July 28, 2006
Hot damn... it's working this time... so far.
The house is still as clean as it was when I got done with it the other day.
I just did a load of wash and I don't think I've washed more'n about 10 dishes at once yet.These are both "as opposed to having to wash them on an as needed basis" like I was doing for a while there. My sleep patterns are still wonky, but hell... they have been my whole life, anyway.
I remember Johnny Carson with brown hair.
(Yes, even as a kid, I was usually up late enough to watch "The Tonight Show".) Went and saw the horses yesterday, too.
Shitheads made me walk allllllllllll the way down the stupid field to where they were in the trees, though.
Then, after I'd sprayed 'em and they saw I had CARROTS!, they followed me alllllllll the way back to the gate. I've been up since 1am.
Like I said, the dishes and wash are done and I now have NatLamp's Family Vacation on, with about 8 more movies "on deck", and I'm about to finally re-do my nails.
Tired of not being able to scratch an itch worth a shit. Then, I've got another cake waitin' to be made... this time it's gonna be a spice cake with butter cream icing. And, I hafta feed the outside dogs, check the rest of the critters, get to the bank before 3pm, make dinner later and whatever else presents itself, I guess. All in all, I'm riding this shit instead of it riding me.
And, yeah... when I see Rob's face in my mind now, he's smiling. I feel level.
Balanced.
Easy. And, I don't even have a feeling or sense of "watch it, this is when bad shit likes to happen."
I know that it's true, but I don't believe it's gonna go that way.
*knocks on skull in lieu of wood just because*
*grin* And, whatever DOES happen to happen will be handled. This can be done. Now... off to the "manicure station" in front of the TV. Peace
Posted by: Stevie at 05:40 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 26, 2006
Thirty days...
If this is "rehab" to get me past the addiction, it's not working.
Thirty days that simultaneously have whipped by, yet seem like forever, so far. I can't believe he's been gone a month, yet it feels like it's been years since I last hung out at his place, shootin' the shit, laughing, loving and occasionally kicking some troll's ass. Thirty days and mostly what I've done is gotten myself totally ass-backward again, as far as sleeping habits.Among other things... For instance, I just got up a while ago.
Went to bed aroooound... what? 2? 2:30pm? I sleep fine, but...
I'm totally opposite everybody in my house. And, it's only as of today that I may have finally gotten myself back as far as the way I like to keep the house. I thought I'd gotten back to it a coupla weeks ago, but... I was fulla shit. I cleaned the house, yeah, but then I just kinda fell apart again and let it go again. I don't know what it is I've been doin', but it isn't "being healthy".
It isn't being who I was "before".
And, not that he's not being taken care of, but I haven't even laid eyes on Bo in I don't know how long.
I mean... it IS too hot to be riding during the day, but... as much as him just being there means... I just haven't been motivated, moved or whatever to drive down there.
Eric's been sprayin' 'em and puttin' 'em in and takin' 'em out and alla that. I do go buy the shit for 'em, from the fly spray up to and including carrots, but beyond that... I'm on empty.
Same as I have been so far about the house.
And being on anywhere NEAR the same schedule as everybody else who lives here. Thirty fuckin' days....
Thirty days without Rob.
And, it's only the first thirty days of the rest of forever. I still can't believe this shit.
Posted by: Stevie at 09:16 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Whew...
Okay.
Kitchen is done, floor mopped, dishes done, shit put away...Dining room carpet has been vacuumed, sprayed with carpet cleaner, scrubbed, vacuumed again and again... shit put away and done.
Living room is also done, vacuuming included.
Wash is... getting there.
I... am in pain. My lower back feels like I've been getting kicked for a coupla hours by a team of over-enthusiastic lumberjacks. BUT... it's worth it. This gol-danged house is cleaner now than it has been in a while.
(And, pardon the "gol-danged". I'm watching Gunsmoke and freakin' Festus is rubbin' off on me.) Next up is getting a nice long shower... after I vacuum the bathroom, damn it, I just remembered that... *siiiiigh*.... then going to the store for a few things. Then... passing out til Monday, probably. And, woe be to he, furry or not, who makes the first mess. Well, okay... they can make a mess, but they'd better damned well at least TRY to clean it up. Or else. Or else... I'll cry.
A lot and loudly, like Lucy.
Or Gloria Stivic. Bet me.
Posted by: Stevie at 05:51 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Mike Hunt....
Yeah.
Just got past that scene in this movie and it reminded me of a time the cops I was dispatching tried that on me.
At first. Then, my guys got together with the guys in the next district and cooked up this scheme to "git me". They had a cop from the other district call me on the phone and report his son "gone".
Not missing, but gone from the house after an arguement. He gives me a description, including "brown curly hair", height, weight, clothing... the whole nine.
Last thing I asked him was the kids name.
"Mike", says "Mr. Hunt". Mike.
Y'okay. So, first I tried to get my guys to go to "Channel 2".
That's where we'd say shit the rest of the county didn't really need or have to know.
In-station shit, "call home"... crap like that. Now, unbeknowst to me at the time, these dipshits had alerted the rest of the county to pay attention to this shit, so, my guys keep telling me that "Channel 2" ain't working for some reason.
So, I have no choice but to do this "county-wide". So.
I give it to 'em.
The background, the description, the whole nine. My supervising Sgt. was in the station, but in the back.
Cos Mangiocco was his name and I loved that guy.
Best "boss" EVER. Anyway, I get it all out and get to the payoff... the kid's name. I said, "... and the juvenile's name is..." and I paused, then said "Michael Hunt." I hear a howl come from the back and radio silence while I suppose those guys fell the fuck out and then the phone starts ringing with alla the other district's dispatchers callin' me, in hysterics, telling me "Good goin', not fallin' for that one..." Meanwhile, my Sarge comes up front, tears streaming, laughing his ass off and my guys key the mics to respond and can't, laughing. I keyed up between calls and said, "I saw Porky's, you guys..." and keyed off, giggling myself. Those dopes. That was when I first realized that cops are simply large "boys" with guns. They proved it again, many times, during my time there and at the other copshops I worked at. Ya had to love 'em.
'Cause ya couldn't kick their asses.
They had guns.
Posted by: Stevie at 12:10 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 25, 2006
Oh cool.
Now I can do alla the floor crap.
FMC is running "Porky's", which, yes, I do have on both TV's.
I love Mickey Jarvis.
And Tim Kavanaugh.
Gotta clean the floors, not get sucked into cruising Ebay all frickin' night. And, cool!
