Birthday Girl

Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!

... and ... to ... well: not me.

I'm a new Aunt.

Miai was born today. I have a new niece and God-daughter. Neat, huh? BB and I were born on the same day that little Miai was. My niece, little Iz, was born in the same week that her aunt and her grandfather was, and bb and Mike's bdays are in the same week. How weird is that! We're a family connected by birthdays.

And funerals. My Uncle Randall's cancer, which I didn't know he had, has come out of remission and now has metastasized (a Greek word) to major organs. It's just a matter of time now.

I wonder if Miai is me.

I read a story when I was a girl in school, about a boy born at midnight on New Year's Day, and he aged rapidly, so much so that he was dying in the same hospital, a year later, of old age.

He died at midnight, the same time a baby boy was born, and ...

I'm in my twenty-fifth year now ... I wonder if I still pass for fifteen, or if this year has aged me one hundred years: I see my sisters aging, I see my nieces growing up...

How come I'm still the baby of the family? How come I feel so old, old, old and tired?

I got emails from some of my readers. One from Anne, who has been reading me from the beginning, and ... one from Saga ... who didn't know whether to write or not to write. She wondered if I would be sad if she wrote me, or if I would be sad if she didn't write me.

Isn't that sad? *snicker*

No, really: think about it, for yourself. When you think that all you can do is hurt somebody or be an imposition or burden, when, for them, your very presence give them lightness, peace, joy, happiness?

Isn't it sad that you stop yourself of giving the gift of yourself, because you don't see what a gift you are to the world?

I think that's sad.

And from Cécile, of course.

So, a gift, what did I get for my birthday?

Doesn't matter.

I think, in light of the above, I think, what can you give for your birthday to others is the question. And not only on your birthday (my birthday) but on everyday. What can you give to your classmates, what can you give to your coworkers, your boss, your customers? ... Your friends, ... your sisters and brothers ... your mother?

So easy to ask of them to give you something, right: like 'gimme a break!' like you deserve the space you're taking up the planet and why, again, do you deserve that next breath or a break?

But what can you give? Even when you're tired or PMSing or your gf's being a real bitch again or have been giving so much already, but still there's that little matchstick girl, but you don't have time to ask her is she okay as you hurry home to your toasty warm fire and sherry and roast lamb.

No, you're entitled to your break, which translates into slighting or trampling on other people, or worse, withdrawing from them, withholding yourself from them.

So what can you give to this person right in front of you, right now, who is bothering you with their annoyingly endless prattle or unreasonable request or there-she-goes-again-doing-that-again behavior.

Why do people keep annoying you? And worse, on your birthday, too!

Yeah, why? Do you ask yourself that as you brush past them?

Hm.

Ever really inquire where the problem really is? Check out the mirror. (that's a hint)

Ever really inquire where the solution really is? Here's another hint: get the fuck away from the mirror, and go to another person and ask them. Your self-talk is very reliable: it lies and belittles you every single time, because when you lie (to yourself) and are belittled, you survive, you can survive through anything if you make yourself small enough, and your little voice is your strongest defender and preserver.

Even as she tells you to kill yourself because nobody loves you.

As she did to Tammy, a neighbor with two, now orphaned, teenaged daughters ... who both look older than me.

(My self talk digging at me and oh, so well, too).

On my birthday, on Christmas, Ms. Muse is very strident, very insistent, very convincing, too, and she gets even more appealing after a few drinks.

But this birthday, with other people wishing me well, giving me the gift that I could give them the gift of gratitude and hope, I heard their voices, sometimes, more than I heard Ms. Muse. And when other people tell you something so radically different than what Ms. Muse tells you, it ...

It gives you perspective. It lets you see yourself from outside yourself. It lets you see yourself from another person's viewpoint, and see, oh, my God, that you actually are a person, borne from a person, loved by persons, because you are lovable.

But that comes when you open up, and listen to a person, instead of push past a person on your way to ... what? Your empty apartment? To do what? Beat yourself up more and kill yourself? And you're in a hurry to do that or to work more and harder so that you can get cancer and die ... successfully?

Vanity of vanities. A man toils, and another man reaps what he toiled over. It's like chasing the wind.

And that's all we do these days on the metro, run from station to station, pushing past people who are pushing past you, and it's all vanity.

I spent the last, oh: 18 hours today chasing the wind. 18 hours at work, chasing wind, to be scolded by two bosses who said I needed to get more a sense of urgency. Two bosses who waltzed in after I did and waltzed out the door exactly at 5 pm. And here I am doing what? loving them? Or hissing behind their back, crying in my (fucking shared) cube because I don't have the guts to stand up to them, hating them because the hateful creature is me, the one without a spine but who makes a very nice carpet or doormat to trample.

18 hours working, slaving away, for what? for chasing the wind, because tomorrow I do it all over again, only now with a more refined sense of urgency.

But also, then, here and there, second by second, there were moments when I was taken out of myself and my very comfy cesspool, when I received an email from a well-wisher who got their wish granted.

Because why?

Because, in wishing me well, and then daring to press send, so now I knew they wished well for me, I became well, just for that one second, two seconds, three seconds, and I turned right around, and generated joy in myself, and gave it to them, gratefully.

22 minutes left to today, and then I'll actually be in my 15th year, being 14 years old now, even if my driver's license is a really good fake that tries to pass me off for 24. I have 22 minutes left.

What am I going to do with 22 more minutes of my birthday?

Nothing.

That's what I'm going to do with them. I'm going to do nothing with them.

And I'm going to be grateful for those 22 more minutes I've been given in my life, that I can be grateful for them.

22 minutes. Every second a gift to me.

In the end, God gets to ask the questions. Don't believe me: ask Job. God did. Every second is a gift to me.

What can I do to deserve them? Nothing. I've seen that. I can do nothing to deserve these gifts.

But what can I do or be with these gifts? The thing about these gifts? They can be given, by you, by me, or not. And it's entirely your choice, every second, and entirely my choice.

So I'm going to do nothing with them, except take some, and sleep, maybe.

But tomorrow ... tomorrow will I be aware of these gifts I've been given? Or will I be swamped, a little bookkeeper, cooking the books for other people to rush through their paychecks, just like I do, and for what except to chase more wind.

