mania

Billy McMannot

Billy McMannot can be such a piss.

His stubbornness is fluent, he rarely does miss.

I thought  we just met but it seems not the case.

Turns out Billy and I have been sharing same space.

Gotta give it to the lad, it took me six years to realize how glad

I would become at a boy who made me so mad the whole while just impersonating a man.

 

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Awkward Hugs

Some friends acquaintances, we have throughout our lives think a hug is always an appropriate response to “their friend” who is sad.

Uh….yeah, no.
No.
No.
NO.

I honestly don’t really want to hug you, unless:
A) you are family and it’s expected (and I do it, but not because I want to)
B) you are someone I REALLY LOVE, like my small child, however, small child, once you get almost as tall as me or taller, all grown-up with your own opinions, and stuff….it makes the hug a bit harder….not impossible, but definitely  harder to initiate.
C) It’s an online hug and we aren’t really touching, physically.
D) We are in a sexual relationship which is not only honest, but reciprocal in most every way.
E) An immediate family member or pet just passed away.

When I met my biological mom at the age of six, one of the first things she said to me was, “******** you don’t know how to hug!!!!!!”

I know, mommy.

I am the “awkward hugger”, a term I learned from my sister, Doody.  I’m the one you go to hug and it turns into a dance….I’m always going in the wrong direction.

Not Beautiful

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I want to be able to describe how it is feels to, literally, have no one who loves me.

I used to have two people that loved me, besides my children.  They were my grandmother and my mommy.

Mimi and Mommy are both dead.

I have no one.

NO.  I AM NOT LOOKING FOR MEN TO HIT ON ME RIGHT NOW.

In fact, that’s one of the reasons I am in the predicament I am in, as I write.  I have always been a beautiful girl.  My grandmother used to always tell me how beautiful I was.

Mimi’s room was in the back of our house growing up, because she lived with us.  She moved in with my dad, my stepmother, me and my little sister when I was in the third grade.

I can remember being in my Mimi’s room talking to her and letting her tickle my back…I always made her tickle my back and she would always do it…haha…After an hour of tickling, Mimi would say, “Sarah, my arm is really hurting”, and I would say, “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!  DON’T STOP!!!  Just use your other arm”.  Mimi would then use her other arm and tickle my back for another hour.

Since Mimi’s room was added on many years after the original construction of my parents’ A-frame, old-ass house, her room was in the back, next to the kitchen and the laundry room.  Mimi always kept her door open and I guess while my stepmother was in the kitchen “cooking dinner” (hamburger patties and white rice, and pinto beans every fucking night), she could hear me and my Mimi talking.

Every time  she heard Mimi tell me I was beautiful, my stepmother would be sure to stop me on my way out of Mimi’s room and say to me, “Sarah, you are NOT beautiful.  You are a cute girl, but you are NOT BEAUTIFUL”.

And to all those who think I am full of myself, let me say this:  I have never been able to say I AM BEAUTIFUL…until a year ago…so FUCK OFF.

“Ashes” by Mi Abaga

So, the other night I was outside dancing, as I often do, late at night.  All of a sudden I stopped…the streetlight which always goes on and off in my presence was making itself known.

I knew my mommy was there.

She was there.

My playlist on my phone has almost 1000 songs, total, and I had it on shuffle.  The song that played when I realized my mommy was there was this one, and I DO NOT EVER REMEMBER DOWNLOADING IT.

I do not know how this song came to be on my phone.

I love it, though.

I miss you, mommy.  I love you so much…I wish I would’ve told you when you were alive.

 

P.S.

My mom was cremated.

The Haircut

“Come on Sarah, get your stuff together, we have to go to Baton Rouge”, my stepmother said, as she started gathering up her folders containing stacks of papers which had to be graded, later that evening.

My stepmother was a teacher.  She recently retired after twenty-five years teaching in the parish school district, but before her retirement she taught at the ONLY high school in the small city in which we lived. That was good, sometimes, but mostly it was bad.

After school, I rode a bus about two blocks to her school and she was always the last teacher to leave.

I was slow, as usual, to get my things together.  I hated going to Baton Rouge.  We went to Baton Rouge every single day, or at least, it seemed like it to me.

