Blood. Guts. Horror.

I need the fucking cat whisperer.

I should have learned a long time ago that getting between fighting animals is a bad idea.

The animals are usually fine.

It's only me that takes a beating.

I remember once, a frantic feline attacked my old loving dog 'Bear' who passed on into doggy heaven quite some time ago.

He was a cat lover, but that didn't matter to this mentally deranged mouser.

This flipped out cat ran across the street to give my dog the beat down just for being on his block.

He wound up hanging from all kitty paw fours, around the long hair fuzz that graciously hung from Bear's barrel chest.

My Dearly Departed Gypsy was barking and did her best to nip at the lunatic cat, however, she was a bit afraid of cats, so this didn't really make an impact on the situation.

I made a bad choice in deciding to try to help out, and in the mess of things, I dislocated my knee.

I hobbled and sobbed all the way home, while my dogs just went on sniffing flowers like nothing had happened.

Well.

We've now got this 'issue' with the cats.

Psycho Kitty and The Bastard Prince have NEVER gotten along.

One of them has to give in, and it is just not happening.

They're both Tomcats.

They're both used to being the head honcho in their space and block of land.

They're both trying to kill each other.

I tried a few suggestions given to me for socializing attempts.

1) Let them sniff each other under a closed door to let them figure out who's the boss.

2) Smear the 'happy gland' scent from the side of their mouths on to a rag, and place it near their watering bowl.

Apparently, they're supposed to figure it out this way.

Fuck no.

Psycho Kitty would just stalk them from each window, leaving a little shit gem when he'd had enough of the fun tormenting my cats.

Now?

We're all having to live in the same space and it's just not working.

Today, all I tried to do was sweetly coax Psycho Kitty into leaving The Bastard Prince's area to leave him be.

They were both singing the Tom Cat Operetta, making horrid noises that sounded like someone was squeezing them to death.

Can you guess what happened next?

Yup.

I got attacked.

My fingers have punctures in them that I thought would never stop bleeding.

Again, nobody got hurt but me.

Not sure when I'll learn, but it's just so hard for me to sit back and let them get scar after scar, blood lines along their noses, scabs on their ears that look like kitty zits, and fur from one end of the house to the other.

There are literally patches of fur missing on both of them.

I need the cat whisperer.

Papi said not to bother wasting my money, but when my next itty bitty payment comes from Long Term Disability, I'm doing it.

I am desperate and have no idea what to do next.

I'd like them both alive when we get to the Dominican Republic.

i am a true friend

but i'm not straight!!!

4.25 cups.

That's my threshold.

Mind you, I should specify here, that my one 'cup' of coffee is 16 oz.

Well, I couldn't drink anymore because my tummy was thoroughly offended and decided we were done. 

I had to appease the demonic organ by eating my version of white trash pasta.

Rice pasta, non-dairy butter and bacon.

It's a whole wallup of sodium, fat and comfort.

The Mrs. wanted me to share, but that wasn't going to happen, unless I happened to puke it all back up again.

I'll forget about this whole coffee debauchery thing for another year.

I also won't launch into how I didn't get to sleep until 3:30 because my heart was tap dancing against my ribs.

Some beautiful friends came by to indulge in coffee with me.  Well, one of them drank it.  The other celebrated with some yummy, creamy, sugary delight that had caffeine in it.

Still counts!

Anyway, we got to talking about my blog, and the experience I had with Papi's male transformation.

I was saying how we're going to be fine when we're in the Dominican Republic, because Papi is looking more male.

One of these lovely ladies told me, "I have only ever seen him as a dude."

It's so strange how perception is reality.

One person's view can be completely different than anothers.

While we were talking, I realized that there's something that I didn't notice, but I no longer sense that funky man stink that I'd been so uncomfortable with.

Either Papi's scent has calmed down, or I have calmed down.

One of us has calmed down and I'm not having that difficulty anymore.

Through talking, I found that the only problem I'm hanging onto is the fact that I'm considered straight.

People see me that way anyway.  They wouldn't jump to any conclusions about the fact that I actually married a woman, who transformed into a man.

Nope.

The moment I say, "My spouse ..." they just jump into calling mi esposo by a male pronoun.

It bugs the fuck out of me.

I can't just launch into, "Well, actually ... " with strangers.  I just have to allow them to think this way.

It pisses me off.

It makes me cringe.

I want to jump up on to the couch, like a psychotic Tom Cruise.

But I don't.

I just sit there and do my best to pay attention to what the people around me are saying while the whole time I'm thinking in my head, "But I'm not straight!!!!!  I'm a femme!!!!"

Or better yet, "I don't do penes!!!!"

Yeah.  That one always seems to run through my head.  Probably a good thing that it just stays there.

That would really fuck people up to try and put 2 + 2 together.

i am safe

COFFEE DAY!!!!!!!

Changes.

Papi has left me alone for the weekend while he drives with The Uncle and all the loads of stuff he wanted to save from The Great DR Purge, and a few of our items we've saved as well.

I have the weekend alone, and as much as I like my alone time, I miss him already.

But I don't want to talk about all that right now.

I will when I'm ready and have processed the whirlwind we just experienced over the past few weeks.

I'm seriously numb from all of it.

So.

I'd rather talk about coffee.

Today is Coffee Day!!

Last year, I celebrated Coffee Day, and this year, I've made it an annual event!

It's now the 2nd Annual Coffee Day. 

Yes.

Coffee Day.

This is the day you should not feel bad about how much coffee you drink.

Maybe you do this every day, or maybe you're like me and behave yourself.

I usually only have the one cup, but occasionally, I'm really tired and want another in the afternoon, outside of the house ...

... that's how the Starbucks honey packet rant came about ...

... and I indulge.

Well, today, I might have 3, 4, 5, 10!!!!!!

I don't fucking care about moderation today.

It's Coffee Day.

I usually have cinnamon in it, but today I'll also be trying a batch with cardamom in it.

Then I'll be trying it with cloves.

Then I'll be trying it with a combo of cardamom and cloves.

Then I'll be trying it with a combo of cardamom and cinnamon.

Then I'll be trying it with a combo of cloves and cinnamon.

Then, finally, I'll be trying it with a combo of all of the above.

Yes.

It's Coffee Day.

Who knows, maybe I'll even get some coconut creamer and try a combo with the creamer and see how that works.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll stop there.

Or not.

It's about indulgence. 

This day I say fuck it to moderation and go nuts.

Join me wherever you are in the world!!!

Seriously!

Go crazy on coffee and we'll all live to tell the tale tomorrow.

We'll see if any of us get sleep.

All hail coffeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Except Papi.

He doesn't like coffee.

Good thing he's not here to witness the debauchery.

i am calm

needles in my ass ... again.

I'm usually alone when I'm writing my blog.

Today I have company.

The humming Uncle.

Normally, he's the new recipient of Dungeon Syndrome, but today he's upstairs taking advantage of the bright space to do his work in.

Problem is, this house is so old, there's only a few plugs to choose from, so we're sharing this here table.

Well, he talks while I'm trying to think, and when he's not talking, he's humming, or muttering to himself about what he's going to do next.

Not good for my brain first thing in the morning.

My brain hasn't fully woken up until I've had my coffee and my blog is written.

So, here I sit, trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to write about, but I keep getting distracted.

Oh, the fucking joys of brain injury.

And company.

This weekend, Papi and I get to have our first weekend alone in 3 weeks.

We had a small attempt at 'alone time' when The Uncle was away for 24 hours, but there was so much to do, and there was so much gramma drama, that we didn't really get to appreciate it.