Here comes the scene with Timmy and the huge, inflated rubber.
When he shoves it into Ballbricker and it deflates and Mickey starts fallin' out, so do I. Later...
Posted by: Stevie at 11:29 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Oh Gawd, somebody stop me....
See, I knew not to get involved with this shit.
It's addicting.
And... LEGAL.
And, if this is "legal", well then... weed oughta be too, because I know from painful personal experience that WEED is easier to walk away from than THIS shit.
Still have laundry to do.
ALWAYS have laundry to do, who am I kiddin'? Floors need some intensive attention.
Vacuuming, "cleaning", vacuuming again, mop a couple... shit like that. And, I need to figure out an easy way to vacuum up approximately 49,724 fly corpes and get the smears that were once flies offa the ceiling. If alla the dead flies were on the floor, it'd be easy.
But, they pretty much stick where they get smashed.
Which means I have alla these "decorative" raisin-lookin' things on just everything.
(When I'm engaged in a "fly jihad", I don't care where they die, they just MUST DIE. "Farm living is the life for me", indeed.) I only like about one fly a year.
The FIRST one (or so) I see after winter.
THEY prove spring is comin'.
The rest of these harassing little dickheads can fuck off, ya know?
If they'd QUIT after I've brushed 'em away, that'd maybe be a different story.
But.. they can't DO that, oh no.
They hafta keep comin' back and comin' back and comin' back, til they have you muttering death threats and swinging your arms like a jazz dancer on crack with fly swatters in each hand.
Fuckers. And, what IS it with these cheap assed PLASTIC fly swatters that "fly" (no pun intended) apart when ya smack flies with 'em?
What ever happened to the "old fashioned" kind, with the wire handles and the flexible plastic "fly killer" part?
Those babies WORK, man. These stupid ones I got a coupla weeks ago look like they've been chewed on by some... some... some fuckin' weirdo who'd chew on fly swatters. Oooo, I wonder if they sell decent fly swatters on Ebay? I'll be back later. Peace
Posted by: Stevie at 09:23 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
I'm actually doin' it, finally...
I've got both versions of "The Stand" synched and I'm cleaning the freakin' house.
Dishes are done. Now, on to the MOUNTAIN of laundry and the general "clutter" and crap.(Literally. Gotta re-do the kitty-potties, too...) And, I was thinkin' about something....
(And, shaddap youse people saying "Uh-oh" right now... *grin*) I get told a LOT that I clean more than 99% of the population.
Probably true.
WHEN I do it.... But, I figured out why. It's because of the cats, mostly, I think. If I wanna have alla these cats around, the LEAST I can do is make sure they don't overrun the house with the messes they make, knocking shit offa things and ... well, SHIT.
Ya know? I'm not gonna have 'em all then expect everybody else to clean up after 'em and take care of 'em for me.
(Especially not after I got back from Georgia and saw firsthand what a man's version of "taking care of them" means... *wry grin*) They're MY deal.
They're mine to keep to a minimum. Besides, I like it too, when I can keep a step or two ahead of alla them AND alla these men-folk and keep the house lookin' good. Though, I hafta admit... sometimes outrunning Secretariat would be easier.
Posted by: Stevie at 08:07 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 24, 2006
Gee, I hope by "probed" they mean "anally, with his own overused whip" or something much bigger....
To quote Ozzy Osbourne... "Whut a fuckin' juuuurk."
(Ozzman says that in Private Parts, at the very beginning, about Howard as "Fartman.".)
Needs to be suspended, prosecuted and HURT, really badly, for that. Let's make sure we don't forget this loser's name...
Posted by: Stevie at 07:06 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Aaaaargh, matey....
Don't be makin' me walk the plank.
(Though, I s'pose you could smack me around a little. I can't find the other two... the "group shots".)
(But, I knew RIGHT where YOU were... *grin*)
(And, since WHEN do pirates wear SKI HATS, anyway? *lmao*) *update a coupla minutes later* Is that CHEST HAIR I see?
Oooohhhh... kewl.
Posted by: Stevie at 03:00 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
eh-ahem (and another few seconds more of other throat-clearing noises, including "horkin'" and such to prepare for this)....
Yo! Pawlee!!!!
I went to da Post Office!I mailed da pictures!
*shuts the window* And, wouldja freakin' believe when I went there... they were CLOSED FOR LUNCH!
*rolls eyes* Takes me, what? Two, two and half freakin' YEARS to finally go to the damned Post Office, then THEY'RE CLOSED? Tol' ya God's a funny little man. S'okay, though. I took a leisurely drive through (goddamned, traffic-and-pedestrian-clogged) mid-town Gettysburg, went to the Giant and then went the "back way" BACK to the stupid Post Office and got the job done. And, yiz might wanna empty your voicemail.
It seems to be FULL.
Probably of ME. (Do you EVER go home anymore, Dude? Jeez, man.) Anyway... they're comin'.
A coupla few of Eric, too.
AND... he doesn't know it yet.
I guarantee, he's gonna know immediately what ONE of 'em is, the minute I tell him I sent any of him.
*weg* Can't wait to post that tasty lil thaaaaang.
*w(er)eg*
(wicked-ER evil grin) And, now... God help me PLEASE, I'm gonna go actually clean the house, instead of just saying I'm gonna clean the house, then not really cleaning the house. I hope. Meanwhile.... Peace
Posted by: Stevie at 01:36 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 23, 2006
Ya think?
"Don't let someone play you for a sucker. A casual friend or coworker is a master at manipulating emotions to get their way. They may not even realize they're doing it, but you still need to be on your guard."
THAT is my horoscope for today, courtesy of "My Yahoo". I rarely ever check those things anymore and when I did check the "daily" ones, I'd do it at the END of the day and see how right they'd been. Best ones for accuracy were the ones that used to be in the back of the TV Guide. But, I haven't used TV Guide since I switched to DirecTv.No need for it, now.
Consequently, I hardly ever look at horoscope shit anymore. Maybe I should START again.
Posted by: Stevie at 08:07 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Rage... mini tsumanis of rage...
Yeah, you can go your own way, you shitheads who gave me so much shit about Rob before and since.
Alla you childish fucks goin' on everywhere but HERE about the things I said and did... and have YET to do.
Like y'all did me "behind my back", ya wusses.
Like y'all STILL haven't yet had the balls to do to my face. Y'all planted the seeds about a month ago.
