Thanks Twitter for the #FakeLoveFacts Hashtag trend. I’d say I feel much better, but that’s not true. But it did distract me for a little bit, so that’s good.
I do talk about other things on Twitter, (cough! #Resist #TheWalkingDead) really, you can click, you know, like, if you really, really wanted to. I’m going to go finish of that quart of chocolate ice cream while you do.
Yes, I remain as curmudgeonly as ever this time of year.
Dear Cupid (1)
I wanted to personally(2) thank you for all
the joy(3) you have brought into my life(4)
thus far. My high school years were
especially full(5) of your special touch with
an arrow(6). As I grew and matured(7) I came to
realize the unique role(8) that you would play
in my life(9). Every step I took you were
there(10). I have certainly been blessed(11) by
your love(12). It is at this wonderful(13)time
of the year that I really feel closest to you(14).
So for all(15)you have done(16)I want to express
my gratitude(17) properly(18). With a kiss(19).
Yours with Love(20)
(1) You cruel naked jerk (2) and I mean up close and personal (3) and by joy I mean years and years of personal anguish (4) if you could call it that (5) full of scatological moments (6) were you aiming for my forehead?! (7) tried desperately to out run you – you grotty little louse (8) of my personal tormentor (9) of pain and turmoil (10) shooting arrows in my back (11) I didn’t know beelzebub did blessings (12) love of inflicting acute mental and physical pain (13) commercially forced sentimental pink drivel (14) hard to miss you with this sharp arrow in my throat – you foul bastard! (15) Every last agonizing… (16) each and every arrow through my head, my back… (17) I got my own cross-bow (18) so I would watch your spiteful nude butt (19) would you like to know where? (20) I would Love to snap your little “bow” in half
I’m with Zefrank here, relationship apocalypse. Yes or No?
This year it’s a No, my awesomeness can be a lot to handle.
It was a very long night, and this morning is not looking much better.
I’m oscillating between Debra and Maya Angelou; between Fuck absolutely everything and Oriah Mountain Dreamer; between running home to Canada, and staying here to fight for what I believe at my core is the right thing to do.
Hey, I never said I was perfect. Zen Bitch, remember?
I love you Debra
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou, 1928 – 2014
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Oh Canada, I love you and I miss you, but there is more work to do where I am.
And I wouldn’t be a yoga teacher if I didn’t tell you to breathe. Slowly and Deeply. Repeat.
Topic 1: Not Remotely Zen and the Art of Automotive Maintenance
Be wary of Google maps when they suggest a ‘faster route’ to your swanky restaurant date with your daughters (one cooking for you, one eating with you).
Faster routes in Google maps can mean potholes the size of large bowling balls.
Potholes the size of large bowling balls can mean tire blowouts/flats in questionable parts of Chicago at night.
When changing a post pothole the size of a large bowling ball tire in questionable parts of Chicago at night be sure to turn your car lights off so the battery doesn’t get drained.
When changing a tire at night in a questionable part of Chicago saying ‘Ok Google turn on flashlight’ to your phone works better that ‘Ok Google where the fuck is the flashlight?’ – the second will have Google autocorrect ‘fuck’ to ‘phone your ex who told you to stop swearing so much’ and no good will come from THAT conversation.
When flat tires won’t come off even though you’ve removed all the goddamn lugnuts and pulled as hard as you can, you can try calling AAA, and you can try the police to help – because questionable area – but do not try this on the night the Cubs get into the World’s Series, because all of the police are at Wrigleyville and not in your questionable part of Chicago.
When flat tires won’t come off, even though you’ve done every bloody thing correctly and you’re going to be late to your reservation using ‘Very Loud Creative Swears’ whilst yanking on the motherf’ing tire will, in fact remove the flat tire and send you a few feet back with a filthy tire on your trendy, I’m going to a swanky restaurant outfit and your ass on the equally filthy roadside, but you won’t care, because pulling that motherf’cker off was extremely satisfying.
Once a goddamn flat tire is finally off the car, two motivated women can get a spare tire on in less than two minutes because Bitches Get Stuff Done and there was a swanky restaurant waiting for us.
And just in case handling a flat Like A Boss wasn’t satisfying enough, the Chef comes out to greet us personally and gives us a tour of the kitchens because besides being cool and badasses, we also love eating exceptional food.
Topic 2: Dating or Dr. Really Strangelove and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Never date musicians
No good has ever come from dating a musician, so when screening potential dates ask first if they can play an instrument.
Playing piano might be okay, but plays electric guitar in a band is RIGHT out – do not walk, RUN away.
Never date Scorpios
I’m certain there are some very lovely Scorpio men out there, but do not date them. Scorpio in any part of their chart, just to be safe. Scorpio Moons especially no.
No more Latino men – no, no, no, no, and Hell no. Write this down, because apparently this is a smooth spot in your brain – NO Latino men. Mexican, Peruvian, Ecuadorian, Spanish doesn’t manner, don’t do it. It will never end well.
Catholic Latino men who adore their mother. Just don’t. You can’t even. You will never ever even. You will be switched from Madonna to Whore and back so many times you will get whiplash. You will swear too much, smile too little, never cook as well, be respected too much or way too little. You will never be good enough. This is a fact, at least for you, it is a fact. For the love of your remaining sanity and shattered ego, don’t go there.
Scorpio Latino Musician? Run.
Never date Irishmen, especially if they’re poets. No good ever came from dating an Irish poet. Write that down in your journal till you remember it.
Basically dating is a bad idea. Dating will invariably lead to adding another category to the list of men you are never to date again.
You might think being a yoga teacher with long curly hair would attract suitable men to date, it does not. It does however, attract all manner of suggestions regarding flexibility and comments about anatomy.
Topic 3: Approaching Interesting Men with Beards in restaurants
DO IT. They could turn out to be a really cool band and invite you to come do yoga with them and go to their gigs
Do not date them – see above. Hang with them, do yoga with them, be generally be cool around them.
Topic 4: Retail / Food therapy or Eat, Read, Love
Buy the sweater, it will be warm and soft and gorgeous, feel like a hug and it will never judge you, tell you to smile more or to be more ladylike.
Buy the book(s), they will be interesting, expand your thinking and always there for you and will never ignore you when you need them most.
Buy infinity scarf with e.e. cumming’s poetry i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) all over it because poetry that some men write is so much better than most men.
Reread Neruda, because poetry… so much better than actual men.
Buy the fingerless gloves with that section from Wuthering Heights that you love because well-written words, so much better than…. men.
Buy dessert, eat it whenever the fuck you want, and love every moment of eating it, because life is short and often needs chocolate. Also chocolate never judges you, ever.
Movies – Go to them. Find a friend, go alone. Put butter on your popcorn, eat it all. Movies where the creeptastic man meets a very satisfying end are especially good.
Also, yoga. Do some yoga, get sweaty, fall on your ass, get up again. Repeat.