Where the Wild Things Aren't

I've been having a terrible case of the said-too-much-didn't-say-enoughs. I have two poems I've written that have some good elements mixed in with a bunch of crap, and I can't discern between the two. I've been quite irregular and not in a digestive way, sleeping late, not sleeping. I've not slept in the same place twice in this past week, or close to it, if I were to actually care to focus on reality which I don't, and sex in any sort of meat flesh tangible way had nothing to do with that. I'm eating pizza for breakfast and instead of enjoying it (Ok, I am in a flavor sense- it's nice homemade pizza), I'm thinking how wrong everything is. I want to beat my own self up for being such a whiny cunt- which is a far cry from my poem which referred to my electric cunt™.

I feel as though I have enormous opportunity before me, but I am immobilized. I've even forsaken the blogger's code 128643259275- which states that a certain % of one's posts are supposed to be political. I hope my blog's not taken away by the blog police. I started my period yesterday (for those of you keeping track) and I had no idea it was even coming, well, not in any sort of imminent way. I feel the way I feel about losing all three of the birth videos I used to have. I am scared to think of where they might be, and then some little tape showed up on my dresser last week, from I don't know where, but I now have no means to deal with items of a visual cassettish nature. I'm even now, once again, just having my first cup of coffee, or sauce more properly.

I don't want anyone to tell me what it is I need to do to get into a different space, and ironically enough even though irony has nothing to do with it, I want to wallow in it and can only stand wallowing in it with a keyboard or pen attached to my fingertips. It seems like the perfect energy with which to write something like the memoir I've been fooling myself into thinking I will actually write, but that sounds way too productive. It's not that I don't want to do the work. I actually want to work on it in a projectish way, but there's all this other clutter in the way, physically mostly. Seriously, we have too much crap, and I'm starting to think I'd feel great right now having no crap whatsoever.

Ha. Mr. Be just called and the one and main thing we are wanting to accomplish this summer while we have the rare time with the two youngest mess makers extraordinaire out and about on their adventures is to gut much of our house. In the grand Swedish American™ tradition, IKEA was throwing away a bunch of wood flooring it was paying Mr. Bee's company to pull out because it was discontinued and they didn't want rich fuckers walking around saying, "Where do you keep this flooring?" as they are asking folks to pass them Grey Poupon else they proclaim all the ways false advertising robbed them of all the momentary joy they felt re: ripping out their other wood flooring to have our now new wood flooring. Our white carpet that has been thoroughly lived on by two slobs, four kids, two dogs, two cats, a snake, a slew of hamsters, a bearded dragon, nail polish wearing teens, and a chewy bunny (R.I.P. Scruffy- the elegant eyelid licker) is a sacrifice I will just have to make. Next weekend is it. Oooh, I just got the creeps because I thought of Dexter saying, "This is it. Tonight's the night." (Dexter flashbacks.)

Maybe, I'll blog the transformation. Surely, it will involve my wearing long pants I've rolled up past the knees, no bra and ponytailed short hair. OK, I'm feeling better, because I know after I have all this crap out tha way, I will only have writing my memoir to do... right?

I'll only accept comments that beat me up. I don't want your pity, your sympathy, your supportiveness. I want tough love. I'm going to crank some music and get to it, scream and dance like no one can see or hear me- which thankfully is the case...maybe even in the nude if I want. I'll not think about the yard. I'm getting to work. Yep, right. I want your kinky love comments. No I don't. Yes, I do. Gag me with a silver spoon.

Coming soon:
The Amazing "Ten Days to Hair That Will Stand Up On its Own" in Only Three Days Diet
Caffeine: Perks and Jitters Perks and Jitters
Why Do Rich People Have Less Stuff?
(Seriously- I blame WalMart™™™™™.)
My Own Private Idaho Potato Manfriend: Oh, How I Love Him

... and, the groundbreaking How to Improve Your Sex Life By Sleeping on the Couch (collaborators needed).
My Kinky Corduroy Slipcover Adventures (Ok, now I'm hot- it's the new memoir title.)
Incidentally, warm thoughts to you, Frank. Your writing impacted my life and I thank you immensely. If you could write about boners and alcoholism, so could I. Thanks for reading my blog, ya know.


Doc said...

" I want to wallow in it and can only stand wallowing in it with a keyboard or pen attached to my fingertips"

Wallow. Wallow to your heart's content but there is shit you HAVE to do.

I've been bouncing around in the sleeping arrangements and it has screwed me up for a month. Fuck that!

Get your sleep and rule what you have to do. I'm looking forward to your "Boners & Alcoholism" post as I've suffered from both.

Buck up Private!


You did say tough love right?

Christopher said...

"Why Do Rich People Have Less Stuff? (Seriously- I blame WalMart™™™™™.)"

I always wonder why poor people have more stuff?

Take a drive across this country and anywhere poor and rural and you see front yards percolating with broken down cars and trucks, old fridges, wash machines, tables and chairs and rusty stuff that isn't immediately recognizable as you fly-by in the SUV traveling at 65 miles an hour.

Po folks love to collect.

Or could it be that poor people just don't have as many closets in their homes as rich people so their front yards function as closet space?

Freida Bee, MD said...

Doc- A "Boners and Alcoholism" post it shall be, then.

Christopher- Actually, if there were an enclosed garage and a weekly cleaning person and yard fellow, my yard would look far less white trash. We're not WalMartiers, but our carport contains chandeliers, work tables, wood and more wood, for future building projects... maybe, that half-built green house, perhaps. That's not all that bad, but since there is no large trash hauling twice a year as there is in Austin city proper, one must store up an ample amount of surplus to justify a "dump run" as it were. We have a few degrading entertainment centers, a toilet, 3 washing machines, a vanity (I want for my greenhouse), and some other whatnots spilling out the back of our carport. It's not pretty, and we're usually quite poor, hence my "Why do rich people..." stance, as opposed to a "Why do poor people...." Though, I imagine we could all agree that blaming Republicans, and consumerism is apropos.

Christopher said...


The vanity in the greenhouse could come in handy when relatives come for an extended visit. Just stick them in the greenhouse and tell them they're in the "guest cottage." It will make them feel real special.

I blame Repugs for everything. I mean EVERYTHING.

People who know me say I have a remarkable gift for laying blame for all the world's ills squarely at the door of the GOP.

Randal Graves said...

Is the Electric Cunt some kind of sequel to the Electric Horseman, 'cause I've never seen that flick.

As for clutter, giant bonfire with hot dogs and roasted marshmallows. Wait, that was helpful in a genial sort of way, wasn't it because everyone loves burnt rat anus.

Alright, you're the suckiest suck that ever sucked. Go to hell and take your corduroy pants with you, because even hell can get a cold spell now and then. That was helpful too. I ain't helping you no more.

Dr. Zaius said...

Even with large slatherings of Grey Poupon, I am quite sure that IKEA wood flooring is not edible.