I was in a hurry on my way to the Apple store to pick up my MacBook, which had just been repaired after experiencing an ultra-bizarre ant infestation. I was kind of in a daze and wasn’t watching where I was going, so naturally I slammed into somebody.

She was a timid Asian woman who looked up at me and immediately apologized. She must have thought I was crazy (and I can’t really argue with her there) because I grabbed her arm swung her around and said “hey – why did you just apologize to me?”

Her eyes widened and she gave me a nervous laugh as she stood there frozen in disbelief, not really knowing what to do.

Relentlessly, I continued; “no I’m serious… why did you just say sorry to me? You didn’t bump me, I bumped you. I should be the one saying sorry.”

In her misguided wisdom she APOLOGIZED AGAIN. She went to walk away, but I wasn’t gonna drop this. “You just did it again. You apologized a second time!! Why do you feel the need to apologize? I bumped into you, you apologize, I ask you why you feel compelled to say sorry… and you apologize again.”

By this point her face is beginning to look like a beet. She’s embarrassed and shifts her eyes back and forth from me to the passers by, who are likely wondering what the fuck my problem is and what drug I’m on.

She was ready to walk away and I couldn’t really hold her anymore without it being weird, so I let her go. As she walked away I shouted “DON’T KEEP APOLOGIZING FOR YOUR EXISTENCE OKAY”.

Do you know what it’s like
to lie in bed at night and worry
and think about dying
and choking on your tongue?!
Or to fear the ceiling fan
rotating above your head
because it might suddenly fly off
and decapitate you
leaving blood and guts all over your bed.

How about driving and reliving a fatal accident
every time somebody uses their brake light
and I DO MEAN EVERY TIME!

Do you know what it’s like
To be unable to go outside
Because it’s not a good day
I can’t deal with the sunshine today
and I can’t deal with strangers
I can’t deal with neighbours
I don’t feel like driving today
So I won’t

And I look in the mirror
And want to cry or punch it
The reflection staring back at me
Can’t be me
I won’t accept it
So I don’t look
Because I can’t

So I go and lie down
I’m good at that
Into my bed, under the covers
Where I feel safe
and warm
unmotivated and numb
I could sleep forever

But somehow some way
I get up again
And now I’m fine
Laughing, joking, feeling great
I spend a day creating perfect art
I’m a beacon of motivation and productivity
I spend another day designing websites
Editing film or taking on a new project
Or researching crafts on Etsy
For a new business idea
Finding new purpose and meaning in my life
Or discovering THE perfect resort in the Caribbean

I get excited… like I’ve suddenly achieved my life’s work
I want to talk about my find, my new life, my perfection
My latest obsession
I don’t understand why nobody
Seems to share my passion
Or feel as intensely as I do about these things
It bothers me

And then I crash
Hard
Down down down I go
Solo
I feel like I’ve hit a wall
A painful wall
That encapsulates and consumes me

Makes me want to disappear
Not talk to anybody
Go away
Somewhere
Anywhere
Just not here

Do you know what that’s like?
I hope not
If so, we should have coffee
My bipolar friend.

YOU GOTTA CHECK THIS OUT

Well… If you take a look at the LingoSlinger search results, you’d think that I’m running a porn / beastiality site here, not a fiction and literature blog. I mean wow… People who search for information about horse fucking are so determined with their search that not only do they search HORSE FUCKERS, but they also search HORSEFUCKERS just in case somebody missed a space. Wouldn’t wanna miss a horse fucking site now WOULD WE?!

I think this is the post to blame.

Now, Dirty Sanchez… I can’t really complain about that one. I have made reference to a Dirty Sanchez in many-a-post on this site. But one thing that bugs me is the “CANADA SUCKS” one… I live here, I love it here, it doesn’t suck. And if I said that, oh my god I must have been high or something!

Raver lingo… Yeah, that used to be me. All “are we bombin’ tonight?” and “I’m on pink butterfly’s”. Ha ha, those were the days. At least I made it out alive… albeit slightly damaged.

So in short, I’ve learned that most people arrive at my site by way of internet search for horse fuckers and/or horsefucking, weird shit, various types of lingo, Chuck Taylors and microscopic penises. Hopefully that will change one day to awesome writer, published author, poet, THE selina jane, biggest fan base, revolutionary writer….

*sigh

But I guess I’ll take the Horse Fucking for now.