Or, will I ... when I'm given the gift of somebody presenting themselves in front of me ... that is: by being in my way ... will I go out of my way to be a gift to them, in a smile, or a 'hi' or a ... idk ... sympathy fuck in the bathroom?

(I'm not that desperate: I'm WAY MORE than that desperate)

Or actually finding out what their name is and what problem is nagging away at them, nagging them away from the here and now so they worry themselves right to their grave? And then actually doing something about that with them, for them?

We shall see, shan't we? Tomorrow. In and among people.

And you? How about you? With your roomies? Or your coworkers? Or employees? Or boss? Or schoolmates? Or lover? Or children? Or parent?

We shall see, shan't we?

And the thing is? God is Good. You screw up today, and, magically, God gives you tomorrow to ... well: screw up again. God is infinitely patient with you. I know from first-hand experience. And God gives you that exact same tomorrow to screw up again, ... again ... or try again, and actually make somebody's face light up in a surprised smile of relief that somebody heard them and cared and helped.

Even if that somebody is a shrewish clerk at a bank and she's supposed to be helping you! But what about her? She had a terrible time with her back pain getting out of bed and all day all she's had is whining, clueless customers and along comes you demanding service.

I made a woman at the bank smile and actually look up from her computer at me last week. How? I listened to her and laughed at her actually funny joke that she delivered with such tired, defeated cynicism, but she was smart, and funny, and old, and wise, and probably nobody ever listens to her at home or at work. And I listened.

And for one ... two... three seconds a warm grin lit up her face and she dared to sneak a peek at me.

You are a receiver of gifts every second. Can you be a giver, back, sometimes? When you give a gift, it is appreciated beyond one hundred times the measure of effort you gave to give that gift.

But, you know: that takes time and effort, and who, these days, has any of either to spare. I mean: really! Gimme a break people! I've been standing in these flats all day and it's almost quitting time and the commute was hell and ...

And, and, and ... our lives are piled up with 'ands'. Piled up with 'ands' so we can shut out people reaching out to us, brushing past us. Do you know what 'life' is? 'Life' is the people you come in contact with and how you treat them.

Useless ... and bleah!

Happy Easter, everyone!

So, Fr. P. on Black Thursday (I'm Catholic, just go with my terms, okay?) heard my confession: you know, where I admitted I hadn't been going to confession in two months and I had been receiving Holy Communion all that time to show everybody that everything was fine with me, ...

... when really it wasn't.

I mean, sure, I kept to my Lenten observance, giving up what I could handle to give up: drinking, ...

... But wasn't I supposed to be closer to God, doing this Lenten stuff?

I wasn't.

I was simply annoyed that I couldn't drink, so I cussed more and masturbated, ... well, more of the same, 'cause I don't think it's humanly possible to masturbate more than me ('more than me'? or 'more than I do'? I think 'more than I do' is ... 'more' correct ... geddit? 'more correct'? *sigh* you don't get it)

At this point Fr. P. interrupted me and asked me how many times I masturbated? 'Was it once a day?'

I had to stop myself from screaming with laughter at that.

And after I had (politely) corrected him, he told me that my will had been corrupted by this bad habit (that feels so good) and that I needed to get on a regular confession schedule, so that when I fell, my confessor could restore me to grace and I could again worthily receive the sacraments.

See? Nothing judgmental there, just mercy and forgiveness and a plan to get things right.

Why can't I be like that?

Anyway, Easter Sunday rolls around, and my pretty nieces in their pretty pink and peach dresses (killer!) sang in the choir, and Fr. P. steps up to the lecturn and welcomes everybody and says this Mass is ...

... 'useless.'

He said all you teenage girls coming to Mass to prove to your parents that, yep, you still go to Mass, Mom and Dad, so leave me alone, okay?

(He didn't look directly at me when he said this ... but there were three killer teens in their form-fitted jeans and oh-so-snug turtlenecks with super-model pouty lips that I wanted to savage because of their crossed-arm 'tude they carried with them into the church ...)

(... there's something here about motes and beams[1] that I may be missing here ...)

And Father went on and on about how 'useless' Jesus' sacrifice was and how 'useless' the Mass was, and how 'useless' love is and ...

It was around this point I wanted to punch Father in the face if he were going to say the word 'useless' again without coming round to the point on Easter Sunday with a standing-room-only-filled-to-capacity church.

Anger issues much, `phfina?

No, why do you ask? *blink-blink*

And his point, that he eventually got to after saying 'useless' three more times (no, I didn't punch him in the face three times ... I didn't even punch him in the face once ... barely ... I was so proud of my self-control as I sat fuming in my pew) (with my pretty white dress on ... you should've seen me. 'Killer!' But then, if you saw me, you'd grab me away to the bathroom in the back of the church that smells like camomile lotion and done naughty non-Easter things to me, and I would've missed the homily, see?)

:p

Where was I? Oh, yeah: 'useless.'

And Fr. P.'s point was this: Jesus' sacrifice was useless, and the Mass was useless, and human love is useless, because ...

Because Jesus, in sacrificing himself, wasn't using us. We, in celebrating the Mass, don't use Him. Perfected human love, selfless love, the love where the grandfather gets grandmother's meds and a glass of water for her, without asking nor being asked, just because he loves her and knows (I was almost crying there), is not using.

'Useful', something being 'used,' is to be consumed. You love hamburgers, Fr. P. said, and a cow has to die. But God loves us, we love God and each other, and we don't consume each other, not in perfect love.

How different perfect love is from ... well, anything of this Earth, at any time: in Jesus' time, and now, where the sexual revolution hasn't liberated women, it's only liberated sexual predators, so now they can use woman as a receptacle to rub against and to piss in, justifying their self-gratification because now there's no fruit of their consummation: there's no longer any need for it.

Wanna debate that? Look at the poverty line. Look at where, and who the poverty line has hit hardest, with the 'no-fault' divorce that allows men to walk away from their word, their commitment to their families, leaving the wife, and children, in poverty, so now you take oral contraception, the pill, so you don't get pregnant, so a guy can fuck you then leave you that same night, leaving the emotional turmoil, the wreck, that used to be you, behind, and that's okay now, because you're supposed to 'man' up and not have all those womanly attachments, like love for another person who consummated his 'love' for you, but, no, not really, because you're just a cum-dump now, and that's okay.

