WE
You and I
Exist eye-to-eye at the center.
Equal connection.
Questioning privilege and situation.
Sharing power.
WE
You and I
Exist on a par
Or not at all . . .
I made it out. I am still alive. I will have this. Cus i used to think i would die when i finally healed, or the revolution would come. But instead comes something else.
Satyam shivam sundaram.
om bhur bhuvaha swaha
tat savitur varenyam
bhargo devasya dhimahi
dhiyoyonaha prachodayaat.
om namah saraswate
om namah durge
om namah kali
om namah stute.
and skin to skin, this is satyan shivam sundaram.
these are small pieces of longing i write,
with more devotion than veda or darshan,
words thicker than the smoke
rising from the stripped scalp of coconut
in the morning.
love, i heard you underneath
like Vishnu crawling seas as fish,
Buddha in samadhi,
Krishna smashing body against soul,
satyam shivam sundaram.
-
[excerpts from Anurima Bannerji and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha]
-
Friday, November 2, 2007
A bit of feminist theory in the morning...
"What you see is not what you get... [at least to the naked eye]
as big as the universe and more expensive.
When she opens her legs, she flatters the planet.
Taking you in short breaths or deep drags off the end of a long, hard stare, she sucks you in and through the black hole she's grown accustomed to living with - that elusive quality that takes up so much space. And she'll take you for a ride with the enthusiasm of a new millennium superhero, diving off tall buildings into the atmosphere, a free-falling supernova spitting atoms.
She lives in the fourth dimension where everything you've seen and heard is an illusion.
She also knows that at her most desirable she's supposed to dominate with supernova moans that humble the night sky. She's heard echoes about the evolution of relationships from mono to poly. Everything about her is already plural.
She was born aerodynamic, smooth like the milky way, but mostly too practical to do all the work when she doesn't need to. Yes, her corset is laced with burdens, her boots polished to a fine challenge.
She must be riding high, but she's a bottom eater in search of more.
The truth is, when you're usually in control it takes more strength to let yourself be taken than it does to do the taking.
An intergalactic insomniac, a shark who must keep moving in order to preserve the species and continue into the next generation. She's here and now...she remembers with a vengeance, fucks with resistance, and loves only when every other need has been tended to first. All of this comes at a price; the universal exhaustion of a hard-working, working girl. She's tired of strangers ordering her to 'smile.' Tired of walking down city streets as though crossing a grenade field and trying not to step on the wrong onlooker. She's perpetually stuck in a time-warp between bright high neon flashing eclipse and absolute invisibility.
Can anybody see her?
She's a time traveler moving faster than the speed of sound, linking past, present and future. Bridging across the galaxy between straight and bent. Between woman-loving and woman-hating. Between the pages of a book. She's here to remind the galaxy that is is possible to be more than one half of any duality, more than just an extension, an opposite: male/female. Rational/emotional.
Moving in waves - not steps - her posture is regal. her shoulders are back, she wears the dress before the dress wears her. or maybe not.
Maybe she can't crawl out of bed some days, can't choose the proper costume. She knows costumes and weapons are one in the same and she knows all too well.
The truth is she can make you comfortable in your skin even when you shouldn't be, and she wears great pain.
So beware. Up close, microscopically, she might not be what you envision. She might shock with her unkempt reality: clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in months, unshaven legs, breath that bites back, and teeth that wear fur coats. Wrinkles across her soul.
...older than time, made of miniscule particles insisting that even small matter, matters. She lives in chaos where random, inexplicable events defy logic, where unforeseen tragedy strikes when least expected. She's guarded by the protective rings around Saturn. Shielded by the armour-thick glow of the Aurora Borealis. Leery of newcomers. You can't label her neuroses, identify her predilections, or even predict what she would eat for breakfast. She's slippery, gliding through expectations like spilt mercury dancing down your leg, curdling and separating. She's been many people in many places but somehow always the same...
She knows exactly what she likes even when it's not in Vogue. She's attracted to power because it's like looking in the mirror.