Hope you like whatcha's all reap from it. I've been doing my level best to ignore it, but, it's not WORKING anymore. Especially not when I get the wrong person asking me to send 'em the muti-post, hundreds-of-links "story" I followed and KNEW all along, then put together in one less-than-six-months form. I knew what the fuckin' story was. All I wanted to do was see if I was correct.
And, I was. Still am. Even found out a few other little tidbits I hadn't seen before. Just thinking about even LOOKING at that thing again pissed me off.
And, I know really looking at it, proof-reading it, re-packaging it in email form would send me to places I fear to tread, let alone YOU should piss yourselves thinking about me in that frame of mind. Then, when I see what I think is the REAL reason somebody would want it... well just DAMN. Let me clear up a few things right now...
Maybe put this shit to an END before I hafta get fuckin' serious and slam a coupla assholes... Yes, I did do it.
Yes, I do have it.
No, I wasn't just fuckin' with ya.
No, I haven't published it YET because I am TRYING to be NICE (okay, make that a cross between polite and the first definition of politic) here, though WHY is becoming increasingly harder to answer lately. I keep thinking about certain assholes who felt it their business to try to CONTROL ME and it really pisses me off sometimes.
I keep thinking about the shit I read, the shit I SAVED, the shit I KNOW and ... jesusfuckin'GOD, give me strength. I was so fucked up from losing Rob a month ago that I just went the way of "least resistance" when I couldn't take any more shit from you pretentious dickbags. (And, lest any of the decent, REAL people who've contacted me think I mean you guys... hell NO. The motherfuckers who I mean KNOW who I mean, don'tcha's?)
Yeah ya do. Dickheads who've never been here, commented or so much as pretended to know who I am all of a sudden think they're gonna run things.. control me... have a right to say a fuckin' THING about how I feel about whom and what I'm gonna do about it. Not EVEN, you sorry sacksa shit.
Not EVEN. You didn't "beat" me.
You haven't "won".
All you did was wear me the rest of the way out. But...
guess what? I'M BACK!!!!!!!!!
Dealing from rage-fueled STRENGTH now. Wanna PLAY, do ya's? BRING IT ON, THEN.
Let's see how goddamned brave you assholes are NOW. Only this time, have some balls about it... don't go trying to find yourselves a safe little hidey-hole, some stupid comment section somewhere I won't be, and have at it again. Come say your shit to my face, if you believe in it so much. And, just so ya know... I'm not even overtly pissed off right this particular second.
Just being bluntly factual.
Kinda hard to be pissed with Fleetwood Mac blastin' into yer head. This shit is more real than that. It's been inside of me all this time.
Feeding on your hypocrisy.
Growing.
Hardening.
And... I've known it all along.
Enjoyed the knowledge of it, even. Born of love for Rob, fed by your arrogance and ignorance and your bullshit.
Fueled now by rage.
But it's a calm rage.
An empowering, can-wait-some-more, boundless rage at YOU.
A boundless, yet not constant, rage that would do me more harm than it will you if it were.
It's not manifested 24/7, but when it does come, it is immense, all-encompassing.
A rage that'd make Billy Jack look like a pacifist.
That you created and begged for. Fine with me.
I can handle this and then some. You guys wanna tell yourselves and each other and anybody who wants to believe it that I'm crazy, go right ahead.
Have a good goddamned time.
But.. you're only jerkin' yourselves and each other off. Hell, I wish I WAS crazy... like in "not guilty by reason of insanity" CRAZY.
That'd make this shit a LOT simpler. And, if I really was any less crazy than that definition, it'd also be easier because then I could just go along with you assholes who THINK you knew Rob and know me and how I should do things.
Or not do them. And, don't even try to fool yourselves into thinking I'm the only one who gets this.
I'm not.
Not by a long shot. There are a handful of people I could send that thing to right now who'd see the truth in it and understand where I am and where I'm coming from and who'd also understand where I'm going with this. (This CD player is SO cool... if your CD skips, it APOLOGIZES to ya, as if it's IT'S fault... *lol* Never had one do that before... says "sorry" in the LCD window.) Anyway... alla you douchebags who had sooooooo much fun fuckin' with me before.... Did it make ya feel all-powerful and superior to do EXACTLY what you accused me of doing, yet for a MUCH LESSER reason?
Was Livey dead and you were nearly insane with grief over her untimely death, like I was about Rob? And... maybe still am?
Were you really trying to protect someone who no longer had the opportunity to defend themselves, or were you all just kicking a person who was on her face to begin with after losing a person like Rob? Are y'all REALLY so much better than the worst of what you called ME? I don't think so.
Neither do a lotta other people. The sad part is that alla you people are EXACTLY the ones who'd benefit the LEAST from reading the fuckin' TRUTH because you've proved beyond all reason that you're all the EXACTLY kind of people who understood Rob the least.
And, that he despised the most. But, you people aren't a TOTAL waste.
As long as you're around, it gives me a good yardstick by which to measure any insanity I'm accused of and believe me... I come up waaaaaay short of y'all. There's a saying about "preaching to the choir" which is about what me sending the story to the people who'd get it would be. What I'm sitting here doing right now, besides getting this shit outta me, is "preaching to the deaf, dumb, blind and hopelessly, WILLFULLY stupid". Which is, besides being good to get it out, also good for a giggle or two, now that I've put it that way. (And, by the way, we've now switched to SRV's "Brothers" CD... you GO, Stevie Ray!!!) So, see?
With just a lil' help, I am able to channel y'all's unsolicited HORSESHIT into something constructive. In fact, that's mostly what I've been learning to do for the last month.
That and learning how to take the high road in being the one to contact Livey in the first place and even APOLOGIZE to her, which is, again, more than any of you losers have had the cajones to do with ME. Jesus, ya'll are GUTLESS, ain'tcha's? I mean, Christ, just because you have the strength to apologize to somebody doesn't mean you AGREE with everything they think.
It doesn't mean you have to give up what you KNOW to be true or compromise your beliefs. It just means you have REAL balls and heart and can do it. And, for the record, what I apologized for was increasing the load of pain, not for what I believe. And, this is not a belief I just came up with.
Go take a look at the comments under "I feel better" at Gut Rumbles.
Then, read my June archives and count how many times I warned PEOPLE to back the fuck offa the man before he got pushed too far.
Told them to just STOP. Then, ask me nice and I'll send his deleted "update".
Then you can see for YOURSELF who did what and who Rob was pissed at. Also, while your at it, why don'tcha see how many times Rob ever felt a need to jump my shit.