Yes I’m on Facebook
Will I be your friend?
Well that depends
On whether you send me a hatching friend
Or a little green patch
Or a message saying you’ve bought me
An invitation to join a cause
A cute little piece of spam
Cleverly disguised as an app
Just makes me want to snap
It’s like an infomercial paradise
Where spam is free and given as a gift
Like I should be thanking you for this
This dismal insignificant piss
This quasi-spyware application
This tacky representation
Of web 2.0
Gone all pimp and ho
Sell your ass FO SHO
But don’t forget
To tell your friends
That you took an IQ test
And they can perhaps beat you
Just by downloading the app
Yeah, go ahead and snap
You know you want to
What have we become?
Are we now “forward to a friend”
Your friend to the end
And spam you will send
Because nothing says friendship
Like a virtual whiskey sip
Or a bumper sticker quip
Infecting chumps all over
Spreading superwall like a drover
Fuck off with that poke
Is that what we do
We’re not toddlers here
Or are we…
It’s getting really hard to tell
Perhaps we are regressing
Into an childlike hell
Where we X people
And Poke them
Sending them anonymous truths
Because who ever thought
Of picking up the phone
And email
C’est Passé
That was yesterday
So I guess I’m finished now
With my rant
Of the Facebook Low Brow

Socks are like people, THEY LIKE TO MATE… They’re sometimes gay and sometimes straight, their soul purpose in life is to conjugate.

They get tossed into the hamper like washed up whores, taken from the comfort of the sock drawer shores.

And what about their marriage? WELL THAT’S GONE TO SHIT! The hamper quite readily encourages the split.

And the hamper gets squishy and stinky too. Some of those underpants smell like poo. The socks become lethargic and sorta Blue. They miss their lover. THEY MISS THEIR SHOE.

But then comes the day of the BIG BUBBLE WASH! Where each and every sock will soon feel posh.

For their brain gets erased, their thoughts replaced, and their morals and ethics completely displaced.

Cuz now the bubbles are all around, the party’s in town, sluts and singles, abundance abound.

So the BIG BUBBLE WASH is more like an orgy, which some socks presume was started by Georgie.

You see Georgie’s always been kind of a boob, always talkin’ smack about THE SIZE OF HIS TUBE. Everyone has one in their drawer, and if it’s not there, just look on the floor.

The spin cycle is finished and the socks are still damp, stuck on the wall with a two-bit tramp. Others endure the crotch like a champ, while one is forced to intertwine with a vamp.

Next comes the dryer, where the magic occurs. This is where you get THE SOCK ENTREPRENEURS. Promoting hedonist trips, both HIS and HERS, while the lame work socks naturally become fucking saboteurs.

Some socks go back to Sock Drawer Shore, while others (like Georgie) lay used up on the floor. But the luckiest socks can’t be found anymore.

Because they’re at the hedonist sock resort with a fun-loving whore.

My next door neighbour used to plant artificial flowers in her garden and water them. I think she thought that none of us knew they were fake, but we all did. Her garden did look nice though, I’ll give her that, except… she probably should have removed them in the Fall and definitely through the winter.

She lived on her own and rarely had visitors or family over. She seemed so nice every time I saw her in the street. She’d always have something friendly to say. She just seemed like a quiet woman who kept to herself. The complete lack of people in her life didn’t really clue me in to anything, and it wasn’t until she got raging drunk one night that I began figuring her out.

My friends and I were out on the patio enjoying a nice merlot and some sweet cherry cigars, when we heard loud screaming “WooooooooHoooooo….. 40 years! 40 fuckin’ years!”. We all looked at each other and giggled as we thought “what the fuck was that”.

Not ten seconds later another “Yeeeehoooooo” emitted from her house, followed by LOUD celtic music and some hardcore foot stomping, which was sometimes accompanied with clapping. Her stomping, shouting, and clapping occasionally became louder when every so often she’d come outside in the yard and shout “40 YEARS”. We figured her tunes were on a record player because there was a pause a few times between songs.

We couldn’t figure out what she was celebrating. It was all very comedic. Couldn’t of been her age, because she was clearly in her 60s, possibly even 70. She couldn’t get away with 40 if every inch of her skin was botoxed to oblivion. She wasn’t married either, so it couldn’t have been an anniversary. She had no kids and no friends… It was all so very strange.

We all sat there in utter silence, now completely amused and fascinated by Judy, the whacky woman next year who was happy about something being 40 years, only we weren’t sure what.

At one point the music stopped and another neighbour shouted “THANK GOD”

But not two minutes later, Judy had the next track on and resumed her “Woooooohooooo… 40 Years” only to be met by a “SHUT THE FUCK UP” from another neighbour.

We all sat there sipping merlot laughing at the carnival of events happening in our usually quiet neighbourhood. Judy was getting a rise out of people. We wondered if the cops would be called.

About an hour into Judy’s celebration we began getting involved (it was hard not to). We would shout “Wooohoooo YEAH” back at her every so often or “CRANK IT UP”. We laughed as she responded willingly now shouting over the fence at us “Guys - 40 YEARS”.