So, don't touch too softly or she won't notice, and don't wait for an invitation. The whips she carries are sewn into the lining of her skull, the bondage she employs leaches like poison from her pores. Odorless. Tasteless. It can't be bought or passed on at a weekend retreat. You can't begin to imagine what sadomasochistic lifetimes she's consented to. Or, those she didn't. You can't know her by defining her parameters, testing her tolerance, or crossing her boundaries.
She has a voracious appetite for the truth and the truth hurts most of all.
She doesn't want to demand that you make her come - she wants to dare you. Make her come so she can go away, leave herself with the pounding pounding of your hand...Let the vibrbrbrbrbrbrbrations on her clit stop time.
She's woman enough to give it up for you and astronomical enough to make each explosion feel new. She won't break or fall to pieces. She knows no singular force is strong enough to reach her now.
she knows where she's going and never forgets where she came from: a single-mother-no-father-big-bang-theory of creation.
she doesn't crave picket fences, station wagons or diamond rings.
Her people are flawed beyond repair so she's had to learn to love and hate simultaneously. Don't be surprised by the company she keeps.
she comes from way down low, on her knees. Pressed into dank mattresses.
The deep metamorphosis lesson that teaches young girls how to become cosmic women: impenetrable. Unflinching. Brazen. She keeps a good secret unless the price is too high and then she'll share it with the stars, naming one for every scar on the inside lining of her flesh.
She's a body housing infinite possibilities for women, some of them snuffed out at a tender age. Some of them raging till dawn. You only think you know her. she's a mother of a woman - the kind that makes Betty Crocker fall to her knees and ask for forgiveness.
She will close her eyes and give birth to new planets, an entire universe balancing on a single eyelash. She sees the future staring back at her with bloodshot eyes. Lips on fire, arched eyebrows, and bottoms up. She's the woman-child who never fit because she learned too soon not to be satisfied with mere mortals.
People are like fish, she thinks, they only grow to the size of their bowls. She doesn't run for cover, shade her eyes from the blinding sun, or expect to be whisked away on white steeds or black Harley Davidsons. She rescues herself. And she knows, every woman needs to be saved at least once in her life.
She never gives up.
Her first word was, "mine." Her second was "eternity." She's destined to be dream larger than life and because she thinks big, she is.
Sure she's a quantum figment of collective imagination, but she's also a femme of her own design.
And it doesn't really matter what name you call her by, it's the one she answers to that counts."
From Quantum Femme, an essay by Elizabeth Ruth
as big as the universe and more expensive.
When she opens her legs, she flatters the planet.
Taking you in short breaths or deep drags off the end of a long, hard stare, she sucks you in and through the black hole she's grown accustomed to living with - that elusive quality that takes up so much space. And she'll take you for a ride with the enthusiasm of a new millennium superhero, diving off tall buildings into the atmosphere, a free-falling supernova spitting atoms.
She lives in the fourth dimension where everything you've seen and heard is an illusion.
She also knows that at her most desirable she's supposed to dominate with supernova moans that humble the night sky. She's heard echoes about the evolution of relationships from mono to poly. Everything about her is already plural.
She was born aerodynamic, smooth like the milky way, but mostly too practical to do all the work when she doesn't need to. Yes, her corset is laced with burdens, her boots polished to a fine challenge.
She must be riding high, but she's a bottom eater in search of more.
The truth is, when you're usually in control it takes more strength to let yourself be taken than it does to do the taking.
An intergalactic insomniac, a shark who must keep moving in order to preserve the species and continue into the next generation. She's here and now...she remembers with a vengeance, fucks with resistance, and loves only when every other need has been tended to first. All of this comes at a price; the universal exhaustion of a hard-working, working girl. She's tired of strangers ordering her to 'smile.' Tired of walking down city streets as though crossing a grenade field and trying not to step on the wrong onlooker. She's perpetually stuck in a time-warp between bright high neon flashing eclipse and absolute invisibility.
Can anybody see her?
