C'mon, really, `phfina!

No, really.

You know how I know.

I mean 'older' people telling me this is no biggie: they' re old! What do they know of this generation? Nothing! 'cause their old!

Not that I don't love me some old people ... they are SO CUTE! and I'll stop now before I get into MORE steaming hot water from all you old people who read me.

(You old people are SO CUTE! teehehe!)

(okay, I'll stop now) (even though I never do, eh, `phfina?)

But how about from ... young people?

So, okay, I was at my brother's house last night, ... no, not bb's, but Mike's.

You know with my niece who has infantile spasms?

Well, anyway, he's, like, OLD! (there I go again), but he surrounds himself with kids ... he's like a father and an older brother to them. He doesn't take any shit and he lays down the law.

He also doesn't give a fuck. He'll LET you be you.

Find another adult who'll do that for you as a teen.

And he won't let your shit slide, either, he'll call you on it and hold you to task.

Find another adult who'll do that for you as a teen.

So there' re always lots of kids around his XBoxes (XBoxen) at his place, and his cousin, my cousin, Kyle is in on my little secret, but newcomers ...

So last night I was there and Kyle is home from school and he brings a new friend, and Kyle is like really protective of me, too? and that's sweet, especially with other boys who think they can push a girl, and Kyle gets all 'Kuya' on them ('older brother').

So, there was this new kid, 'Mac' and he's ... well, Kyle's in the wrestling team, and this kid could go that way or be in the basketball team, and maybe he's in both, idk.

Anyway, he's like, 'c'mon, li'l girl, 1v1 in teh Haloz, I'll kick your ass!' ('cause girls can't play video games?)

So I was like to Kyle, 'New guy wants to play me on Halo!'

And Kyle gives it right back, "Don't mind me laughing when you lose!"

Grrrrr! I'll show them!

So we get it on. We load up the map, and I take the lead with Rockets.

Yeah, girl power. I'm thinking of changing my name from `phfina to 'Rocket Red' or sommat.

Then it goes back and forth, and, okay, Mac is the better shot, and so at the end, two kills with his sniper and he wins the game.

'I'm good with the sniper,' he says, and I can hear pride in his voice.

"Yes, you are," I answer truthfully.

I can feeling him checking me out.

"You wanna get a burger at 5 guys?" he says.

I'm like, "Nah."

And he's like, "Why? You don't go out with black guys?"

I smile, "That's not it."

"What, you a salad girl?"

I smile, and take a swig from my beer.

His face registers shock: "Mike will kill you if he sees you drinking that."

He's not joking. My big brother Mike is a hard ass, or 'iron fist,' as he says, and everybody who comes to his house knows that, or finds out the hard way.

I think about singing some lyrics I've heard recently that go: "Do what the fuck you want to do."

But I see Kyle grinning, in on the joke, so I ask Mac, "Why?"

He rolls his eyes. "Just put that away before Mike catches you, okay, little girl?"

I laugh, and he's like, "Whatever." So I'm like, "Really, why? How old do you think I am?"

And he's like, "Oh, come on! You're my age!"

"Which is ..."

"I'm fifteen." he actually almost sticks out his chest.

I would have guessed older, but Mike is the kind of person how attracts people around him who are ... well, mature: well-behaved, polite, all that, and still 15 or whatever, asking out girls, sticking out their chests, thinking about and worrying about college, and all that.

But Mac thought I was his age.

I mean: really.

In fact, after we cleared up that I wasn't the kind of girl who liked to go out with older boys (and I didn't go any further than that ... I'm not out to all my family) (and I don't need to defend why to you) (I have uncles that are ... well, anyway), that I was, in fact, almost ten years his senior.

At first he didn't believe it.

At second, he didn't believe it.

I think he still doesn't believe it, even after I showed him my 'ghetto' iPod (version 2, that can just (barely) play video) and told him about graduating college (he almost vomited) and ...

And he still doesn't believe it.

"You're making this up!"

"I don't believe you."

"There's no way you are ... nah, that's bullshi-..."

(he stopped himself. Fear the Mike.)

And I was like, "Okay, that's fine."

And I was really fine with that. I mean, I could show him my driver's license, but fakes out there are good, aren't they? He's going to believe me or not, and either way, I was fine.

In fact, I felt ... complimented. He sees me as someone relatable (datable, even), one of his peers, his buds, his gfs, ... and he's fifteen.

Same way I saw him. I saw this tall guy who was cool with me, laughing with me, treating me as one of his own, and that was cool, to belong, to be in, to be friendly and treated friendly.