Anyway, what I wanted to write about has finally come to mind, now that I'm halfway through my coffee.

Needles in my ass.

Did you know that Botox became a household name because of migraines?

Let me explain.

They first used it for migraines, and when they noticed that people's wrinkles went away, they marketed it for cosmetic surgery.

Well, this is what was shot into my ass yesterday.

The first one was really painful, but the second and third seemed like they were just an annoyance.

However, for the rest of the day, it seriously felt like someone had taken a tenderizer to my ass.

That, or a baseball bat.

Today, after my usual sitting to do my blog, I had to do the coffee tinkle.

You know the one?

That black gold makes you run to the washroom.

Well, upon standing from this here table, I anticipated the usual horrible pain I get, but it didn't happen!

I braced myself to stand and cringe, only I didn't!

Then I walked and it feel great!

I've been told that sometimes, this feeling only lasts a few days, but what the hell!  A few days without pain killers would make me so fucking happy.

I don't enjoy the feeling of stupidity and sloth, so perhaps, today is a non-pain killer day?!?!?!

Oh for fuck's sakes.

Just as I wrote that, I felt the pain begin to shoot down my leg, and up my back again.

What-Fucking-Ever.

It was a good moment.

Don't mind me while I go mope.

 i deserve to be in perfect health

red flag

If you weren't pissed off enough from the G'ma predator post, this will make your blood boil for sure.

Upon speaking to one of her friends, we found out that he had done the same thing to her.

He intimidated this other lady by forcing her to sit with him at functions they both attend, he constantly came on to her, and when she refused his proposal of sex, he got angry at her, because she wouldn't let him come up to her apartment.

Red flag much?

That was enough for me to get the police involved.  They said that given her age and the fact that she has Alzheimer's, that they'd definitely set up a file for her.

Normally, the victim would have to be the one to report, but in this case, we could do the deed in her place.

We've set up the file and the other ol' fart is going to use the file case to make her complaint as well.

They now know where he lives, what he drives ...

... while he's drunk ...

... and what he's up to.

Turns out, they already have him on the radar.  They didn't specify as to what it was for, so we're assuming that it's for D.U.I.s.

I asked if he had a record of being a sexual predator, but he doesn't have a record for that.

Yet.

If he makes one more move, he WILL have a record as an offender.

We have no proof that he's done anything to our G'ma, but at least he's banned from the home and is on the radar of the police.

We're allllll watching you asshole.

I dare ya.  Make a step and test me.

After all the gramma drama of the police, and G'ma not really understanding why they were there, Papi and I had a much better evening.

We relaxed.  Everything is done, and now we just wait for the house to sell.

That was when I felt I could take a phone call from My Boifriend.

Sometimes, I just can't have a conversation, because I can't focus on anything other than the stress I'm freaked out by, but last night I did.

I'm so excited!  My Boifriend knows how to start the process of finding my big brother!

I feel the need to find him before we take off.  We have a bit of time.  The house has to sell and I have to finish up with my legal stuff in December.

So, we have a few months to find him!

I can't wait!

I really feel like this could happen.  The power of energy is important to remember.

Getting the energy out there that I'm looking for him may allow that beautiful positive energy to help me find him.

I believe I can.

I wonder if he's looking for us as well?  I wonder if he looks like me?  I wonder if he got the same Honky 'Fro that I got from our father?  I wonder if he has the same horrible crooked teeth? 

Oh, I guess I can't say that about myself anymore.  They're lookin' pretty straight and pretty now!

My Brace Face has really come a long way.

Anyway, as I sit here and write, I watch all the people walking past me and wonder, brother, where art thou?

It could be that man I just saw walk past. 

It really could be anyone.

i am stress free

fuck you starbucks.

I'm on a mission and I need the help of all my Blogger Friends.

Do you go to Starbucks?

I don't really support them all that much, as I support local, ethical coffee shops that have organic coffee, but occasionally I will.  If it's a choice between a shop with no non-dairy substitutes ...

... ahem TIMMIES!!!! you mother fuckers ... how many letters do i have to write?!?!? ...

... or Starbucks, of course I'll go there, because I HATE black coffee.

Unless there's cinnamon brewed into it.

But I won't be getting into talking about my perfect, Dominican style coffee I make every morning.

Anyway, now I have even more reason not to support Starbucks.

Their honey.

That's right.

OK.

So, they've started using these 'packets' of honey instead of the traditional honey bear or some other variation of honey jar.

First of all, this is extremely non-environmental.

Second of all, the fucking honey goes all over my hands!

Third of all, I can't rip the packets open with my teeth, because of my Brace Face! 

There's also the gross thought of the person before me, having picked their ass, not washed their hands and reached into that bowl of packets with their cruddy, germ infested fingers.

... shudders ...

So!

I've started asking them for scissors.

Here's what I want everyone to do!

Ask for scissors!

What will happen is they'll get sick and fucking tired of grabbing the scissors, not to mention they'll have to clean them off all the time, and they will switch back to the honey bear.

Then there's the fact that some of those scissors will go missing and that will be very costly for them.

I'm on a mission folks!

Help me make a change to their ridiculous honey situation.

In order for little ol' me to make an impact, I'd have to spend a gazillion bucks to make them crazy, and I really don't like giving a big corporation my money if I don't have to.

Will you help me?

If you support Starbucks, ask for scissors for their honey and get the honey all over the scissors too!

That would make them even more insane!

It's also kinda fun to watch the barista roll their eyes when you ask for them.

It's the only way I can think of.

Short of us all writing an email.

We all know nobody's going to do that.

Well, except for me. 

I did, but I'm kinda crazy that way.

i have the power to realize my goals

a restraining order will be the LEAST of your worries

Everyone should just understand I'm always right, then there wouldn't be any problems.

Our dearest ol' G'ma has a 'friend'.  This 'friend' has been a part of G'ma and G'pa's lives when G'pa was still around.  This 'friend' propositioned her for sex when she was 95 years old after the G'pa passed away.

When she told us he did that, we kept a close watch on him.

... i watched a little more aggressively ...

He actually wanted to bring her away for a weekend outside of the city.  Well, not only do we know about the proposition, but he also carries a flask with him and drinks and drives.

Papi was diplomatic in saying, "No."

I would have other words for the creep.

Since she was put in the home, he was instructed that he is not to be taking her out of the building.

Like any typical asshole, he didn't listen.  No, he completely disrespected our words.

He strolled right in to the home, and took her to lunch.

Sounds harmless?  It's not.

She was drunk when we visited her.  That's not the worst part.  She had her clothes half on.  She would never allow herself to look like that.  She's a perfectionist.

Of course, having my experience with predators, I jumped to worst case scenario when she was so drunk she seemed as though she'd been drugged, then put that together with her disheveled clothing.

I'm sure you know where I'm going with this, and if you don't, you live in a much better place in your mind than I. 

... lucky you! keep it up! enjoy your bliss! ...

However, we've gone down and banned the guy from the home.  If he actually gets in there again, there will be a restraining order.

Our little family, who are trying our very best to make sure our almost 97 year old G'ma is safe, are livid and terrified.

I'm so grateful that the woman in charge could understand the severity of the situation and was stern with The Uncle enough that he listened.

Because we don't usually listen to family, do we?

She is an unbiased individual who's responsibility is to be sure she's safe, as well as keep safe any other potential victims.  She managed to get the job done.

I am sickened.  I am disgusted.  I've never liked the guy from the get-go.