She's a time traveler moving faster than the speed of sound, linking past, present and future. Bridging across the galaxy between straight and bent. Between woman-loving and woman-hating. Between the pages of a book. She's here to remind the galaxy that is is possible to be more than one half of any duality, more than just an extension, an opposite: male/female. Rational/emotional.
Moving in waves - not steps - her posture is regal. her shoulders are back, she wears the dress before the dress wears her. or maybe not.
Maybe she can't crawl out of bed some days, can't choose the proper costume. She knows costumes and weapons are one in the same and she knows all too well.
The truth is she can make you comfortable in your skin even when you shouldn't be, and she wears great pain.
So beware. Up close, microscopically, she might not be what you envision. She might shock with her unkempt reality: clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in months, unshaven legs, breath that bites back, and teeth that wear fur coats. Wrinkles across her soul.
...older than time, made of miniscule particles insisting that even small matter, matters. She lives in chaos where random, inexplicable events defy logic, where unforeseen tragedy strikes when least expected. She's guarded by the protective rings around Saturn. Shielded by the armour-thick glow of the Aurora Borealis. Leery of newcomers. You can't label her neuroses, identify her predilections, or even predict what she would eat for breakfast. She's slippery, gliding through expectations like spilt mercury dancing down your leg, curdling and separating. She's been many people in many places but somehow always the same...
She knows exactly what she likes even when it's not in Vogue. She's attracted to power because it's like looking in the mirror.
So, don't touch too softly or she won't notice, and don't wait for an invitation. The whips she carries are sewn into the lining of her skull, the bondage she employs leaches like poison from her pores. Odorless. Tasteless. It can't be bought or passed on at a weekend retreat. You can't begin to imagine what sadomasochistic lifetimes she's consented to. Or, those she didn't. You can't know her by defining her parameters, testing her tolerance, or crossing her boundaries.
She has a voracious appetite for the truth and the truth hurts most of all.
She doesn't want to demand that you make her come - she wants to dare you. Make her come so she can go away, leave herself with the pounding pounding of your hand...Let the vibrbrbrbrbrbrbrations on her clit stop time.
She's woman enough to give it up for you and astronomical enough to make each explosion feel new. She won't break or fall to pieces. She knows no singular force is strong enough to reach her now.
she knows where she's going and never forgets where she came from: a single-mother-no-father-bi
she doesn't crave picket fences, station wagons or diamond rings.
Her people are flawed beyond repair so she's had to learn to love and hate simultaneously. Don't be surprised by the company she keeps.
she comes from way down low, on her knees. Pressed into dank mattresses.
The deep metamorphosis lesson that teaches young girls how to become cosmic women: impenetrable. Unflinching. Brazen. She keeps a good secret unless the price is too high and then she'll share it with the stars, naming one for every scar on the inside lining of her flesh.
She's a body housing infinite possibilities for women, some of them snuffed out at a tender age. Some of them raging till dawn. You only think you know her. she's a mother of a woman - the kind that makes Betty Crocker fall to her knees and ask for forgiveness.
She will close her eyes and give birth to new planets, an entire universe balancing on a single eyelash. She sees the future staring back at her with bloodshot eyes. Lips on fire, arched eyebrows, and bottoms up. She's the woman-child who never fit because she learned too soon not to be satisfied with mere mortals.
People are like fish, she thinks, they only grow to the size of their bowls. She doesn't run for cover, shade her eyes from the blinding sun, or expect to be whisked away on white steeds or black Harley Davidsons. She rescues herself. And she knows, every woman needs to be saved at least once in her life.
She never gives up.
Her first word was, "mine." Her second was "eternity." She's destined to be dream larger than life and because she thinks big, she is.
Sure she's a quantum figment of collective imagination, but she's also a femme of her own design.
And it doesn't really matter what name you call her by, it's the one she answers to that counts."
