I am so proud. So incredibly proud. As a writer for over 30 years…a published writer yet, I love to look at how people have found my blog on this certain WordPress screen….how they have maneuvered through the millions, if not billions of written words on the World Wide Internet, only to be stunned…if not blinded by the effervescent beauty of the written wittykitty word by typing: “flailing retard orgasm”.
Thank you….thank you very much (bowing graciously and then possibly doing a raucous fart song under my armpit).
Have I ever mentioned that I have the attention span of dyslexic 2 year old who’s been hit in the head with a Chevrolet? Its really been getting bad in the last year week or so and I can’t figure out if its:
- alzheimers lite
- Or just sitting in front of a computer day after day, clicking on every damn story I see pop up even though I have absolutely no interest in them whatsoever. I mean they’re short (matching my short attention span obviously) and they usually involve a movie star falling down in front of their apartment building, somebody from “American Idol” turning gay, a mug shot of Nick Nolte or the fact that the guy who invented Pringles just got buried in a can. Just something! Its just all so totally fascinating to me, even though I don’t really care about 99.99% of it. Its just sort of a case of computer apathy….I’m here so why not click.
But I was just wondering….is this why I have such a short attention span? Is it because everything on the computer and TV is all based on stuff that is so incredibly stupid that even a 50 year old white woman on drugs, who just crash landed in menopause can “get it”? Because for a long while, I actually thought it was because I was huffing pastel dust from my drawings.
Anyways, I was really excited this last week, because I read my first book in ten years. Can you believe that? A real book. Ten years. Not the internet. Yes, its true. It was like exercising a muscle I hadn’t exercised in a really long time….NO, not that one….and it didn’t even hurt!! Can you imagine?
It sort of reminded me of this one profile I’ve been looking at in sMatch.com. (Yes, I’m still looking, but only because my shrink totally brow beat me this week). Anyways, the guy looked pretty intelligent and he wrote really well. How do I know? Because he evidently he’s a REAL writer according to his profile: “I have written three books. Real books. Ones you actually find in the library.” Oh dear, those kind are so much better than the ones you find amidst mushrooms or hovering in dark scary rooms like in an M. Night Shamayalam movie. Yes. We get it. You didn’t self publish them on your Guttenburg press down in the basement. How totally admirable of you. I just hope I can keep up my end of our conversation and you don’t use really large words like: “comprehensive” and “Lithuanian”, if we ever meet. What? We won’t be meeting. You mean since I’m totally frightened, I won’t be your mental equal. Dang!
I did manage to actually leave my house Saturday, tearing myself away from both my computer and the book that I just read. I went to a support meeting down at my old place of employment. I had called my old boss Friday because I was feeling so utterly depressed. She said to come to the meeting and she’d check on the status of my reinstatement with a case manager. I just don’t think that is going to happen. Why? Because I have a big ol’ invisible Scarlet Letter on me. The letter “B” for Blog.
The support group went ok. The people were a little scarier looking than I remembered, but then again, I live in the Village where everything is so pristine, that Martha Stewart would have an orgasm if she drove through here. I was glad I was sitting next to “J”. He made me feel pretty safe.
Afterwards I went to an outdoor art event put on by an arts organization that Charlemagne is involved with. It had been postponed by rain two weeks ago but then Saturday, the weather was even worse…blustery and extremely windy. There wasn’t as much stuff going on as I thought, but I did have a little fun. I saw Charlemagne briefly. And then went to this tent where I got to paint some pottery with a bunch of little kids. The whole tent was billowing and snapping with the high winds. Nothing like abject fear of being sucked into a tornadic vortex to make you paint a little better.
I later went over to where they were painting a “mural”. And since I’m all about painting, I decided to claim the top left corner and paint a lizard. The only annoying thing was, it was on two 15 foot long, 6 foot high pieces of plywood and it was mostly being worked on by little thug kids (boys-age 11, I’d say) who started throwing fully loaded paint brushes at the mural, splattering everything and everyone and then smearing everything and then kicking paint cans around and just being generally disruptive and assholely.
And this one little bastard kept coming over to where I was painting and trying to inexplicably destroy what I was doing by stepping directly in front of me and trying to paint and scribble over my lizard.
Like WTF??? I have menopause and I will kill you.
Of course, I don’t generally yell at anyone, except maybe Guardcat, but I did yell at this kid three separate times. By the third time I snarled “We have 30 feet of wood, why don’t you go down there and play (you little fucking bastard)!”
Inbetween that, however, whilst he and his hoodlum friends were probably off painting kittens with lead paint or something, there was a Dad there with his little daughter who was about 7. She had been pretty hyperactive at the pottery painting part, just grabbing stuff from in front of me. And poking me in the head with her elbow. I just let it go, since she was just being a little kid.
Anyways, some guy had drawn a really nice replica of The Factory who was sponsoring the event, on the mural. He had been standing next to me for about 15 minutes drawing it with markers, while I was painting my lizard. (Oh great, now I’m going to be Googled for “painting my lizard”…probably some random euphemism for masturbation in Chile or something).
Anyways, he even talked to me. Again, I forgot to look at him. He probably was my future husband and I didn’t even know it. So suddenly this little girl started painting over his lovely drawing right after he left. I was standing there, getting a little steamed, not saying anything like I always do. Grrr! Do something, Dad! And her father was even the type who kept saying, “Sarah, don’t do that. Sarah, you should be careful. Sarah, stop. Sarah, wait. I’ll help you.” He just basically never let the kid do anything by herself without explicit directions, which I think I saw a parent do on Dr. Phil’s “Brat Camp” show last week.
Anyways, suddenly this huge gust of wind came and knocked both pieces of plywood (a.k.a. mural) over, trapping the little girl underneath. She started screaming and crying, of course, because all you could see was her frightened little face sticking out. Naturally I ran and lifted the wood off of her since her Dad was just standing there flailing his arms like he was having a seizure. And I was thinking “Dude, rescue your kid. This wood is kinda heavy!” He finally pulled her out and she was totally covered in paint. She looked like a little human mural. It was kinda cute, actually. And fortunately she wasn’t injured in any way. Because within a minute, she was laughing and giggling, playing with the paint globbies all over her clothing. But did the guy say anything to me? Like thanks for pulling the giant mural off my daughter while I stood here acting like Kathy Lee Gifford throwing a hissy fit? Nope. He just yanked her away, yelling at her for ruining her good outfit.
I wish I could have been a human mural. That would have been cool!