I told Papi, from the moment I met this guy, my spidey senses have informed me that he's a creep that shouldn't be trusted.

Predators can smell a victim, this is why they go after said victim.

What people don't understand, is that I can smell a predator.

I feel as though I'm a dog.  The moment I sense the dangerous person, the hair on my back stands up.

Occasionally, I feel the need to let out a growl along with a snarl of my fangs.

People just call me paranoid.

My instincts are not paranoia.

I'm no longer a victim.  I can smell YOU mother fucker.

I don't recommend playing games asshole.  You have nooooo idea who is on her side now.

Momma bear is angry and she has you in her fucking radar.

If a restraining order gets put into place, then you won't have to deal with me.

Trust me.  You'll wish for your fucking restraining order.

i trust my instincts

Thank you to all my dearest readers.

Stage one of The Great DR Purge is complete.

I was thinking yesterday about how comfortable it is to not have so much 'stuff'.

Had I have known all those years that all that crap I dragged around with me would be going, I would have chucked it before.

Being a musician, we tend to be hoarders, as we can't part with items we have musical history with.  I learned that one the hard way, when I was so hard up for cash, I sold my first keyboard.

I tried to ask the guy I sold it to if I could buy it back, as he didn't perform or make music anymore, but no dice.  I was so heartbroken that my keyboard was just sitting there collecting dust.

With all the sounds I have on my composing programs, I no longer need it.

Anyway, there are only a few items left and it's amazing how clear the air feels.

My kitchen is actually clean!  It's kinda like the third phase of learning how to be a minimalist. 

Phase one was training I received from The Bastard Prince.  If I leave ANYTHING on the counters, he hunts it, kills it and devours it.

He'll never stop being feral, so I changed my cleaning habits and promptly put things away when I decided to leave the kitchen.  He trained me good.

Phase two was the sewage flood.  I learned to live with only 'needs'.

Now, not having much left to speak of, there's less clutter and less cleaning up to do.

Less mess to look at and ask my bitch of a back, "Do you think you could last another 30 minutes so I could clean that shit up?"

She usually says, "Fuck off."

I don't argue with her anymore.  She always wins.

Papi is also a good motivator.

If I don't go through things on my own, he may consider it junk and pitch it.

... one person's crap is another person's gold ...

We've butted heads a few times on items, like for instance, my gazillion journals from life as a teen onward.

I did a poll on Facebook, as well as with my Blogger Friends on G+, to see how many people say I should keep them.  The poll was unanimously for keeping them.

I won!

... i knew i would, i just needed proof hehehe ...

Really, my journals died off after my motorcycle accident, but I have this new fancy dancy journal called Blogger that I actually get to share with people.

Some folks would be horrified by sharing too much information here on a blog.

I spoke to one person yesterday who confirmed this and outted herself as one of my secret readers.

She told me she reads all the time and appreciates the raw feelings I emote with every tippity-tap of my fingers on this laptop keyboard.

She also told me something that I know to be true of most readers, as I get an average of 120 reads a day; she doesn't leave a comment, because she's too shy.

I may come across as crass when I vent on here like a madwoman, but in reality, I'm really a nice person!  Don't be afraid to say hello!!!!

Even putting a smiley face in a comment would please me greatly.

I know you're all out there, and I'd love to hear from you, even if it's in a private email.

I appreciate you all so much, and you've made me so proud to see you've all allowed my blog to reach the landmark of 50,000 reads.

You, and my imaginary friend, are the reason I still keep going.

I adore you, as well as the people who read who don't agree with me on various topics.

Yes, I appreciate your comments as well, even if I may get a bit pissy with you when I don't agree with you either.

Thank you for being here, and thank you for joining me as I march toward my next landmark.

i love and accept all my thoughts and feelings

don't blame the guns. please.

This whole bullshit about 'guns' being the problem in this world is ridiculous and it fucking pisses me off.

Yes.

It's horrible that people were killed in Colorado.

Yes.

It's horrible that gang violence kills the innocent.

Fortunately, in the case of gangs, they also kill each other off, which is a positive.

But 'guns' being banned is not the solution.

Do you really think for a fucking second that violent people who blow others' heads off will obey a fucking LAW that says they can't carry them?

No, only law abiders will follow that rule.

It's not the fucking guns.

It's the fact that the world is going insane.

Look at the Dominican Republic.

Jesus!

They don't need guns.  A dude was decapitated by a machete shortly before our trip there, because he and another guy were fighting over a girl.

That guy didn't die from a gun, he died from a sick human being.

Well, I wouldn't actually call him 'human'.

Here in planet earth, our inhabitants are going crazy.

It's hard not to with the pain and suffering life hands us.

I honestly believe that every person on this tiny planet is suffering in some way, shape, or form.

We all have troubles, but the problem is, there's not enough help for people in crisis, and not enough people to recognize those who may go off.

We've got kids in homes being harmed by the hand of their own parents in the most horrifying ways you could ever imagine, creating the cycle of abuse.

Those assholes don't need guns to fuck people up.

How about we put down those bastards like the rabid dogs they are?

How about the people being killed by cars every day?

Not a hope in hell that our countries are going to ban cars.  Those are lethal weapons that people take for granted while they speed down our streets after the driver has had a few to drink.

Or for that matter, make an illegal U-Turn without looking and hitting this femme on her motorcycle.

Don't get me started on the brainwashing of religious zealots and their self righteous attitude about how they think it's OK to kill.

We're all losing it, and we feel have no control in this life.

People actually believe the right religion or politician will fix things.

Really mother fuckers?!?

The anger I feel for our current Prime Minister, and how one by one, he's taking away all options for help with mental health in our country, sickens me.

Of course, not enough to go nuts and go into a movie theatre to shoot people, but I understand the emotion of not feeling like there's anything I can do about watching our future world go down in flames.

There are too many tragedies right now in this world to start pinpointing 'guns' as the problem.

Guns don't go off by themselves.

Let's help our peoples' mental health.

That will stop the guns from going off.

In the meantime, don't mind me while I run away from the terror of this world and hang out with chickens, goats and donkeys.

i appreciate positive people

It's allllllll about Papi.

Oh, the stomach of doom.

Guess I just got some strange summer virus and it's making it's way through my body part by part.

At least it's leaving ... albeit violently.

Oh!  I forgot!  I wasn't going to talk about me today.

Have I ever told you that Papi doesn't read my blog unless it's about him?

I'm pretty sure I have.

He says he scans down to see if he's mentioned, and if he isn't, then he doesn't read.

He says it's boring, unless it's about him.

So, this blog is all about him.

Like, the other day, when he threw away a ton of my HECTOR CDs.

He thought they were free to go, ...

... he's not an artist ... he has nooooo idea what blasphemy he produced ...

...  when really, they were all the ones that I was giving away free.

Well, that deal is now over.

It was until quantities last, and quantities are gone now.

I was so angry, I actually made him cry.  I've never done that to him before.  I was truly shocked at myself and my anger.

I got over it and I forgave him the moment I saw that tear well up in his eye.

But wait!  This is alllllll about Papi!  I keep forgetting that!

Back on track.

My love is a hard worker and has actually worked so hard that he's sleeping.

That may not sound like a feat to any of you out there, but mi esposo doesn't sleep very well, because he's a graveyard shift guy.

Well, last night, he went to bed before me, and this morning I got up before him!

He's still sleeping!!!

Let's see, what else should I tell you about Papi?

Well, he likes to correct me on every blog I write.