We heard the creek of her gate open and saw her White hair pop up behind our fence. We were all frozen. She was completely naked, with the exception of a pair of heels and a string of pearls. “Oh poor Judy… What the fuck went wrong in your life” I thought as I stared at her in disbelief.

None of us wanted to let her into the yard, so I said “Well, we’re about to head to bed. But Judy, we have to ask you… What’s with the 40 years, what are you talking about?”

She cackled loudly and shouted “since he’s been gone”

“Since who’s been gone?” I asked curiously

“My husband” she said, no longer laughing.

There was an awkward silence that followed as we all looked around the table at each other. Judy headed back to her yard. I heard her open the gate.

“Good night Judy” I shouted. We all sat quiet for minute and then went in.

Dalia was a beautiful artist & belly dancer who made her life seem almost magical. She had wonderful friends, a supportive family, a great career… and a boyfriend, who just wouldn’t marry her.

Although a bit of a feminist and fiercely independent, Dalia still couldn’t escape the clutches of those childhood dreams. The fantasy of Prince Charming sweeping in on his horse and whisking her away to a beautiful castle where they would be happily ever after. She, like most women, had spent a large portion of her life thinking, dreaming, and fantasizing about being married. On a certain level she knew how cheesy it was to think like this, but on another level it felt inherent and expected.

Unfortunately for Dalia, the dream was a bit of a nightmare. At 35 years old with all of her friends married with kids, they all sort of looked at her and wondered if she’d ever get married. Some wondered if she was damaged goods. Dalia always acted a bit of a free spirit, as if it didn’t much matter to her, and that she didn’t think about it. She would go with the flow and see where life took her.

The truth is, she did think about it. And she felt slightly embarrassed each time she introduced her “boyfriend” to one of her married friends, feeling that it was juvenile for someone of her age… that surely something must have gone wrong in her life to be (gasp!) 35 and unmarried.

One day she jokingly looked at her boyfriend and said “soooo are you ever going to ask me to marry you? Because if you don’t I just might.”

She chuckled, and winked at him who was White as a ghost.

The joking nudge turned out to be a 10 part series on WHY HE’S NOT READY and began to drive a beautiful wedge between them. Not quite the fantasy she had envisioned.

Dalia decided to go for a 2 week vacation by herself to Antigua where she could spend some time alone, catch some rays and think about her life and relationship. She didn’t want to be with a man who couldn’t  bring himself to marry her. Her daddy taught her much more self-worth than that. And after all, she’d already had marriage proposals from men who weren’t with her even a fraction of the time, or who didn’t even know her very well.

One day while out on a catamaran the instructor looked at her and smiled, he said “you are very beautiful, but you have a lot on your mind don’t you?”

She laughed and said “yeah, how’d you know?”

“It’s in your eyes. He said.”

“That predictable huh?!”

“Maybe you should think less and enjoy being here. Look around you. You are in paradise. What could be more beautiful than this?” he asked

“Sharing it with someone” she said

The instructor looked out across the water with an understanding of what she’d just said. He knew she was right. He felt a certain sadness in her statement.

Suddenly the catamaran tipped up on it’s Left side while Dalia hung on for dear life, her face grazing the warm water. She laughed nervously and screamed at the instructor until he set the catamaran down again and they were once again cruising.

“Why did you do that?” she screamed

“To make you stop thinking about your troubles” he said

It had worked. For a moment Dalia was completely taken out of the horrible head space she’d been reluctantly living in for months. She felt ALIVE for once. She actually forgot why she was there and just enjoyed feeling free and happy.

When Dalia left Antigua and arrived home, there were a dozen roses waiting for her on her doorstep with a note that said “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do it. I love you, always will.” Nice way to bow out she thought.

Instead of wallowing or getting all dramatic, Dalia smiled. She was happy to find out before an expensive mistake had been made. Those two weeks were the best thing she’d ever done… and besides, she never wanted to drag a man down the aisle kicking and screaming. How tacky!

When she got inside her apartment, she flipped through all of her mail, turned on the TV and ate the remainders of some Häagen-Dazs while she daydreamed about the instructor in Antigua.

I used to be jealous of those people who had floors that you could eat from, perfect hand towels in the bathroom, and kitchens that made Martha Stewart look like a pig.

For a while my half-assed efforts left me feeling less than adequate when it came to being a “woman” and doing the whole “home making” thing, as I believed I should be. I would cringe at how easily my house became messy, how I still couldn’t get the floors gleaming, or how my living room always look cluttered.

“Some woman I am” I would say to myself on occasion.

Tupperware parties, baking, cleaning products, and PotPourri were never my thing. I never played house as a kid or learned good housekeeping tips from my mom. My siblings and I were horrible and never helped out, and my mom worked and tried to keep up a home and just couldn’t do it most days, which left her angry and tired.