From Quantum Femme, an essay by Elizabeth Ruth
Que sera, sera
sing a song for me
not that one in the back row popped off the top charts
or the one your friends cousin uncles sister thinks is so great because of the catchy melody.
i want the one thats old dusty recovered from long distances crossed waters
across plains of existence
beyond any doubt that its been played around fires
the crescendo bouncing off walls acoustically speaking
remembering it makes you crinkle your nose from
the hilarity of musics grand insanity capture it had on you.
oh please make a song out of me
from fingertips, silent lips, up on the high ground finished with drowning.
im finished with all of it.
but scared witless eyesight hindrance immobile
batting in the last inning
ive forgot how it felt to win.
or maybe i forgot how to drown.
head barely above water waiting for the tide.
i forgot i could write so eloquently i put everything else above me and tragedy spills home out into this screen.
ink flows like heavily trafficked veins
it stops
the corners of mouth curl up into something resembling a smile, but deeper.
longer.
sincerely.
this power is heavy. this lack of power is exhilarating.
such an open wound, naturally healing, forming enclosure.
i can't even begin to finish the thought.
i miss writing and i miss being good at this.
im opening my notebooks yet again.
time to reminisce.
the writer in me is back from a long vacation.
i'll see ya around.
-----
Yo no puedo explicar en inglés.
Esta vez yo no estoy atemorizado. yo no puedo ser.
Todo quiero es de...estar enamorado.
Soy feliz de ser donde soy.
not that one in the back row popped off the top charts
or the one your friends cousin uncles sister thinks is so great because of the catchy melody.
i want the one thats old dusty recovered from long distances crossed waters
across plains of existence
beyond any doubt that its been played around fires
the crescendo bouncing off walls acoustically speaking
remembering it makes you crinkle your nose from
the hilarity of musics grand insanity capture it had on you.
oh please make a song out of me
from fingertips, silent lips, up on the high ground finished with drowning.
im finished with all of it.
but scared witless eyesight hindrance immobile
batting in the last inning
ive forgot how it felt to win.
or maybe i forgot how to drown.
head barely above water waiting for the tide.
i forgot i could write so eloquently i put everything else above me and tragedy spills home out into this screen.
ink flows like heavily trafficked veins
it stops
the corners of mouth curl up into something resembling a smile, but deeper.
longer.
sincerely.
this power is heavy. this lack of power is exhilarating.
such an open wound, naturally healing, forming enclosure.
i can't even begin to finish the thought.
i miss writing and i miss being good at this.
im opening my notebooks yet again.
time to reminisce.
the writer in me is back from a long vacation.
i'll see ya around.
-----
Yo no puedo explicar en inglés.
Esta vez yo no estoy atemorizado. yo no puedo ser.
Todo quiero es de...estar enamorado.
Soy feliz de ser donde soy.
Poems by Aleksandr Pushkin
"I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.
I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man. "
"My used ignorance--in an instant
Was shaken by the demon's hand,
And he combined my poor existence
With his existence to the end.
His evil eyes became my own,
I gain poor treasure of the worlds,
My heart was beating in a tone
With indistinguishable words.
I'd looked at all with look that's clear,
And I was shocked by what I'd seen;
Whether such world could once appear
As great and beautiful to me?
What, a young dreamer, looked you for
In such a world, with utter fervor,
For whom, with all your heart before,
You were not shamed to pray forever?
And I looked at the people, else:
The 'judges' of the lowest level --
So cruel, lofty, biased, base --
The fools that always drift to evil.
Before these ever-frightened hosts,
So vain, and cold, and full of vengeance,
The voice of truth is simply lost,
And helpless -- knowledge of the ages.
You're right, the ever-witty nations,
A call for freedom is asleep!
Herds needn't freedom's innovations,
They have to be just cut and stripped,
Their heritage for generations --
The yoke with joker's bells and whip."
"You're the kind that always loses,
Bliss and you are all at odds:
You're too sweet when chance refuses
And too clever when it nods. "
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.
I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man. "
"My used ignorance--in an instant
Was shaken by the demon's hand,
And he combined my poor existence
With his existence to the end.
His evil eyes became my own,
I gain poor treasure of the worlds,
My heart was beating in a tone
With indistinguishable words.
