baton rouge

Home is just a fucking word

I need to go home but that’s just a word and it’s also the place where my best friend is.

My best friend is my dog and I feel bad for leaving him at his home all alone because I don’t want to go to that place and nobody wants him at their place not that anybody invited me to that place that they didn’t invite my dog.

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Just Wondering

Is it that I became lonely or was I always lonely and didn’t realize it? I also wonder if it is that I prefer being lonely but won’t say that out loud because that’s a really emo thing to say….

chickenegg

Am I staying up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job because I am off of my meds or am I off of my meds so I can stay up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job?

An Angry? Borderline In 107 Words

I don’t care.  I don’t care…i don’t care

i don’t care….no, bruh, i really don’t fucking care, I don’t give a fuck, fuck off, lol, fuck you, i dont care, it doesnt matter, i’m fine, i’m a’ight, fuck me, fuck yourself,, fml, fml, i want to die, i wish i would die, i hate you, fuck you, eat shit and die, i love you so fucking much, why didn’t you come?, why don’t you love me?  what the fuck did I do to you?  You’re a fucking sociopath  I hate my life fuck i don’t care that didn’t hurt

go fuck yourself

leave me alone

I love Kanye West and I am racist now

It is my overwhelming desire always…the one that sits at the bottom of my gut…to write.  Writing intimidates me, though and I won’t do it.  I am not easily intimidated, either, I must say.

Last night my 19-year old daughter and I were jumped by several black women and a couple black dudes at my home. The attacks came from the neighbors across the street.

I live in a predominantly black neighborhood.  I mean, it’s slightly mixed with some white, but mostly the whites are old folks who (I ASSume) lived here before the black folks moved into the neighborhood.

I really have never been racist.  Not even when the racist cards were stacked against me.

I was raised in South Louisiana.   I went all the way through school living in one of the most notoriously racist parishes.  I do believe Livingston Parish is, at least, one of the homes of the KKK.

Where I’m from, it’s completely normal when white folks are around other white folks to hear, more than occasionally, the word nigger in everyday conversation.  Maybe not as much with people like teachers, and such, but I shit you not, a few years ago I walked into the refreshment room at one of the biggest churches in my hometown and one guy was at the coffee pot telling another guy a nigger joke and not even telling him in a hushed voice.  I immediately turned around and walked out of that room, sans refreshment.  It really bummed me out. I quit going entirely to that church not too long after that, not so much for the racist joke I heard, but for their Armenian theology and infiltration of hypocrites.  Blah.  That’s so boring.

At the risk of being called by some of my hometown people, a nigger lover, I will re-iterate that for some reason that existed in me before I was me, there was born a color-blindness in me that defied all logic, given my upbringing.  I will give credit where it’s due and say that my step-mother completely forbade the use of the word “nigger” by either myself or my little sister.  She did not say it, herself, nor did her parents.  My dad said  “nigger” in at least half of every sentence I ever heard that man utter, until I quit talking to both he and step-mom in 2011.  I’m sure he still says it, though.

He hates black folks.

I remember in about 1983, I went for an outing to the mall with my step-mom.  She must have either been feeling particularly loving toward me, or was trying to get me into trouble, but she bought me a tan-colored t-shirt with Michael Jackson silk-screened on it.  It was that picture where MJ is laying on his side with his jerry curl and white sports jacket.  I was so excited about that shirt!!!  We got home and I put it on to show my dad.  I was 7 and oblivious, really, and was really confused when my dad became super-angry at me and started screaming at me in his scary mean dad way.  He made me take the shirt off and I was told he burned it.  That’s all I remember about that.

The second time I was raped, it was by a black guy.  I never told anyone, though.  I talk about it now but not telling it like it’s a big deal, but more like just saying it because it’s part of my story.  I never told anyone about the first time I was raped and how a white guy did it, either.  I don’t really see how color is an issue, except if I wanna garner sympathy from whites saying that a black dude raped me, but since I didn’t tell anyone I wasn’t getting sympathy and sympathy is the fucking last thing I want, anyway.

(Praise, Accolades and Book Deals Are Fine)

I thought the sentence I just wrote was funny because the first sentence of this train wreck was that I was unable to write.

Maybe I was using reverse psychology on myself.  I can’t stand to be unable to do a thing as long as the thing I am doing is within reason.

After last night, I feel like I’m a racist now  and it feels weird.  It’s an idea that is completely bipolar to me now.  Pardon the pun that’s not really a pun because I’m not really bipolar.  I guess I’m getting jaded.  It really does get hard, especially when I feel pretty strong racism from many members of the black community with whom paths cross with mine, here lately.

I love Kanye West.

ONOMATOPEIA

i don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is who I obey.

(DANGER….REAL LIFE AHEAD) *Teenagers are conceited assholes…and so might the parents’ be, as well

And yeah….we have not spoken in months, and this is the first thing she wants to send me…..OMFG.image

image

*The teenager I speak of is 3 months shy of NINETEEN.

You Ain’t Special Part 1

It was as if time and space had never existed. It was only me and I had just died and was laughing and playing with God, Himself.

There are no words to adequately describe anything, at all,  about my trip to Heaven,, but I am going to try my fucking hardest.

The very first thing I took away from my journey was this:  THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO FEAR ABOUT DEATH.

All of it is a cosmic joke, just like I thought it was, and believe me, your presence on this planet only exists in one facet of God’s Infinite Brain…one very, very, small, miniscule facet.

I hate to break it to you, but you really are not all that important in the Grand Fucking Scheme of Things, and neither am I.

But, WE ARE.

Isn’t that weird?  And yet it’s also everything I truly expected God to Be.

Athena’s Bad Week

Athena has had a very bad week…

In December I allowed the people at mental health to medicate me with their drugs because they wouldn’t fucking prescribe me the drugs I wanted, like adderall and xanax, and it got to the point where it was like, “fuck man…something has got to change”.

I started taking Sertraline a.k.a. Zoloft and I can’t lie, that shit had me thinking and acting like I was a normal motherfucker with no seratonin issues.  I felt really great for about a month and a half before my skin fucking broke out in what I thought was excema and I started soaking the bed three times a night with ridiculous-ass nightsweats.

When I started looking for carpet to run my fingers through, to assuage the horrible fucking itching ass blisters that had cropped up in between my fingers, on my panty line, my stomach, under my titties and on my back….I knew it was time to let the Zoloft go.

I mean, I think I could have lived with the night sweats, even though when I woke in the morning, I smelled like I had just run three miles while fucking a tuna…I could NOT DEAL WITH THE ITCHING.

FUCK THAT.

The last time I itched that bad were the days following that time my mom’s conure, Bud,  flew out the back door and into the trees and I climbed up every tree, some of them using a fence laden with goddamn poison ivy.

I went to the emergency room twice that fucking week and I didn’t even catch the fucking bird.

I don’t remember most of what happened this week in my detox from the Zoloft, but I know I punched my boyfriend in the face so hard that I broke my goddamn finger.

And now I am back in that gutter that my mind tends to enjoy living.

Destined To Burn

Is love still love if it has conditions?

Can you just stop doing it after hard decisions?

Does it come more easily in a variety of positions?

Can you love like Jesus, before his ascension?

Did I ever mention…

that the only love I know is the kind with conditions.

I live it up when I live up to all of their worst suspicions.

It seems as if it is everbody’s mission

to breed constant hatred, nasty lies and much dissension.

I would love to invent and invention

that would shift the focus of humanity’s attention

from the car they drive, or what’s in their pension

to things seemingly out of the realm of comprehension

I’m afraid that would cause a glitch in

the matrix

and

Earth

is

destined

to

burn.