Look HARD, too.
Search every post, every comment, every word.
Take your time.
Pack a lunch. Ya ain't gonna find one fuckin' time ever. But, go ahead, please DO go on that snipe hunt, since yer so good at snipin' me. I'm not wrong.
Not wrong about what the truth was, and IS, from Rob's perspective.
Not wrong about how I feel, what I believe.
Not wrong in how I handled myself in Georgia.
Oh and for the record, assholes, I didn't drink ANYTHING alcoholic while I was there (or since, truth be known) because I thought it was a tad CRASS to do there in the man's parent's backyard, considering his past with the hooch. I also didn't go out of my way volunteering my beliefs to people.
I spoke to three bloggers and a blogger's wife (Hi, Nancy) and Sam and Stacey AND, only after I was asked to explain why I felt that way. It was only after I got home and immediately starting seeing shit about myself (incidentally, NOT from anyone I spoke to) that I started to wonder if I was correct and then gathered the proof that I am. Now... thanks to my trying like hell to ignore alla this, my trying to pretend Rob isn't really DEAD, god damn it, thanks to my trying to move on before I'm really ready to, I have this crap coming out at the wrong times and at the wrong people... TED. Yes... ROCKET JONES, TED. I publically lashed out at you the other day and I'm publically apologizing now. It's not your fault I'm on a hair-frggin'-trigger here.
But, I must also say that I really don't appreciate bullshit comments AFTER the situation was already over with, either.
YOU, I'll apologize to.
"Jen" can stick her head up her ass and twist it, as can the chickenshit who emailed me with the fake email address (as if it wasn't her).
And, if it wasn't?
Well, you can kiss my ass, too whoever you were. But, you Ted....
I'm not having this shit with you.
It's not you I'm pissed at.
It's not you I'm sick of.
(That'd be Munu having something wrong every 15 seconds...)
And, yeah... it'll be handled in such a way that I'll no longer hafta worry about that shit, fear not.
But, if it hadn't been for you, I'd not have been at Munu way back when, when it wasn't wall-to-wall BULLSHIT, like it is now.
I appreciate having been a part of Munu back when it was cool and new and WORKED CORRECTLY.
I'll love Pixy for the rest of my life for it, too.
But... I'll continue to disparage and hold in contempt those who've wrecked it, too.
And, yeah... I do know it's free.
Maybe somebody should point that out to the ones who cause all the trouble AND who make shitpots of money offa their blogs and STILL suck Pixy dry like the bunch of parasites they are, ya think? This, being on a hair-trigger shit, blowing up at the wrong people (though no one in my house yet, thank God), not cleaning the house, being all bunged up all the time... THIS is why this shit needs to come out, to be gotten rid of as opposed to letting it build up like I have been. I refuse to let myself die of a massive myocardial infarction like my mother did at my age. Therefore, it's gonna be expressed and, frankly, I don't give a good goddamn who doesn't like it. If there's something I've said or DO say that you don't like, that's YOUR issue to have to deal with, not mine. I know what mine are.
Or IS. ROB "is". Outta of alllllll the people I've been dealing with, ROB SMITH is the only one I really care about. HE is who I "owe", not you dickweeds. HE is the one who can no longer defend himself.
HE is the one to whom I gave my allegiance lo, those many years ago.
HE is the only one I'll try never to hurt in any way.
HE is the one I'll destroy whomever I have to, to protect. Know that.
Learn it.
LIVE IT. And, if you can't handle that... piss off. Any frickin' questions?
Posted by: Stevie at 02:03 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 22, 2006
Hunh? What?!??
I'm sorry, but I'm NOT sorry, I can't hear you right now.
All I can hear is the sweet voice of Stevie Nicks, backed up by Fleetwood Mac, singing Rhiannon in my ears on the LOUDEST CD player I've ever heard. I can't even hear me typing. My Gawd, this thing is WONDERFUL! Thank you "Anonymous-Benefactor-til-you-say-it's-okay-to-tell-who-ya-are". I've got this thing MAXED on volume and it blocks out EVERYTHING. If it's too loud, you're too OLD, ya know? And, the headphones have the longest cord this side of my trouble light.AND, it came with an ac adapter.
No, not an air conditioner, though that wouldn't have surprised me, the thing so you can plug it in and tell dead batt'ries to bitecha. Lindsey Buckingham is jammin' my HEAD OFF now.
"You can go your own way".... I know I can and... I think I'm gonna.
Posted by: Stevie at 09:51 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
There is no getting away from it, is there?
You can try to be okay, try to not think about it, tell yourself the reason there are no new posts is that he's in Costa Rica even though you know that's bullshit because you were IN Georgia... you can go on falling alseep and waking the hell back up and not cleaning the house, you can go grocery shopping, make a low-country boil, watch TV... you can do any goddamned thing you can think of and it's still the same... still sitting there, just waiting for you to even begin to think about lowering your defenses so it can kick you right in the heart all over again and make you cry... again.
Right? Right. Jesus FUCK, Rob.This shit HURTS, Pappy. Is it ever gonna get any easier?
Will it ever not make me cry to realize that you're....
not in Costa Rica? Why?
Why you? You wanna ask "why NOT you?" Shit.
Got the rest of eternity, do ya? A million reason why not you. They all boil down to love, mostly.
Love, need, realness, honesty, strength... all of which there isn't enough of in this world, except need.
And, godalmightydamn, do I still need you. I don't need anything from you.
Just need you to still be there.
Still there, showing me the way through the hardest thing I've ever had to do... surviving losing you. You got me out of a hell I didn't even realize the sheer extent of, til I was out of it and took a look back at it. I thought that was the ultimate.
But... I was wrong, Rob. That wasn't the worst hell, the hardest thing.
This is. This deafening fuckin' silence.
This re-realization that you're reeeeally not on vacation somewhere.
This having to put up with a buncha dickheads and know-it-alls and assholes by myself. And, yeah, I can still have a good idea of what you'd tell me... "fuck 'em, Darlin'. You just say whatcha wanna say and if they can't handle it, that's their pc, stupid-assed OWN weak-kneed ball-less problem, not yours." But, knowing you would say that and knowing you could say that are two different things.
Especially the part where I can't escape knowing that you CAN'T say that now. And, neither can anybody else with the same meaning and impact that you said it.
Hell, I can say it to myself and all it does is sound like your voice in my head and then remind me that it's not. That it can't ever be again. God.... This keeps body-slamming my heart at the oddest times.