There were many reasons why I hated going to Baton Rouge, not the least of which was the fact that my stepmother drove a 1985 Ford Ranger, specially equipped with NO RADIO.  Seriously, she really, honestly, literally did not want a radio in her vehicle.

To this day, that haunts me…like… I am a strange person, but….that’s fucking strange, even to me.

Besides the Ford Ranger being almost as tiny as a go-kart, once my step-mom, my little sister and myself were inside, the Ranger was filled to capacity, even though two of us were children.  I am not saying my step-mom was fat, I’m saying the truck was freaking small.

I don’t know about you, but I am a person who easily gets carsick.  The tendency towards vehicular nauseousness has decreased with age, but when I was a kid, I hated just about every car ride I took for that reason.

Did I mention my step-mom chain smokes worse than a repentant hooker, fresh-off-da-crack, who is trying to change her ways, sitting on the back pew of her married boyfriend’s church on Sunday morning, listening to him preach?

There was no rolling down the windows in that tiny 1985 Ford Ranger, either.  Even though I knew the answer would always be, “NO!”, everyday I would ask, “can I please crack my window a little bit?”

My stepmother said if I cracked the window it would “blow her hair”.

Whatever that meant…

Speaking of hair, this was the day that my loving step-mother took me, unannounced, to the beauty shop and had the stylist (back then they were called beauticians) cut all of my hair cut right off my pretty little head.

I had no idea what was about to happen. I know it was traumatic for me because once we got to the beauty shop, the memory stops, and my memory never stops.

Nobody’s memory ever actually “stops”, but I have a very uncanny long-term memory.  I remember everything, especially from childhood, in pictures, or, if you will, movies.  I can click on a memory like you would click on a movie you’d like to see on Netflix.

I can remember every outfit I wore to school on the first day from first to twelfth.  I can remember ninth grade french class ‘dialogue’ (and I employ it from time to time).  I can remember the song that was playing on the radio when me and my step-mom got into a fender-bender when I was three, “Sailing”, by *Christopher Cross.  I can also remember the name of the guy who hit us, *Charles Gardner.  I have memories from before I could walk and I have scars to prove they are real memories.

As I remember things, though, I have surmised that my brain hides the especially bad memories where I can’t find them.

I went to school that morning with long, beautiful, chestnut brown hair and I came home with a bowl cut which was level with my ears.

I was only seven, that was my very first haircut and there’s so much more to go.

 

 

*Just a sidenote to my overactive brain…and anyone else who likes etymology, math and theology

* “Christopher” is a variation of “Christ”

** “Charles” means “freeman”

** “Gardner” means “gardener”

 

 

 

 

I Got Your Hero…

There are few things in this world I absolutely I hate.

I should probably hate many more things than I do.  Given my life experiences….A LOT.

I’ve been raped at least four times, one of those included a gang bang, and the last time I was raped,  it was sodomy.  I WAS ASS-RAPED.

I have been kidnapped twice, once by my father, when I eighteen months old, and once by a strung-out junkie when I was in my mid-twenties.

I have EVERY FUCKING REASON TO HATE….but I don’t.

I do, however, hate, with the fiery-hot passion of a thousand dying suns, PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVENESS AND SARCASM.

I especially hate sarcasm when it’s perpetrated by someone who makes a good show of being sweet-as-pie, because it is expected, or because they “have to”, but inside, they are seething with whatever it is inside their mind and heart, which produces sarcasm.

I do not know too much about sarcasm manufacturing, because I am usually never passive-aggressive, sarcastic, or facetious.

I say what I mean and I mean what I say.  Period.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I can be passive-aggressive with the best of them….I just don’t like to operate in that fashion…It makes me feel like a lying coward with a pussy for a face.

Plus, everyone these days is sarcastic and I hate doing what everyone else does.

I AM a hero and I never was a zero…at least a zero in the way that sarcastic-ass, mean-ass human beings mean….I AM a zero in the sense of INFINITY and IMMORTALITY…but that’s it.

Being truthful makes for a very lonely life.

 

http://video.foxnews.com/v/1997507143001/free-speech-debate-over-offensive-christmas-lights/#sp=show-clips