Yeah, that's what human love has been corrupted to nowadays.

But Fr. P. concluded, when you discover Jesus, you discover the death and resurrection, and when you discover that, you discover everything good in this life.

It's Easter Monday. Lent is over. Back to being the old `phfina. Scared little me working on a window ledge, because they don't have a desk for me and three other of my coworkers.

'Useless.' It's a theme I've thought about a lot, as a writer, how authoresses write their characters to use each other: Edward rapes Bella and then forces her to have an abortion, but Bella's a cunt for crying about it. Edward and Bella have sex and Edward leaves Bella, and Bella has to pick up the pieces of her life with her daughter that looks just like Rosalie and Edward comes back when Bella's thirty, but everything's okay, because Bella didn't kill herself so Edward can ... well, pick up where he left off, with a daughter with a lot of anger issues about an absent father. But, like I said, it's all good.

Or, Bella is in college and meets the real Vampire Edward, who like killing women because they're weaker and scream so beautifully as he kills them, but he falls for Bella, because she's Mary Sue, see? And, since the sex is top-notch, and Bella is a sensitive, caring soul (like I said, Mary Sue), and they quote Sartre to each other, then it's one of those 10,000+ reviewed stories, see, because it's not about the sex, nor the murders, it's about getting it and getting with it because this is Sartre so it's cool and trendy and in.

Look who's talking, `phfina.

I write some sex scenes that are top-notch, and quote Ayn Rand, and dwell on the meanifullessness of it all, how we are all just consumers, users, ... but ...

But, so I'm just like everybody else, just another user ...

The Mass? Useless?

Maybe, maybe not. I don't know.

I do know one thing. I do know one thing.

Useless? Me.

Sitting here, on my window ledge, correcting my spreadsheet, again, because somebody else got in there and overwrote a formula with a number they hand-entered and now everything's fucked up, but who cares? Nobody, ... nobody but nobody me.

If I killed myself, today, right now, the only thing that would matter is that some people would have to clean up the mess I made on the floor, because my boss? He came by at exactly 9:30 am to make sure everything was 'okay' (trans: that I had my ass in my chair on the window ledge) and that's all he knows about me and my job. That's how much I matter.

Now I have to go to a 10:00 am meeting, to prove that they are cutting a paycheck to somebody who's occupying space at least 8 hours a day, consuming oxygen.

Maybe I'll drink some liquid oxygen, for all that it matters, for all that they care.

And Jesus died and rose again for this, God's one mistake.

"And on that day it would've been better that he be not born."

I don't even rate that verse, that's what a waste I am. Instead of carrying forward the family name, I was born with a little slit. An unwanted pregnancy, an unwanted child, now just a cog in the wheel on a window ledge.

I might as well jump.

... setting: much later in the day, at home, in bed, under covers, shivering and sweating.

Well, you pray to God for a reason to live, and He gives you one. My niece got the stomach flu on Easter, and now I have it, too. Had some orange juice and got really queasy! *sigh* So now I have to get better before I slump into the black pit of despair, 'cause that's how I roll. Can't have my mom asking the coroner after I've slit my wrists ('down, not across'), did I have clean panties, and if not, why not.

Can't have that.

---

[1] "Wherefore thou correctest thy brother, that he hast a mote in his eye, when thou seest not the beam in thine own, ... blah-blah-blah, and stuff" (Queen `phfina's neuf translation of King James' vieiux one)

The Color of Wheat

Tu n'es encore pour moi qu'un petit garçon tout semblable à cent mille petits garçons. Et je n'ai pas besoin de toi. Et tu n'as pas besoin de moi non plus. Je ne suis pour toi qu'un renard semblable à cent mille renards. Mais, si tu m'apprivoises, nous aurons besoin l'un à l'autre. Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde...

Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

— `phfina's commentary:

Guess what I had for breakfast this morning?

Freshly squeezed orange juice. Healthy. Check. Yummy. Check. (but TART!)
... and oatmeal.

Hm.

Plain, boring, mournful ... oatmeal. `phfina, like, how many times in a row is that you've had oatmeal for breakfast? Why don't you, you know, get some variety in your life, try something different, something better, you know?

Can I tell you a secret?

Guess what I'm having for lunch?

I have two options. I packed an oatmeal packet from the bulk box of oatmeal ('Quaker's Oats! They're good and good for you!') I bought earlier this ... whoopsie, last month. Or I can have that packet of ramen noodles I've stashed away for occasions such as these.

I'll get back to 'occasions such as these.' But first a word from our organic sponsors.

You know, in group, you get these granola nuts, they go all organic and distilled water or mineral water or vitamin water or whatever kind of water I cannot afford at how many dollars a bottle when I get the coffee or tea dispensed for me for free here at work? You know what they say ramen noodles? They, my dear coworkers and bosses and IT people and everybody staring at me as I take them out of the microwave?

They say it takes 30 days to purge my system of the chemicals impregnated in the noodles and used as flavoring in the flavoring packet.

And they tell me exactly what those chemicals are doing to my body every time I pop a diet coke so I can stay awake at work and not get found out, my head on my keyboard covered in my drool, and get fired for sleeping on the job because I'm up all hours doing activities that generate a lot of revenue for the Ladies on 14th street but making me a big fat zero dollars and zero cents and if it were generating me income, then I'd either be a kept woman, ... or a whore.

So will I have ramen noodles for lunch? No. I think I'd rather starve. I think I'd rather starve to death than have all those people staring at me around the microwave and then telling me how terrible I'm being to my body and why don't I eat more, am I anorexic or something?

So, why don't I eat something else?

Here's where we get back to 'occasions such as these.'

I have no money. I have no money in my credit card, because I have no credit card: I have a debit card. I have no money in my bank account. I have no money ... anywhere, not under my couch cushions not in my pockets, not smuggled across the border in my cunt or stuffed up my anal cavity, no money in my red leather Gucci purse ... HA!

If I had a red leather Gucci purse, I would have grilled it, put some barbeque sauce on it and eaten it by now.