I'd looked at all with look that's clear,
And I was shocked by what I'd seen;
Whether such world could once appear
As great and beautiful to me?
What, a young dreamer, looked you for
In such a world, with utter fervor,
For whom, with all your heart before,
You were not shamed to pray forever?
And I looked at the people, else:
The 'judges' of the lowest level --
So cruel, lofty, biased, base --
The fools that always drift to evil.
Before these ever-frightened hosts,
So vain, and cold, and full of vengeance,
The voice of truth is simply lost,
And helpless -- knowledge of the ages.
You're right, the ever-witty nations,
A call for freedom is asleep!
Herds needn't freedom's innovations,
They have to be just cut and stripped,
Their heritage for generations --
The yoke with joker's bells and whip."
"You're the kind that always loses,
Bliss and you are all at odds:
You're too sweet when chance refuses
And too clever when it nods. "
A way to explain my painfully indescribable lust for music
" Lew Wygotski, the renowned defectologist wrote:
"Words die giving birth to thoughts, implying thereby that thought and speech transcend one another."
This is along much the same lines as Schopenhaur's assertion that thoughts die the minute they are dressed in words. Words are but reference points for experiences, the idea of conversation being to evoke common ground through associations between people. But maybe there are other ways of arriving at the same result. It is sometimes said that a picture says more than a thousand words. So does music; it is a method of conveyeing emotional states of mind from the creator to the listener. "
- Carl-Johan Vallgren, The Horrible Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot (His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred); a novel
"Words die giving birth to thoughts, implying thereby that thought and speech transcend one another."
This is along much the same lines as Schopenhaur's assertion that thoughts die the minute they are dressed in words. Words are but reference points for experiences, the idea of conversation being to evoke common ground through associations between people. But maybe there are other ways of arriving at the same result. It is sometimes said that a picture says more than a thousand words. So does music; it is a method of conveyeing emotional states of mind from the creator to the listener. "
- Carl-Johan Vallgren, The Horrible Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot (His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred); a novel
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Once in awhile...
I get this urge to blog.
Blog, verb form of the word. Also known as, write.
Better known as, telling everyone on the interwebz your daily life including that nummy sandwich you ate at 4:37 pm.
What do you say to a professor, who may or may not understand, that you are sincerely sorry but you have fallen behind in the class due to short increments of mental illness that you should awaken from in 2-3 days following the continuance of your monthly therapy...
Short. outbursts. of. emotional and slightly physical (but your fault entirely from all that moshing) stress.
Thanks, can i get a extension to practice my singing?
No, no you cannot. College doesnt work that way.
You got yourself into this mess.
why take 10 classes, practice 4 instruments not including voice, and think that was a good idea?
One big shortcoming.
Ahead in one class, behind in another.
The broken pencil tip behind the broken pencil tip repeating the same mistakes.
Hoping for a lead in the defense team on procrastination.
Make way, I'm not waiting for heartbreak this time!
I'm running right in.
Why did i think perfect was waiting in the body of a 18 year old sax playing, civil war reenacting, hybrid-buddhist/jainist monk idealed, woman-scorned and bitter computer science major.
Why did i believe perfect was waiting for me at 19, second year of college.
Who am i to believe perfect comes that easy.
I should've seen this one coming, dad.
A car crash in slow motion.
I leave with this quote,
" I believe in a power that is of and by the people.
I believe in an art that cannot be compromised.
I believe that I will endure, and I will overcome.
And I will sing it until I no longer remember the reason."
-Against Me!
-Bob
Blog, verb form of the word. Also known as, write.
Better known as, telling everyone on the interwebz your daily life including that nummy sandwich you ate at 4:37 pm.
What do you say to a professor, who may or may not understand, that you are sincerely sorry but you have fallen behind in the class due to short increments of mental illness that you should awaken from in 2-3 days following the continuance of your monthly therapy...
Short. outbursts. of. emotional and slightly physical (but your fault entirely from all that moshing) stress.
Thanks, can i get a extension to practice my singing?
No, no you cannot. College doesnt work that way.