Earlier today, we were all at this discount store we like to go to once in a while.
While the guys were loading the car, I was gathering shit outta my "console".
Mostly what I was doing was gathering receipts to be able to keep some kinda half assed track of the money flow around here and I really only need the ones from since Jr. got here. As I'm doing this, I'm reading the dates on said receipts. I see 6/28, 6/25/, 7/5... alla these dates. And, I know what happened on some of 'em.
Not s'much on others. I actually had to ask if Jr. got here before or after I went to Georgia. I truly did not know. THAT'S how fuckin' fried my brain was, is and what? Will be?
For how long?
And, without benefit of weed...
imagine that. One goddamned incident on one goddamned day has done my brain (heart, memory, self, sense, life) more damage than a career spanning over twenty years of smokin' weed. I've lost more people than the populations of some TOWNS in my life and none of them, not all of them put together, have impacted my life like losing you has, Rob. How is that possible? How is you being gone forever possible? And, how is it possible to get through this, to get through losing you, WITHOUT you? Yeah, I know "life goes on".
What I'd like to know is why does it bother to?
What's the point, really? And, really... that's wrong.
Life doesn't always "just go on", or you'd still be here. I think a better trite saying for this shit would be "Life still sucks" or something. Because... life sucks anyway and now it sucks worse, right?
(Right.)
And, the only way life doesn't suck anymore is when ya don't hafta deal with it anymore.
Right?
I'm sure.
Right.
Just ask you, huh? So.
I guess I oughta quit lying to myself and other people when I get asked how I'm doing with alla this.
I keep saying "okay".
And, I kinda thought I was.
But...
apparently, I'm not, s'much. In fact, I think I might be doing terrible. I'm not facing this.
I'm not dealing with this.
I don't even know HOW to right now.
I don't know where the path is outta here without you lighting the way like you have been for me for so long. And, the longer I don't face, handle, deal with... WHATEVER... this, the longer it's just gonna keep sitting there, waiting for me to be vulnerable to it kickin' my ass some more. They say you don't know what you have til it's gone. That's not always true. I did know.
I knew all along, Rob. I ate a lot of shit and still am, for how I was... AM... about you. "You never even met the men..."
That means "you never even FUCKED the man". So? As easily as sex without love can exist and does, so can love without sex. In fact, I firmly believe you can have a better, more REAL love without muddying it up with sex. Anybody wanna try to tell me I can't love somebody I've never fucked? How about my DAD, dickheads?
How about my own Dad? Never fucked HIM and I'd kill any one of you for even looking at him wrong. Now, tell me again how never meeting, a.k.a. "fucking", Rob means I can't possibly love him to the extent that my heart is broken over losing him. Tell me again what an "ass-kissing, groupie, hypocrite cunt" I am. And, go on boring me to death with how "wrong" I was about him and a few other things. I may have never been face-to-face with Rob, but... I was heart-to-heart with him on a few levels.
Levels that matter more than a roll in the sack. In all that time, it was never a matter of the mind, of what I thought. It was what I felt, what I KNEW, without having to be told. The man was only an open book if only you had the heart, the sense and the eyes with which to really see and understand him. But... ya had to WANT to.
He didn't make it easy.
If it'd been EASY, any asshole coulda done it and the last thing he EVER needed was another asshole in his life. But... he had 'em.
BOY, did he have 'em. And, what coulda made this come out any differently?
Could ANYTHING have changed this course of events, made it turn out some other way?
Was there something I could've done?
Something I shoulda done? I have this nagging feeling there was.
But, I guess I'll never know in this life.
You can rest assured this'll be one of the first things I ask whoever's in charge of where I go next, though. Fuck.
me.
runnin'. It hurts to breathe. It hurts every time my heart beats. "Rob'sgone, rob'sgone, rob'sgone..." Shut the fuck up, already.
I know that, even if I can't accept it, okay heart? Maybe I shouldn't have been trying to avoid this all this time.
Maybe then it wouldn't have me pinned right now with it's smelly armpit across my face, like some stupid wrestler, making breathing a chore I'd rather not do. I don't know. I don't know about THIS and I don't know about ANYTHING anymore. If a man as big as Rob in as many ways as Rob, as 10 by, as nationwide... WORLDWIDE... as everything as Rob was can be reduced to a small box of ashes... what IS there to know that can be trusted? Not a lot that I can see right this minute. And, maybe nothing at all. Should I go get one of his shirts?
Would that help?
Guy's shirts have been givng me comfort since I was a little kid, sleeping with one of my Dad's shirts when he was on nightshift, so I wouldn't hafta be home "alone" with my fuckin' mom. I can go do that.
I just don't know if it'll help or hurt worse this time. I've got 'em upstairs, in my room.
Where they've been since they got here.
Where I've walked past 'em every day, a coupla times a day and have yet to stop once and so much as look at one. Just like with Rob, just knowing they're there is all that matters. And, they're not going anywhere. They're not gonna be there one day and gone the next. Well, good then.
That means I can wait on that.
'Cause right now it's enough to look up those six inches or so and see the bumpersticker.
Knowing how I finally got it is what's too much.
And, before I even get to the bumpersticker, there's his reading glasses, sitting on top of the computer, in that ceramic bear's lap, ready in case I find myself squinting at shit I'm trying to read. Those glasses... those grocery-store magnifying-glass glasses.... I have been trying FOREVER, it seems, to find a pair of those damned things at the local stores that work for me.
Either none of 'em pass the "eye chart test" at the store, or they do and when I get 'em home and try to use 'em here, at the computer, I find out then that they're wrong.
But, his? Friggin' PERFECT. Of course. I haven't worn my eyes out ONCE since they got here. And, with them, I don't hafta hold books farther away than I used to to read 'em.
Like, "Midnight".
It was those glasses I had on when I started that book. Not wearin' 'em right now, though. Seems the endless tears are keeping my eyes "fresh". I do, however, have a headache.
Which ain't SHIT, compared to the heartache.
But, in fact, it is kinda "distracting" me from the heart part and I know if I go take some aspirin to get rid of it all that'll be left is the heart part which no drug can "cure", soooo....
Headache it is. Christ.
I sound like that Mickey Gilley song, "Headache tomorrow or a heartache tonight". Which is actually GOOD, because he's drowning out Garth fuckin' BROOKS and his "coulda missed the pain, but then I'd have had to miss the dance", which just kills me because it is SO TRUE. See why I hate country?