The situation is not dire, thank God! Because I get paid on Friday, just before the rent comes out ... I hope ... Hm, April 11 is when I'm late, so, no, I'm good. I hope to God I get my tax return soon. Why is it taking so long?

So, do you see where I'm at? Do I eat oatmeal for breakfast every single day because I so love oatmeal?

Sure. I can always choose not to eat ... oatmeal, that is. I have that choice.

Be very, very ...

People, please!

Please be very, very careful what judgements you render on others. 'Oh, you're eating oatmeal again? Doesn't that get old for you?' You say that to your coworker so easily, as if they had options.

You know ... no, you don't, so I'll tell you: I don't know what I'm going to do for supper tonight, tomorrow, the next day ... all through Holy Week.

I can go on a fast, I suppose, a week-long fast. Dieting. I can name it `phfina's poverty diet and make a mint of money: 'Don't eat; just drink water. For a week. Repeat that every couple of weeks.'

Or I could ask my charitable sister-in-law. We had chili this weekend that she cooked in the crock pot. She cooked enough to feed an army.

But, then, ... I'd have to ask. I'd have to ask her, you know ... really casually, like: 'Hey, could I have some of that chili you cooked this weekend, ... that is, if you ... you know ... had too much and were going to throw it away, ... or something.'

You know: not looking her in the eye. At her door. Me, standing outside, with no car to take me home.

Yeah, really casually, like that.

And then she'd know, wouldn't she? She'd just know. And you know what she'd do? She'd load me down with chili, and bread, and peanut butter and vegetables, and she'd drive me home, and ask me if I needed anything else and could she help in any other way, and I shouldn't be afraid to ask or wait and did I need help with rent and ...

... and she'd know.

You see this laptop I'm writing this post on? I 'inherited' it from my bb. The XBox I play Halo on? I inherited it from bb's stash. The mic that's broken that everybody keeps asking me on Live all the time? I inherited it from ... guess! my bb. The Live account I play on? I had to ask for it. I asked my brother Mike and he said Best Buy has it for $40, and I had $40 in my pocket to eat or pay for that subscription, so I could be a Halo Goddess. So I could be good, and admired, for at least one thing, at least one fucking thing in the thing that is my utter and complete failure of a life.

"Wow, you're a girl, and you play Halo? Wow! Watch `phfina, she's really good with the banshee!"

And I jump into the banshee and I cut my bonds tying me to the earth, and I fly, free, soaring, like a Hawk, a Falcon, a Raptor, swooping in for the kill, so fast, so deadly, so beautiful.

And then I shut off my XBox, and I go to my bed in my little prison cell they call a 'bedroom' and I pull up the covers around me and try not to be cold, and I try not to let the loneliness eating away at my soul ... hurt ... not too much, anyway.

Chilling fact: I have more money on my farecard than I have ... well, anywhere else. I think I have enough fare to last this week. If I don't, I am well and truly screwed. Work from home? Sure! I'll just do the books and payroll from my creaky old laptop on a non-secure line. I'm sure they'd go for that at work. Or, better: 'Hey, boss, can you come and pick me up at my house, because walking the thirteen miles might make me miss the payroll cutoff, and I think you want your paycheck as much as I need mine.'

It used to be, you know, in biblical times, that if you didn't work, you didn't eat.

Nowadays, the lower classes? You work ... but eating? That's kind of optional.

There's an empty pit in my stomach: the lunch of ramen noodles and a tablespoon of peanut butter don't quite last through 7:30 pm with me sitting here in the busstop, so I can get home so I can turn around and go to work tomorrow.

Can you believe there are still people working at work. At group, it's very much a loyalty thing: they work, not for the pay (at all!) but because they love what they do, and they love serving others, that's what we exist for.

So, but, because of that loyalty, I can't hide under my desk and then wake up really early the next day and pretend I came into work early. Do you know how much money I could save every day if I could pull that off? Clothes and showers could be an issue, yes, but ...

You know what the difference between the classes are?

Dreams.

The lower classes don't have dreams. You know: aspirations.

We, the lower classes, have ... fantasies. 'Oh, yeah, that'd be really nice if that'd happen, but it never will, and if it did then ...'

And that's where we, the lower classes, stop. '... and if it did, then ...'

Then what? We have no idea! Just ask us! The lottery was seven hundred million dollars last week, so we went into an office pool for tickets (yes, there's where I spent my lunch money: lottery — a tax on the poor). I asked around of what we would do when we won. Nobody had an answer. Not one of us.

That's why we didn't win the lottery. That's why the poor ... are poor.

'If I were a rich man,
I'd yada-yada-yada-ya.'

We have no idea what we'd do with the money, so we don't get it, because we don't deserve it. You know what happens when a poor person wins the lottery? Within one year they all declare bankruptcy.

But for rich people, they don't have fantasies, they have dreams. Do you know the distinction? A dream is a possibility, a plan.

You talk to a rich person, I mean filthy rich — `phfina, examine why you just used that adjective — and ask them what they would do with 25 million or 700 million dollars, and they would give you, right then and there, a whole list of things that they would do that would spend every last penny, and it wouldn't be a poor person's fantasy of 'Oh, I'd spend less than 1% of it on a TV and a drunken spree and a vacation somewhere and then have no idea what to do with the rest of it and so lose it all on stupid cockamamie schemes and on relatives I didn't know I had yesterday."

No, it'd be, "I'd form a corporation to research breast cancer cures and hire specialists from around the world," "I'd build a facility to refoster enterpernuerial growth in the organic farming sectors" "I'd form a coalition of small to midsized businesses in the Richmond area and spearhead an urban renewal that emphasizes both the city's historic significance and local knowhow" "I'd create alternative energy sourcing at the household level, such as wind turrets that fit on chimneys so power becomes self-generating there and market it nationwide, solving the energy crisis at the grass-roots level." "I'd ..." "I'd ..."

You couldn't get a rich person to shut up about what they'd do with all that cash. And then when you demand what the hell are they doing now, they open up their portfolio of foundations they've started and vested, and the things they already have on the drawing board. Like water-drilling projects in Ethiopia or reforestation of the Amazon or seed schools for kids in the U.S.A. or ...

Are the rich hungry? Yes! They are starving to more and better for more people so that more people can have a better life. And by helping other people get housing or food or education or gas or clothes, the rich get richer and richer and richer.