Every single blog that he reads, that is about him, he has something to correct, because apparently, I get details wrong.

... that wouldn't have anything to do with the brain injury would it?! ...

I've told him before that he should get his own blog about how my blog is wrong.

I told him I would link mine to it.

Alas, Papi doesn't want to, so you'll never know when I'm wrong.

All those times that seem like an exaggeration will just have to be taken at face value.

However, I must let you know, I'm not exaggerating about my love's antics.

He's truly the person you read about.

Let's see, what else could I tell you about Papi to keep his interest in this blog.

Hmmm ... oh yeah!

He puked out the window the other day.

That was while I 'ran' into the store to get him something for his upset tummy.

I came out to him hanging his head out the window and some nasty sounds.

Not to mention, nasty looks from people across the street in the restaurant, who were trying to enjoy their meal.

My love wins heart everywhere he goes.

How's that Papi?

You like?

i love papi

Heavy Petting.

"You can play with it too," my love said as we were driving to drop more crap off.

I feel like crap, so I was only a body to keep him company while he ditched more stuff.  I have that fucking summer cold that everybody is getting.

Anyway.

Have I ever told you about how Papi doesn't think my blog is interesting unless it's about him?

I guess he liked my blog yesterday.

Liked it enough to comment on my voyeurism.

Then the next question, "Have they started to turn black yet?"

No, thank god.

They're still little unoffensive blonde-ish strays that don't scare me, like this:

So, yeah, without him even knowing, I have petted them.

I like to pet my love's scars from The Great Breast Disappearance.  I like to think that if I give them enough love, they'll stop looking so angry.

One part is looking better.  It's not raised and angry as the rest of it.

So, as I stroke mi esposo's scars, I usually get a little pinky-full of those itty bitty chest hairs.

I figure when we get to the Dominican Republic, his hair won't continue to get more 'manly', because it will be too hot.

I know.  Sounds ridiculous.

But I think that if it's too hot, his body will stop growing hair because it can't handle the heat!

No?  Ok.  Fine.

It's a good theory anyway.

The Great DR Purge is doing very well.

I've never had so few clothes in my life.

You know what's fun?

The fact that all my clothes are my favourites.

There isn't any clothing yet that I say, 'meh', about.

Sparkly, shiny, short ...

... skirts ... yes ... i like them short ... while i still got it i'll flaunt it ...

... and superb.

It's like living in a femmes dream!

The only comfy clothes I have are my P.J.s and my work out clothes.

Even with my work out clothes, I've only kept one pair of sweats that are baggy.

I call them my Haagen-Dazs sweats.

When I'm having 'that' day where I am depressed or in too much pain, out come the sweats.

I can't eat the Haagen-Dazs, so I wear the sweats.

They're kind like something George would wear from Seinfeld.

Not femme, classy or hot.

However, they're still in my wardrobe, but I won't be wearing them in public like Brittany.

you'll rarely be 100% sure it will work, but you can always be 100% sure doing nothing won't work

i'm truly a voyeur ...

Papi is my chauffeur.

As much as he gets a little ruffled at the fact that he has to periodically drive me when I can't get a 'short bus', once we're in the car, it seems to be our only quality time alone these days.

Between The Uncle, The Yank and the many visitors we've been having due to The Great DR Purge, we don't get much alone time.

Yesterday, I thought I would accompany my love to the dump.

We make a lot of trips to the dump lately, and I know what those smelly dump boys are thinking when I don't get out of the car to help.

'Princess'.

No, it's not that, it's just that I had my sparkly silver flats on.  I don't need garbage gunk on my fave summer shoes!!!

Well, it's really because I shouldn't be shucking heavy items out of the car.  My bitch of a back would protest greatly.

Anyway, on our way yesterday, I noticed mi esposo smiling as he drove.

I didn't question it.

It's not unusual to see Papi smiling when he's getting rid of a load of crap.

But then I hear him say, "I like playing with my chest hair."

There he was pulling at his little chest hairs.

He wasn't pulling them all the way out of the root, he would just pull and let go, pull and let go, ad infinitum.

He was like a little boy sitting there in his comfort of playing obsessively with a toy.

I got a moment of sitting back and merely loving who he is.

He's just mi Papi, with a few changes to his body.

He used to pull on the facial jewelry he had, but he let those go.

Now it's all about his man hair.

It also gave me a moment to take stock of my current feelings about The Great Breast Disappearance.

I'm growing more comfortable with the loss of those pillows.

Still, I miss them.

I'll never get to touch them again.  They are only a memory of the feeling of that cool nipple against my cheek and the fullness of those perfect breasts in my gentle hands.

Even though my love has told me I could touch other people's breasts, it's just not my thing.

I love Papi.

I loved his Butch Tits greatly.

I had a dream the other day that we were at some swingin' party that Papi wanted to go to, and all I could do was look at everyone and say to myself, "But I don't want to do anything with any of them.  I only want mi esposo."

I made Papi chose for me in the dream.

Fortunately, other things happened so I didn't have to get busy with anyone else and wake up all fucked up like the time I dreamed I got down with Keith Urban.

Keith Urban?!?!?!

Really?!?!?!

I mean he's handsome, a great guitar player, has a gorgeous voice and great sense of melody, but I wouldn't be into anything more than a concert from him.

Back to the hair.

He's got these little teeny weeny hairs that are so damn cute.  They're not taking over his entire chest leaving him to look like a walking carpet.

Just some teeny tiny little whisps of hair that poke out in the sweetest, most innocent way.

He likes to play with his chest hair.

I like to watch.

i am becoming better every day

Noodles in the sink.

OK.

So we all come from different cultures, and I suppose we sometimes need to learn more about other places.

Like for instance, upon reading more about the Dominican Republic, I've learned that as a gringo, when we are at a grocery store, we may be given candy instead of change if the cashier runs out of money.

They figure, that we being honkies, we're obviously tourists and don't need the change.  They assume we have a lot of money and that we'd rather have the candy.

Sweets for the sweets.  You know?

Well, I've been taking my Spanish classes for a few weeks now, and I saw last week that the washroom I would use had a broken sink.

We were left a note on the mirror to use the sink downstairs to wash our hands.

For O.C.D. folks like myself, it was more than an inconvenience to go to the lower floor to wash our hands after being in such a dirty, dirty room FULL of germs.

Anyway, my point is not to bitch about having to go to the lower floor to wash my hands, ...

... which i didn't btw ... i chose to obsess about my dirty hands and be distracted in the class instead ...

... it was to let you know about the new sign I found this week.

Now, I know that we all have differences, but what I don't know is, what are the sinks like in other countries!?!?

Here's a picture of the note in the bathroom of offense:

Perhaps you're not getting the point of the sign.

Maybe I need to really get it up close for you to see:

Now, what I'm thinking is, if this was a one off, they wouldn't have a sign.

I'm thinking, there have been more than one noodle experience in that washroom to warrant a sign.

The school has many different languages being taught at the same time, so I don't know which country would have sinks with drains big enough to handle noodles.

Which country would that be?

Does anybody know which country has drains big enough to handle noodles!?!?!

Our drains can't even handle the 'wookie' affect of hair.

Ass hair, armpit hair, belly hair, chin hair, thigh hair.

OK.  I may be exaggerating.  Papi is really good at grooming his man hair.  He's got all the fancy gizmos and even trims his armpit hair.

He's metro-sexual.  Besides, it's always about my hair, no?

Anyway, back to the noodles.

I'm seriously confused about it.

Is it just me, or is this just new to me?