It's MURDEROUS. Shit. Maybe I oughta go splice the damned speaker wire on my big CD player (that some smart-assed cat musta chewed on) and put some Ozzy Osbourne or something.
Crazy Train... yeah.
On repeat.
For about 12 hours.
Or, til I get the damned house clean, whichever comes first. Knowing my luck, the dumb thing would somehow end up on "Mama, I'm comin' home" and drop me to my knees.
That song sounds like Rob alternately talking to Jennifer, then, with the signature line, talkin' to his Mama. But, Crazy Train... that's so loud, so frenetic... if I can just have that on repeat for a few hours.... ah man... if I could just have Rob on repeat for a few years....
Posted by: Stevie at 04:50 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
How quaint...
Looks like "all's forgiven" by Google.
Google banning Rob in the first place was fucking stupid. Nice to see they finally decided to grow up. Shame they couldn'ta managed that while he was still here to see it. The ads are still there, too. Google, y'all suck, you know that?Just had to give him some more shit to deal with, didn't ya?
And, now, suddenly... it's all good. Except... you still suck.
(but, fear not... you're not all that does.)
Posted by: Stevie at 02:30 AM | Comments (31) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 20, 2006
Hey Cat...
You've got three guys who'll now kill for ya, if ya ever want or need 'em to.
Or, who'd vote for ya, if you ever decided to run for "Jesus", I do believe.
Which is unusual as hell.
Eric's usually the first to pass out. BUT, he's off tomorrow (instead of Saturday) and I think he already can't wait to wake up and sit around all day eatin' on that stuff.
*grin*
He sitting, or slumping may be more accurate, in his recliner right now, watching some show about Alaska and his kid is outside "walkin' it off". Nobody even wants to hear the word "cake" right now, either.
*giggle* Which is good, because I need to excavate (let alone CLEAN) the kitchen first.
AFTER I get done pullin' the last of the Low Country Boil outta the big-assed pot I bought to cook it in and get it covered and in the fridge. If I myself don't pass out, first.
Yawnin' big enough to swallow my own head right now.... Oughta go get started, I suppose. BUT... before I go, I feel a need to send a big "BITE MY ASS!" to the panty-waists at Munu for all their stupid, unnecessary BULLSHIT comments under my now deleted post. How the fuck is it ANYBODY ELSE can piss and moan and raise hell about the bullshit that goes on over there and nobody says a fuckin' WORD, but when it's ME, all of a sudden we get a buncha fuckin' Emily Post wannabe's giving me shit? Fuck you.
And, you and you. I've deleted alla your bullshit emails as SPAM and will continue to do so til you all die.
Okay?
Piss off already and fuck you very much. Dicks. Okay then...
I feel much better now and on that note...
I'm outta here. Peace (And Pixy... you and Paul are about the only two I wasn't talking to just then.)
Posted by: Stevie at 09:05 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
Maybe this'll be good for PMS....
Sure seems like it will be, so far....
Dinner tonight is gonna be the following, allllll cooked together: Red potatosSmoked sausage
Corn on the cob
An onion or two
Old Bay Seasoning
Bay leaves
3 lbs. of shrimp and
2 lbs. of crab legs Yep.
A Low-Country Boil. Oh, and a massive pan of cornbread.
And, sweet tea. And, unless this makes all the guys pass out too soon, a yellow cake with butter insteada oil, with whipped chocolate icing. Then, after that, I'm gonna take the longest shower of my LIFE with one of my new bottles of Soft Soap Aroma Therapy Lavender and Patchouli Body Wash, WHICH they don't make anymore but I found online and bought TWO CASES OF. So, nyah, Colgate. Now, off to start this dinner...
Posted by: Stevie at 05:53 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
A search term I just found in my Site Meter AND have an answer for (for a change)...
Any wonder why I think some people are frickin' BRAIN DEAD? (It's tie-DYE, dipshit....)
Posted by: Stevie at 03:29 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
PMS is some triflin', unnecessary, stupid shit, I tell ya...
I hate it.
I hear me being all bitchy and mean and wantin' to kill things and intellectually, I understand why and that it's bullshit, but... still it goes on.
The dumbest things make me wanna wreak havoc with my now infamous Pusser Club.
When I'm not laughing at the absurdity of it all, that is.
(Right. Go look.) So, what the fuck was today?
(Meaning Wednesday...)
An excerise in karma just for having had a good day the day before?
Jeezus. I hated this day so damned bad, I started the sumbitch over THREE TIMES before it got it's shit straight and left me alone. Went to bed at 5am, like I have been lately... ("lately" being my whole life unless forced by jobs or whatever to do otherwise.) I was woken up less than five hours later by the sound of my fat-mouthed cock-knockin' DAWG, Ziggy, barking his empty fool head off at people moving calves, which ain't nona his fuckin' business to be barkin' at in the first place, as I've screamed at him more times in the past than I care to remember. Nothin' I like better'n to be standing nekkid on the waterbed beating on, then yellin' through, a closed window an expletives-filled diatribe at that stupid dog about what his responsibilites are and AREN'T.
Fuckhead. Then, today, we added a new twist... Eric was standing RIGHT THERE.
*sam elliot look* He heard that dickbag dog barkin'.
Why he didn't do whatever was necessary to shut him up is beyond me.
You know... like I'd do if the situation were reversed. So, I stagger down here and get Eric on the radio and ASK him why he allowed Fuckhead Fido to keep barking til he woke me up. "But, I DID tell him to shut up..." Right. That's why he kept it up, I suppose... Shithead dog shuts the fuck up when he finally does cause ME to scream at him. I'm thinking that maybe if Eric took a firmer line with the dog, like YELLED at him LOUDLY or something, Ziggmondo might listen to him, too.
I dunno. All I know is this: When I was growing up and Dad was on the "night shift", you could be put to death by my insane mother for farting "too loud" and even possibly waking Dad up.
Hence, when Eric is asleep, I will do whatever is necessary to whomever it's necessary
Damn. Then, since I was down here anyway, I checked email.
Had a response that needed a response and I felt so "urgent" about said response that I started it (and got two-thirds through it) before I even went for a cup of THE NON-EXISTANT, FUCKIN' coffee. Talk about pissed...
God Gawd Almighty. Man, on man o'schevitz (or however it's spelled).