Are the poor hungry? Of course! I am. Right now. I've got a knot in my tummy that says 'hungry' and so I'll fill my belly with corn chips and beer (the two biggest sellers at supermarkets, in case you didn't know) and when I've satiated my own hunger, with empty calories, I'll sleep, work, and then eat. All for myself, because why?

Because the poor don't have dreams. They can't afford them. All they can afford is well, nothing, but seeing their way to the end of the day, they can't see beyond themselves, so that's exactly where they stay, right in their own squalor. The rich are always looking over the next vista, completing this project so they can start the next three that they have in the hopper. The rich are so busy they don't have any time for themselves, because they're always chasing their dreams ... in the service of others. And that's why the rich never stay where they are, they leap from height to height.

But ... so I'm poor. Penniless. And hungry.

Help me?

No. That's a mistake. You pity me, and you crush my soul. You 'help' me, and the only thing you do is dig the pit deeper for me. I'm hungry? So, out of charity you give me a sandwich.

Mistake.

What does that do for me? It tells me, oh, I don't have to do anything, because that next meal, somebody will give it to me; no need to extend myself.

You know who knows this the best? Better than the poor themselves, if they were honest with themselves?

Those who feed on us. Those who prey on us.

Proof?

Go to your drug dealer and say you'd like the next hit on credit.

Those lottery tickets I pooled? I was right there at the cash register. We handed over cash, and they gave us the tickets. You know what the cashier would've said if I begged: "Please, sir, I'm hungry, can I have a lottery ticket, and I'll pay you back when I win?"

You know what he would have thought to that.

So, I'm on a diet now, because why, because I'm ...

... okay, here's a crushing reality. Not every one us are Donald Trumps or Bill Gates. Some of us ... are ...

... some of us are meant to be used. We're just serfs, slaves, chattel, or, nowadays, material, resources ... food.

The big techno-industrial-agricultural-energy-defense conglomerate has spoken, and dictated ('Dictatorship') the role of the masses: to be used and then to be discarded.

Don't believe me? Read Atlas Shrugged as fiction. Watch Metropolis and Brazil and say, 'Well, thank God that's just a story; who could ever image a world such as those?'

But it's still all me. It is. I'm going to be hungry until I dig myself out of myself and start being of use to society, small for a small reward, and at large for a large reward. If I stay stuck in this world-view that I'm a waitress, barista, secretary servant, then I'm going to live a servant's live. It's happening across the board now, even: unless you're a Rock Star doctor, you live your career on the beeper and die in debt. The government and the insurance companies are seeing to that, and the doctor who made house calls and lived with his family in a nice house is now dead and buried.

Why? baristas, secretaries, doctors, computer programmers, we're all interchangeable and replaceable. I get hit by a bus tomorrow, they'll get a new secretary.

But people in service to others, providing an irreplaceable service? You think the owners of sbux are going to bed tonight on an empty stomach, wondering if they can pay the rent? They are in service to a mass of people who can't live without their morning latte. You think Tony Stark is every going to worry where his next dollar is going to come from? And with all that wealth what does he do with it? Spend it wining and dining, yes: but for himself? No, for hundreds of people at a time, and then he uses his research to develop a better, more durable, pacemaker.

What's the difference between Tony Stark and me? It's not that he's a fictional character and has billions of dollars (have you seen the numbers from the movies that Marvel is producing?), no: it's that he has an idea and the burn to see it through, and then that idea, and that burn, is the seed which is very fruitful in producing more and more ideas, that he pursues with a fire and passion in his heart.

You ask a poor person what they'd like, and they say 'Oh, I'd love to have a bentley ...' or 'I want a 50' high-def TV' for example.

You ask a rich person what they'd like, and they say, 'What I'm doing is ...'

You see the difference? Rich people are living their dreams, and have everything, and more than they want or could ask for. We poor people? We're barely surviving, but we have a very rich fantasy life, because that's all we have. We don't have hope, nor aspirations, so we have no inspiration.

All we have is respiration. And sometimes that next breath is just so hard to take. Everywhere we turn is disappointment and despair, and it crushes the hope and the very breath right out of us.

And we help kill each other. We keep each other down, by our words and actions. And all rich people do, is when they hear somebody say, "I'm restarting the economy in Pennsylvania by founding a pharmaceutical research park," ... all they do is say, "What resources can I provide to make this happen?" And now one of the richest counties in the world is in New Jersey right outside of Philadelphia because somebody had a crazy idea, and had the burn to make it a reality.

Where does this all leave me? As soylent green. That's exactly where I'm headed, I can't help myself up, and anybody who helps me just indulges my gluttony for self-mutilation. Eventually people will stop helping me up, and then I'll just sink down under my own weight, truly becoming a 'human resource' ... fertilizer for the forest floor when I lay my body down.

I coulda been a contender. I could've been a writer. Saga inspired me, and then ...

See? I depend on others, I'm a burden to society, and people take care of me a while. They have. And they could take care of me to my dying day.

But what's the point of that ... not 'existence' even, but just 'persistence'? I serve the coffee or generate the report (not even 'write up' nor 'type' but now 'generate' because I'm just a generator connected to the computer that does the actual work) or bring you catsup for your fries. And if, 'when,' that is, I can't even manage that, then there's 'health''care' professionals who have their own servitude of emptying the bedpan of the vegetable that was a writer once until she had her mental collapse and we saved her life by doping her up on valium and other depressants so now there's this vegetable named `phfina in bed 13 with her drug regimen administered and verified every hour.

I'm talking from personal experience here. Fun-fun.

That's what I have to look forward to. Because you know and I know, the people who've had 'episode's in the past? It's not a lottery for them; no, it's a shoo-in. They should keep the bed warm and covers turned down for me.

They probably do. They'll probably greet me by name, with a welcoming, understanding, compassionate smile.

And as sick as that sounds, and it does make me very, very sick. At least I have that to dread, and to look forward to. Most people in poverty have nothing to look forward to. Nothing. All they have is nothing but what they did today to wake up to tomorrow, and if not that, it's because they didn't wake up, because the heat went out in the dead of Winter.

The little matchstick girl, written by Saga Christian Andersen starring `phfina as the sweet little object-to-be-pittied main character.