I found this an odd thing topic that I felt the need to write about.

Tomorrow, I'll be putting up one of my super duper positivity posts up on that mirror.

i am interested in others

Aping the apes.

A wedding with guns!  Well, the groom had a knife, but the rest of them had guns.

I felt so much for Papi, as it was a difficult social time in the 'man zone'.  He's still learning how to fit in with the bio-males.

He relates more to the women, and sometimes, the man on the arm of a woman will react a little adversely, confusing my love's 'relating' with more than friendly chatter.

My love expressed his feelings about his strife and all I could come up with was, "I think you should just ape them.  Whatever they do, you do."

He had good practise with the suffering addict at our reception table.  That poor soul was so hammered, he just kept giving mi esposo fist bumps along with the occasional, "Dude!  Right?!"

Sometimes, for no reason at all.  He'd just come out of his stupor to join in the conversation for a moment and agree with whatever was being presented at the time.

None-the-less, he was a great practice person for Papi.

My love looked so handsome.  I was proud to be on his arm.

Especially, when the typical 'mean girls' in the parking lot didn't like the fact that my dress was hugging and exposing every curve of my healthy figure.

Oh, how I had my booty out proud yesterday.

I suppose those catty girls didn't like it, and when they were being the usual 'point and gossip bitches', my love silenced them with an aggressive, "Knock it off," in Papi's way of meaning business.

I couldn't be bothered to look and see if they adhered to his warning.  All I cared about was that my love was proud of how I looked as well.

I'm getting more accepting with being seen as the straight couple.  At least we're donned in tattoos, and don't look like the 'normal', conservative couples that were looking toward us with curiosity.

It will definitely make life easier in the Dominican Republic.

On our last visit, I was accosted by homophobic bible thumpers who told me if I prayed, their god would take away my being gay.

It took everything I had not to fight with them.  I know that this will be my biggest challenge when we're there.  The religious zealots are everywhere.

Even at the wedding last night, I had a very difficult time, when before we ate, they gave a prayer for food.

They asked us to stand and bow our heads.  I cringed, sarcastically sighed and rolled my eyes at their 'oh heavenly father' thanks for food.

I would rather thank The Chef Extraordinaire for their hard work.

I seriously just found my ability to understand my own spirituality over the past couple of years.

The accident woke an aspect of my belief system, but when faced with the crap I had to grow up with, I get a rather repugnant taste in my mouth.  Not to mention the little grunts of 'oh for fucks sakes' will sneak out when I'm not paying attention to my mouth.

My love will give me the eye of 'don't be a bad one, honey', coupled with a nudge, that will nip my discourse in the bud.

So, I stood.  I bowed.  I behaved.  Still, I cussed them all in my mind, while concealing it with a smile.  I find it quite offensive that anyone would force another person of a different belief to pray to their god.

That's another reason I'm grateful to have found such connection with Judaism.  Their belief is that you don't actually say 'god's' name.

That's perfectly fine by me.  I'm happy when I don't have to follow the rules of my upbringing.

I remember being knocked upside the head for saying the usual teen phrase of, "Oh my god!" with that valley girl drawl we would all have.

"Don't you use the lords name in vain," I would hear as my head took a whoopin'.

Anyway, I survived their prayers to zombie Jesus and ate their amazing meal, appreciating every bite with my own gratitude for food, and the enjoyment of sharing a beautiful day with two people who allowed Papi and I to hear wedding vows all over again.

I found us nodding our head to some of the words during the service.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Love is all you need.

i feel fulfilled and joyful

dream a little dream with me ...

Oh dear.

We decided to move the cats up to our new floor of the house.

It was a bit of a gong show and Papi was the gong.

Up we went, while protecting our faces from the possibility of becoming The Golden's one eyed kin.

We brought them to the new pee box space.

Immediately, The Bastard Prince was placed in the box and proceeded to tinkle.  It was, in our minds, excellent that he went right away.  We thought we were at a good start.

The Mrs. however, when placed at the top of the stairs, hissed at 'nothing'.

Or perhaps Papi's mother's ghost, or even the ghost of G'pa, but none-the-less, there was nothing we could see worth a kitty spit.

When we were back into the kitchen, hoping everything went well, I noticed it.

Piss.  Allllllllll down Papi's pants.

... no, it wasn't papi ...

The Bastard Prince was so scared of coming up into Psycho Kitty's space that he pissed himself.  I knew he was afraid of him, but I didn't realize just how badly.

We all meet our match in life, and well, it looks like The Bastard Prince is no longer the king of his castle.

In the past, he would even scare the dogs in the neighbourhood wherever he lived.  Not anymore.  It was so sad and pathetic.

Then there was The Mrs.

She made herself at home on Psycho Kitty's tree, and when the loony cat came to say, "Hey!  That's mine!" The Mrs. told him, "Not anymore, bitch!"

It blew me away.  The one I thought was tough is the chicken and vice versa.

Meanwhile, Papi and I have switched spots on the bed now that it's in a different room.

Well, when I heard my alarm go off, I did my usual 'slap around the bedside table to find the alarm', only I almost clocked Papi in the head.

Fortunately, I had removed my eye patch just enough and just in time to see my possible mistake.  It truly would have been a rude awakening for my love.

One thing I can say is, moving up to the bright sunny floor has definitely helped our moods.

The Dungeon Syndrome is leaving me for sure.  Papi actually relaxed last night.

We spent some quality time writing out our 'dream home' list in the Dominican, and Papi had the audacity to laugh at my wishes!

~ land with fruit trees

~ space for goats, chickens, pigs and my donkey

~ walking distance to the beach

~ walking distance to stores

~ gas stove

~ granite counter tops

~ privacy from neighbours

~ a boat moor

Hey!  What's the point of making a 'wish list' if you can't dream big?

That's the point of a 'wish list'.  It's not an expectation!  It's hopes that maybe, just perhaps, those prices will keep coming down and we'll find the home we've always wanted.

One of the houses we looked at when we were there is down by $70,000!!!!!!  It's moved into our price range!

Who knows folks, we just may get what we deserve.

Stranger things have happened.  Remember the time capsule dream list I made in 1999?  I did indeed get a few things on that list.

I wonder what we'll get in paradise?

all the things i want and need come to me

A New Space.

So there I was, absolutely ecstatic about being able to do my blob/blab this morning in sunlight and my fucking plans were bamboozled.

You know how I have to have a routine in the morning to make my breakfast?  I'm a wreck in the morning.  My poor injured brain can't function, unless I have my routine.

Well, last night we moved upstairs from the dungeon, and I thought I'd moved everything I needed for making my breakfast.

Nope.  All I moved up was my coffee bodum and beans.

Good god.  If you've ever seen a comedy routine like the one this morning, you'd never forget it.

Up and down the stairs, trying to figure out what I need next, coffee beans hadn't been ground until after the water was boiled, apple sauce cups flying all over the place as I tried to bring them up the stairs while that kettle screamed at me to do something about it, and no spices for my eggs.

Not to mention, my first bite of eggs fell off my fork and on to the floor, and were now an awesome treat for Sir Bark-A-Lot.  After inhaling it in one gulp, he looked at me as if to say, "Please sir, could I have some more?"

I don't know about you, but my breakfast has to go well for me to get a good start in the morning.

Then came the worst decision I could make on this day.   I thought I'd check the mail.  Bad idea.

There was my little envelope saying all my benefits that I sent in for my Brace Face were not eligible.  NOT a nice thing to read before I've had my coffee.