(I think there's a "w" in there someplace but, fuckit. Either somebody tell me how it's spelled or not. I'm not in a "dictionary" frame of mind right now in the first place, plus it's in "Hearts in Atlantis", not the American Oxford anyway and THAT book is the bedroom and I'd hafta break my own "silence while he's sleepin'" rule to get it, so... like I said... fuckit.)
Back to this coffee (or lack thereof) shit... There are several unshakable facts about this whole deal that more than justify the rage that comes upon finding that the three other (expletives deleted) adults in this (expletives deleted) house can't be bothered to REPLACE the coffee that I make sure is available FOR THEM every fuckin' morning of my LIFE. First, foremost and above all else is this: I am a coffee-holic.
I've LITERALLY been drinking the stuff since I was a baby.
Seriously.
My mother used to give it to me in my baby bottle, lukewarm, with sugar and Coffeemate.
In fact, it was Maxwell House brand. I drink the shit 24-frickin'-7 nowdays and, if I don't, if I try to back off it any, I get KILLER headaches that LAUGH in the face of Tylenol 3, let alone some lame-assed aspirin. I can, and often do, drink a cup late at night, then go to bed and go right to sleep.
Hell, I'm drinkin' it now...
Folger's Columbian with Sweet-n-Low and Coffeemate. Which I actually need another cup of, sooo, I'll be right back.... Ahhhh.. I'm back and God bless Juan Valdez AND his donkey. So, have I established well enough exactly how VITAL to my continued semblence of mental stability coffee is yet? Put it this way... I'd have no problem at all draggin' an IV pole around with me every damned place I go if I could just have the shit intravenously.
Okay? I WANT MY FREAKIN' COFFEE AND DEATH BE TO HE WHO MAKES OFF WITH THE LAST OF IT WITHOUT STARTING ANOTHER POT. Now, is that so hard to understand?
I think NOT. Did alla you men who don't live here understand that? 'Cause if Y'ALL did then there ain't no earthly reason why the three men who live in this house AND who've known me for a combined total of *quickly does math on her fingers* *fuck this, she needs a pen and paper* 40 fuckin' YEARS can't understand it, know what I mean? Every ONE of these swingin' DICKS can disassemble and reassemble of FUCKIN" ENGINE, but, apparently NOT ONE OF THEM can place a paper goddamned filter in the filter thing, add three measly-assed scoops of coffee and pour a frickin' pot of water in to the back of the stupid coffee pot and push the "on" button. Can someone PUH-leeze explain that to me? *crickets* Yeah.
That's what I thought. So, anyway...
I've even gone to great expense and forethought and made this shit as simple as can be to make sure coffee is available 24/7. I make sure there is ALWAYS Folger's in the house.
I have an ENTIRE AREA of the kitchen SPECIFICALLY FOR making coffee and alla the supplies are RIGHT THERE, together.
Hell, man... I even paid $80 for a Harley-Davidson "Airpot" thing to keep the made coffee in so it doesn't sit there cooking all day and get disgusting and burnt.
(And, for those I know are gonna ask... an "airpot" is like a coffee keeper/thermos kinda thing. You pop open the lid, remove the pump thingy, pour in the coffee, put the pump wand thing back and shut the stupid lid. Then, all ya hafta do do enjoy a fresh, hot cuppa coffee (besides make the shit YOURSELF) is pump the handle on top of the lid and it squirts coffee into your cup, or all over the counter, if ya ain't payin' attention. I got it for eighty-got-damned bucks at the Harley shop on Rt. 77 back in Joisey, back when I worked for Fucknozzle at Wellacrest and was bringin' home $600+ a week...) Aaaanyway... the coffeepot, coffee, sugar, sweet-n-low, airpot, spoon and every-damned-thing else a person could POSSIBLY need to make a pot of coffee is RIGHT THERE. If I could drag the stupid kitchen sink over there, I would, because the way it now, you have to take all of FIVE STEPS across the kitchen to get the water and maybe THAT'S what is keeping these chucklefucks from making the shit when they TAKE IT ALL. So.
I get barked awake by a moron fuckin' dog who is minding buisness that ain't his in the first place.
Then, a friend of mine got dicked.
Then, there ain't no fuckin' coffee.
Oh... and not one of the boneheads will own up to being the one who took the last of it and failed to make any more.
THAT always helps my mood, too. NOOOOOT. *siiigh* So, after an hour or so of this bullshit-arity, I figure "fuck THIS, I'm gonna try this shit again", and I go back to bed. I wake up later ON MY OWN (thankyouGawd) and come back down here to....
the unneutered male cats in the house.
*SCREAM* Those assholes had discovered they could get through the "high tech" window pluggage that was thrown together last night to accomdate the new a/c in the window. "High tech" in this case meaning: cardboard and a throw rug. By the time we got back from getting the "new" a/c last night and George got it installed in the window, he was too bushed to make a properly fitting THING to stick next to it to fill the window opening.
For some reason, the a/c unit doesn't have those "wing-things" in the sides of it that you just pull out, usually, to block the opening.
SO, he "fabricated" a plug. That the cats laughed at.
And, I believe BLEW ON to move to get in. After about the fifth fuckin' time I threw Bubba out (he being the worst one to get the girls knocked up), he came in AGAIN, so I locked his ass in a cat carrier, said "fuck THIS" again and again went back to bed. This time, however, I made it beyond clear that I wasn't comin' down NO MORE til this shit was solved.
And, that THERE'D BETTER DAMNED WELL BE COFFEE WHEN I DO COME BACK DOWN, TOO.
Damn it. So, it's heigh-ho, heigh-ho, up the stairs I go.... again.
(Though, I do belive in the guys' case it was more like "Bye ho, bye ho" at this point... whatever.) I fell asleep with "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" on my face for another hour or so. Came back down again and.... No unneutered male cats.
And... COFFEE!!!!!!
Yay!!!!!! So why was this so godforsaken hard in the first place... I ask you.
(Though I don't expect an answer. It just WAS, apparently.) Not long after I got back down here (for the third freekin' time, which by then was around 8pm), one by one, the guys peeled off and went to bed. *contented sigh* Since then, like for the last six or seven hours, I've sat here, DRINKING MY COFFEE and reading "Midnight". Talked to Paul for a few, too.
Answered a coupla emails. And been in a perfectly okay mood, too. And, thanks to one "communique" I got, I now understand why, the last time I got "in trouble" over weed and wanted to "just sit the fuck down and TALK TO the stupid Prosecutor and get this shit cleared up", people's reactions ranged from horror to hilarity. I see NOW why that was such an insane idea.
And, no, I haven't gotten into trouble again.