And I know, all is it takes is one of my little matchsticks, to light the world on fire. When you set yourself on fire, everybody gathers around to watch you burn, but what is that spark for me.

I have no idea.

That's maybe ... ouch.

That's maybe why I don't have children. I wouldn't know what to do with them, or what to give them. Hope? For what? A future?

That's why so many women are having children later, I think, right?

Because we're more 'responsible'? Yeah, right! It's because we're scared shitless of our own shadow and we're going to bring people into this world who will look up to us and wait for our perfect answers to everything and we so know we aren't that person, so we try to get our shit together, and then suddenly, we're 30, and 35, and 40 and 42, and we're having our first kid because if we don't now, we never will.

So in desperation we try to prepare for kids, and then in desperation we try to get a kid in any way possible, surrogation, IVF, cloning, and whine that we have to pay all this money when teenagers thirteen-year-olds are paying money to block pregnancies for just looking at boys.

So here I am, paralyzed: a college-educated woman who's not smart enough to pay her monthly bills, nor afford breakfast even, stuck in a rut of her own making, painted into a cage perfectly form-fitted to her. To me.

And to no one else. I've 'tried' to let people in ... by ... what? running as fast and as hard as I can as soon as the conversation strays into dangerous waters like intimacy, hopes, aspirations, dreams and plans for the future? Because why? Because the couple of times I've gotten really intimate, really tender with somebody, they leave me? Instead of my usual pattern of me fucking a poor girl's brains out ... with my superior intellect and insights, so they know and see a good thing in me and can I handle that? Sure, by dumping them on the ground right at my feet and then walking all over them as I make my exit out the door, because if they saw something good in me, obviously there's something wrong with them.

And I know ... I know that all it will take is that one spark to turn my life around, for me to be on fire, filled with zeal, and I'll write that book or I'll, idk, start a rock band, or I'll be this, *shrugs* great investment guru(esse) and make a mint of money showing women how to make a mint of money and not be under the financial gun, but to be the power keg of success.

Ick. Weak analogy.

Or something like that. Or I'll be a super hot weather girl and have thousands of retweets of my every tweet about cirrus cloud formations. Or I'll be the first woman pro Halo player to win an MLG tournament, and start a school for girl gamers showing them how to kick boyz azzes by fighting smart, like girls, not 'yah! charge!' like berserker boys, you know?

But for now.

But for now. My fantasies are all I have. Pipe dreams. The 'yeah, that would be nice, some day' kind of fancies. And to be a Halo Goddess for a bit at night after work.

And then my oatmeal in the morning.

That's all I have right now. All I have is my oatmeal in the morning.

And, yes, it's not good enough. It's plain, and boring ... insipid.

But it's all I have. My fantasies and my oatmeal.

And ... and even though it's all I have, I'm making it work. I can't afford the $3 omelet in the Cafeteria. I can't afford the sushi, so I buy the Indian rice dish and make it last three meals and get teased by the Desi guys about how white girls don't eat, and have to be full, have to make myself be full eating a few bites so I can make it to the next paycheck.

Don't pity me. You pity me, and you belittle the efforts that takes all that I have just to make this work. You pity me, and I give up even that.

Don't help me. You help me, and then I give up trying, because I can get it from you, or from the next person I beg, easier than by me trying.

You know what you should do: you should give up on me. That way, ... like all those dystopian fantasy stories that are so accurate at describing reality, I would fade into the mob, the mass of aimless grey people merging with the rain-soaked crumbling buildings.

That's what you should do. You have your own lives to live, and your charity is pointless for lost souls like me.

The person who is going to save me is me. I have to do this. No, I know: not on my own, but you can't save me by forcing me to save me. I have to save me, by reaching up, and saying, 'Abba, Father' instead of doing what I do, which is, at the first sign of light, running and hiding in the darkness. You look to save me, I run, I run harder and further and faster.

I think, if you really want to save me, well, you can force me into the light, and hold me in a full-nelson until you've beaten the shit, my shit, out of me. That's one way, I guess.

Or, you can stand there, a beacon of hope. Stand there, not bending toward me, but stand there, living your life, unperturbed by the turmoil of this world, that is: me, and let me sneak toward you, and maybe, when I'm ready reach toward you, and tentatively touch this thing, this reality, this possibility that everything is not all darkness and bitterness and melancholy. A fox is not tamed, it tames itself.

Incidentally, walking home today, I saw a dead fox on the side of the road, smashed under the wheels of a truck. It probably saw the truck's bright, bright headlights, and walked toward the light, or was stuck in the road transfixed in the high-beams and ...

I'm going to bed now.

T31-Needler Rifle

It's long, it's purple, it's deadly accurate. 'nuff said.

Imma gonna take my long, purple thing, and put it to some really good use. Right. Fucking. Now.

And then, after that, Imma gonna kill me some covies, with my long, purple needler rifle.

Some of you will get that, eventually. DO NOT ask your parents if you don't. I don't need any more daughters locked away from my wily (and limber) (and vigorous) grasp, thank you.

Casual Friday

How to get me NOT to cum

Actually, I don't know how to answer that question.

So I'll answer a different question.

How to get me to cum.

Shortest blogpost evah!

The end.

Well, okay, here we go (and cum, and go, and ... *sigh*).

Okay, one way to get me to cum, is ... to tell me not to cum.

I'm dead serious.

I would call myself a slut, but that's totally inaccurate, because, I would imagine, a slut is a girl who constantly engages in sexual. erhm: activities, and after a while, the senses dull, and the experience becomes dull for her. Just like the job for most people: they do it from 9-to-5 because no other option ever enters their heads.

No, I'm the opposite of a slut: I'm wanton. I mean: just look at me, and I'm like: ready! and begging for it, and you can't get me undressed fast enough, or in fast enough, and when it's in, you can't pound into me hard enough.

And I can't come fast enough, or any faster than I'm cumming. Or hard enough, because I can't cum any harder than I'm cumming.

I have the same effect on my lovers. I mean, I've been with girls who have guaranteed me they will not cum. Gold-plated, and you can bet your farm on it, and there's no way, and no amount of time, nor anything I can do that will make them cum.

Guaranteed.

I really ought to open up a casino to start taking these sucker bets.