You got yourself into this mess.
why take 10 classes, practice 4 instruments not including voice, and think that was a good idea?
One big shortcoming.
Ahead in one class, behind in another.
The broken pencil tip behind the broken pencil tip repeating the same mistakes.
Hoping for a lead in the defense team on procrastination.
Make way, I'm not waiting for heartbreak this time!
I'm running right in.
Why did i think perfect was waiting in the body of a 18 year old sax playing, civil war reenacting, hybrid-buddhist/jainist monk idealed, woman-scorned and bitter computer science major.
Why did i believe perfect was waiting for me at 19, second year of college.
Who am i to believe perfect comes that easy.
I should've seen this one coming, dad.
A car crash in slow motion.
I leave with this quote,
" I believe in a power that is of and by the people.
I believe in an art that cannot be compromised.
I believe that I will endure, and I will overcome.
And I will sing it until I no longer remember the reason."
-Against Me!
-Bob
Friday, August 31, 2007
Dying in a Plane crash
I have a recurring dream about dying in a plane crash. In fact, I had one last night. It's happened so much I feel that I'm as much an expert in dying in plane crashes as any living being can be. I'm not superstitious. I'm not afraid to fly. But on the off-hand chance this dream turns prophetic, I feel qualified enough to make a request for anyone unfortunate enough to be on that plane with me...
I don't mind the idea of dying in a plane crash. In my dreams, I've done it a thousand times under a thousand different conditions. In most instances, death is instantaneous and painless. The thing that does bother me is what happens during that final plummet. Yes it's terrifying. But please, for the love of God, what's with the screaming? I understand you're frightened. I understand you don't want to die. I'm coming to terms with that myself as is every other passenger on that plane. But while I'm facing my imminent demise looking out the window in absolute silence and stunned horror, you're ruining the last few moments of everyone else's existence with your incessant shrill chimpanzee-like shrieking.
You're going to die. Of what possible use is a last-minute vocal exercise going to serve other than to completely annoy everyone around you and make a terrible situation even more unbearable? We are all in shock. Our sense of time slows and our senses become sharper. Now is not the time to be yelling. I'm not a religious man; but I don't mind if you pray. I might even hold your hand. But please keep it within an acceptable decibel level. If your God is real, he isn't hard of hearing, and he's most certainly aware that the plane is going down. He apparently has a plan, and he's not going to change his mind on the basis of how loud you beg him to alter it. Besides, you have an eternal life to look forward to. Look at me... I'm an atheist, and I'm keeping my mouth shut. Superman doesn't exist, so I'm hoping you're not calling for him. Anyone who can help you is already busy trying.
All I'm asking for a bit of reverence so we may die in dignity. If you treat it like a fucking roller coaster, I swear I'm going to punch you square in the kisser for depriving me of this... and I'm pretty sure I'll get away with it.
BEST OF
I don't mind the idea of dying in a plane crash. In my dreams, I've done it a thousand times under a thousand different conditions. In most instances, death is instantaneous and painless. The thing that does bother me is what happens during that final plummet. Yes it's terrifying. But please, for the love of God, what's with the screaming? I understand you're frightened. I understand you don't want to die. I'm coming to terms with that myself as is every other passenger on that plane. But while I'm facing my imminent demise looking out the window in absolute silence and stunned horror, you're ruining the last few moments of everyone else's existence with your incessant shrill chimpanzee-like shrieking.
You're going to die. Of what possible use is a last-minute vocal exercise going to serve other than to completely annoy everyone around you and make a terrible situation even more unbearable? We are all in shock. Our sense of time slows and our senses become sharper. Now is not the time to be yelling. I'm not a religious man; but I don't mind if you pray. I might even hold your hand. But please keep it within an acceptable decibel level. If your God is real, he isn't hard of hearing, and he's most certainly aware that the plane is going down. He apparently has a plan, and he's not going to change his mind on the basis of how loud you beg him to alter it. Besides, you have an eternal life to look forward to. Look at me... I'm an atheist, and I'm keeping my mouth shut. Superman doesn't exist, so I'm hoping you're not calling for him. Anyone who can help you is already busy trying.