The woman on the phone was absolutely wonderful, mostly because I told her my animosity was not directed toward her, but toward that horrid fucking company she works for.

She didn't disagree.  She only giggled.

I liked her giggle.  It calmed me down.

I asked her if she ever received a happy person on the other end, because every time I call I'm psychotic and want to fly through the telephone wire and strangle someone.

She giggled and replied, "Well, we get a mixture of satisfied customers and some not so happy."

I asked, "You mean bitchy people like me?"  Again, she only giggled.

She soothingly explained to me what nobody else has ever explained in my 4.5 years of dealing with them.  She broke down what every little number meant and how it works.

I cooled off and told her I hope the rest of her day was filled with the satisfied customers she spoke of.  She gave me one last giggle, "Thank you.  I hope your day gets better."

This blob/blab today was supposed to be about the fact that I'm up here writing in beautiful daylight upstairs, and not in the dungeon.

The gargantuan, acorn filled trees are my amazing picture as I write to you.  Every little wisp of wind helps the leaves wave at me to greet me to my new view for writing.

The sunshine coming through the window absolutely makes my heart feel so much more warmth and happiness.

That's what this was supposed to be about.

Oh.  And the cats.  They are not liking the fact that we're upstairs with Psycho Kitty.  I tried to get them to come up and eat, but they prefer living with Dungeon Syndrome.

At least while they're down there, they know their hiding places and are content that they can gang up on Psycho Kitty and run him outta town!

I'll continue to attempt to feed them up here, but The Mrs. won't eat.  She just paces the room meowing showing the whites of her eyes.

She's also not impressed that everything is gone from her space.

All alone sits her cat tree, amongst the vacant space of a room that holds only my piano and a few items that we won't be getting rid of until the house sells.

It occurred to me that the anxiety Papi and I are feeling is also being felt by the Fuzzy Family.  I can use them as my gauge as to why I'm feeling so unsettled.

This is an exciting venture, but there is also a little bit of difficulty when life is in chaos.

The critters are my mirror.  Another reason I love them so much.

Ah for fucks sakes.  I just spilled my entire water glass.

joy overflows in my life

shoot me now.

No idea what these feelings are all about.

I suppose it's the absolute upheaval of our lives, but we are both experiencing feelings of anxiety, anger and fear, but have absolutely no idea why.

Usually, we can say we're sad about 'X', scared about 'Y' or angry about 'Z', but neither of us has any idea.

We even fought the other day, and that rarely happens.

We're so preoccupied with The Great DR Purge, that we actually forgot about our wedding anniversary.

Our celebration day was nothing like The One Year Wedding Anniversary Extravaganza.

No, definitely not.

The day before our anniversary, I was at yet another psych evaluation for my court case, and the man asked how long Papi and I had been together.

I asked him, "Well, what's the date?"

He told me it was the 9th.

I chuckled and said, "Well, that would mean we've been married for 2 years tomorrow."

I was shocked that it just came and surprised me like that!

Then on our actual anniversary, we were so busy doing what we've been doing for the past few weeks, that we actually forgot again.

Papi jokingly made a remark about our day, and we both realized we should at least go out for dinner.

Oh, we did.

I ate the 2nd worst allergy on my list; wheat flour.

Not the best idea, but when you're in the full throws of anxiety and every other fucking emotion that we can think of, having a nice big plate of warm bread gave me a great feeling of 'fuck-it-all'.

Yeah.

The bloating, crankiness and lethargy are nothing compared to what my dark circles under my eyes and zits are going to do for my self-esteem.

Not to mention, someone posted a picture of me performing bass from 2000, and I saw how I used to look when I was active in my anorexia.

I'm much healthier now, but eating wheat encrusted onion rings, 10 oz of beef, a whack-load of rice and bread is not going to help my brain with the pain of seeing myself much thinner in a picture than I see myself in the mirror.

So, seriously.

So many fucking emotions I couldn't even begin to tell you.

If I knew what was going on in my mind, I'd take measures to help myself like I always do.

Yet, when I can't figure it out, how the hell am I supposed to stop the insanity?

I'm on full binge right now.

Not the best way to start the summer.

For fucks sakes!

Our sun has finally come out, and I'm ready to wear my little summer outfits.

However, I'm feeling like a beluga whale.

I'm also feeling a bit like the honey badger who wants to run off with a nice juicy snake in her mouth.

Yes, a little homicidal and a little more than peckish.

A little more like I just want to sleep in a coma and wait for all this to be over.

Then there's sadness.

I'm still grieving for the friendship lost, and the musical past I've been disowned from.

I have to keep thinking about the musical beginnings I'll have in the Dominican Republic with all the amazing musicians I'm going to meet there.

New beginnings are wonderful, so why am I so freaked out?!?!?!

i am strong

You get what you need.

There has been so much stress around The Great DR Purge, but at the same time, there have been amazing moments of looking at the past, and where I've come.

Good.

Bad.

Sad.

Realllllllly ugly.

It doesn't really matter, it's all my past and it's mine.

I found 4 pages containing, "If I Could Be, Do and Have Everything I Wanted" that I was instructed to write out when I first got clean 'n sober in '99.

We all know life doesn't always give us what we want, but damn!  I got a few things on that list.

Work/Career:  Ok, I'm not a famous rock star, but I'm at least able to compose.

Income:  Nope.  Not making that $6,000 a month from performing and royalties, but I'm financially well enough to eat and have a home.

Lifestyle/Possessions:  I got that motorcycle I wanted, only it almost killed me.  Unfortunately, there was no side car, because my Dearly Departed Gypsy left the planet before I could get her a side car with a fancy helmet that fits dogs.

Relationship:  OK!!!!  I got one of them!!  Well, sorta.  I wanted to be with a sober woman who has all the qualities I ever wanted and we would dote upon each other with love and honesty. 

Got it!  Umm ... however, it's in the form of an F-M.  That one cracks me up.  I guess I've come a long way if I can say that cracked me up, no?

Creative Self-Expression:  Well, it's sorta true.  I do work with many musicians, and I do have a cult following, albeit not as big as I aimed for in my wishes.

Leisure Activities:   Nada.  I had to give up boxing a long time ago.  Yes, I boxed.  Quit laughing.

Personal Growth:  Ok, kinda.  I do still go to counseling, but nope.  I've still not learned how to meditate.

Education:  This one is awesome.  I thought I'd be a personal student to Deepak Chopra.  I suppose anything can still happen in this life.  Maybe I need to give him a call.

I also thought I'd be living in 2 homes.  One here and one in Hollywood.

Ok.  The home I wanted here was in Point Grey.  Can you believe that's where I'm living?

There's nothing on there about moving to paradise in the Dominican Republic.

I guess my point of all this, is I strongly encourage you to write out your dreams and passions.

Put them on paper!  Then put them away for a long, long time.

Later on, bring them out and take a peek.

It's amazing.

It was truly sad sometimes, reading about all the goals I had that I'll never attain now that I have a different mind and body, but what I can say, is my life is amazing.

It's beautiful.

I could never have envisioned my life changing experience of nearly dying to bring me all I ever needed.

I didn't know what I needed.

Oh, but I knew what I wanted.

Sometimes, we need to look back and see that our lives have become a completely different scenario than we expected, but expectations are ridiculous.

Expectations are meant to be screwed up.

That's the rule of life.

The secret to life, is wanting what you have.

When I read my '99 hopes and dreams, and look at where I am now, I can honestly say, I have found happiness in my life that I never imagined.

Happiness amongst life's terms.

