In shocking news, the little brats upstairs are killing each other and dragging furniture across the floor, and Thundercunt is hollering.
I got to thinking Hitler would have thrown parties in the Jews’ honor if he met these jagoffs. Can’t wait till they all meet in hell. His true punishment will be having my neighbors in the concentric circle above him.
Now to witness karma biting the ass of the realtor who lived here who duped me into taking this dump …
My BFF from up north texted me that her mom had a surprise baby shower today.
I have the biggest pile of gifts here for her. I’ve been waiting for this day. And yet here I am.
She said her mom sent me an invitation twice and it got sent back both times.
I wanted to be there. I would have been there. It sure would have beaten sitting around here all day listening to Yo-Yo Morherfucker (i.e., Thundercunt) and Jesus Fucking Christ (i.e., Big Giant Pussy), christened accordingly after their favorite phrases, fighting for 16 solid hours till I had to leave.
I can’t stop feeling sad. I wanted to be there. I was ready to be there. I’d give anything to be there. And I will always be there in any way I can. I’m just bummed that this world keeps turning and it’s like I’m not even a part of it anymore. But I guess attending a shower won’t solve that.
I thought briefly of when my friend Susan wanted me to be her kid’s godmother. I bought piles of gifts and sent them and was getting ready to go back home for the christening when I heard she picked someone else and had the christening early.
I quit talking to her over that. Wouldn’t you?
Anyway this wasn’t even close. But this is my second “fambly” and it sucked missing out on such an important day. But I’m over the moon that she had a great day and sent photos like she has through every stage of her pregnancy.
It’ll be ok. But I has a sad and I’m going to keep it for a little while longer.
Psycho bitch upstairs has been hollering since 9 p.m. It’s midnight and my buzz has worn off and my blood pressure is off the charts.
On this somber day, intelligent people are reflecting and being grateful to be alive. Dis bitch be like, “Yo Yo Motherfucker” and Big Giant Pussy be all like, “Why you be like dis?” And then things and children go flying.
Last week I was in a hotel. I’m trying to go back there in my head. But after being awakened by this ‘ho dropping glass shit on the bare floor over my bed the last two days, I don’t know how either of us is still alive right now. I really don’t.
There was an amazing, amazing article in Washingtonian magazine, “9/10: The Day Before.” Read it. I can’t do it justice to describe it here.
I thought back to my 9/10. I probably have a diary entry about the day. But my journals are in storage. And frankly I don’t care if I ever read them again.
But I can say with near-certainty that I didn’t document the day. I had my three smoke breaks with my boys Doug and Andy at 10 a.m., 1 p.m. and 3 p.m.
Doug and I were still in that “getting to know you” phase and everything was fun and flirtation … that we were super-careful to keep away from the disapproving eyes of cranky supervisors.
I know I worked late, un-fucking up a grant proposal my little fuckup “wrote.” I got home around 11 p.m., knowing I had a 7:30 a.m. meeting with Ora Lee (her real name) and my CEO who loved to treat me like shit based on my skin color not matching hers.
Read: No real reason to wake up.
Dinner was at Fox’s Pizza Den that I could see from my bedroom window. I ate there a lot and it explains why I was morbidly obese at the time. I’m pretty sure I picked up some Moose Tracks ice cream from the CoGo’s downstairs. Planning for the weekend or, at least, for the next night of eating my feelings.
That was it. I ate that ice cream while I watched the wall-to-wall TV coverage the next night. And fought back the feeling that I was already dead. And wondered whether I were too dead to come back from it.
That’s my story. Not one worth telling in Washingtonian magazine. But probably one more people can identify with.
The thing about the 9/11 anniversary is that it’s a celebration, for the most part, of good triumphing over evil.
We lost too many lives. We lost way (and still too many) more of our military’s lives in the aftermath. We grieved and we feared and we prayed like we never prayed before.
And somehow, we got here.
Fourteen years ago, I was honestly wishing someone would drive a plane into the building I was in. Hated the job. The boss. The meeting I was in with community members I absolutely loathed.
But I loved my apartment on Mt. Washington and all the men in my life. I had great friends I could only see on the weekends (because, job). So, all hope wasn’t lost.
9/11 was probably the catalyst that sent me to D.C. like a young friend’s death catapulted my move to Florida.
Fourteen years later, I make twice as much money. I went from having never seen a beach, to living at one. I still work a lot of hours but I don’t have a tyrant throwing me shade at every available opportunity for being a different color than her. I still have plenty of gentlemen friends but they, like most of my BFFs, now live far, far away.
In any event, I generally feel like a fraud on 9/11 because of how badly I wanted off the earth’s axis when thousands of people were taken from us without that choice. But I think I’ve made the most of the extra time I’ve had. And while life isn’t what I thought it would be, it’s definitely mine to keep living the best way I can.
Tomorrow isn’t promised. But it’s implied. And that’s how we have to keep living, because not living that way made me feel like I was dying every day.