Just because I have a lack of domesticity doesn’t mean I don’t try. There will be days where I crank the tunes and attack the house with the same enthusiasm as perfecting a painting, or days where I whip up some magic in the crock-pot. I AM CAPABLE… It’s just not natural for me. And I always choose spending time with my daughters, art, and creation before housework.

I don’t feel as guilty as I used to about my failing grade in housework. I actually find it sort of humourous. And after all, it’s not like we live like pigs, I just don’t have the same sense of perfection with my housework that I do with my work and art.

Women’s roles have changed drastically over the years and it’s absolutely ridiculous to expect us to behave in the same manner as June Cleaver. We are liberated, strong, opinionated, hard-working, creative people and are just as diverse as the types of jobs we take on.

Despite all of this, I find it funny that as women we still question ourselves if we aren’t perfect mothers, awesome cooks, professional cleaners, and loving wives and partners who stand in the kitchen with a smile and a pair of oven mitts.

Just by being women, we have the hardest job out there. Being a woman in today’s society is tough, so don’t beat yourself up if you have a dust bunny under your couch or a stink in your fridge.

I used to be a shiny penny
Happy go lucky and brighter than any

But then one day my shine went dull…

And when I say dull, I mean that I didn’t even feel like a penny anymore.

I didn’t know what I was, but the closest thing I can think of to describe it would be… nothing.

Yes… I felt like nothing. Not even a penny.

Not even a shitty penny.

Just nothing. I craved to be a penny again, if even a penny LOAFER.

But my worth didn’t come
My feelings went numb
My answer was rum
My outlook was glum

So… I went to my doctor and I told him:

“I don’t feel like a shiny penny anymore”

“Every time I try to raise my worth I hit the floor… My boyfriend just wants things to go back to the way they were before… My mind is like a post-apocalyptic carnival of war… These racing thoughts make me want to put my fist through a door…”

“Doctor… What’s wrong with me?”

And he looked at me sympathetically
(Or at least I thought so anyway)
And said “take these for 2 weeks, and then take these”

As he wrote me a prescription and said “ Don’t stop them though, please.”

And that was that.

My prescription was made. After all, he is a doctor…

He wouldn’t wish my copper to fade… my darkness to invade… or my life to be betrayed.

But why didn’t he tell me that I’d be shaking like a crack head, or that my favourite place would be BED… and that my TOTAL ABILITY TO FEEL ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING would be dead.

You fucking DICK HEAD!

You never cared about me, or helping me get my shine back. You didn’t care that my insides were black … and my emotions just whack.

You just wanted a shiny penny didn’t you?

The whisper in your ear of that new drug debut. Pharmaceutical conditioning encapsulating you… echoing in your mind as I hand you my life to chew.

And with the stroke of a pen you made it so… turned a once shiny penny into a stale cuppa joe and don’t act like you didn’t know. Just because that Hippocratic Oath of yours is a little slow.

Maybe you don’t remember that oath… OR CARE about my healthy emotional growth, but I assure you this:

The success of my life does not rest upon a bottle of pills. The mere thought or mention of that is enough to give an Eskimo the chills.  Without the highs and lows there would be no journey to take, and surely no hills.

I want my highs. I want my lows. I want the passion that makes me write prose.

Because…

I am a shiny penny… Not just some prescription for you to write & dispose!

Today I’m buying hand vacs and learning about lithium while the Jetsons is on in the background and my sanity is teetering on the brink of something, only I am not sure exactly what. I laugh hysterically, at nothing, or is it something? Just my own mental smut.

Yesterday I felt great. Like I was high, only better… and there were no drugs involved.

I can feel the prying eyes around me as I openly express what’s inside my mind and soul with no regard for what they might think. For this is me, and if I can’t be me, then who the fuck can I be? “They” say that all creatives are a bit off kilter, so if that’s just something that comes with the territory then inject my ass with a picnic and no sandwiches baby, because sandwiches aren’t my style. But lucky charms… now THAT! That makes me smile.

Hypersensitivity is something that you learn as you try to understand yourself and gain perspective on who you are. Why you do the things you do, when and what made you, you. This wasn’t something I was particularly interested in previously, but now it is both interesting and engaging, and even a little bit enraging.

Normal is a setting on a washing machine and I know that ain’t the direction that I’m gonna be, so I embrace the wholeness that is me even if it means the occasional bout of irrational thinking. Like buying hand vacs that I don’t need, laughing hysterically at commercials about dill weed, or bingeing on books that I’m not gonna read.

Crunchie bars and mini eggs, Japanese toys, and beer dregs… Poetry, fiction, and Toki Doki… High End cars and almonds that taste smokey. Tattoos and art, pretending to be a rock star, enjoying the things in life that are somewhat bizarre.

I am not a washing machine, and even if I was… Normal, wouldn’t be one of MY settings.