So, what am I saying? Besides nothing, as usual. I guess, what does it matter how old I am or how young I am, or how young you are, or how old you are? It doesn't, really, if we can relate, regardless of age.

And it is funny. `phfina, hangin' with the 15-year-olds, because they think she's one of them.

Yup, I'm passin'

Tiny Feet

I have tiny feet.

I've been contemplating this fact for a while, my tiny feet, but it was never relevant enough to write about.

Until now.

Lucky you.

Yes, my feet are tiny. They are like, almost, you know the bound feet that made all those pretty little chinese girls so beautiful? So they would have this done to themselves, they would bind their feet, sometime breaking them, to make sure their little, little feet would fit in their little, little shoes, to look so beautiful and delicate.

Oh, the things we women do to ourselves to look beautiful to others.

My feet weren't bound, they are just naturally tiny, to go with my tiny titties and slit.

My hands are small, but not tiny. Small, but not small enough for fisting.

You really don't need to ask me how I know this.

I hate hurting other people. I really, really do. I think, when I hurt somebody else, it actually physically hurts me more than it hurts them.

Except M.J. God, I loved it when my mag light connected with his head. Fuck with me or mine, and I'll fucking mess you up.

I may be categorized as a featherweight, but I'll put all 120 pounds behind that swing, so that when you go down, you stay down.

Whoa, `phfina, rein it in.

Nobody notices my feet, and I don't have a foot thing myself. Babies' feet are very kissable, but after that, you start to wonder when those things were last washed, and so you kiss them to get your way to the Jade Gate, you know? Heaven? The Center?

And when I get there I kinda stay there, so things like 'feet' aren't uppermost in my mind then, IYKWIMAITTYD. ("if you know what I mean, and I think that you do.")

So I don't notice feet all that much, and people don't notice mine all that much either.

Just like me. People don't notice me all that much, until I surprise them, and they realize they are dealing with somebody of very fearsome intellectual power, and they get scared, because they can't cow me like they walk over everybody else.

But I have tiny feet, and small hands, and tiny titties, and very tiny kitty.

... just like my ego.

I may hiss, and show my claws, and say that I'm a panther. But you know.

You know.

You know I'm just a frightened little kitty cat, scared out of her mind ... so, so fragile.

So, you know, when you decide to do what you always do. You know? Unzip your fly and shit all over me?

You call it 'sending `phfina a PM' or 'reviewing on of her stories' or 'telling her about your day at school, or work, or at your business' but, sadly, for the most part, subtle or not, you decide to let fly on me all the things you are stewing about.

You know what 'stewing' is, right? Also known as 'marinating' ... but not in oil and herbs and spices.

No, you just love to marinate in your own shit.

Don't believe me? Reread what you just sent me, be it your review or your PM or your email. Reread it like this: '`phfina just sent me this email.'

That's right. Pretend you weren't the writer of your lovely correspondence. No: pretend you're receiving this PM from someone you admire or respect or love. Read what they wrote to you.

Can you believe that shit? Can you believe the nerve? And did you ask them to dump all their shit on you?

Like you don't have enough to deal with in your life already.

Okay. You've read it. You've got it. You've just shit all over me.

Now that you've got it, what are you going to do with it?

Apologize?

... hm.

(`phfina tries not to laugh, because she just might not stop, and then they'll come take her away again, perhaps forever this time.)

Here's what an apology is. An apology for a three year old is the hardest thing in the world to do.

Last I checked, you aren't three. And neither am I.

An apology for everybody else?

A cop-out.

"Oh, I did this. I keep doing this. But I'm sorry. So it's okay to keep repeating this behavior because I apologized, so that's just what I'll do."

Don't believe me? Check your life and see what your apologies have done. Changed much since your previous, oh, what? 15 "I'm sorry"s?

An apology is just another way for you to distance yourself from what you've done.

So, is your immediate instinct to apologize for apologizing?

Ooh, that's just great. You are so choice. You're sincerity is just oozing out of you.

So, instead of apologizing, ... what? Lash out?

"Oh, `phfina, it's your fucking fault for being so goddamn sensitive. You wanna put yourself out there, you gotta grow a thick skin to deal with shits [like me]."

Super. The best defense is a good offense, and you sure are defensive, aren't you? Or offensive? I get the two confused with people like that.

Perhaps because they are so offensive when they are being so defensive.

Again, distancing yourself from what you've done by attacking or blaming others. You're good: it's somebody else's fault.