'you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need' ~ The Rolling Stones

what IS that?!?!

So, I went to a bridal shower.  You know, stagette?

The groom to be was out eating steak while got his bride hammered.

Thing is, I don't drink, so I had to give all my drinks to the bride!

Only fair, no?

We played a drinking game where we had to answer a card with all the disgraceful things we've done in the past.

Of course, I'd done 19 out of the 20 things, so the dear bride was getting in a lot of drinks for me.

Funniest part was, the reason I had done all those things was because I was always drunk.

Anyway.

We also got these awesome little goodie bags filled with candy.

I can't eat the candy, but I got some interesting gifts in the bag.

I got a pirate puzzle!

Too funny, eh?

But there's another one.

This.

What the hell is this?

Look, it has a spot for some dudette to ride in front.

Then there's this little 'spine' thing that moves when you rub underneath.

Here's how far the 'spine' thing moves:

Kinda pointless, no?

Then from the rear, it sorta looks like a truck.

So, seriously, what the fuck is this thing?

It's beyond words.

No clue.

If you can tell me exactly what it is, I'll mail it to ya.

Oh.

I also got a camel.

Look at the gems you get from a stagette!

life brings many surprises

check yer pants!!!

Papi gets on my case if I don't write a blog.

"People like to read it every day and if you don't write it they will be let down!"

Thank you my love, for your undying support.

But what happens when I don't feel like writing?

What happens when all I can do is bitch and fucking whine about this and that?

Oh, wait.

You like to read that stuff.

Ok.

So, I'll keep bitching.

I'm miserable.

Train wreck enough for ya?

No? 

Ok.  Let's talk about my P.T.S.D. shall we?

I'm sure you'd like that.

Remember the screaming episode I had with complete strangers two months ago?

... oh, hehe, they won't ever speak to me again ... scared'em off REAL good ...

I got another shot at embarrassing myself yesterday.

I thought I was done with giving the panic attack disclaimer in my life.  For the longest time, I would have to tell people what to expect when driving with me.

"If it looks like I'm gasping for air, please don't make a big deal of it, honestly, just ignore me and I'll be back from the dead momentarily."

Never mattered that I gave the disclaimer.  People still freaked out when they'd see me turn white, shake and gasp for breath.

I haven't had to give the disclaimer for a while, but lo and be-fucking-hold, I had a massive fucking attack yesterday.

Uncle was so sweet to drive me to and from a chiropractor appointment, because I was just in so much pain.

So, upon leaving the building for my ride home, he went to pull out from the curb and someone didn't like it, came right up honking, with screeching tires and blammo!

Instant psychopath in the passenger seat!

Immediately, I saw my motorcycle t-boning the car once more, just like it did three and a half years ago.

In a mere blink of a breath, I was transported back to my accident, and at the top of my lungs I screamed louder than Cannibal Corpse.

I could definitely have auditioned for their band with the blood curdling sounds that came out of me.

I scared the fuck out of Uncle and the poor man swerved our vehicle out of terror, nearly causing an actual accident.

I'm pretty sure when we got home, he checked his pants to be sure there weren't any fucking surprises in his underoos.

The best part was, the person who honked heard me, and drove past to stare at what the ruckus was all about.

Oh, nothing really, just Hurricane Andréa in the front seat having flashbacks of a much scarier time.

Then of course comes the shortness of breath, the, "I think I'm going to pass out," speech, along with the tears and the, "I'm so embarrassed," or, "I'm so sorry."

He understands that it's a mechanism in my brain from the accident.  He gets that P.T.S.D. can't be helped.

When that little trigger goes off in my mind, there's nothing anyone can do.

That motorcycle accident will probably never leave me.

It's just so fucking embarrassing.

Anyway, there's your train wreck for the day.

Are you laughing along with me?  It's ok to laugh at me as well.

I better stick to the 'short bus'.

i am strong and secure

anxiety

It makes me feel miniscule and immature.

Stomach careening.

It continues it's blustering blast of distress through my debilitating limbs.

They weaken and shake, unable to hold my weight.

They're holding the burden of the sun.

Nerves in my head are striking, thrashing, convincing my eyes to shut.

Don't look!

From anxiety?

Or back pain?

Or is it from waking up too early from an amalgamation of both plus a visitor above my ceiling?

Uncle is here to 'help out'.  His mind needs to talk about the big picture, to release his stress.

I need to be an ostrich with my head beneath the warm, white, Dominican sand.

My broken mind can't handle that much of the picture.

She can only handle today and tomorrow.

My new brain allows no assumptions for the future.

She taught me that the day I lived through the motorcycle accident.

There is only today.

What can I do today for the forthcoming?

That is all I can handle.

I'm so overwhelmed and can only deal with one moment at a time.

The instant I have to consider anything too far in advance, my toes curl.

My back becomes like a turtle, caving in to protect myself, giving me the appearance of a weakened child.

My heart pounds in an effort to warn me of the dangers of planning, for there is no certainty to be expected, and that is the truth of life.

We can make as many plans as we like, but fate has her own strategies.

She chooses, not us.

My breathing shortens.

My lungs shiver.

My legs quiver.

The only release I can expect is tears.

I can purge and prepare.

That's all I can do.

Yet still, the future is what I'm aiming for with today's bow and arrow.

I can't see how far that missile will go before I let her feathers fly.

I can only see her in my hands.

I can only be sure of her while she's holding back the tension of the bow.

Once I let her go, her course is up to the fate of the winds.

It's no wonder my bitch of a back is crying.

She's the suffering neighbour to my reeling stomach, on fire and sending smoke to choke the nearby resident with black air of inhalation.

Too much is going on in there to deal with for one body.

Anxiety.

Stress.

Pain.

They're connected.

I'm disconnecting.

i have faith in my future

I understand so much now.

I suppose if she's allowed to assume for me, then I'm allowed to assume for her.

Especially since she won't talk to me about it, so here's my assumption.

The way our friendship was severed was not like any 'little' friend's spat.  It was more like, "That's it!  I've had it!  That was the last straw!!!"

Even though I didn't know there were any straws being pulled.

I'm pretty sure by going back over all the emotional belting I received, that it's all about resentment.  It usually is.

Here's my take on it:

I was so gung-ho before my motorcycle accident.  As one person said, "Andréa will never give up.  She'll just keep going until she succeeds."

I used to work so hard that people would tell me I was going to give myself a heart attack.

Then the accident came, and to find the energy just to get out of the chair was a day long task.

To walk to the bathroom and back took all my strength and I had to sleep for 4 hours afterward just to recuperate.

Hence, I am not the same person I used to be.  I don't overwork myself, because I can't.

I don't have the strength, energy or brain power.  These things happen when you have lived through brain injury.

Problem is, she saw me so enthusiastic about music before, and now I'm much more lackadaisical about it.

I don't really have a choice.  That aggressively dedicated girl was taken from us in the accident.  I've had to say goodbye to her.

Only problem is, if you're not living in my body/mind, you could never understand, because to everyone else, it seems she's still here.

I look the same.  I don't look like I'm disabled, yet, I am.

She wanted me to have the same passion as I did with HECTOR, however, I didn't have that girl to call upon with BlueLight.

Therefore, the majority of the work fell on her lap.

I couldn't possibly do everything she did.

Just to find the energy to get to my computer is impossible when my bitch of a back is nagging at me.  I just hide and berate myself for not doing anything.

She did everything and furthermore, spent everything by creating her own record company, now that I'm on disability.

I can see where the resentment came from.