Because I always win.

Always.

Miss Frigid over there, who was willing for me to bet my farm or hers or both.

She just lost the farm when she lost her marbles when I blew her mind.

The Big-O, ladies (and any gentlemen who care to read) ... for women, that is?

It's a lot mental.

I mean, physically, it's rather monotonous: rub there.

That's it: rub there. Boring!

But the images to get from plain-old boring 'rub there' to 'omyfuckinggodimcuvuvuvuvuvmmmi1i1i1ngg!11!1!1!' ...

Well, that's auto-stimulation, but for her, in my arms, to cum?

It's trust.

We women? You know why we don't cum?

Yes, you do, if you think about it, and boy, do you think about a lot of things, don't you, and that blocks it all up, doesn't it?

No, actually, thinking about 'stuff' is not the real blocker.

The real blocker is trust.

Girls don't cum because girls don't trust.

And what's to trust? They've been let down in so many relationships, starting when they were four and their daddy scolded them for being a girl and not a boy, like he wanted, and continuing on to lovers who wam-bam-thank-you-ma'amed them, taking their pleasure from her and leaving her with the leavings and the emotional turmoil of, well, he stuck his dick in me, so that must means he loves me, but why is he now with his friends, pointing at me and laughing, and they're laughing, too, and all their girlfriends, my old, now ex-friends, calling me a slut?

And so she tries a lesbian relationship in college because she'd like to think she's bi-curious, and girls won't treat her like that, right?

But then the girl who fucked her Friday night when she was stoned out of her mind and so drunk? Why do I see her with that other girl today, and they are hanging on each other like they've just been each other's boy-shorts, or why are they holding hands and looking sweetly at each other, giving each other gag-gag eyes like they, no... it couldn't be they're in love, because she told me she'd ...

And you try not to cry, and you build those walls, so you won't get hurt again. Those walls of distrust, and you become desensitized ... 'frigid' to the guy who calls you the ice queen because you're not coming when he is as soon as he's done with foreplay taking off his pants and sticking his dick right in you after having grabbed your boobs.

And that's what I have to deal with: not you, but the walls of mistrust and distrust you put up, because I'm just like all those other people who hurt you before, during and after lovemaking, so you're so sure you're not going to cum in my arms, because you simply 'can't'.

And then, in my arms, after your mind's been blown, you pretend you have no idea what just happened and why.

Well, I'll tell you the secret that you know, but won't tell yourself:

I won't hurt you.

That's a pretty big one, but here's the corker.

I love you.

You see 'I love you' is said in so many ways for so many reasons, none of them being 'I love you,' that you hearing those words, are like, 'yeah, right whatever, lemme give you a blowjob so you can fall asleep and I can have some quiet time with my regrets.'

But when you're in my arms, I don't even say, 'I love you,' because then we have to deal with all that baggage, all that hurt those words cause.

No, I don't say 'I love you' ... well, I do, sometimes, ... I be 'I love you.'

When you are in my arms, and I am looking at you, you are the reason for my existence, right now.

When you see that, you get that, at a level deeper than what any shit has ever hit you before, and then the lights go out because all you see are stars and fireworks. You ever be with a person who truly looks at you, who hears what your soul says and doesn't let your shit slide, but who cuts right through it, rapier-sharp, and pierces your heart of hearts?

That's me, bitches. Watch the fuck out, because when you're in my arms, you lose your very self.

Because why? Because you do trust me to hold onto you and trust as in: I'm not going to hurt you.

Girls don't have that trust. Period. That's why I'm not a girl. Really. Seriously. Because I do have that trust. I have that trust with me, and I have that trust in you.

Yes, I've been hurt. A lot. GOD! A whole fucking lot.

And I still have that trust, that lets me hold you and lets me be held by you, and lets me give myself, completely to you, and you can hurt me, because I trust you, I've entrusted myself fully, and completely, to your care.

Please, please take care of me. Please, please don't hurt me when I give myself to you.

I beg that now, because I'm myself now, but when I give myself to you, I'm not me anymore, I am nothing to me and everything for you, and I give myself fully and completely, and I will fuck you so long, and so hard, and so sweetly and gently, that I will break through every wall of mistrust, distrust, and hurt, even the very last one, and you will cum sweetheart, you will cum so hard it will scare you how hard you're cumming and you'll be afraid you might actually lose yourself in it.

Not knowing, or knowing, actually, that you are lost in it, completely, in my arms.

I give myself to you completely. Even if 'you' is 'me.'

Today was 'Casual Friday,' so I got to wear jeans.

How to make me cum?

Tell me not to cum.

"`phfina, I want you to go to the bathroom and dip in and check if you're wet, but don't cum in there."

So, this morning, I went to the bathroom, not to cum, but to check.

I was in trouble.

Pulling down my (very practical) white cotton panties?

There were spots of ... dew, already. Just fucking going to the bathroom to check.

And, hm: I can neither confirm nor deny that I did this, but I have this ... 'friend' ... hypothetically speaking, who went into the bathroom at work today and took the handicap stall, because she may or may not have needed some ... room, you know to ... you know.

And, well, going to the bathroom after freshly squeezed orange juice and an oatmeal breakfast ... well, ... oatmeal keeps you 'regular.' ...

So I pooped.

I pooped, and I'll spare you the details, because you know what bran does to a girl, but so, I cleaned up and flushed, got dressed, exited the stall, washed up, took some lotion in my hands ...

... and went right back into that stall.

She did, that is, my 'friend.'

And trou came down, and but this time, kitty and I (or 'she') had some private time together, and I got friendly with her, patting her and rubbing her gently.

Do you know that causes mind-blowing orgasms?

It's not the physical contact. It can't be.

It's the anticipation.

I was ... 'she' was ... so sensitive there, puffy, and what really gets me going is the gentle, light exploration outside the lips.

Soft, light, gentle strokes with one V-ed hand while the other hand is very gently ... caressing kitty's ... 'head.'

Girls, about this time, I was losing my mind. In a very public restroom doing something very, very private.

And that's when I heard heels, and a door open, and then the stall, and two stalls down, somebody else went number two, for a short while, ...

And the whole time, I was ... stroking kitty, her 'belly' very gently, sweetly. Mentally cooing to her as she purred contentedly at the attention.