So, justification? Coercion?

"`phfina, did I do anything wrong?"

Um, I don't have all day to write the list you know better than I do, thanks for asking, though. So you can have `phfina, the arm chair psychologist get into your head.

Sorry, (`phfina apologizes, not meaning it at all, just. like. you), but I've seen inside your head. Don't. wanna. go. there.

None of those things work. And you don't need me to tell me what you already know if all you did was to open your eyes and examine your past.

Why? No reasons.

But let's try something else.

Be with what you've written, what you've done, and who you are.

Before you do anything: write to me to apologize or to lash out or to coerce. Before any of that.

Be with it. With you. With yourself and your life.

Ask yourself some honest questions.

"This school I'm bitching about. Didn't I strain every nerve to pass the entrance exam to get in? Didn't I place my self worth on being in this school? Aren't I in now? And I'm doing what with it? Cursing it?"

"This job I got. That I was so nervous in the interview. And so, so relieved when they accepted me. So relieved I puked and peed at the same time. And now I hate my boss that I chose to work for? Now I hate doing what I begged to be accepted to do? That I had to prove my competence to them. And that they admired my work? And I'm doing what now? Cursing it?"

"This business that I run. These customers that I have. Didn't I beg, plead and cajole them to come in? Good, paying customers everywhere else? And didn't I hand off these good, paying customers (everywhere else) to an underling I knew would screw up and not practice due diligence, fully knowing I would have to step in and clean up the mess of this now indolent customer who won't pay because we're too scared to ask them, straight up, to do just that, and honor their commitments, but it's somehow their fault that we don't have any backbone, so I'll shit on you `phfina, because I can't kick the dog, because I don't have one right now"?

Stop.

New conversation.

You are in the school you fought so hard to get in. You are asking questions nobody else dares to ask, so you are learning the lessons better than any of the other students.

I know. There was this girl in my economics class. Mary. Hated her. HATED HER. Dumb shit was always asking questions that was so, so obvious in this super boring class. I just wanted to sleep, or get out of class and fuck the brains out of that cute little Asian chick, Grace, but no, Mary's hand flew up, and I just wanted to rip that offending arm off and beat her over the head with it ... beat some sense into her. Or at least make her shut her stupid mouth.

Prof thought differently. He said, "You should go right for your Ph.D. [this was just college, mind you] because you're thinking through these issues like a professor."

Mary got an A. I got a B, I think, or an A, or a C. Don't remember. Don't care. Didn't care about much that semester.

I'm lucky they didn't kick me out.

Not that I remember all that much of that semester.

I'm not bitter.

Fucking bitch.

See, any excuse works for a loser for why they fail.

Job? Business? It's the same as school

It's the same as school.

We don't have problems. You don't have problems. You have your life and people in your life. Now, you could go all whatevs-fundamentalist and kill all the people in your life, and that would sure take care of your problems, now wouldn't it?

Or. Or. Or.

Or try something else on.

You are exactly where you choose to be. You are exactly where you want to be. Right now. And, five years ago, or even five weeks ago, you would've sunk down on your knees and thanked God Almighty for the blessings you have of getting this job or customer or class or roommate.

What you have right now? From the lens of five weeks ago, even, is a blessing.

What you have right now is a blessing.

So, you can do what you are doing: cursing your blessings, and asking others (me) to sympathize and commiserate with you and your oh-so-unfortunate life.

Um, I'm not signing up for that.

Or, you can open your eyes and look around you, and count your blessings.

Your choice.

Homework

Yes, you get homework.

It's a two-parter.

1. read that last missive, or those last three missives, you sent me as if you are the receiver, not the writer.

Is it a blessing that I haven't responded like you would have responded to that shit?

I'll let you answer that.

To yourself. Not to me, thank you. I don't want to hear your sorry-assed whining apology.

2. Count. your. fucking. blessings.

Translation: count your fucking blessings. You are where you chose to be. Congratu-fucking-lations. So when I ask you to smile today, and you say, "I don't have much of a reason to smile today."

Well, excuse me, but I'll go sit with somebody who does have a reason to smile today.

My little niece? She's 3. She has infantile spasms, which means she can't walk or talk and she has more than 100 seizures each day where she screams in agony. She'll be lucky to make into her teens. Lucky.

And she smiled and giggled today.

And that made my whole day.

Make somebody's whole day.

Please.

I have tiny feet. Very tiny feet.

My soul is even smaller. Step on it, and it's crushed.