All I'm asking for a bit of reverence so we may die in dignity. If you treat it like a fucking roller coaster, I swear I'm going to punch you square in the kisser for depriving me of this... and I'm pretty sure I'll get away with it.
BEST OF
Like Judge Judy but with more profanity..
BEST OF CRAIGSLIST
On Kids-
I dont have kids. My friends dont have kids. My experience with little kids is fairly limited. However, i have fairly extensive experience with junior high and high school kids. And y'know what? They're spoiled, arrogant little assholes.
When I see some kid at the restaurant that wont take off his headphones or put away his PSP to eat dinner, I want to slap his parents in the face. When I watch Nanny 911 or Supernanny and I hear some beanbag housewife whining that she cant control her 3 year old, I want to kick my television set to the floor. When I hear some little crotchfruit at Meijers throwing a tantrum because he cant have a video game/candy bar/toy, I want to go up to him and scream at him as loudly as i possibly can, until my throat is raw and bleeding and i'm screaming a fine red mist all over this little shit's face.
What the fuck ever happened to discipline? NO MEANS NO. It doesnt even have to involve spankings, I was spanked maybe 3 times when I was a kid. Those 3 times were enough. YOU'RE the parent, YOU'RE the adult, YOU ARE IN CONTROL. I'm sorry, but if you're 30 and cant control a 3 year old you belong in a home with someone spooning applesauce into your stupid piehole. If you dont want to take the time to be a parent, dont have kids. It IS a choice, if abortion is against your beliefs then give the baby up to one of the thousands of couples who cant have kids but desperatly want them. (unless their gay, because we all know gay people cant raise babies. two people who love eachother are only allowed children if the peepees dont match.)
Parenting takes time and effort, I'm pretty sure on that one, and by time and effort I do NOT mean plunking them down in front of the television for 5 hours. It does not mean buying a 4 year old an X-BOX 360 so "he wont get bored." HE'S 4. A four year old can play with a box and some lawn chairs for hours on end, and be perfectly happy. However, when the kid is stacking the lawnchairs on the box and then trying to stand on top of it and falls, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SUE THE LAWN CHAIR COMPANY. You were supposed to be watching him, hell, maybe helping him build his fort, not sitting on your ass in the other room talking on the phone, painting your nails, and watching Dr. Phil. You are not entitled to monetary damages because you're an idiot. I wish I was a judge, I'd be like Judge Judy except with more profanity.
People, the world has been dumbed down enough. Stop freaking out and whining about television/music/games/movies and fucking it up for adults. You dont like the vulgar music your kids listen to? I agree, it's a little disturbing to have a 10 year old walking around singing "my humps" or "crazy bitch", so maybe dont buy them the cd's? I like the cd's and I'm 26 years old, but because of your bitching certain stores wont carry the cds I might enjoy.
You dont like violent video games? Quit waiting in line for 234231 hours the day after Thanksgiving to buy them x-box nine billion.
Does your 8 year old really need a shirt that says TEASE and itty bitty shorts that say JUICY on the butt? You want to paint her a big red sandwich board that says "PEDOPHILES PLEASE LOOK AT ME" while you're at it?
Exercise a little discipline and maybe some personal self-control. You dont have to buy them everything they ask for. Or, if some analogies might help you out here, quit digging your own grave, quit making the bed that you will sleep in, quit shooting yourself in the foot. Do not buy a video game and then freak out and attempt to sue video game companies because it "made" your kid attempt to torch your neighbors cat. Do some research. Wait, that might take up some of your Days of our Lives programming time, maybe try it at night, after you shoot your husband down for sex because you've been too tired "watching the kids" all day. He can sneak off to his laptop to look at porn, you can sit in the living room and actually try making yourself a better parent. It's so much easier to do that without those pesky kids around.
Fuck you and your whiny, spoiled, irritating, pussy kids.