Sometime later I was alone again with kitty and sometime later somebody else came in and I heard the psssst of somebody peeing, again two stalls away, and soon enough again I was alone.

And then I kicked it into high gear. And I imaged me forcefully taking her, that girl, ... you, not strapping on, but scissoring our hips together so that my kitty was kissing and stroking and then mashed up against and thrusting against your pussy.

Hard.

And that brought me to a level.

But then, it changed, the fantasy, and suddenly you did something, from beneath me, that I don't allow, you sat up and twisted us around so that I was forced down onto the bed on my back, and you began to take me.

And I whined, and I strained, and I struggled for control, but you had me in your embrace, your hips locked to mine, your legs entangling me and holding me so firmly I had no way to twist nor turn, but only more into you and your firm, powerful, demanding thrusts.

Then you leaned into the fuck, the fuck of fucking me, and your long hair brushed against my titties as our thrusting swayed your body.

And the way you looked into my eyes with your smoldering passion, and the way your hair tickled and brushed into the pores of my breasts and nipples, and the way your cunt was slick and rough, pressing and sliding against my little slit...

I came. I came hard, and, being in a (very) public bathroom, that, thank God, was unoccupied, but at any second could have any of the three coworkers I passed on my way into this very place and point come in while I was cumming, I came silently. Not even a hitched breath, but, girls (and boyz), I came. I gave myself complete to this moment of you fucking me, taking me so forcefully in this sterile, industrial bathroom, that I came and came and came.

... Or ... my 'friend' did. But there's no proof of any of the above ever happening because there're no witnesses (except from the films recorded from the hidden cams installed by pervy architects) and no evidence because she made sure to flush it all down and check the water afterward, and wash her hands and the sink so that they were squeaky clean.

And then, she didn't wobble back to her desk, even though she couldn't feel her arms and her legs were two well-cooked spaghetti noodles (well lotioned inner thighs: the canvas from blue jeans can be rather ... chafing), and she didn't put her head down on her desk right next to her computer and start snoring, because, well, she had to pass by coworkers and had to get in payroll reports by noon, see?

How not to make me cum?

That, right there, is a very tough question.

You see, I'm weird: I'm a trusting soul. A child, just innocence. You can hurt me and I still walk around with big trusting eyes, filled with wonder at, oh, is that a flower blossoming on that tree, right there?

You know what those kinds of people are? I'll be so blinded by the beauty, when I walk into the lion's den, I won't even know I'm being mauled and eaten, because those golden eyes and that soft, thick fur?


Lions are so beautiful, aren't they?

---

So, why is a slut a slut? I mean, I'm hard on sluts this post, but I've already answered that question in another post. So if you don't remember, you can read it. Capsule summary: a slut is a slut because she wants love any way she can get it.

We all, — we all — need love any way we can get it, and this world is so hard, and so cruel, and businesslike, and sterile, and cold, that it sucks the life, sucks the love out of ... well, sadly, everybody, and so we, some of us, are turned into sluts, because that's the only way, we think, that we can get him, or her, to wrap their arms around us, so we won't fall asleep alone, again, crying into the pillow after tasting the bitterness of our post-coital regrets, not bliss, of our lonely masturbation.

We all so need love, and the world (the 'world' meaning 'we all') is so cold and cruel.

Homework: see somebody, today, suffering (meaning: anybody), and love them. Love them so totally, so completely, so sweetly, that they have this one moment in time, with you, and know that the weren't alone. Love them so that to their dying day, they remember that moment in time, and treasure it, and that moment carries them through this rough patch, and even gives them reason, no, not reason: hope to live.

You. You are the only hope in the world, today, to a person who is despairing. And you can look down your nose at her, calling her a slut, or turn your back on her, and tell yourself, 'well, it's not my problem she spilled her tea on her blouse, she should grow up, the cry-baby,' or you can listen to her inane bullshit (trans: cry from a well of loneliness for help) with your 'I'm not here' bored eyes that glance, every three seconds, at your watch or the wall clock.

Or, you can reach out, from the well of yourself, to the well that is her, or, hey, him, and pull her up out of it, and save her.

You might just save yourself, too, but don't worry about that, because that's something you worry about much too much. Save her. She may or may not save you. You may or may not save you. But save her.

You save one soul, even if it isn't yours, ... and you do an absolute good.

Diamonds, rubies, gold, frankincense, myrrh. None of these will you remember 10 years later.

That one person, those several people ... maybe, you're Gandhi or Mother Teresa, idk ... and you save that nation of people.

That's what you'll remember. That's what that person will remember you for.

Forever.

On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues

What is beauty.

That's not a question. That's a statement.

Because, okay, check this:



Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?

I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?

Obviously.



Like I said: obviously.

But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?

Hm, words fail me.

So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?



What is she saying to herself right now?

What do you say to yourself right now?

What do I say to myself right now?

'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.

And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?

No.

No. That's not it. That's not it at all.

Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...

... and everything.

But that's a very, very fragile layer.

We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.

The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.

It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.

And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.

I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.

It wasn't you telling me this.

It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.

But, wait a sec. Really.

Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?

No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!

Yes, like: huge!

But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?

Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).

So what is the difference?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.

You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.

That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.

She could so easily do that.

And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"

But, that's not the real test.

It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.

No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.

It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).

That's the hardest.

And the other hardest is this.

'Psst. Psst. Psst!'

Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"

Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"

Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?

Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?

And the other-other hardest is this:

"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"

What do you do?

"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."

Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."

Or ... what?

Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.

Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?

Really. I'm serious. Which one?

For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.

Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."

And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.

There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.

The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.

You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.

Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.

And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.

Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.

You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.

Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.

You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.

I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.

Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.

I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...

... and the world opens up to you.

And you do try that baby step.

Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.

She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.

But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.

Sweetheart.

It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?

EVERYTHING.

Example: Helen Keller.

But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.

But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?

Everything, again.

But what do you do with that?

You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.

And you take that next one.

It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.

You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.

And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.

Beautiful.

I love you.

-----

The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.

Or put another way. Twilight is this:



(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))

And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.

Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.

Kutthee

Oh, I published a new one-shot call Kutthee. Just so you know. Do I need to mention it's `phfinaescque?