She can't see that I'm not the same, so she assumed that I'm just not into it.  Confirmation came with her words, "I always knew you weren't into this as much as me, and now this proves it."

She decided for me that I quit the project because I sold a few items.  It's not about the items, it's not about me moving, it's the fact that she'd had enough of being the head honcho trying to lead around a horse and cart with a carrot.

She'd had enough, and now our friendship is over.  It's killing me, but I'm getting closer to letting it go.

There's nothing I can do about our friendship, that decision was up to her.

And on that note, I'd like to purge a bit of HECTOR.  If you'd like a free cd, I have a few, just check out the HECTOR fan page and it will tell you how to get them.

I can't bring them with me to the Dominican Republic.  I can only bring a few and leave the rest in storage with my baby sister.

I can't rock out for HECTOR anymore, because I can't stand and hold my bass, so in essence, I have actually given up on that project.  It's all for licensing now.

I can't send you any free BlueLight, because I'm not the owner of it.  You'll still have to pay for those ones, but I'd do it soon, because it looks like it's only a collector's item now, and besides, I'd love for her to recoup the money she spent on it.

Anyway, I've had time to think about it and I completely understand her side, not that it makes it any easier.

It makes me angry at the person who hit me on my motorcycle all the more for changing my life.

i am loving and accepting of myself just as i am

sadness is leaving us

Yesterday was the day and we told her the night before.

I can't tell you how hard it was to see her have to go through the acceptance that she has to go live somewhere else.

It's her home, where she wanted to die.

No longer.

Now she's moved to a much safer place for her little old lady legs to walk around.  Everything is accessible.

Except her house.

We have Papi's uncle here to help, and they've gone through a lot of G'ma's stuff.

Some of the memories of pasts are damn sweet!  We found Papi's kindergarten report card G'ma kept.  It was so fun to read Papi was a shy one in the beginning, but soon opened up to the rest of the class.

So hard to believe!

There is so much stress in this house, and we're all trying so hard to hold it together.

Lord knows my bitch of a back is not complying.

Between losing one of my besties, gramma drama, and getting all of our belongings out of the house, my back has forced me to take the worst of the worst drugs.

Morphine fucking sucks.  Let me tell you.

The craziest part is, G'ma is doing better with all of this than we are.  All three of us are one bundle of mess.

Tears.  Stress.  Sadness.  You name it, it's under this roof.

All I can look forward to is moving upstairs into the light and get my brain out of the Dungeon Syndrome.  We've been living in this dark basement for too long.

Papi's used to it.  He's been here since birth.

Me?  I never enjoy the darkness.  It brings too much crud to the surface.

Soon, we get to enjoy bright open windows of sunshine.  That is of course, if this damn city would stop raining.

Our home in this vault is pure chaos.  Our belongings are all leaving and we have nowhere to put our stuff that was in it.

Hence, it's hanging off the ottoman, my piano bench, our kitchen island and surrounding floors.

Mess.  Kinda like our minds.

One thing I can look forward to, is the moment the Uncle has left the building, we're moving on up, into the light.

Anyway, back to the G'ma.  She was amazing at taking the whole experience in stride.

When we went back to the home with a 2nd load, I couldn't find her.  She wasn't in her room, and she wasn't in visiting her sister.

I inquired of the nurse, "Would you have any idea where G'ma went?  She's already M.I.A.!"

She giggled, "She's probably up at the 106 year old's birthday party on the 2nd floor."

Off I went in search of the old fart, and sure enough, there she was, eating cake, drinking tea, and already organizing an evening game of crib with 'Dorothy', who said to G'ma, "You're the answers to my prayers!  I have the table, the board, the cards and the money!!"

G'ma is going to be just fine and will probably be running the place within a week.

Of course, it's going to be hard for her at times, but the fact that she's already mixing in with people had my heart filled with so much joy for her!

No longer will she have tears in her eyes from loneliness.

Hell!  They even bring a cart around a couple times a day with cookies and tea, just in case the old folks need a little sugary love.

Love.

Plenty of it there in her new home, and she's a two minute drive for us.

I'm so happy she's doing so well.  It takes one of the stresses out of the equation.

You hear that, bitchy back?  Now calm the fuck down and behave!!!

i am willing to let go of the past, so that i can create health now

HEAVY METAL CLAM BAKE PIG ROAST!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

That was the flavour of the evening.

But the funniest part was, there was so much sweetness there as well.  Well, that is of course, with the exception of the crude couple who overtly and rudely stared and argued all night about whether or not Papi was a man.

Everyone else saw mi esposo as male.  Fuck the other two.

Back to the bake.

When we were invited to a clam bake, we didn't know what we were in for.  I thought it just meant they were merely cooking up clams.

Well, they were, but never have I seen anything so cool.

The tarp covered the most scrumptious food; clams, potatoes, yams, sweet onions, corn, and all of this was being steamed with seaweed over smokin' hot rocks in the back yard, that had been heating under a bonfire all day for the event.

Mr. Clam Bake himself, was a full fledged, 75 year old riot.  He was hammered before the trays were even made for the clams.  This meant the clams et al were not quite ready by the time the pig was done.

Oh god.  Let me tell you about the pig.

Right there, dead on a stick, complete with it's head, rotating in full glory.

I wasn't going to eat it, because it just looked so morbid and I couldn't handle such blatancy.

I'm one of those people who will gladly eat the meat, as long as I don't have to see where it came from.

Oh, I could see, and I wasn't having any part of it.

That was of course, until my blood sugar dropped so drastically that I persuaded Papi to go get me some.

How good was it?  I think I had a food-gasm.  So good in fact, that I personally went back for seconds and fought my way through the rednecks who thought they could squeeze this city slicking femme in a skirt out of the line.

Dude there was trying to taunt me about the eyes of the pig staring at me, and talking like he was the pig begging me not to eat him.  I just had to do my best and think of it as necessary I eat, so I didn't stick those two, who were still debating my love's gender, on the spit itself.

Then came the entertainment.

They hired some friends to come and play for the party, and being that it was in the furthest reaches of Richmond farmland, they were pleased that they could turn it up to 11.

The maniac singer was quite entertaining, and I forgot I wasn't enjoying the music when he used the children's playhouse as a prop for his antics.

Run up the slide, slide down the slide upside down and backwards, or hanging out of the windows.  You name it, he used it, while he screeched with his male pattern baldness head.  What hair he did have left was sticking straight out the sides in two blue mohawks.  He looked a bit like an exaggerated version of the singer from The Prodigy in their Firestarter video.

When it was time to unveil the clams at about 10 pm, we realized the delicious specimens had been in there for a little longer than Mr. Clam Bake wanted.

However, Mr. Clam Bake was so drunk, he decided to smoke a joint as well, instead of tending to the clams.

He was also damn intent on spilling his drinks on me.

He talked with his hands, which were double fisting beer, so the beer was thrown this way and that.

My purse and jacket still stink.  I'll be dealing with that today.  There's nothing more revolting that stale beer stink on your items, especially when you don't drink.

Somehow Mr. Clam Bake found me in the crowd non-stop and tried to spill more on me, even though I'd jump back every time he tossed his brew.  He didn't see it at all.

Anyway, this was seriously what Papi and I needed.  We don't usually stay at parties for very long, being sober homebodies, but we stuck it out until my pain killers wore off, and the more than amazing food had been eaten.

We forgot all about our troubles for that day.

As a matter of fact, we didn't even speak about anything stressful for the entire duration of the festivities.

Thank you.

i forgive myself for all i have done