(and before you email me saying YOU'RE NOT A MOTHER SO YOU DONT KNOW, realize that I dont care. Whether or not I'm a mother has nothing to do with how crappy you are as a parent. When I see your child, it's in public, where they should be on their best behavior. If this is how they act in public, good fucking luck with them at home.)
On Kids-
I dont have kids. My friends dont have kids. My experience with little kids is fairly limited. However, i have fairly extensive experience with junior high and high school kids. And y'know what? They're spoiled, arrogant little assholes.
When I see some kid at the restaurant that wont take off his headphones or put away his PSP to eat dinner, I want to slap his parents in the face. When I watch Nanny 911 or Supernanny and I hear some beanbag housewife whining that she cant control her 3 year old, I want to kick my television set to the floor. When I hear some little crotchfruit at Meijers throwing a tantrum because he cant have a video game/candy bar/toy, I want to go up to him and scream at him as loudly as i possibly can, until my throat is raw and bleeding and i'm screaming a fine red mist all over this little shit's face.
What the fuck ever happened to discipline? NO MEANS NO. It doesnt even have to involve spankings, I was spanked maybe 3 times when I was a kid. Those 3 times were enough. YOU'RE the parent, YOU'RE the adult, YOU ARE IN CONTROL. I'm sorry, but if you're 30 and cant control a 3 year old you belong in a home with someone spooning applesauce into your stupid piehole. If you dont want to take the time to be a parent, dont have kids. It IS a choice, if abortion is against your beliefs then give the baby up to one of the thousands of couples who cant have kids but desperatly want them. (unless their gay, because we all know gay people cant raise babies. two people who love eachother are only allowed children if the peepees dont match.)
Parenting takes time and effort, I'm pretty sure on that one, and by time and effort I do NOT mean plunking them down in front of the television for 5 hours. It does not mean buying a 4 year old an X-BOX 360 so "he wont get bored." HE'S 4. A four year old can play with a box and some lawn chairs for hours on end, and be perfectly happy. However, when the kid is stacking the lawnchairs on the box and then trying to stand on top of it and falls, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SUE THE LAWN CHAIR COMPANY. You were supposed to be watching him, hell, maybe helping him build his fort, not sitting on your ass in the other room talking on the phone, painting your nails, and watching Dr. Phil. You are not entitled to monetary damages because you're an idiot. I wish I was a judge, I'd be like Judge Judy except with more profanity.
People, the world has been dumbed down enough. Stop freaking out and whining about television/music/games/movies and fucking it up for adults. You dont like the vulgar music your kids listen to? I agree, it's a little disturbing to have a 10 year old walking around singing "my humps" or "crazy bitch", so maybe dont buy them the cd's? I like the cd's and I'm 26 years old, but because of your bitching certain stores wont carry the cds I might enjoy.
You dont like violent video games? Quit waiting in line for 234231 hours the day after Thanksgiving to buy them x-box nine billion.
Does your 8 year old really need a shirt that says TEASE and itty bitty shorts that say JUICY on the butt? You want to paint her a big red sandwich board that says "PEDOPHILES PLEASE LOOK AT ME" while you're at it?
Exercise a little discipline and maybe some personal self-control. You dont have to buy them everything they ask for. Or, if some analogies might help you out here, quit digging your own grave, quit making the bed that you will sleep in, quit shooting yourself in the foot. Do not buy a video game and then freak out and attempt to sue video game companies because it "made" your kid attempt to torch your neighbors cat. Do some research. Wait, that might take up some of your Days of our Lives programming time, maybe try it at night, after you shoot your husband down for sex because you've been too tired "watching the kids" all day. He can sneak off to his laptop to look at porn, you can sit in the living room and actually try making yourself a better parent. It's so much easier to do that without those pesky kids around.
Fuck you and your whiny, spoiled, irritating, pussy kids.
(and before you email me saying YOU'RE NOT A MOTHER SO YOU DONT KNOW, realize that I dont care. Whether or not I'm a mother has nothing to do with how crappy you are as a parent. When I see your child, it's in public, where they should be on their best behavior. If this is how they act in public, good fucking luck with them at home.)
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