It's just that I'm kinda sorta in the "other" role right now and...
I get it.
NOT a good idea. Oh.. and one more thing about the whole "coffee issue".... If any of you ever meet any of these dipshits I live with, could y'all please explain to them that it's NOT the "iced tea fairy" who REPLACES THEIR (not MY) iced tea overnight, after they've drank... drunk?... CONSUMED it all? That it is I who does that, which just pissed me off all the more when they drink alla MY coffee (and yes, I can call it "mine" because I drink more of it than those three combined, thanks) and don't make more?
Please?
I mean, it's not like I haven't mentioned this a time or two myself, but... maybe they'd HEAR it if it came from somebody else.
Or believe it.
Whichever.
The turds. And, while yer at it, could ya also tell them that this skit/shit: Male voice: I thought he was gonna make it.
Deeper male voice: I thought he was gonna make it.
Multi-pitched, sometimes squeaky teenaged male voice: I thought HE was gonna make it.... while marginally funny on a "normal" day, is, especially on PMS day, in several states grounds for justifiable homicide?
Or should be?
(Even if it isn't, if we can convince them it is, it may end this bullshit for good. See what I'm sayin'? He'p me out here, okay?)
(At least don't make a point of tellin' 'em I made it up. I think I've nearly got 'em convinced... *weg*) And now, since I got to just chill for a while, undisturbed, with my coffee and my book AND I do really understand that these nitwits don't really mean to be bigger dumbasses than Eric Foreman with a frontal lobotomy, I'm gonna straighten up the house, make a grocery run and bake 'em a cake.
And, try like hell to be nice in spite of the hormonal HELL goin' on in my brain. By the way... is there anything besides weed that helps with this shit?
OTC pills, fruit, veggies, a hammer to the skull, anything? I always know when it's coming, I can sure as HELL tell when it's here, yet there doesn't seem to be a damned thing I can do to control it.
Even as I'm being wicked, I know it and I hate it.
Which just pisses me off more. So, if anybody has any solutions for it, let me know, okay, please? I won't be the only one who'll love ya for it, believe me. Peace
(What a concept...)
Posted by: Stevie at 02:52 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
July 19, 2006
Had a pretty good day yesterday....
Was actually up at 7am for a change, though not for long.
Got up to call the horsefarm, as Mrs Boss had told me the day before they might need me.
They didn't.
Oh well.
Nextel was starting their shit again.
Sonsabitches... seems like I'm paying on that frickin' bill every three days, I swear. This time when I called in, I made it PERFECTLY clear that the only feature I give a rat's ass about is the direct-connect AND since they no longer have the market cornered on that, I was MORE THAN WILLING to pay the stupid $200 to break my contract and find another service that's less of a pain in my ASS. Upon hearing that, the chick I was bitching to quickly "fixed" shit for me.
For one thing, they'd DOUBLED the rate to call Canada.
Well, that pissed me right the fuck off.
Woulda been nice had they made that shit CLEAR.
She tried the old "We said it on the billing statement" shit and I asked her, "Do you have any IDEA what that mess looks like to begin with? You could have Jimmy Hoffa stapled to that stupid thing and a person could miss it... that's crap."
After she quit giggling she prorated my account to the new 9 cents a minute rate that I signed up for.
Then, since I was being funnily-annoyed and semi-cooperative, she also hooked me up with a new plan... less money a month and I get two more hours of free "nights and weekends" phone time and an additional 500 "other" minutes a month. So, my current bill is now less than the GNP of Lichtenstein once again, I have a better plan and they can bite my left butt cheek, those sneaky boogers, with their doubling the rate to Canada crap. Then, after that, I was falling asleep sitting here, so I went back to sleep for a while. Got up again, came back down here and... MY BOOK IS HERE!!!!
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and goodgawdalmighty is it GOOD. I promptly ripped it outta the manila envelope, put my feet up on this very desk, lit a cig, propped my "new magnifying reading glasses (thanks, Love!)" on my nose and dove in. Was still reading it when George got home.
Continued reading it as we drove to a town about 30 miles away to buy some guys air conditioner for $100 that he was selling on Craig's list. Little fucker works GOOD, too. Instead of the big lame-assed one we had in this room (which has now been "blown out" with an air compressor and has remembered how to work and been installed in Jr's. room), we now have this one in the diningroom, with a fan in the doorway to this room and it's cooling the whole downstairs.
Muuuuch better. You can actually be in the kitchen without wilting in under two minutes. Maybe I'll clean in there now more than once a week and while it's light out.
I'd reverted to my "night-shift ways" since it's gotten hotter than hell lately... as if you can't tell from the time of this post... We got back with said air conditioner and I made dinner.
All the guys went to bed and I got to have a really long, very cool convo with Cat by IM.
Made me cry, he did.
I miss him sooo much and when he tells me what Rob used to say to him about me... man... I had no idea.
Just the fact that Rob even knew which one I was is enough, but when Cat tells me the things Rob said... fuck man... I'm gonna cry again if I don't shut up about it. When you keep sex outta things, you can have ever so much more... Then, I think I mighta made a new friend online.
Time will tell.
I do hope so. Meanwhile, another dear friend got a bit of a gut-punch, which makes me hurt for him. I hate it that he gets hurt by stupid shit that women do.
He's a great guy and he deserves only the BEST.
Some women are so frickin' stupid, ya know?
Can't see what the hell they're lookin' at. It's their loss, but his hurt. And, now I've just gotten done watching two of my favorite episodes of Roseanne.
Dan beats the dicksnot out of Fisher because Fisher beat up Jackie. Lord, I love Dan.
John Goodman, too.
That dude can sing. He was in the Broadway musical that Roger Miller wrote, Big River, I think it's called.
John played Huck Finn's Daddy and he does a song called "Gum'mint" and it is GREAT.
He's got an excellent voice.
And... he's cuter'n all hell.
I love big guys like him and Drew Carey.
And, Rob Reiner who happens to look like my Dad's twin these days. And now... I'm about ready to take my book and go to bed and read, which will take me back to Georgia since Cat showed me the Mercer house and I KNOW the streets and places they're speaking of in that book.
Can't wait til I get to the part where Cat himself shows up. Yep.
Cat is IN that book.
He was friends with and worked for Jim Williams, the guy the book is about. And, on that note and in spite of the fact that another episode of Roseanne has just started, I'm outta here. Peace y'all......
Posted by: Stevie at 03:18 AM | Comments (27) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
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