My boys have a habit of leaving me for homely women with acerbic wit. And by that, I mean they are washed-out, old-looking little things that are mean on their Facebook walls to the men who adore them down to the paper bag and muzzle they should be wearing.
Ok it’s just two boys. Ain’t gonna be a third. I promise.
I was looking at the latest one’s wall last night. She’s Whorothy with a different hair color and less black smudged eyeliner. Maybe a little more articulate but I found myself reading her with the same mean tone.
I used to feel bad about nice guys being with these bitches. Then j realized someone is married in both those relationships anyway (hence, “Whorothy,” the whore) and they shouldn’t be fighting or flirting, in public or private, with anyone outside of their “sacrosanct” union.
I gotta hand it to the Westboro Baptist Church. I thought they’d be Kim Davis’ biggest fans. Instead they blame her failed marriage track record for the rise and recognition of gay marriage. They kind of have a point — a warped one, but a point nonetheless.
In any event, I think marriage should be abolished and the financial benefits taken away. You can say I’m just a bitter single person looking for a tax break. And you’d be right. But what’s the point of getting married when everyone you know has made a perfect mockery of it?
They say adversity reveals your true colors. But I feel like I’ve had so much upheaval in my life that I’ve got a bit of a reaction rainbow going on here. As Forrest Gump would say, you never know what you’re gonna get with me anymore.
I feel like my grace has gone out the window. Everyone and everything annoys me way too easily. If iron sharpens iron, don’t mind me if i beat you with one and stab you with the other for good measure.
Mom found my last nerve recently and instead of walking away, I said if this were a marriage, I’d feel justified in asking for a divorce.
And don’t get me started on what I really want to say/do to homegirl and her terrible offspring upstairs. She won’t discipline her rowdy kids but she will yell at Big Giant Pussy at 2:30 a.m.
Right now it sounds like a jiu-jitsu drum circle taking place over my head. I suppose it’s grace that’s keeping me from procuring a firearm. I wouldn’t buy ammunition, though. I’d just pimp-slap them all with it.
And don’t get me started on this rogue employee who just needs to leave before the rest of us stroke out at all the stress their presence brings.
I have unpublished blog entries dedicated to it. And it occurs to me, don’t give them your power. Fuck them. You have your own issues. And the moment you document their uselessness, everyone looks at you with the same critical eye. No thanks, I say.
In any event, I wonder if we are only apportioned so much “nice” in this world and you’re fooked if you use it all up too soon.
If that’s the case, I’m as fooked as fooked can be. And who only knows what else is going to come out of my mouth or brain next. And that’s scarier than the prospect of living with mom under Thundercunt for the next 40 years …
There are no famous copyeditors. And it’s something I happen to love doing.
I don’t know that I excel at it anymore, and I certainly don’t think of it as a calling. Because, after all, there’s no way to become famous or rich THAT I KNOW OF.
But, this made me smile. Hope all you old J-school escapees can enjoy it too.
From Copyediting.com’s 25-year anniversary issue …
Mom’s smoke detector has been chirping all night. I was knocked out on Benadryl and didn’t hear it. The banshees’ room is right above hers. I’m sad mom didn’t wake me up to change the battery, but thrilled that those fuqrs had a bad night because of us for a change.
Livin’ la vida Boca again, this time not in central Florida.
Thundercunt was raging when we got home. Oh joy. I’m hoping yo-yo bitch shuts those meat flaps she calls lips long enough to let me pass out till the workday starts not-bright but certainly early.
The escape was good. Ate at my favorite places. Swam in my favorite pool at my favorite resort. On top of that, I did a lot of soul-searching this weekend as we endured pounding in the villa upstairs (sigh).
Why must crazy follow me? Whyyyy?
In any event, I realized I cannot get married unless we each have our own bedroom and bathroom. Close quarters and I are incompatible bedfellows.
I just wish i were so decisive about what to be when I grow up. But I might have gotten an inch closer.
Daily, I vascillate between being wildly uninspired after doing the same job for 10 years, and super-grateful for everything else.
After all, I’ve done inspiring work with psychos (Pittsburgh comes to mind) and the only inspiration it gave me was to leave town.
I didn’t come to any concrete epiphanies. It was more like I fear a pay cut if I change professions again. But maybe there’s more money to be made if I pursued my passions. Whatever those are these days.
I heard someone say that she always assumed she would never make money as a writer. But she makes six figures on an average year. So, it’s possible to do what you love and never have to reintroduce your palate to ramen.
I also read some affirmations about money. That abundance follows you and you have more than enough to get by and to help others. I liked that. After all, I have a chronic fear that everything goes away on a regular cycle. (I call that “experience.”)
So that’s why I do the same thing for a decade. I do love it, yes, but I still have a lot of storIes in me and I don’t want leave them untold. And I haven’t figured out how to do both yet.
Emphasis on the “yet.” I’ll get there. Just as soon as I can. Whenever that will be.
And that ain’t nothing compared to the adventures I have left in me. Even if I can only do them on the weekends.